Last Argument of Kings

come out alright. She could’ve had a
little bite out of Logen if she’d wanted, but what woman in her
right mind did?
    He frowned most
of all at himself in the mirrors opposite, raised up on the high
platform beside Jezal and his queen. He looked a sullen and brooding,
scarred and fearsome monster beside that beautiful pair. A man made
of murder, then swaddled in rich coloured cloth and rare white furs,
set with polished rivets and bright buckles, all topped off with a
great golden chain around his shoulders. That same chain that Bethod
had worn. His hands stuck from the ends of his fur-trimmed sleeves,
marked and brutal, one finger missing, grasping at the arms of his
gilded chair. King’s clothes, maybe, but killer’s hands.
He looked like the villain in some old children’s story. The
ruthless warrior, clawed his way to power with fire and steel.
Climbed to a throne up a mountain of corpses. Maybe he was that man.
    He squirmed
around, new cloth scratching at his clammy skin. He’d come a
long way, since he dragged himself out of a river without even a pair
of boots to his name. Dragged himself across the High Places with
nothing but a pot for company. He’d come a long way, but he
wasn’t sure he hadn’t liked himself better before. He’d
laughed when he’d heard that Bethod was calling himself a king.
Now here he was, doing the same, and even worse suited to the job.
Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s a cunt. Simple as
that. And that’s not something any man likes to admit about
himself.
    The drunkard,
Hoff, was doing most of the talking. “The Lords’ Round
lies in ruins, alas. For the time being, therefore, until a venue of
grandeur suitable for this noble institution has been built—a
new Lords’ Round, richer and greater than the last—it has
been decided that the Open Council will stand in recess.â€

Behind the Throne
    A soon as he
heard the door open, Jezal knew who his visitor must be. He did not
even have to look up. Who else would have the temerity to barge into
a king’s own chambers without so much as knocking? He cursed,
silently, but with great bitterness.
    It could only be
Bayaz. His jailer. His chief tormentor. His ever-present shadow. The
man who had destroyed half the Agriont, and made a ruin of beautiful
Adua, and now smiled and revelled in the applause as though he were
the saviour of the nation. It was enough to make a man sick to the
pit of his guts. Jezal ground his teeth, staring out of the window
towards the ruins, refusing to turn round.
    More demands.
More compromises. More talk of what had to be done. Being the head of
state, at least with the First of the Magi at his shoulder, was an
endlessly frustrating and disempowering experience. Getting his own
way on even the tiniest of issues, an almost impossible struggle.
Wherever he looked he found himself staring directly into the Magus’
disapproving frown. He felt like nothing more than a figurehead. A
fine-looking, a gilded, a magnificent yet utterly useless chunk of
wood. Except a figurehead at least gets to go at the front of the
ship.
    â€œYour
Majesty,â€

Good Men, Evil Men
    Grey morning
time, out in the cold, wet gardens, and the Dogman was just stood
there, thinking about how things used to be better. Stood there, in
the middle of that circle of brown graves, staring at the turned
earth over Harding Grim. Strange, how a man who said so little could
leave such a hole.
    It was a long
journey that Dogman had taken, the last few years, and a strange one.
From nowhere to nowhere, and he’d lost a lot of friends along
the way. He remembered all those men gone back to the mud. Harding
Grim. Tul Duru Thunderhead. Rudd Threetrees. Forley the Weakest. And
what for? Who was better off because of it? All that waste. It was
enough to make a man sick to the soles of his boots. Even one who was
famous for having a flat temper. All gone, and left Dogman lonely.
The world was a narrower place without ’em.
    He heard
footsteps through the wet grass. Logen, walking up through the misty
rain, breath smoking round his scarred face. Dogman remembered how
happy he’d been, that night, when Logen had stepped into the
firelight, still alive. It had seemed like a new beginning, then. A
good moment, promising better times. Hadn’t quite worked out
that way. Strange, how the Dogman didn’t