“What did he say?” inquired the Prince.
“Er… he concurs with me that we should hold here, your Highness, and send to Lord Marshal Burr for help.”
“Does he indeed? And I thought these Northmen were all fire and vinegar! Well, Colonel West, you may inform him that I am resolved on an attack, and cannot be moved! We will show this so-called King of the Northmen that he does not hold a monopoly on victory!”
“Good show!” shouted Smund, stamping his foot on the thick carpet. “Excellent!” The rest of the Prince’s staff voiced their ignorant support.
“Kick them back across the border!”
“Teach them a lesson!”
“Excellent! Capital! Is there more wine?”
West clenched his fists with frustration. He had to make one more effort, however embarrassing, however pointless. He dropped to one knee, he clasped his hands together, he fixed the Prince with his eye and gathered every ounce of persuasiveness he possessed. “Your Highness, I ask you, I entreat you, I beg you to reconsider. The lives of every man in this camp depend on your decision.”
The Prince grinned. “Such is the weight of command, my friend! I realise your motives are of the best, but I must agree with Lord Smund. Boldness is the best policy in war, and boldness shall be my strategy! It was through boldness that Harod the Great forged the Union, through boldness that King Casamir conquered Angland in the first place! We will get the better of these Northmen yet, you’ll see. Give the orders, Colonel! We march at first light!”
West had studied Casamir’s campaigns in detail. Boldness had been one tenth of his success, the rest had been meticulous planning, care for his men, attention to every detail. Boldness without the rest was apt to be deadly, but he saw that it was pointless to say so. He would only anger the Prince and lose whatever influence he might still have. He felt like a man watching his own house burn down. Numb, sick, utterly helpless. There was nothing left for him to do but to give the orders, and do his best to see that everything was conducted as well as it could be.
“Of course, your Highness,” he managed to mutter.
“Of course!” The Prince grinned. “We are all in agreement, then! Capital! Stop that music!” he shouted at the musicians. “We need something with more vigour! Something with blood in it!” The quartet switched effortlessly to a jaunty martial theme. West turned, limbs heavy with hopelessness, and trudged out of the tent into the icy night.
Threetrees was hard on his heels. “By the dead, but I can’t work you people out! Where I come from a man earns the right to lead! His men follow because they know his quality, and respect him because he shares their hardships with ’em! Even Bethod won his place!” He strode up and down before the tent, waving his big hands. “Here you pick the ones who know the least to lead, and fix on the biggest fool o’ the whole pack for a commander!”
West could think of nothing to say. He could hardly deny it.
“That prick’ll march the lot o’ you right into your fucking graves! Back to the mud with you all, but I’m damned if I’ll follow, or any of my boys. I’m done paying for other folks’ mistakes, and I’ve lost enough to that bastard Bethod already! Come on, Dogman. This boat o’ fools can sink without us!” And he turned and stalked away into the night.
The Dogman shrugged. “Ain’t all bad.” He closed to a conspiratorial distance, reached deep into his pocket and pulled something out. West stared down at an entire poached salmon, no doubt pilfered from the Prince’s table. The Northman grinned. “I got me a fish!” And he followed his chief, leaving West alone on the bitter hillside, Ladisla’s martial music floating through the chill air behind him.
Until Sunset
“Oy.” A rough hand shook Glokta from his sleep. He rolled his head gingerly from the side he had been sleeping on, clenching his teeth at the pain as his neck clicked. Does death come early in the morning, today? He opened his eyes a crack. Ah. Not quite yet, it seems. Perhaps at lunch time. Vitari stared down at him, spiky hair silhouetted black in the early morning sun streaming through the window.
“Very well, Practical Vitari, if you really can’t resist me. You’ll have to go on top, though, if you don’t mind.”
“Ha ha. The Gurkish ambassador is here.”
“The what?”
“An emissary. From the Emperor himself, I hear.”
Glokta felt a stab of panic. “Where?”
“Here in the Citadel. Speaking to the ruling council.”
“Shit on it!” snarled Glokta, scrambling out of bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he swung his ruined left foot onto the floor. “Why didn’t they call for me?”
Vitari scowled down at him. “Maybe they preferred to talk to him without you. You think that could be it?”
“How the hell did he get here?”
“He came in by boat, under sign of parley. Vissbruck says he was duty bound to admit him.”
“Duty-bound!” spat Glokta as he struggled to pull his trousers up his numb and trembling leg, “That fat fucker! How long has he been here?”
“Long enough for him and the council to make some pretty mischief together, if that’s their aim.”
“Shit!” Glokta winced as he shrugged his shirt on.
The Gurkish ambassador was, without doubt, a majestic presence.
His nose was prominent and hooked, his eyes burned bright with intelligence, his long, thin beard was neatly brushed. Gold thread in his sweeping white robe and his tall head-dress glittered in the bright sun. He held his body awesomely erect, long neck stretched out, chin held high, so that he looked always down at everything he deigned to look upon. Hugely tall and thin, he made the lofty, magnificent room seem low and shabby. He could pass for an Emperor himself.
Glokta was keenly aware of how bent and awkward he must look as he shuffled, grimacing and sweating, into the audience chamber. The miserable crow faces the magnificent peacock. Still, battles are not always won by the most beautiful. Fortunately for me.
The long table was surprisingly empty. Only Vissbruck, Eider, and Korsten dan Vurms were in their seats, and none of them looked pleased to see him arrive. Nor should they, the bastards.
“No Lord Governor today?” he barked.
“My father is not well,” muttered Vurms.
“Shame you couldn’t stay and comfort him in his illness. What about Kahdia?” No one spoke. “Didn’t think he’d take to a meeting with them, eh?” he nodded rudely at the emissary. “How lucky for everyone that you three have stronger stomachs. I am Superior Glokta and, whatever you might have heard, I am in charge here. I must apologise for my late arrival, but no one told me you were coming.” He looked daggers at Vissbruck, but the general was not interested in meeting his eye. That’s right, you blustering fool. I won’t forget this.
“My name is Shabbed al Islik Burai.” The ambassador spoke the common tongue perfectly, in a voice every bit as powerful, as authoritative, as arrogant as his bearing. “I come as emissary from the rightful ruler of all the South, mighty Emperor of mighty Gurkhul and all the Kantic lands, Uthman-ul-Dosht, loved, feared, and favoured above all other men within the Circle of the World, anointed by God’s right hand, the Prophet Khalul himself.”
“Good for you. I would bow, but I strained my back getting out of bed.”
Islik gave a delicate sneer. “Truly a warrior’s injury. I have come to accept your surrender.”
“Is that so?” Glokta dragged out the nearest chair and sank into it. I’m damned if I’m going to stand a moment longer, just for the benefit of this towering oaf. “I thought it was traditional to make such offers once the fighting is over.”
“If there is to be fighting, it will not last long.” The ambassador swept across the tiles to the window. “I see five legions, arrayed in battle order upon the peninsula. Twenty thousand spears, and they are but a fraction of what comes. The troops of the Emperor are more numerous than the grains of sand in the desert. To resist us would be as futile as to resist the tide. You all know this.” His eyes swept proudly across the guilty faces of the ruling council and came to rest on Glokta’s with a piercing contempt. The look of a man who believes he has already won. No one could blame him much for thinking so. Perhaps he has.