“Have you met West’s sister?” murmured Brint. Jezal’s every muscle stiffened. “She’s not the equal of those two of course, but she’s really quite pretty in a common sort of way and… I think she’d be willing.” Brint licked his lips and nudged Jalenhorm in the ribs. The big man grinned guiltily like a schoolboy at a dirty joke. “Oh yes, she strikes me as the willing type.” Kaspa giggled. Jezal put his pipe down on the table, noticing that his hand was trembling slightly. The other was gripping the arm of his chair so hard that his knuckles were white.
“I do declare,” said Brint, “if I didn’t think the Major would stick me with his sword, I’d be tempted to stick his sister with mine, eh?” Jalenhorm spluttered with laughter. Jezal felt one of his eyes twitching as Brint turned his smirk towards him. “Well, Jezal, what do you think? You’ve met her, haven’t you?”
“What do I think?” His voice seemed to come from a terribly long way away as he stared at those three grinning faces. “I think you should watch your mouth, you son of a fucking whore.”
He was on his feet now, teeth gritted so tight together they felt like they might crack apart. The three smiles blinked and faded. Jezal felt Kaspa’s hand on his arm. “Come on, he only meant—”
Jezal ripped his arm away, seized the edge of the table and flung it over. Coins, cards, bottles, glasses, flew through the air and spilled out across the grass. He had his sword in his other hand, still sheathed luckily, leaning right down over Brint, spraying spit in his face. “Now you fucking listen to me, you little bastard!” he snarled, “I hear anything more like that, anything, and you won’t have to worry about West!” He pressed the grip of his steel into Brint’s chest. “I’ll carve you like a fucking chicken!”
The three men stared up at him, aghast, their mouths wide open, their astonishment at this sudden display of violence equalled only by Jezal’s own.
“But—” said Jalenhorm.
“What?” screamed Jezal, seizing a fistful of the big man’s jacket and dragging him half out of his chair. “What d’you fucking say?”
“Nothing,” he squeaked, his hands raised, “nothing.” Jezal let him drop. The fury was draining fast. He had half a mind to apologise, but when he saw Brint’s ashen face all he could think of was “she strikes me as the willing type”.
“Like! A! Fucking! Chicken!” he snarled again, then turned on his heel and stalked off. Halfway to the archway he realised he had left his coat behind, but he could hardly go back for it now. He made it into the darkness of the tunnel, took a couple of steps down it then sagged against the wall, breathing hard and trembling as if he’d just run ten miles. He understood now what it meant to lose one’s temper, and no mistake. He had never even realised that he had one before, but there could be no doubt now.
“What the hell was that about?” Brint’s shocked voice echoed quietly down the tunnel, only just audible over the thumping of Jezal’s heart. He had to hold his breath to hear.
“Damned if I know.” Jalenhorm, sounding even more surprised. There was the rattle and scrape of the table being put straight. “Never knew he had such a temper.”
“I suppose he must have a lot to think about,” said Kaspa, uncertainly, “what with the Contest and all…”
Brint cut him off. “That’s no excuse!”
“Well, they’re close, aren’t they? Him and West? What with all the fencing together and what have you, maybe he knows the sister or something… I don’t know!”
“There is another explanation,” Jezal could hear Brint saying, voice tense as though he was about to deliver a punchline. “Perhaps he’s in love with her!” The three of them burst out laughing. It was a good joke alright. Captain Jezal dan Luthar, in love, and with a girl whose station in life was so far beneath his own. What a ridiculous idea! What an absurd notion! What a joke!
“Oh shit.” Jezal put his head in his hands. He didn’t feel like laughing. How the hell had she done this to him? How? What was it about her? She was fine to look at, of course, and clever, and funny, and all those things, but that was no explanation. “I cannot see her again,” he whispered to himself, “I will not!” And he thumped his hand against the wall. His resolve was iron. It always was.
Until the next note came under his door.
He groaned and slapped the side of his head. Why did he feel like this? Why did he… he couldn’t even bring himself to think the word… like her so much? Then it came to him. He knew why.
She didn’t like him.
Those mocking half-smiles. Those sidelong glances he caught sometimes. Those jokes that went just a little too close to the bone. Not to mention the occasional examples of outright scorn. She liked his money, maybe. She liked his position in the world, of course. She liked his looks, undoubtedly. But, in essence, the woman despised him.
And he’d never had that feeling before. He had always just assumed that everybody loved him, had never really had cause to doubt he was a fine man, worthy of the highest respect. But Ardee didn’t like him, he saw it now, and that made him think. Apart from the jaw, of course, and the money and the clothes, what was there to like?
She treated him with the contempt he knew he deserved. And he couldn’t get enough of it. “Strangest thing,” Jezal mumbled to himself, slouching miserably against the wall of the tunnel. “Strangest thing.”
It made him want to change her mind.
The Seed
“How are you, Sand?”
Colonel Glokta opened his eyes. It was dark in the room. Damn it, he was late!
“Damn it!” he shouted, shoving back the covers and leaping out of bed. “I’m late!” He snatched up his uniform trousers, shoving his legs in, fumbling with his belt.
“Don’t worry about that, Sand!” His mother’s voice was half soothing, half impatient. “Where is the Seed?”
Glokta frowned over as he pushed his shirt in. “I’ve no time for this nonsense, mother! Why do you always think you know what’s best for me?” He cast around him for his sword, but couldn’t see it. “We’re at war, you know!”
“We are indeed.” The Colonel looked up, surprised. It was the voice of Arch Lector Sult. “Two wars. One fought with fire and steel, and another one beneath—an old war, long years in the making.” Glokta frowned. How ever could he have mistaken that old windbag for his mother? And what was he doing in Glokta’s chambers in any case? Sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed, prattling about old wars?
“What the hell are you doing in my chambers?” growled Colonel Glokta, “and what have you done with my sword?”
“Where is the Seed?” A woman’s voice now, but not his mother’s. Someone else. He did not recognise it. He squinted against the darkness, straining to see who was in the chair. He could make out a vague outline, but the shadows were too deep to tell more.
“Who are you?” asked Glokta sternly.
“Who was I? Or what am I?” The figure in the chair shifted as it rose slowly, smoothly, from its seat. “I was a patient woman, but I am woman no more, and the grinding years have worn my patience thin.”
“What do you want?” Glokta’s voice quivered, reedy and weak as he backed away.
The figure moved, stepping through the shaft of moonlight from the window. A woman’s form, slender and graceful, but shadows stuck to the face. A sudden fear clawed at him and he stumbled back against the wall, raising his arm to fend the woman off.
“I want the Seed.” A pale hand snaked out and closed around his outstretched arm. A gentle touch, but cold. Cold as stone. Glokta trembled, gasped, squeezed shut his eyes. “I need it. You cannot know the need I have. Where is it?” Fingers plucked at his clothes, quick and deft, seeking, searching, darting in his pockets, in his shirt, brushing his skin. Cold. Cold as glass.