Last Argument of Kings

would sleep on the floor, or on some
item of furniture never quite long enough, or wherever he pleased as
long as it was not with her. Then at breakfast she would smile at
him, and speak of nothing, sometimes even place her hand fondly on
his when she knew they were being watched. Occasionally she would
even have him believing that all was now well, but as soon as
they were alone she would turn her back on him, and bludgeon him with
silence, and stab him with looks of such epic scorn and disgust that
he wanted to be sick.
    Her
ladies-in-waiting behaved towards him with scarcely less contempt
whenever he had the misfortune to find himself in their whispering
presence. One in particular, the Countess Shalere, apparently his
wife’s closest friend since a tender age, eyed him always with
a murderous hatred. On one occasion he had blundered into the salon
where all dozen of them were sitting arranged around Terez, muttering
in Styrian. He had felt like a peasant boy stumbling upon a coven of
extremely well-presented witches, chanting some dark curse. Probably
one directed towards himself. He was made to feel like the lowest,
most repulsive animal alive. And he was a king, in his own palace.
    For some reason
he lived in inexplicable horror that somebody would realise the
truth, but if any of the servants noticed they kept it to themselves.
He wondered if he should have told someone, but who? And what? Lord
Chamberlain, good day. My wife refuses to fuck me. Your Eminence,
well met. My wife will not look at me. High Justice, how are you? The
Queen despises me, by the way. Most of all, he feared telling Bayaz.
He had warned the Magus away from his personal affairs in no
uncertain terms, and could scarcely go crawling for his help now.
    And so he went
along with the fiction, miserable and confused, and with every day
that he pretended at marital bliss it became more and more impossible
to see his way clear of it. His whole life stretched away before
him—loveless, friendless, and sleeping on the floor.
    â€œWell?â€

PART II
    â€œLast
Argument of Kings.â€

The Number of the Dead
    It was quiet in
the village. The few houses, built from old stone with roofs of mossy
slate, seemed deserted. The only life in the fields beyond, mostly
fresh-harvested and ploughed over, were a handful of miserable crows.
Next to Ferro the bell in the tower creaked softly. Some loose
shutters on a window swung and tapped. A few curled-up leaves fell on
a gust of wind and fluttered gently to the empty square. On the
horizon three columns of dark smoke rose up just as gently into the
heavy sky.
    The Gurkish were
coming, and they always had loved to burn.
    â€œMaljinn!â€

Leaves on the Water
    â€œCarleon,â€

Authority
    It was a dour
and depressing meeting, even for the Closed Council. The weather
beyond the narrow windows was sullen and overcast, promising storms
but never delivering, casting the White Chamber into a chill gloom.
From time to time heavy gusts of wind would rattle the old window
panes, making Jezal start and shiver in his fur-trimmed robe.
    The grim
expressions of the dozen old faces did little to warm his bones. Lord
Marshal Varuz was all clenched jaw and harsh determination. Lord
Chamberlain Hoff clutched his goblet like a drowning man clinging to
the last fragment of his boat. High Justice Marovia frowned as though
he were about to pronounce the death sentence on the entire
gathering, himself among them. Arch Lector Sult’s thin lip was
permanently curled as his cold eyes slid from Bayaz, to Jezal, to
Marovia, and back.
    The First of the
Magi himself glared down the table. “The situation, please,
Lord Marshal Varuz.â€

The Circle
    Dawn was coming,
a grey rumour, the faintest touch of brightness around the solemn
outline of the walls of Carleon. The stars had all faded into a stony
sky, but the moon still hung there, just above the tree-tops, seeming
almost close enough to try an arrow at.
    West had not
closed his eyes all night, and had passed into that strange realm of
twitchy, dreamlike wakefulness that comes beyond exhaustion. Some
time in the silent darkness, after all the orders had been given, he
had sat by the light of a single lamp to write a letter to his
sister. To vomit up excuses. To demand forgiveness. He had sat, he
could not have said for how long, with the pen over the paper, but
the words had simply not come. He had wanted to say all that he felt,
but when it came to