The Course of True Love

Jezal trudged miserably across the grey Agriont with his fencing steels in his hand: yawning, stumbling, grumbling, still horribly sore from his endless run the day before. He hardly saw anyone as he dragged himself to his daily bullying from Lord Marshal Varuz. Apart from the odd premature tweeting of some bird in amongst the gables and the tired scraping of his own reluctant boots, all was quiet. No one was up at this time. No one should be up at this time. Him least of all.

He hauled his aching legs through the archway and up the tunnel. The sun was barely above the horizon and the courtyard beyond was full of deep shadows. Squinting into the darkness he could see Varuz sat at the table, waiting for him. Damn it. He had hoped to be early for once. Did the old bastard sleep at all?

“Lord Marshal!” shouted Jezal, breaking into a half-hearted jog.

“No. Not today.” A shiver crept up Jezal’s neck. It was not the voice of his fencing master, but there was something unpleasantly familiar about it. “Marshal Varuz is busy with more important matters this morning.” Inquisitor Glokta was sitting in the shadows by the table and smiling up with his revolting gap-toothed grin. Jezal’s skin prickled with disgust. It was hardly what one needed first thing in the morning.

He slowed to a reluctant walk and stopped next to the table. “You will doubtless be pleased to learn that there will be no running, or swimming, or beam, or heavy bar today,” said the cripple. “You won’t even be needing those.” He waved his cane at Jezal’s fencing steels. “We will just be having a little chat. That is all.”

The idea of five punishing hours with Varuz seemed suddenly very appealing, but Jezal was not about to show his discomfort. He tossed his steels onto the table with a loud rattle and sat down carelessly in the other chair, Glokta regarding him from the shadows all the while. Jezal had it in mind to stare him into some kind of submission, but it proved a vain attempt. After a couple of seconds looking at that wasted face, that empty grin, those fever-bright sunken eyes, he began to find the table top most interesting.

“So tell me, Captain, why did you take up fencing?”

A game then. A private hand of cards with only two players. And everything that was said would get back to Varuz, that was sure. Jezal would have to play his hand carefully, keep his cards close and his wits about him. “For my own honour, for that of my family, for that of my King,” he said coldly. The cripple could try and find fault with that answer.

“Ah, so it’s for the benefit of your nation that you put yourself through this. What a fine citizen you must be. What selflessness. What an example to us all.” Glokta snorted. “Please! If you must lie, at least pick a lie that you yourself find convincing. That answer is an insult to us both.”

How dare this toothless has-been take that tone with him? Jezal’s legs gave a twitch: he was right on the point of getting up and walking away, Varuz and his hideous stooge be damned. But he caught the cripple’s eye as he put his hands on the arms of the chair to push himself up. Glokta was smiling at him, a mocking sort of smile. To leave would be to admit defeat somehow. Why did he take up fencing anyway? “My father wanted me to do it.”

“So, so. My heart brims with sympathy. The loyal son, bound by his strong sense of duty, is forced to fulfil his father’s ambitions. A familiar tale, like a comfortable old chair we all love to sit in. Tell ’em what they want to hear, eh? A better answer, but just as far from the truth.”

“Why don’t you tell me then?” snapped Jezal sulkily, “since you seem to know so much about it!”

“Alright, I will. Men don’t fence for their King, or for their families, or for the exercise either, before you try that one on me. They fence for the recognition, for the glory. They fence for their own advancement. They fence for themselves. I should know.”

“You should know?” Jezal snorted. “It hardly seems to have worked in your case.” He regretted it immediately. Damn his mouth, it got him in all kinds of trouble.

But Glokta only flashed his disgusting smile again. “It was working well enough, until I found my way into the Emperor’s prisons. What’s your excuse, liar?”

Jezal didn’t like the way this conversation was going. He was too used to easy victories at the card table, and poor players. His skills had dulled. Better to sit this one out until he got the measure of his new opponent. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing.

