Last Argument of Kings

Bad Debts
    Superior
Glokta,
    Though
I believe that we have never been formally introduced, I have heard
your name mentioned often these past few weeks. Without causing
offence, I hope, it seems as if every room I enter you have recently
left, or are due soon to arrive in, and every negotiation I undertake
is made more complicated by your involvement.
    Although
our employers are very much opposed in this business, there is no
reason why we should not behave like civilised men. It may be that
you and I can hammer out between us an understanding that will leave
us both with less work and more progress.
    I will
be waiting for you at the slaughter-yard near the Four Corners
tomorrow morning from six. My apologies for such a noisy choice of
spot but I feel our conversation would be better kept private.
    I
daresay that neither one of us is to be put off by a little ordure
underfoot.
    Harlen
Morrow,
    Secretary
to High Justice Marovia.
    Being kind, the
place stank. It would seem that a few hundred live pigs do not
smell so sweet as one would expect. The floor of the shadowy
warehouse was slick with their stinking slurry, the thick air full of
their desperate noise. They honked and squealed, grunted and jostled
each other in their writhing pens, sensing, perhaps, that the
slaughterman’s knife was not so very far away. But, as Morrow
had observed, Glokta was not one to be put off by the noise, or the
knives, or, for that matter, an unpleasant odour. I spend my days
wading through the metaphorical filth, after all. Why not the real
thing? The slippery footing was more of a problem. He hobbled
with tiny steps, his leg burning. Imagine arriving at my meeting
caked in pig dung. That would hardly project the right image of
fearsome ruthlessness, would it?
    He saw Morrow
now, leaning on one of the pens. Just like a farmer admiring his
prize-winning herd. Glokta limped up beside him, boots
squelching, wincing and breathing hard, sweat trickling down his
back. “Well, Morrow, you know just how to make a girl feel
special, I’ll give you that.â€

A Ragged Multitude
    Jezal’s
command post, if you could use the phrase in relation to a man as
utterly confused and clueless as he felt, was at the crest of a long
rise. It offered a splendid view of the shallow valley below. At
least, it would have been a splendid view in happier times. As things
stood, it had to be admitted, the spectacle was far from pleasant.
    The main body of
the rebels entirely covered several large fields further down the
valley, and a dark, and grubby, and threatening infestation they
seemed, glinting in places with bright steel. Farming implements and
tradesman’s tools, perhaps, but sharp ones.
    Even at this
distance there was disturbing evidence of organisation. Straight,
regular gaps through the men for the quick movement of messengers and
supplies. It was plain, even to Jezal’s unpractised eye, that
this was as much an army as a mob, and that someone down there knew
his business. A great deal better than he did, most likely.
    Smaller, less
organised groups of rebels were scattered far and wide across the
landscape, each one a considerable body in its own right. Men sent
foraging for food and water, picking the country clean. That crawling
black mass on the green fields reminded Jezal of a horde of black
ants crawling over a pile of discarded apple peelings. He had not the
slightest idea how many of them there were, but it looked at this
distance as though forty thousand might have been a considerable
underestimate.
    Down in the
village in the bottom of the valley, behind the main mass of rebels,
fires were burning. Bonfires or buildings it was hard to say, but
Jezal rather feared the latter. Three tall columns of dark smoke rose
up and drifted apart high above, giving to the air a faint and
worrying tang of fire.
    It was a
commander’s place to set a tone of fearlessness which his men
would not be able to help but follow. Jezal knew that, of course. And
yet, looking down that long, sloping field, he could not help but
reflect on the very great number of men at the other end, so
ominously purposeful. He could not stop his eyes from darting back
towards their own lines, so thin, meagre, and uncertain-seeming. He
could not avoid wincing and tugging uncomfortably at his collar. The
damn thing still felt far too tight.
    â€œHow do
you wish the regiments deployed, sir?â€

Beloved of the Moon
    The Dogman
stood, squinting