Last Argument of Kings

his apprentice skulking at his
elbow. Bayaz grinned as though he were doing nothing more than
attending the theatre. Their eyes met, and the Magus had the gall to
wink. Jezal was far from amused.
    To a swelling
chorus of mutterings, the old men took their high chairs behind a
long, curved table, facing the noblemen on their banked benches.
Their aides arranged themselves on smaller chairs and laid out their
papers, opened their books, whispered to their masters in hushed
voices. The tension in the hall rose yet another step towards
outright hysteria.
    Jezal felt a
sweaty shiver run up his back. Glokta was there, beside the Arch
Lector, and the familiar face was anything but a reassurance. Jezal
had been at Ardee’s house only that morning, and all night too.
Needless to say, he had neither forsworn her nor proposed marriage.
His head spun from going round and round the issue. The more time he
spent with her, the more impossible any decision seemed to become.
    Glokta’s
fever-bright eyes swivelled to his, held them, then flicked away.
Jezal swallowed, with some difficulty. He had landed himself in a
devil of a spot, alright. What ever was he to do?

    Glokta gave
Luthar one brief glare. Just to remind him of where we stand. Then he swivelled in his chair, grimacing as he stretched out his
throbbing leg, pressing his tongue hard into his empty gums as he
felt the knee click. We have more important business than Jezal
dan Luthar. Far more important business.
    For this one
day, the power lies with the Open Council, not the Closed. With the
nobles, not the bureaucrats. With the many, not the few. Glokta
looked down the table, at the faces of the great men who had guided
the course of the Union for the last dozen years and more: Sult,
Hoff, Marovia, Varuz, and all the rest. Only one member of the Closed
Council was smiling. Its newest and least welcome addition.
    Bayaz sat in his
tall chair, his only companion his pallid apprentice, Malacus Quai. And he looks scant companionship for anyone. The First of the
Magi seemed to revel in the bowel-loosening tension as much as his
fellows were horrified by it, his smile absurdly out of place among
the frowns. Worried faces. Sweaty brows. Nervous whispers to their
cronies. They perch on razors, all of them. And I too, of course.
Let us not forget poor Sand dan Glokta, faithful public servant! We
cling to power by our fingernails—slipping, slipping. We sit
like the accused, at our own trials. We know the verdict is about to
come down. Will it be an ill-deserved reprieve? Glokta felt a
smile twitch the corner of his mouth. Or an altogether bloodier
sentence? What say the gentlemen of the jury?
    His eyes
flickered over the faces of the Open Council on their benches. Three
hundred and twenty faces. Glokta pictured the papers nailed to
the Arch Lector’s wall, and he matched them to the men sitting
before him. The secrets, the lies, and the allegiances. The
allegiances most of all. Which way will they vote?
    He saw some
whose support he had made certain of. Or as certain as we can be
in these uncertain times. He saw Ingelstad’s pink face
among the press, near to the back, and the man swallowed and looked
away. As long as you vote our way, you can look where you like. He saw Wetterlant’s slack features a few rows back, and the man
gave him an almost imperceptible nod. So our last offer was
acceptable. Four more for the Arch Lector? Enough to make the
difference, and keep us in our jobs? To keep us all alive? Glokta
felt his empty grin widen. We shall soon see…
    In the centre of
the front row, among the oldest and best families of Midderland’s
nobility, Lord Brock sat, arms folded, with a look of hungry
expectation. Our front runner, keen to spring from the gate. Not far from him was Lord Isher, old and stately. The second
favourite, still with every chance. Barezin and Heugen sat
nearby, wedged uncomfortably together and occasionally looking
sideways at each other with some distaste. Who knows? A late spurt
and the throne could be theirs. Lord Governor Skald sat on the
far left, at the front of the delegations from Angland and
Starikland. New men, from the provinces. But a vote is still a
vote, however we might turn our noses up. Over on the far right
twelve Aldermen of Westport sat, marked as outsiders by the cut of
their clothes and the tone of their skin. Yet a dozen votes still,
and undeclared.
    There were no
representatives of