“It takes hard work, of course, winning a Contest. You should have seen our mutual friend Collem West working. He sweated at it for months, running around while the rest of us laughed at him. A jumped-up, idiot commoner competing with his betters, that’s what we all thought. Blundering through his forms, stumbling about on the beam, being made a fool of, again and again, day after day. But look at him now.” Glokta tapped his cane with a finger. “And look at me. Seems he had the last laugh, eh, Captain? Just shows what you can achieve with a little hard work. You’ve twice the talent he had, and the right blood. You don’t have to work one tenth so hard, but you refuse to work at all.”

Jezal wasn’t about to let that one past. “Not work at all? Don’t I put myself through this torture every day—”

“Torture?” asked Glokta sharply.

Jezal realised too late his unfortunate choice of words. “Well,” he mumbled, “I meant.”

“I know more than a little about both fencing and torture. Believe me when I say,” and the Inquisitor’s grotesque grin grew wider still, “that they’re two quite different things.”

“Er…” said Jezal, still off balance.

“You have the ambitions, and the means to realise them. A little effort would do it. A few months’ hard work, then you would probably never need to try at anything again in your life, if that’s what you want. A few short months, and you’re set.” Glokta licked at his empty gums. “Barring accidents of course. It’s a great chance you’ve been offered. I’d take it; if I was you, but I don’t know. Maybe you’re a fool as well as a liar.”

“I’m no fool,” said Jezal coldly. It was the best he could do.

Glokta raised an eyebrow, then winced, leaning heavily on his cane as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Give it up if you like, by all means. Sit around for the rest of your days and drink and talk shit with the rest of the junior officers. There are a lot of people who’d be more than happy to live that life. A lot of people who haven’t had the chances you’ve had. Give it up. Lord Marshal Varuz will be disappointed, and Major West, and your father, and so on, but please believe me when I say,” and he leaned down, still smiling his horrible smile, “that I couldn’t care less. Good day, Captain Luthar.” And Glokta limped off toward the archway.

After that less than delightful interview, Jezal found himself with a few hours of unexpected free time on his hands—but he was scarcely in the frame of mind to enjoy it. He wandered the empty streets, squares and gardens of the Agriont, thinking grimly on what the cripple had said to him, cursing the name of Glokta, but unable to quite push the conversation from his mind. He turned it over and over, every phrase, constantly coming up with new things that he should have said. If only he had thought of them at the time.

“Ah, Captain Luthar!” Jezal started and looked up. A man he did not recognise was sitting on the dewy grass beneath a tree, smiling up at him, a half-eaten apple in his hand. “The early morning is the perfect time for a stroll, I find. Calm and grey and clean and empty. It’s nothing like the gaudy pinkness of evening time. All that clutter, all those people coming and going. How can one think in amongst all that nonsense? And now I see you are of the same mind. How delightful.” He took a big, crunching bite out of the apple.

“Do I know you?”

“Oh no, no,” said the stranger, getting to his feet and brushing some dirt from the seat of his trousers, “not yet. My name is Sulfur, Yoru Sulfur.”

“Really? And what brings you to the Agriont?”

“You might say I have come on a diplomatic mission.”

Jezal looked him over, trying to place his origin. “A mission from?”

“From my master, of course,” said Sulfur unhelpfully. His eyes were different colours, Jezal noticed. An ugly and off-putting characteristic, he rather thought.

“And your master is?”

“A very wise and powerful man.” He stripped the core with his teeth and tossed it away into the bushes, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. “I see you’ve been fencing.”

Jezal glanced down at his steels. “Yes,” he said, realising that he had finally come to a decision, “but for the last time. I’m giving it up.”

“Oh dear me, no!” The strange man seized Jezal by the shoulder. “Oh dear me, no you mustn’t!”

“What?”

“No, no! My master would be horrified if he knew. Horrified! Give up fencing and you give up more than that! This is how one comes to the notice of the public, you see? They decide, in the end. There’s no nobility without the commoners, no nobility at all! They decide!”

