Orb Sceptre Throne (23 page)

‘Rebalance my
what
? Ah, no. Thank you.’

‘A pity.’

‘Ill, you say? Where is she?’

‘The mistress is … indisposed.’

‘Indisposed …’

‘Yes. Quite. She did, however, leave detailed instructions regarding you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. None other.’

‘I see. And these instructions?’

The man edged closer, his watery green eyes narrowed upon Torvald. ‘There is a worrisome choleric tinge to you. Have you evacuated lately?’

‘Evacu what?’

‘Evacuated. Discharged your bodily wastes.’

‘Ah! Yes.’

‘And your bowels? How are they?’

‘Sacrosanct, thank you.’

‘Regretful. How am I to continue my practice?’

Torvald was surprised. ‘You’re a physicker?’

The man blinked his confusion. ‘No.’

Torvald regarded the unnerving hunched figure for a time, cleared his throat. ‘So … these instructions?’

‘Yes. You are now head of House Nom. Congratulations.’ The castellan shuffled away.

Torvald stood motionless in the receiving hall for a long time. Then he stormed up the stairs for his employer’s office. He was in the process of ransacking her desk when he looked up to see the gauzy apparition of Studlock before him once again.

‘There must be some mistake.’

‘None, I assure you.’

‘What of Bellam?’

‘Young Bellam remains an eventual heir.’

‘But … it can’t be official. There has to be paperwork. Certificates and such.’

The castellan drew a scroll from within the folds of cloth at his chest. ‘I have them here. Sealed and authenticated.’

Torvald slumped down into the chair. That had been his last hope. He straightened, his brows rising. ‘Aha! I appoint another. Someone else.
Anyone
else.’

‘Rallick Nom will support m’lady’s choice. So then will the majority of the House.’

Torvald slumped once more.
Damn him! He would, too – if only to avoid being appointed himself!

He set his elbows on the desk, cupped his head in his hands. ‘But this is terrible … Tiserra will kill me! One day I leave for work and when I come home it’s hello dear your husband has a seat on the Council! Rather a shock.’

The castellan cocked his head. ‘Will she not be pleased?’

‘You don’t know her.’

‘You are correct. I do not. Are introductions in order? Some tea? My special brew …’

Torvald threw up his hands. ‘
No!
No, no, thank you. That’s quite all right.’

Studlock’s shoulders fell. ‘That is regrettable. Who will I test it on?’

Torvald frowned. ‘So, now what? What do I do?’

‘You should register your appointment with the clerk of the Council, I imagine.’

‘Ah. Thank you. How very … practical.’

The castellan bowed. ‘My only wish is to serve.’

Torvald had never been to Majesty Hill; indeed, had never dreamed he’d have cause. The Wardens at the lowest gate stopped him to inspect his paperwork. Before him rose the stairs that switched back and forth up the flank of the hill, lined all the way by monuments, family shrines, plaques commemorating victories – real and invented – and other grandiose pronouncements meant to impress the reader with the virtue and generosity of their sponsors. All no more than base self-aggrandizement, Torvald reflected, once you boiled it all down.

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the worn heels of his old boots. Perhaps such an attitude was precisely what was not welcome on yon prestigious hilltop.

A clerk bowed as he handed back the scrolled paperwork. ‘Welcome, sir. My apologies for the delay. We do not see many councillors here at the gate.’

‘No? You do not? Just what do you see, then?’

‘Petitioners mostly. Appellants and other claimants summoned, or hoping, to address the assembly. And minor functionaries, of course.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Torvald wondered, vaguely, whether he’d just been insulted in some very sophisticated indirect fashion. Considering where he was headed, he decided that he’d better get used to it. ‘So, just where do the Council members enter?’

The man bowed – unctuously, it seemed to Torvald. ‘These days most take the carriageway from the south.’

‘Ah, well. Perhaps many would benefit from coming in this way occasionally, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, beyond a doubt, sir,’ the man agreed smoothly, his face straight.

Good at his job, this one, Torvald reflected. This gate must be where most of the squeezing of petitioners takes place. A coveted post. He bowed a farewell. ‘I’d best be going then.’

‘A sound decision, sir.’

Torvald walked away, wincing.
Damn, drubbed by a bureaucrat. It’s going to be a long day
.

Eventually, after rather a boring walk up an unnecessarily long set of stairs, he entered what appeared to be a main reception hall lined by many doors. It was … deserted.
Is the place closed?
Yet someone
was
here: noise reached him, a muted roaring as of many voices shouting. But where was it coming from?

A door slammed and a robed clerk appeared, sheaf of papers in hand, reading as he scuttled quickly across the hall.

Torvald cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me – could you tell me …’

The man disappeared into another side door. Torvald lowered his arm. A gods-damned rabbit warren. He poked his head into that door to see another hall, also lined by doors, albeit far less ornate. It occurred to him that a rather large old friend of his would know exactly what to do to a place like this. The sound of another door opening pulled him away. Another functionary was walking the hall. He planted himself before her.

The plump woman nearly ran into him before halting to blink up confusedly. ‘Yes?’

He wordlessly offered his paperwork. She examined it, then bowed. ‘Welcome, House Nom. I shall see to it that these are registered with the proper offices. You are no doubt come for the assembling of the emergency steering committee.’

It was now his turn to blink his confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘This way. If you would, sir.’

Torvald followed the woman down the long hall, round a series of turns, to a tall set of double doors. Two city Wardens barred the entrance. From behind the doors came a riotous roaring such as Torvald imagined must prevail before the gates to Hood’s old realm.

The guards’ hands went to their shortswords. ‘This is a closed emergency session,’ pronounced one in what sounded like a carefully rehearsed line.

The woman bowed her agreement. ‘And Councillor Nom is here to participate.’

