again.’
Jezal winced. ‘Major West is an excellent hand at squares, so it should take me
half an hour to beat him. I suggest you begin at once.’
Jezal lurched to his feet and jogged toward the
archway at the far side of the courtyard, muttering curses.
‘You’ll need to go faster than that, Captain!’ Varuz
called after him. Jezal’s legs were blocks of lead, but he urged them on.
‘Knees up!’ shouted Major West cheerily.
Jezal clattered down the passageway, past a smirking
porter sitting by the door, and out onto the broad avenue beyond. He jogged
past the ivy-covered walls of the University, cursing the names of Varuz and
West under his heaving breath, then by the near windowless mass of the House of
Questions, its heavy front gate sealed tight. He passed a few colourless clerks
hurrying this way and that, but the Agriont was quiet at this time of the afternoon,
and Jezal saw nobody of interest until he passed into the park.
Three fashionable young ladies were sitting in the
shade of a spreading willow by the lake, accompanied by an elderly chaperone.
Jezal upped his pace immediately, and replaced his tortured expression with a
nonchalant smile.
‘Ladies,’ he said as he flashed past. He heard them giggling
to one another behind him and silently congratulated himself, but slowed to
half the speed as soon as he was out of sight.
‘Varuz be damned,’ he said to himself, nearly walking
as he turned onto the Kingsway, but had to speed up again straight away. Crown
Prince Ladisla was not twenty strides off, holding forth to his enormous,
brightly coloured retinue.
‘Captain Luthar!’ shouted his Highness, sunlight
flashing off his outrageous golden buttons, ‘run for all you’re worth! I have a
thousand marks on you to win the Contest!’
Jezal had it on good authority that the Prince had
backed Bremer dan Gorst to the tune of two thousand marks, but he still bowed
as low as he possibly could while running. The prince’s entourage of dandies
cheered and shouted half-hearted encouragements at his receding back. ‘Bloody
idiots,’ hissed Jezal under his breath, but he would have loved to be one of
them.
He passed the huge stone effigies of six hundred years
of High Kings on his right, the statues of their loyal retainers, slightly
smaller, on his left. He nodded to the great Magus Bayaz just before he turned
into the Square of Marshals, but the wizard frowned back as disapprovingly as
ever, the awe-inspiring effect only slightly diminished by a streak of white
pigeon shit on his stony cheek.
With the Open Council in session the square was almost
empty, and Jezal was able to amble over to the gate of the Halls Martial. A
thick set sergeant nodded to him as he passed through, and Jezal wondered
whether he might be from his own company—the common soldiers all looked the
same, after all. He ignored the man and ran on between the towering white
buildings.
‘Perfect,’ muttered Jezal. Jalenhorm and Kaspa were sitting
by the door to the Tower of Chains, smoking pipes and laughing. The bastards
must have guessed that he’d be coming this way.
‘For honour, and glory!’ bellowed Kaspa, rattling his
sword in its scabbard as Jezal ran by. ‘Don’t keep the Lord Marshal waiting!’
he shouted from behind, and Jezal heard the big man roaring with amusement.
‘Bloody idiots,’ panted Jezal, shouldering open the
heavy door, breath rasping as he started up the steep spiral staircase. It was
one of the highest towers in the Agriont: there were two hundred and ninety-one
steps in all. ‘Bloody steps,’ he cursed to himself. By the time he reached the
hundredth his legs were burning and his chest was heaving. By the time he
reached the two-hundredth he was a wreck. He walked the rest of the way, every
footfall torture, and eventually burst out through a turret onto the roof and
leaned on the parapet, blinking in the sudden brightness.
To the south the city was spread out below him, an endless
carpet
Jezal winced. ‘Major West is an excellent hand at squares, so it should take me
half an hour to beat him. I suggest you begin at once.’
Jezal lurched to his feet and jogged toward the
archway at the far side of the courtyard, muttering curses.
‘You’ll need to go faster than that, Captain!’ Varuz
called after him. Jezal’s legs were blocks of lead, but he urged them on.
‘Knees up!’ shouted Major West cheerily.
Jezal clattered down the passageway, past a smirking
porter sitting by the door, and out onto the broad avenue beyond. He jogged
past the ivy-covered walls of the University, cursing the names of Varuz and
West under his heaving breath, then by the near windowless mass of the House of
Questions, its heavy front gate sealed tight. He passed a few colourless clerks
hurrying this way and that, but the Agriont was quiet at this time of the afternoon,
and Jezal saw nobody of interest until he passed into the park.
Three fashionable young ladies were sitting in the
shade of a spreading willow by the lake, accompanied by an elderly chaperone.
Jezal upped his pace immediately, and replaced his tortured expression with a
nonchalant smile.
‘Ladies,’ he said as he flashed past. He heard them giggling
to one another behind him and silently congratulated himself, but slowed to
half the speed as soon as he was out of sight.
‘Varuz be damned,’ he said to himself, nearly walking
as he turned onto the Kingsway, but had to speed up again straight away. Crown
Prince Ladisla was not twenty strides off, holding forth to his enormous,
brightly coloured retinue.
‘Captain Luthar!’ shouted his Highness, sunlight
flashing off his outrageous golden buttons, ‘run for all you’re worth! I have a
thousand marks on you to win the Contest!’
Jezal had it on good authority that the Prince had
backed Bremer dan Gorst to the tune of two thousand marks, but he still bowed
as low as he possibly could while running. The prince’s entourage of dandies
cheered and shouted half-hearted encouragements at his receding back. ‘Bloody
idiots,’ hissed Jezal under his breath, but he would have loved to be one of
them.
He passed the huge stone effigies of six hundred years
of High Kings on his right, the statues of their loyal retainers, slightly
smaller, on his left. He nodded to the great Magus Bayaz just before he turned
into the Square of Marshals, but the wizard frowned back as disapprovingly as
ever, the awe-inspiring effect only slightly diminished by a streak of white
pigeon shit on his stony cheek.
With the Open Council in session the square was almost
empty, and Jezal was able to amble over to the gate of the Halls Martial. A
thick set sergeant nodded to him as he passed through, and Jezal wondered
whether he might be from his own company—the common soldiers all looked the
same, after all. He ignored the man and ran on between the towering white
buildings.
‘Perfect,’ muttered Jezal. Jalenhorm and Kaspa were sitting
by the door to the Tower of Chains, smoking pipes and laughing. The bastards
must have guessed that he’d be coming this way.
‘For honour, and glory!’ bellowed Kaspa, rattling his
sword in its scabbard as Jezal ran by. ‘Don’t keep the Lord Marshal waiting!’
he shouted from behind, and Jezal heard the big man roaring with amusement.
‘Bloody idiots,’ panted Jezal, shouldering open the
heavy door, breath rasping as he started up the steep spiral staircase. It was
one of the highest towers in the Agriont: there were two hundred and ninety-one
steps in all. ‘Bloody steps,’ he cursed to himself. By the time he reached the
hundredth his legs were burning and his chest was heaving. By the time he
reached the two-hundredth he was a wreck. He walked the rest of the way, every
footfall torture, and eventually burst out through a turret onto the roof and
leaned on the parapet, blinking in the sudden brightness.
To the south the city was spread out below him, an endless
carpet
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