“…well I’ll be going to war soon, in Angland, so you need not suffer me too much longer!” whined Ladisla. “I might be killed! Perhaps that would make your Highness happy?”
“Pray don’t die on my account,” returned Terez, her Styrian accent dripping venom, “but if you must, you must. I suppose I will learn to bear the sorrow…”
Somebody nearer at hand distracted Jezal by thumping on the table. “Damn these commoners! Damn peasantry’s up in arms in Starikland! Lazy dogs, they refuse to work a stroke!”
“It’s these taxes,” grumbled the man’s neighbour, “these war taxes have them all stirred up. Have you heard about this damn character they call the Tanner? Some bloody peasant, preaching revolution, open as you please! I heard that one of the King’s collectors was set on by a mob, not a mile outside the walls of Keln. One of the King’s collectors, I say! By a mob! Not a mile outside the city walls—”
“We’ve damn well brought it on ourselves!” The speaker’s face was out of sight but Jezal recognised him by the gold-embroidered cuffs on his gown. Marovia, the High Justice. “Treat a man like a dog and sooner or later he’ll bite you, it’s a simple fact. Our role as governors, and as noblemen, is surely to respect and protect the common man, rather than to oppress and scorn him?”
“I wasn’t talking about scorn, Lord Marovia, or oppression, just about them paying what’s due to us as their landlords, and for that matter their natural betters.”
Marshal Varuz, meanwhile, had not let up for an instant. “It was quite a thing, eh? The way you put him down, one steel against two!” The old soldier swished his hand around in the air. “The whole town’s buzzing. You’re bound for great things now my boy, mark my words. Bound for great things. I’ll be damned if you don’t have my seat on the Closed Council one day!”
It really was too much. Jezal had put up with the man for all those months. He had somehow imagined that if he won that would be the end of it, but it seemed he would be disappointed in this, as in so much else. It was strange, but Jezal had never fully realised before what a boring old imbecile the Lord Marshal was. He was realising now though, and no mistake.
To further add to his dismay, there were several people seated about the tables who would most definitely not have been among his chosen guests. He supposed he could make a dispensation for Sult, the Arch Lector of the Inquisition, since he sat on the Closed Council and was without doubt a powerful figure, but Jezal could not comprehend why he might have brought that bastard Glokta with him. The cripple looked even more ill than usual, twitching eyes sunken in dark circles. For some reason he was occasionally shooting grim and suspicious glances at Jezal as though he suspected him of some crime or other. It was a damn cheek, what with it being his feast and all.
Even worse, on the other side of the room was that old, bald man, the one who had called himself Bayaz. Jezal had still not got to the bottom of his strange words of congratulation at the Contest—or his father’s reaction to the man, for that matter. And he had his hideous friend, the nine-fingered barbarian, beside him.
Major West had the misfortune of being seated next to the primitive, but he was making the best of it; indeed, the two were engaged in a lively conversation. The Northman broke into sudden peals of laughter and thumped the table with his big fist, making the glasses rattle. At least they were enjoying themselves at his party, Jezal thought sourly, but he almost wished he was down there with them.
Still, he knew that he wanted to be a big, important man some day. To wear things with a lot of fur, and a heavy golden chain of office. To have people bow and scrape and fawn before him. He had made that decision long ago, and he supposed he still liked the idea. It was just that, up close, the whole thing seemed so awfully false and boring. He would much, much rather have been on his own with Ardee, even though he had seen her the night before. There was nothing boring about her…
“…the savages are closing on Ostenhorm, that’s what I heard!” someone shouted over on Jezal’s left. “The Lord Governor, Meed, he’s raising an army and has sworn to turn them out of Angland!”
“Hah. Meed? That swollen-headed old fool couldn’t turn a pie out of a dish!”
“Enough to beat these Northern animals though, what? One good Union man’s worth ten of their kind.
Jezal heard Terez’ voice cutting suddenly shrill above the hubbub, almost loud enough to be heard at the far end of the room, “…of course I will marry where my father commands me, but I don’t have to like it!” She appeared so vicious at that moment that he would not have been surprised to see her stab the Crown Prince in the face with her fork. Jezal felt somewhat gratified to see that he was not the only one who had trouble with women.
“…oh yes, a remarkable performance! Everyone’s talking about it,” Varuz was still droning.
Jezal squirmed in his chair. How long was this bloody business going to take? He felt suffocated. He glanced across the faces again and caught Glokta’s eye, staring at him with that grim, suspicious look on his wasted face. Jezal still couldn’t meet that gaze for long, his party or no. What the hell did the cripple have against him anyhow?
The little bastard. He cheated. Somehow. I know it. Glokta’s eyes tracked slowly across the table opposite until they lighted on Bayaz. The old fraud was sitting there, quite at home. And he had some part in it. They cheated, together. Somehow.
“My lords and ladies!” The chatter faded as the Lord Chamberlain rose to address the room. “I would like to welcome you all, on his Majesty’s behalf, to this humble gathering.” The King himself stirred briefly, gazed vacantly about him, blinked, then closed his eyes. “We are gathered, of course, in honour of Captain Jezal dan Luthar, who has recently added his name to that most select roll of honour: those swordsman who have been victorious at the summer Contest.” A few glasses were raised and there were some half-hearted mumblings of agreement.
“I recognise several other winners among the assembly here today, many of them now the holders of high office: Lord Marshal Varuz, Commander Valdis of the Knights Herald, Major West down there, now on Marshal Burr’s staff, of course. Even I was a winner in my day.” He smiled and looked down at his bulging paunch. “Though my day was some time ago, of course.” A polite ripple of laughter passed round the room. I notice that I don’t get a mention. Not all winners are enviable, eh?
“Victors at the Contest,” continued the Lord Chamberlain, “have so often gone on to great things. I hope, and indeed we all hope, that it may prove so for our young friend, Captain Luthar.” I hope he meets a slow death in Angland, the cheating little bastard. But Glokta raised his glass along with everyone else to toast the arrogant ass, while Luthar sat there, loving every instant of it.
And to think. I sat in that very chair, being applauded and envied and clapped on the back after I won the Contest. Different men in the big clothes, different faces sweating in the heat, but nothing very much has changed. Was my grin really any less smug? Of course not. If anything I was worse. But at least I earned it.
Such was Lord Hoffs commitment that he did not stop toasting until his goblet was entirely empty, then he shoved it back on the table and licked his lips. “And now, before the food arrives, a small surprise has been prepared by my colleague Arch Lector Sult, in honour of another of our guests. I hope you will all find it diverting.” And the Lord Chamberlain sat heavily back down, holding his empty goblet out for more wine.