The Blade Itself

“Of course you are. But battles and so forth can play hell with the nerves. If you should ever change your mind, perhaps I might have a place for you. I can always find a use for promising men.”

“Er, thank you.”

“Until the Contest then. Good luck, Captain,” he threw over his shoulder as he shuffled away. The implication was that he thought Jezal would need a great deal of it. His Highness Prince Ladisla was more optimistic.

“You’re my man, Luthar!” he shouted, poking the air with his fingers as though they were fencing steels. “I’m going to double my bet on you!”

Jezal bowed obsequiously. “Your Highness is too kind.”

“You’re my man! A soldier! A fencing man should fight for his country, eh, Varuz? Why isn’t this Gorst a soldier?”

“I believe he is, your Highness,” said the Lord Marshal gently. “He is a kinsman of Lord Brock, and serves with his personal guard.”

“Oh.” The Prince seemed confused for a moment, but soon perked up. “But you’re my man!” he shouted at Jezal, poking once more with his fingers, the feather on his hat waving this way and that. “You’re the man for me!” He danced off towards the archway, decorative chain-mail gleaming.

“Very impressive.” Jezal whipped round, took an ungainly step back. Glokta, leering at him from his blind side. For a cripple, he had an uncanny knack of sneaking up on a man. “What a happy chance for everyone that you didn’t give it up after all.”

“I never had any intention of doing so,” snapped Jezal frostily.

Glokta sucked at his gums. “If you say so, Captain.”

“I do.” Jezal turned rudely away, hoping that he never had occasion to speak to the loathsome man again. He found himself staring straight into Ardee’s face, no more than a foot away.

“Gah,” he stammered, stepping back again.

“Jezal,” she said, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Er…” He glanced nervously around. Glokta was shambling away. West was long gone. Varuz was busy holding forth to Lord Isher and a few others still remaining in the courtyard. They were unobserved. He had to speak to her. He ought to tell her straight out that he could not see her anymore. He owed her that much. “Er…”

“Nothing to say to me?”

“Er…” He turned swiftly on his heel and walked away, his shoulders prickling with shame.

The tedium of guard duty at the south gate seemed, after all that unexpected excitement, almost a mercy. Jezal was quite looking forward to standing idly by, watching people file in and out of the Agriont, listening to Lieutenant Kaspa’s mindless babble. At least, he was until he got there.

Kaspa and the usual complement of armoured soldiers were clustered around the outer gates, where the old bridge across the moat passed between the two massive, white rendered towers of the gatehouse. As Jezal marched down to the end of the long tunnel he saw that there was someone with them. A small, harassed-looking fellow wearing spectacles. Jezal recognised him vaguely. Morrow he was called, some crony of the Lord Chamberlain. He had no reason to be here.

“Captain Luthar, what a happy chance!” Jezal jumped. It was that lunatic, Sulfur, sitting cross-legged on the ground behind him, his back against the sheer wall of the gatehouse.

“What the hell’s he doing here?” snapped Jezal. Kaspa opened his mouth to speak, but Sulfur got in first.

“Don’t mind me, Captain, I’m simply waiting for my master.”

“Your master?” He dreaded to think what manner of an idiot this idiot might serve.

“Indeed. He should be here very shortly.” Sulfur frowned up at the sun. “He is already somewhat tardy, if the truth be told.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” The madman broke into a friendly smile once more. “But he’ll be along, Jezal, you can depend on it.”

First-name terms was too much to take. He hardly knew the man, and what he knew he didn’t like. He opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, but Sulfur suddenly jumped up, grabbing his stick from the wall and brushing himself down.

“Here they are!” he said, looking out across the moat. Jezal followed the idiot’s eyes with his own.

A magnificent old man was striding purposefully across the bridge, bald head held high, a fabulous gown of shimmering red and silver flowing about him in the breeze. At his heels came a sickly-looking youth, head a little bowed as if in awe of the older man, holding a long staff out before him in upturned palms. A great brute of a man in a heavy fur cloak followed behind them, a good half head taller than the other two.

“What the…” Jezal trailed off. He seemed to recognise the old man from somewhere. Some lord perhaps, from the Open Council? Some foreign ambassador? Certainly he had an air of majesty. Jezal racked his brains as they approached, but could not place him.

The old man stopped before the gatehouse, swept Jezal, Kaspa, Morrow and the guards imperiously with glittering green eyes. “Yoru,” he said.

Sulfur stepped forward, bowing low. “Master Bayaz,” he murmured, in hushed tones of deep respect.