The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,30

from frothing outrage to melodramatic self-pity in a breath.

“The traditional punishment,” pattered the high justice. “For such crimes. Is hanging.”

“I’m a member of the Open Council!”

“You’ll find we all hang much the same,” said Glokta, softly.

“You can’t hang a member of the Open Council!”

“From innocence, to coercion, to high spirits, to immunity.” Orso leaned towards the bars. “You demanded the king’s justice. I mean to give it to you.” And he turned on his heel and stalked away.

“Your Majesty!” wailed Wetterlant as the Practical wrestled Glokta’s chair around, one of its wheels shrieking. “Orso, please!”

The door was shut behind them with a clunk like the fall of a headsman’s axe. Orso gave the faintest shiver as he strode away, deeply grateful to be on the right side of it.

“Oh, hell,” hissed Bruckel. A formidable-looking woman, black hair streaked with iron grey and her angular dress incorporating more than a hint of armoured steel, ploughed towards them with the determination of a warship under full sail.

“Who’s this?” muttered Orso.

“The bastard’s mother,” grunted Glokta, from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, hell.”

“Your Majesty.” Lady Wetterlant’s rigid curtsy bespoke barely contained fury.

“Lady Wetterlant.” Orso had no idea of the right tone to strike and ended up trapped between a funeral guest and a boy caught stealing apples. “I… er… wish we were meeting under happier circumstances—”

“You have the power to make them happier, Your Majesty. Do you plan to dismiss this ridiculous case?”

He was almost tempted, just to avoid this interview. “I… fear I cannot. The evidence is compelling.”

“The word of jealous commoners? My son is infamously used! Slandered by unscrupulous enemies. You would take their side?”

“This is not a question of sides, madam, but of justice.”

“You call this justice? He is imprisoned!”

“He has,” said Bruckel, “a window.”

Lady Wetterlant turned a glare on the high justice that might have frozen milk. “Mine is an old family, Your Majesty. We have many friends.”

Orso winced as if into a gale. “A great comfort for you, and them, I am sure, but it does not bear upon the guilt or innocence of your son.”

“It bears upon the consequences of the verdict. It bears upon them quite considerably. You have a child, Your Eminence.”

Glokta’s left eye gave an ugly twitch. “Is that a threat?”

“A humble entreaty,” though made in the very tone one might have used for a threat. “I would ask you to look into your heart.”

“Oh, mine’s a very small one. People who seek for anything of much significance in there are inevitably disappointed.”

Lady Wetterlant wrinkled her lip. “Be in no doubt, I will do everything in my considerable power to ensure my child goes free.”

“Everything within the law,” squeaked Bruckel. “I trust.”

Lady Wetterlant eased towards him. “A mother’s love for her child transcends the law.”

“Don’t count on it.” Glokta jerked his head at the Practical wheeling his chair, who shoved it forward with sufficient violence to run Lady Wetterlant down, had she not stumbled aside. Orso seized the opportunity to hurry past in his wake.

“Do the right thing, Your Majesty!” Lady Wetterlant shrieked after him, her voice so sharp it made him hunch his shoulders. “I beg you, for my sake. For your sake. Do the right thing!”

“I intend to,” muttered Orso. But he doubted he and Lady Wetterlant meant the same by that particular phrase. No one does. That’s the problem with it.

The First of the Magi was standing in the gardens when Orso returned, among well-manicured beds in which the first blooms were just peeping from their buds, frowning towards the House of the Maker, its stark outline showing over the battlements of the creeper-covered palace wall.

“Lord Bayaz.” Orso’s greeting came out with more than a dash of resentment. “Still with us?”

“Your Majesty.” The First of the Magi smiled as he bowed, but his green eyes stayed hard. “I will soon be taking my leave, in fact.”

“Oh? Oh.” Orso had been desperate to get rid of the old meddler, but now it came to it, he found he was sorry to see him go. Perhaps he wanted someone to blame. Now, as usual, he would have to blame himself.

“I had not intended to stay so long but, with your father’s death, I wanted to see the crown… smoothly transferred.”

“Chaos in Westport, chaos in Valbeck, chaos among the commoners, chaos among the nobility?” Orso gave a sorry grunt. “Things could be smoother.”

“Your father and I passed through rougher seas together.” Bayaz took a long breath through his nose, winced and cleared his throat. The