The Blade Itself

He shouldered his way through the crowd to the Lord’s Round, glancing suspiciously up at the guards flanking the inlaid doors. They at least seemed the same as ever, their heavy visors giving nothing away. He crossed the ante-chamber, vivid tapestries flapping slightly in the draught, slipped through the inner doors and passed into the vast, cool space beyond. His footsteps made tapping echoes in the gilded dome as he hurried down the aisle towards the high table. Jalenhorm was standing beneath one of the tall windows, face splashed with coloured light from the stained glass, frowning at a bench with a metal rail along its base which had been placed to one side of the floor.

“What’s going on?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Jalenhorm’s voice was whispery with excitement. “Hoffs let it be known there’ll be some great matter to discuss.”

“What is it? Angland? The Northmen?”

The big man shook his head. “Don’t know, but we’ll soon see.”

Jezal frowned. “I don’t like surprises.” His eye came to rest on the mysterious bench. “What’s that for?”

At that moment the great doors were swung open and a stream of councillors began to flood down the aisle. The usual mixture, Jezal supposed, if a little more purposeful. The younger sons, the paid representatives… he caught his breath. There was a tall man at the front, richly dressed even in this august company, with a weighty golden chain across his shoulders and a weighty frown across his face.

“Lord Brock himself,” whispered Jezal.

“And there’s Lord Isher.” Jalenhorm nodded at a sedate old man just behind Brock, “and Heugen, and Barezin. It’s something big. It has to be.”

Jezal took a deep breath as four of the Union’s most powerful noblemen arranged themselves on the front row. He had never seen the Open Council half so well attended. On the councillors’ half-circle of benches there was barely an empty seat. High above them, the public gallery was an unbroken ring of nervous faces.

Now Hoff blustered through the doors and down the aisle, and he was not alone. On his right a tall man flowed along, slender and proud-looking with a long, spotless white coat and a shock of white hair. Arch Lector Sult. On his left walked another man, leaning heavily on a stick, slightly bent in a robe of black and gold with a long grey beard. High Justice Marovia. Jezal could hardly believe his eyes. Three members of the Closed Council, here.

Jalenhorm hurried to take his place as the clerks deposited their burdens of ledgers and papers on the polished tabletop. The Lord Chamberlain threw himself down in their midst and immediately called for wine. The head of his Majesty’s Inquisition swept into a high chair on one side of him, smiling faintly to himself. High Justice Marovia lowered himself slowly into another, frowning all the while. The volume of the anxious whispering in the hall rose a step, the faces of the great magnates on the front row were grim and suspicious. The Announcer took his place before the table, not the usual brightly dressed imbecile, but a dark, bearded man with a barrel chest. He lifted his staff high, then beat it against the tiles, fit to wake the dead.

“I call this meeting of the Open Council of the Union to order!” he bellowed. The hubbub gradually died away.

“There is but one matter for discussion this morning,” said the Lord Chamberlain, peering sternly at the house from beneath his heavy brows, “a matter of the King’s Justice.” There were scattered mutterings. “A matter concerning the royal licence for trade in the city of Westport.” The noise increased: angry whispers, uncomfortable shufflings of noble arses on their benches, the familiar scratching of quills on the great ledgers. Jezal saw Lord Brock’s brows draw together, the corners of Lord Heugen’s mouth turn down. They did not seem to like the taste of this. The Lord Chamberlain sniffed and took a swig of wine, waiting for the muttering to die away. “I am not best qualified to speak on this matter, however—”

“No indeed!” snapped Lord Isher sharply, shifting in his seat on the front row with a scowl.

Hoff fixed the old man with his eye. “So I call on a man who is! My colleague from the Closed Council, Arch Lector Sult.”

“The Open Council recognises Arch Lector Sult!” thundered the Announcer, as the head of the Inquisition made his graceful way down the steps of the dais and onto the tiled floor, smiling pleasantly at the angry faces turned towards him.

“My Lords,” he began, in a slow, musical voice, ushering his words out into space with smooth movements of his hands, “for the past seven years, ever since our glorious victory in the war with Gurkhul, an exclusive royal licence for trade in the city of Westport has been in the hands of the honourable Guild of Mercers.”

“And a fine job they’ve done of it!” shouted Lord Heugen.

“They won us that war!” growled Barezin, pounding the bench beside him with a meaty fist.

“A fine job!”

“Fine!” came the cries.