“What?” Jezal glanced around the park, hoping to catch sight of a guard so he could notify him that a dangerous madman was loose in the Agriont.

“No, you mustn’t give it up! I won’t hear of it! No indeed! I’m sure that you’ll stick with it after all! You must!”

Jezal shook Sulfur’s hand off his shoulder. “Who are you?”

“Sulfur, Yoru Sulfur, at your service. See you again, Captain, at the Contest, if not before!” And he waved over his shoulder as he strolled off.

Jezal stared after him, mouth slightly open. “Damn it!” he shouted, throwing his steels down on the grass. Everyone seemed to want to take a hand in his business today, even crazy strangers in the park.

As soon as he thought it was late enough, Jezal went to call on Major West. You could always be sure of a sympathetic ear with him, and Jezal was hoping that he might be able to manipulate his friend into breaking the bad news to Lord Marshal Varuz. That was a scene that he wanted no part of, if he could possibly avoid it. He knocked on the door and waited, he knocked again. The door opened.

“Captain Luthar! What an almost unbearable honour!”

“Ardee,” muttered Jezal, somewhat surprised to find her here, “it’s good to see you again.” For once he actually meant it. She was interesting, is what she was. It was a new and refreshing thing for him to actually be interested in what a woman had to say. And she was damn good-looking too, there was no denying it, and seemed prettier every time he saw her. Nothing could ever happen between them, of course, what with West being his friend and all, but there was no harm in looking, was there? “Er… is your brother around?”

She threw herself carelessly down onto the settle against the wall, one leg stretched out, looking very sour. “He’s out. Gone out. Always busy. Much too busy for me.” There was a definite flush to her cheek. Jezal’s eye lighted on the decanter. The stopper was out and the wine was halfway down.

“Are you drunk?”

“Somewhat,” she squinted at a half-full wine glass at her elbow, “but mostly I’m just bored.”

“It’s not even ten.”

“Can’t I be bored before ten?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Leave the moralising to my brother. It suits him better. And have a drink.” She waved her hand at the bottle. “You look like you need one.”

Well, that was true enough. He poured himself a glass and sat down in a chair facing Ardee, while she regarded him with heavy-lidded eyes. She took her own glass from the table. There was a thick book lying next to it, face down.

“How’s the book?” asked Jezal.

“The Fall of the Master Maker, in three volumes. They say it’s one of the great classics of history. Lot of boring rubbish,” she snorted derisively. “Full of wise Magi, stern knights with mighty swords and ladies with mightier bosoms. Magic, violence and romance, in equal measure. Utter shit.” She slapped the book off the table and it tumbled onto the carpet, pages flapping.

“There must be something you can find to keep busy?”

“Really? What would you suggest?”

“My cousins do a lot of embroidery.”

“Fuck yourself.”

“Hmm,” said Jezal, smiling. The swearing no longer seemed half so offensive as it had done when they first met. “What did you do at home, in Angland?”

“Oh, home,” her head dropped against the back of the settle. “I thought I was bored there. I could hardly wait to come here to the bright centre of things. Now I can hardly wait to go back. Marry some farmer. Have a dozen brats. At least I’d get some conversation that way.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “But Collem won’t let me. He feels responsible, now that our father’s dead. Thinks it’s too dangerous. He’d rather I didn’t get slaughtered by the Northmen, but that’s about where his sense of responsibility ends. It certainly doesn’t extend to spending ten minutes together with me. So it looks like I’m stuck here, with all you arrogant snobs.”

Jezal shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He seems to manage.”

“Oh yes,” snorted Ardee, “Collem West, he’s a damn fine fellow! Won a Contest don’t you know? First through the breach at Ulrioch, wasn’t he? No breeding at all, never be one of us, but a damn fine fellow, for a commoner! Shame about that upstart sister of his though, too clever by half. And they say she drinks,” she whispered. “Doesn’t know her place. Total disgrace. Best just to ignore her.” She sighed again. “Yes, the sooner I go home, the happier everyone will be.”

