“To serve you?” I would sooner spend two years in the stinking darkness. I would sooner have my leg chopped to mincemeat. I would sooner have my teeth pulled from my head. But since I have done all those things already…

“You will take the task that Feekt once had. The task that a score of great men bore before him. You will be my representative, here in the Union. You will manage the Closed Council, the Open Council, and our mutual friend the king. You will ensure him heirs. You will maintain stability. In short, you will watch the board, while I am gone.”

“But the rest of the Closed Council will never—”

“Those that survive have been spoken to. They all will bow to your authority. Under mine, of course.”

“How will I—”

“I will be in touch. Frequently. Through my people at the bank. Through my apprentice, Sulfur. Through other means. You will know them.”

“I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter?”

“Not unless you can repay the million marks I leant you. Plus interest.”

Glokta patted at the front of his shirt. “Damn it. I left my purse at work.”

“Then I fear you have no choice. But why would you refuse me? I offer you the chance to help me forge a new age.” To bury my hands to the elbow in your dirty work. “To be a great man. The very greatest of men.” To bestride the Closed Council like a crippled colossus. “To leave your likeness set in stone on the Kingsway.” Where its hideousness can make the children cry. Once they clear away the rubble and the corpses, of course. “To shape the course of a nation.”

“Under your direction.”

“Naturally. Nothing is free, you know that.” Again the Magus flicked his hand and something clattered spinning across the squares board. It came to rest in front of Glokta, gold glinting. The Arch Lector’s ring. So many times I bent to kiss this very jewel. Who could have dreamed that I might one day wear it? He picked it up, turned it thoughtfully round and round. And so I finally shake off a dark master, only to find my leash in the fist of another, darker and more powerful by far. But what choice do I have? What choices do any of us truly have? He slid the ring onto his finger. The great stone shone in the lamplight, full of purple sparks. From a dead man to the greatest in the realm, and all in one evening.

“It fits,” murmured Glokta.

“Of course, your Eminence. I always knew it would.”

The Wounded

West woke with a start and tried to jerk up to sitting. Pain shot up one leg, across his chest, through his right arm, and stayed there, throbbing. He dropped back with a groan and stared at the ceiling. A vaulted stone ceiling, covered in thick shadows.

Sounds crept at him now from all around. Grunts and whimpers, coughs and sobs, quick gasping, slow growling. The occasional outright shriek of pain. Sounds between men and animals. A voice whispered throatily from somewhere to his left, droning endlessly away like a rat scratching at the walls. “I can’t see. Bloody wind. I can’t see. Where am I? Somebody. I can’t see.”

West swallowed, feeling the pain growing worse. In the hospitals in Gurkhul there had been sounds like that, when he had come to visit wounded soldiers from his company. He remembered the stink and noise of those horrible tents, the misery of the men in them, and above all the overpowering desire to leave and be among the healthy. But it was already awfully clear that leaving would not be so easy this time.

He was one of the wounded. A different, contemptible and disgusting species. Horror crept slowly through his body and mingled with the pain. How badly was he injured? Did he have all his limbs, still? He tried to move his fingers, wriggle his toes, clenched his teeth as the aching in his arm and leg grew worse. He brought his left hand trembling up before his face, turned it over in the dimness. It seemed intact, at least, but it was the only limb that he could move, and even that was a crushing effort. Panic slithered up his throat and clutched at him.

“Where am I? Bloody wind. I can’t see. Help. Help. Where am I?”

“Fucking shut up!” West shouted, but the words died in his dry throat. All that came up was a hollow cough that set his ribs on fire again.

“Shhhh.” A soft touch on his chest. “Just be still.”

A blurry face swam into view. A woman’s face, he thought, with fair hair, but it was hard to focus. He closed his eyes and stopped trying. It hardly seemed to matter that much. He felt something against his lips, the neck of a bottle. He drank too thirstily, spluttered and felt cold water running down his neck.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“You were wounded.”

“I know that. I mean… in the city. The wind.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.”

“Did we win?”

“I suppose that… the Gurkish were driven out, yes. But there are a lot of wounded. A lot of dead.”

Another swallow of water. This time he managed it without gagging. “Who are you?”

“My name is Ariss. Dan Kaspa.”

“Ariss…” West fumbled with the name. “I knew your cousin. Knew him well… a good man. He always used to talk about… how beautiful you were. And rich,” he muttered, vaguely aware he should not be saying this, but unable to stop his mouth from working. “Very rich. He died. In the mountains.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Trying to help with the wounded. It would be best for you to sleep now, if you—”

“Am I whole?”

A pause. “Yes. Sleep now, if you can.”

Her dark face grew blurry, and West let his eyes close. The noises of agony slowly faded around him. He was whole. All would be well.

Someone was sitting next to his bed. Ardee. His sister. He blinked, worked his sour mouth, unsure where he was for a moment.

“Am I dreaming?” She reached forward and dug her nails into his arm. “Ah!”

“Painful dream, eh?”

“No,” he was forced to admit. “This is real.”

She looked well. Far better than the last time he had seen her, that was sure. No blood on her face for one thing. No look of naked hatred, for another. Only a thoughtful frown. He tried to bring himself up to sitting, failed, and slumped back down. She did not offer to help. He had not really expected her to. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Nothing too serious, apparently. A broken arm, a few broken ribs, and a leg badly bruised, they tell me. Some cuts on your face that may leave a scar or two, but then I got all the looks in the family anyway.”

He gave a snort of laughter and winced at the pain across his chest. “True enough. The brains too.”

“Don’t feel badly about it. I’ve used them to make the towering success of my life that you see before you. The kind of achievement that you, as a Lord Marshal of the Union, can only dream of.”

“Don’t,” he hissed, clamping his good hand across his ribs. “It hurts.”

“No less than you deserve.”

His laughter quickly stuttered out, and they were silent for a moment, looking at each other. Even that much was difficult. “Ardee…” His voice caught in his sore neck. “Can you… forgive me?”

“I already did. The first time I heard you were dead.” She was trying to smile, he could tell. But she still had that twist of anger to her mouth. Probably she would have liked to dig her nails into his face rather than his arm. He was almost glad then, for a moment, that he was wounded. She had no choice but to be soft with him. “It’s good that you’re not. Dead, that is…” She frowned over her shoulder. There was some manner of commotion at one end of the long cellar. Raised voices, the clatter of armoured footsteps.

“The king!” Whoever it was nearly squealed it in their excitement. “The king is come again!”

In the beds all around men turned their heads, propped themselves up. A nervous excitement spread from cot to cot. “The king?” they whispered, faces anxious and expectant, as though they were privileged to witness a divine visitation.