The guard’s brow furrowed. He licked his lips while he appeared to be frantically digging through options. The brows unfurled and he smiled, reciting, ‘Chambers are closed.’

‘Open those doors!’ a bull-roar echoed from behind Torvald, who spun.

A great bhederin of a fellow was hurrying up, unshaven, finery askew, a hand to his forehead, grimacing in pain. The clerk bowed. ‘Councillor Coll.’

Torvald stared despite himself. Great gods,
the
Councillor Coll? The man was a legend in the city.

The councillor cocked a bloodshot eye at Torvald. The clerk murmured, ‘Councillor Coll, may I introduce Councillor Nom, newly invested.’

The bleary, watering eyes widened. ‘Indeed … may I ask after the mesmerizing Lady Varada, whom I have seen only from a distance, across the assembly?’

The stale bite of cheap Daru spirits wafted from the man and Torvald struggled not to change his expression. ‘Ah … her health precludes her participation … I am come in her stead.’

‘My regrets to your family, Nom. And may she soon recover.’

Torvald frantically cast about for something equally well-mannered and sophisticated. ‘Ah, our thanks.’
Wonderful! Off to a dazzling start, you are
.

But Councillor Coll’s attention had shifted to the closed doors and the guards. ‘You’re still here?’ he demanded.

‘Of course you may enter, Councillor. But this other …’

Coll snatched up the sheaf of papers held by the clerk: Torvald’s documents. He waved the flapping pages, complete with wax seals and coloured ribbons, before the faces of the guards. ‘You see these certificates? This man is as qualified to sit as I!’

The guards eyed the sheaf, all in the tiniest spidery penmanship, the way those manning a wooden palisade might dread the approach of a siege onager. Resistance collapsed and they stood aside.

The clerk pushed open the twin leaves. And as they passed within, it occurred to Torvald that an impenetrable bureaucracy was in truth more powerful than any sword.

They stood high in a semicircular amphitheatre of seats. The view reminded Torvald of a depiction of one corner of Hood’s realm: an immense prison for kings and despots, all arguing over who was in charge, when in truth none of the dead outside cared what went on within its tall walls.

The floor of the amphitheatre was crowded with the cream of the city aristocracy. All were standing talking at once, many red-faced, some waving their exasperation. Occasionally thrown papers fluttered over the crowd, or some particularly loud yell penetrated the din, but mostly it was an unintelligible gabbling of voices.

‘Welcome to Council,’ the clerk said, shouting to be heard though she stood right next to him.

‘How very inspiring,’ he answered, to himself of course, as none could have possibly heard, or cared to hear, for that matter.

The woman backed out, pulled the doors closed. Councillor Coll took his arm and hurried him down the stairs. ‘My thanks,’ Torvald offered.

‘You can thank me by swearing to give me your first vote.’

Such a vow struck Torvald as extremely dangerous, but he also knew that honour would dictate that he had no choice. Best to pretend that such was the case, then.

A loud, exceptionally sharp knocking sounded which Torvald identified as coming from a slim man standing on the raised speaker’s platform, banging a stone on the lectern.

‘Order!’ he bellowed in a surprisingly commanding voice. ‘
Order!
’

The clamour slowly diminished and the councillors stood silent, leaving only a single old fellow waving his arms and shouting, ‘I tell you, everything would go so smoothly if only everyone would just do as I say!’

‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted in answer and they all burst into applause.

The old fellow peered about myopically then hurriedly turned away, red-faced.

‘The floor recognizes Councillor Lim,’ a clerk announced into the silence.

It now occurred to Torvald that crowding about the central lectern were only some fifty or so members of the Council, yet the amphitheatre held seats for hundreds. ‘Where is everyone?’ he whispered to Coll.

‘It’s a damned trick,’ Coll answered, low and fierce. ‘There
is
a little-known emergency steering committee that can be called to meet in case of fires and such. Just those close enough to participate. Quorum is thirty. Thankfully I was nearby … sleeping in my chambers.’

Passed out, you mean
. So, an emergency sub-committee of Council. But to decide what?

At the lectern, Lim stood tall and pole-thin, his dark expensive silk shirt and trousers accentuating his figure. He raised his arms for silence.

So, Lim, is it? Torvald believed he’d heard that Shardan Lim was dead.

‘Thank you,’ the fellow began. ‘My fellow councillors, fair Darujhistan has weathered astounding events of late. Many of you, myself included, no doubt wish that history would be so good as to pass us by for once, allow us our well-earned peace to quietly tend our fields and watch our children play …’

Torvald snorted: the man looked as peaceful and compassionate as a viper. Coll chuckled. Torvald glanced over to see him offer a wink. ‘What’s going on?’

In answer, the man gestured to the front. ‘Let us hear from Lim.’

‘That’s not Shardan Lim, is it?’

‘Ah. You
are
new. No, this is Jeshin Lim. His cousin.’

Torvald grunted. He’d never heard of a Jeshin Lim. But then, he’d probably never heard of most of the men and women in the hall. The young man had been talking all the while, offering some long-winded soothing introduction to the course of action he wished to suggest. In time, the meat of the speech arrived: ‘… and so it is clear that this abrupt, unannounced flight by all the Moranth present within the city, combined with the equally sudden withdrawal of their allies, the Imperial Malazan elements staining our fair city, can amount to only one thing: the first stage in a pre-planned, coordinated initiation of hostilities against the freedom and independence of Darujhistan!’

The hall erupted into chaotic noise once more. Most cheered, calling out their support of the claim. Only a few shouted their dismissal.

Torvald and Coll remained silent. Torvald leaned to Coll. ‘Why is he saying everything twice?’

‘Ah. An older style of rhetoric. Something of a traditionalist, our Jeshin. New to assembly, he is. But there’s a great deal of money backing him.’