The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,158

to surprise. Orso found it rather gratifying when his jaw dropped. “I’ll be bloody what?”

“The only real skill a king needs is to pick the best men to serve him. You may like to paint yourself as the least dependable man in the Union, but… I rather suspect it’s all a front. When it comes to it, I’m not sure there’s a man in the Circle of the World I trust more.”

Tunny stared at him. “We’re all doomed.”

The old bureaucrats of the Closed Council looked wild-haired and flustered, and who could blame them? They had been dragged from their beds to an unscheduled meeting in which a fully armoured Knight of the Body loomed behind each chair, even the empty chair of Bayaz, down at the foot of the table. The White Chamber felt positively cramped by so much polished steel.

Orso grimly steepled his fingers and frowned at each old face in turn. None of them gave any immediate sign of being a conspirator. But then conspirators rarely do. Not the good ones, anyway. “My lords, I am sorry to call upon you so early,” he said, “but we have grave issues to discuss.”

“Where is Arch Lector Glokta?” asked Gorodets, glancing nervously up at Gorst, who towered implacably at Orso’s shoulder.

“I accepted his resignation just after dawn.” There was a collective gasp. Orso held out a hand to Pike, whose spotless white garments made his face look, if anything, more blighted and expressionless than his black ones had. “Arch Lector Pike has taken charge of the Inquisition.”

“Resigned?” whispered Hoff. “But why?”

“Because his son-in-law, Leonault dan Brock, Lord Governor of Angland, plans to rebel against the Crown.”

Brock’s treachery left the room even more stunned than Glokta’s resignation. Gorodets was tugging so hard at his beard Orso worried he might tear his lower jaw off. “Can we be sure?”

“I was informed anonymously. But on my trip to Sipani I met with King Jappo of Styria.”

“You…” Matstringer looked like he might swallow his tongue. “This is an unprecedented breach of protocol—”

“Treason takes precedence,” grated out Pike.

“It had to be an informal meeting,” said Orso. “Off the books.” Most of the old men were looking thunderstruck. Whether at the news of imminent rebellion, or the discovery that Orso was capable of arranging something on his own, it was unclear. “Jappo confirmed my worst fears. The Young Lion has gathered a considerable following of disaffected noblemen and means to invade Midderland.”

“By the Fates,” croaked Hoff.

“Worse still… he has enlisted the help of the King of the Northmen, Stour Nightfall.”

“He plans to bring those savages onto Union soil?” The surveyor general’s voice reached so high a pitch, it was a wonder the windows did not shatter.

“Unthinkable,” whispered Hoff, slumping back in his chair.

“Outrageous!” frothed Gorodets. “Send to the Superior in Angland! Have Brock arrested! Have him bloody hanged!”

“Brock is loved in Angland,” said Pike, in his emotionless drone. “We are despised. As long as he makes no move against us, he is beyond our reach.”

“Your Majesty.” Brint leaned forward with his one fist clenched, the yellow stone on his ring glinting. “The King’s Own are scattered to counter the threat of the Breakers. Lord Marshal Rucksted is in Keln with most of the cavalry. We must concentrate our forces at once so we are ready to meet any rebel threat and decisively crush it.” And he thumped the table and made several of the other old men jump.

“Agreed,” said Orso. The first useful contribution. “Please send out the orders, Marshal Brint, to Rucksted and the rest. In the meantime, we must do everything possible to pull the noblemen’s teeth.”

“The Open Council stands in summer recess,” said Hoff. “Some members are in the city still, but most will have repaired to their estates.”

Gorodets swallowed. “Several sought dispensation to raise extra soldiers because of fears over the Breakers. Very many extra soldiers… in some cases…”

An uneasy muttering swept the table. Brint clenched his fist even tighter. The high consul glanced furtively at Gorst. Hoff dabbed at his sweaty forehead with the fur-trimmed sleeve of his gown. The whole stuffy little room reeked of panic and suspicion. By the Fates, any one of the old bastards could have been the traitor.

“Go to your departments,” said Orso, “and make preparations. I want our defences shored up. I want forces on high alert. I want anything disloyal rooted out.” He stood, planting his hands on the table. “You are the only ones I can trust. My father’s faithful advisors. My loyal