There was a smattering of Kings Own padded out by some squinting members of the city watch, a few puffed-up tradesmen with leather jerkins and polished swords, some slouching labourers with antique flatbows and tough expressions. These were the very best of what was on offer. They were accompanied by a random assortment of citizens of both sexes and all ages, equipped with a bewildering range of mismatched armour and weapons. Or nothing at all. It was difficult to tell who was supposed to be a soldier and who a citizen, if, indeed, there was still a difference. Every one of them was looking at Jezal as he smartly dismounted, his golden spurs jingling. Looking to him, he realised, as he began to walk out among them, his well-armoured bodyguard clanking behind.
These are the defenders of this borough? murmured Jezal to Lord Marshal Varuz, following at his shoulder.
Some of them, your Majesty. Accompanied by some enthusiastic townsfolk. A touching spectacle.
Jezal would happily have traded a touching crowd for an effective one, but he supposed a leader had always to appear indomitable before his followers. Bayaz had told him so often. How doubly, how triply true of a king before his subjects? Especially a king whose grip on his recently won crown might be thought of as slippery at best.
So he stood tall, pointed his scarred chin as high as he dared, flicked out his gilt-edged cloak with one gauntleted hand. He strode through the crowd with the confident swagger he had always used to have, one hand resting on the jewelled pommel of his sword, hoping with every step that no one caught an inkling of the cauldron of fear and doubt behind his eyes. The crowd muttered as he swept past, Varuz and Bayaz hurrying behind. Some made attempts at bows, others did not bother.
The king!
I thought hed be taller
Jezal the Bastard. Jezal snapped his head round, but there was no way of telling who spoke.
Thats Luthar!
A cheer for is Majesty! Followed by a half-hearted murmur.
This way, said a pale-looking officer before the gate, indicating a staircase with one apologetic hand. Jezal climbed manfully, two stone steps at a time, spurs jingling. He came out onto the roof of the gatehouse and froze, his lip curling with distaste. Who should be standing there but his old friend Superior Glokta, bent over on his cane, his repulsive toothless smile on his face?
Your Majesty, he leered, voice heavy with irony. What an almost overwhelming honour. He lifted his cane to point towards the far parapet. The Gurkish are that way.
Jezal was attempting to frame a suitably acidic reply as his eyes followed Gloktas stick. He blinked, the muscles of his face going slack. He stepped past the cripple without saying a word. His scarred jaw crept gradually open, and stayed there.
The enemy, growled Varuz. Jezal tried to imagine what Logen Ninefingers would have said faced with the sight below him now.
Shit.
In the patchwork of damp fields, over the roads and through the hedgerows, between the farms and villages and the few coppices of old trees beyond the city walls, Gurkish troops swarmed in their thousands. The wide paved road towards Keln, curving away southwards through the flat farmland, was a single crawling, glittering, heaving river of marching men. Gurkish soldiers, in column, flooding up and flowing smoothly out to encircle the city in a giant ring of men, wood, and steel. Tall standards stood out above the boiling throng, golden symbols flashing in the watery autumn sunlight. The standards of the Emperors legions. Jezal counted ten at his first glance.
A considerable body of men, said Bayaz, with awesome understatement.
Glokta grinned. The Gurkish hate to travel alone.
The fence that Marshal Varuz had referred to earlier was already rising, a dark line winding through the muddy fields a few hundred strides from the walls, a shallow ditch in front of it. More than adequate to prevent supplies or reinforcements reaching the city from outside. Further away several camps were taking shape: vast bodies of white tents erected in neatly ordered squares, several with tall columns of dark smoke already floating up into the white sky from cook-fires and forges. There was a deeply worrying feeling of permanence about the whole arrangement. Adua might still have been in Union hands, but even the most patriotic liar could not have denied that the citys hinterland already belonged firmly to the Emperor of Gurkhul.
You have to admire their organisation, said Varuz grimly.
Yes their organisation Jezals voice was suddenly creaky as old floorboards. Putting a brave face on this seemed more like insanity than courage.
A dozen horsemen had detached themselves from the Gurkish lines and now rode forward at a steady trot. Two long flags streamed above their heads, red and yellow silk, worked with Kantic characters in golden thread. There was a white flag too, so small as to be barely noticeable.
Parleys, growled the First of the Magi, slowly shaking his head.
What are they but an excuse for old fools who love to hear their own voices to prattle about fair treatment before they start on the butchery?
I suppose on the subject of old fools who love to hear their own voices, you are the absolute expert. That was what Jezal thought but he kept it to himself, watching the Gurkish party approach in brooding silence. A tall man came at their head, gold shining on his sharply pointed helmet and his polished armour, riding with that upright arrogance that shouts, even from a distance, of high command.
Marshal Varuz frowned. General Malzagurt.
You know him?
He commanded the Emperors forces, during the last war. We grappled with each other for months. We parleyed more than once. A most cunning opponent.
You got the better of him though, eh?
In the end, your Majesty. Varuz looked far from happy. But I had an army then.
The Gurkish commander clattered up the road, through the jumble of deserted buildings scattered beyond Casamirs wall. He reined in his horse before the gate, staring proudly upwards, one hand resting casually on his hip.
I am General Malzagurt, he called in a sharp Kantic accent, the chosen representative of his magnificence, Uthman-ul-Dosht, Emperor of Gurkhul.
I am King Jezal the First.
Of course. The bastard.
It was pointless to deny it. Thats right. The bastard. Why dont you come in, General? Then we can speak face to face, like civilised men.
Malzagurts eyes flickered across to Glokta. Forgive me, but the response of your government to unarmed emissaries of the Emperor has not always been civilised. I think I will remain outside the walls. For now.
As you wish. I believe you are already acquainted with Lord Marshal Varuz?
Of course. It seems an age since we tussled in the dry wastelands. I would say that I have missed you but I have not. How are you, my old friend, my old enemy?
Well enough, grunted Varuz.
Malzagurt gestured towards the vast array of manpower deploying behind him. Under the circumstances, eh? I do not know your other
He is Bayaz. First of the Magi. A smooth, even voice. It came from one of Malzagurts companions. A man dressed all in simple white, somewhat in the manner of a priest. He seemed hardly older than Jezal, and very handsome, with a dark face, perfectly smooth. He wore no armour, carried no weapon. There was no adornment on his clothes or his simple saddle. And yet the others in the party, even Malzagurt himself, seemed to look at him with great respect. With fear, almost.