“I won’t be happier.” Damn, did he say that out loud?

Ardee laughed, none too pleasantly. “Well, it’s enormously noble of you to say so. Why aren’t you fencing anyway?”

“Marshal Varuz was busy today.” He paused for a moment. “In fact, I had your friend Sand dan Glokta as fencing master this morning.”

“Really? What did he have to say for himself?”

“Various things. He called me a fool.”

“Imagine that.”

Jezal frowned. “Yes, well. I’m as bored with fencing as you are with that book. That was what I wanted to talk to your brother about. I’m thinking of giving it up.”

She burst out laughing. Snorting, gurgling peals of it. Her whole body was shaking. Wine sloshed out of her glass and splattered across the floor. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“It’s just,” she wiped a tear from her eye, “I had a bet with Collem. He was sure you’d stick at it. And now I’m ten marks richer.”

“I’m not sure that I like being the subject of your bet,” said Jezal sharply.

“I’m not sure I give a damn.”

“This is serious.”

“No it isn’t!” she snapped. “For my brother it was serious, he had to do it! No one even notices you if you don’t have a ‘dan’ in your name, and who’d know better than me? You’re the only person who’s given me the time of day since I got here, and then only because Collem made you. I’ve precious little money and no blood at all, and that makes me less than nothing to the likes of you. The men ignore me and the women cut me dead. I’ve got nothing here, nothing and no one, and you think you’ve got the hard life? Please! I might take up fencing,” she said bitterly. “Ask the Lord Marshal if he has space for a pupil, would you? At least then I’d have someone to talk to!”

Jezal blinked. That wasn’t interesting. That was rude. “Hold on, you’ve no idea what it’s like to—”

“Oh stop whinging! How old are you? Five? Why don’t you go back to sucking on your mother’s tit, infant?”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. How dare she? “My mother’s dead,” he said. Hah. That should make her feel guilty, squeeze an apology out of her. It didn’t.

“Dead? Lucky her, at least she doesn’t have to listen to your damn whining! You spoiled little rich boys are all the same. You get everything you could possibly want, then throw a tantrum because you have to pick it up yourself! You’re pathetic! You make me fucking sick!”

Jezal goggled. His face was burning, stinging, as if he’d been slapped. He’d rather have been slapped. He had never been spoken to like that in his life. Never! It was worse than Glokta. Much worse, and far more unexpected. He realised his mouth was hanging half open. He snapped it shut, grinding his teeth together, slapped his glass down on the table, and got up to leave. He was turning to the door when it suddenly opened, leaving him and Major West staring at each other.

“Jezal,” said West, looking at first simply surprised and then, as he glanced over at his sister, sprawling on the settle, slightly suspicious. “What are you doing here?”

“Er… I came to see you actually.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. But it can wait. I’ve things to do.” And Jezal pushed past his friend and out into the corridor.

“What was all that about?” He heard West saying as he strode away from the room. “Are you drunk?”

With every step Jezal’s fury mounted until he was halfway to being strangled by it. He had been the victim of an assault! A savage and undeserved attack! He stopped in the corridor, trembling with rage, his breath snorting in his nose like he’d run ten miles, his fists clenched painfully tight. And from a woman too! A woman! And a bloody commoner! How dare she? He had wasted time on her, and laughed at her jokes, and found her attractive! She should have been honoured to be noticed!

“That fucking bitch!” he snarled to himself. He had half a mind to go back and say it to her face, but it was too late. He stared around for something to hit. How to pay her back? How? Then it came to him.

Prove her wrong.

That would do it. Prove her wrong, and that crippled bastard Glokta too. He’d show them how hard he could work. He’d show them he was no fool, no liar, no spoiled child. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d win this damn Contest, is what he’d do! That’d wipe the smiles off their faces! He set off briskly down the corridor, with a strange new feeling building in his chest.

A sense of purpose. That was what it was. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for a run.