The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,1

disaffection!”

“They talk of a Great Change coming.”

A flurry of twitches ran up the left side of Glokta’s wasted face. “They blame the Open Council.” And published caricatures of them as pigs fighting over the trough. “They blame the Closed Council.” And published caricatures of them fucking each other. “They blame His Majesty.” And published caricatures of him fucking anything. “They blame the banks.”

“They promote the ridiculous rumour that the debt… to the Banking House of Valint and Balk… has crippled the state…” Gorodets trailed off, leaving the room in nervous silence.

Bayaz finally tore his hard, green eyes from the window to glare down the table. “This flood of disinformation must be stemmed.”

“We have destroyed a dozen presses,” grated Glokta, “but they build new ones, and smaller all the time. Now any fool can write, and print, and air their opinions.”

“Progress,” lamented Bruckel, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

“The Breakers are like bloody moles in a garden,” growled Lord Marshal Rucksted, who had turned his chair slightly sideways-on to give an impression of fearless dash. “You kill five, pour a celebratory glass, then in the morning your lawn’s covered in new bloody molehills.”

“More irritating than my bladder,” said Brint, to widespread chuckling.

Glokta sucked at his empty gums with a faint squelch. “And then there are the Burners.”

“Lunatics!” snapped Hoff. “This woman Judge.”

Shudders of distaste about the table. At the notion of such a thing as a woman, or at the notion of this particular one, it was hard to say.

“I hear a mill owner was found murdered on the road to Keln.” Gorodets gave his beard a particularly violent tug. “A pamphlet nailed to his face.”

Rucksted clasped his big fists on the table. “And there was that fellow choked to death with a thousand copies of the rule-sheet he distributed to his employees…”

“One might almost say our approach has made matters worse,” observed Orso. A memory of Malmer drifted up, legs dangling from his cage as it swung with the breeze. “Perhaps we could make some gesture. A minimum wage? Improved working conditions? I heard a recent fire in a mill led to the deaths of fifteen child workers—”

“It would be folly,” said Bayaz, his attention already back on the gardens, “to obstruct the free operation of the market.”

“The market serves the interests of all,” offered the lord chancellor.

“Unprecedented,” agreed the high justice. “Prosperity.”

“No doubt the child workers would applaud it,” said Orso.

“No doubt,” agreed Lord Hoff.

“Had they not been burned to death.”

“A ladder is of no use if all the rungs are at the top,” said Bayaz.

Orso opened his mouth to retort but High Consul Matstringer got in first. “And we face a veritable cornucopia of adversaries overseas.” The coordinator of the Union’s foreign policy had never yet failed to confuse complexity with insight. “The Gurkish may still be embroiled in all-encompassing predicaments of their own—”

Bayaz gave a rare grunt of satisfaction at that.

“But the Imperials endlessly rattle their swords on our western border, exhorting the populace of Starikland to continued disloyalty, and the Styrians are emboldened in the east.”

“They are building up their navy.” Lord Admiral Krepskin roused himself for a heavy-lidded interjection. “New ships. Armed with cannon. While ours rot in their docks for lack of investment.”

Bayaz gave a familiar grunt of dissatisfaction at that.

“And they are busy in the shadows,” went on Matstringer, “sowing discord in Westport, enticing the Aldermen to sedition. Why, they have succeeded in scheduling a vote within the month which could see the city secede from the Union!”

The old men competed to display the most patriotic outrage. It was enough to make Orso want to secede from the Union himself.

“Disloyalty,” grumbled the high justice. “Discord.”

“Bloody Styrians!” snarled Rucksted. “Love to work in the shadows.”

“We can work there, too,” said Glokta softly, in a manner that made the hairs prickle beneath Orso’s braid-heavy uniform. “Some of my very best people are even now ensuring Westport’s loyalty.”

“At least our northern border is secure,” said Orso, desperate to inject some optimism.

“Well…” The high consul crushed his hopes with a prim pursing of the mouth. “The politics of the North are always something of a cauldron. The Dogman is advanced in years. Infirm. No man can divine the fate of his Protectorate in the event of his death. Lord Governor Brock would appear to have forged a strong bond with the new King of the Northmen, Stour Nightfall—”

“That has to be a good thing,” said Orso.

Doubtful glances were traded across the table.

“Unless their bond becomes… too strong,”