Last Argument of Kings by Joe Abercrombie Page B

north,
towards the mountains. Hoping to draw Bethod down off his hills and
up into the High Places. Hoping the Union would come up behind him,
and catch him in a trap. An awful lot of hoping, that.
    It was a hot,
sunny day, and the earth under the trees was broken with shadow and
slashed with bright sunlight, shifting as the branches moved in the
wind, the sun slipping through and stabbing in Logen’s face
from time to time. Birds tweeted and warbled, trees creaked and
rustled, insects floated in the still air, and the forest floor was
spattered with clumps of flowers, white and blue. Summer, in the
North, but none of it made Logen feel any better. Summer was the best
season for killing, and he’d seen plenty more men die in good
weather than in bad. So he kept his eyes open, looking out into the
trees, watching hard and listening harder.
    That was the
task Dogman had given him. Staying out on the right flank, making
sure none of Bethod’s boys crept up while they were all spread
out in file down that goat track. It suited Logen well enough. Kept
him on the edge, where none of his own side might get tempted to try
and kill him.
    Watching men
moving quiet through the trees, voices kept down low, weapons at the
ready, brought back a rush of memories. Some good, some bad. Mostly
bad, it had to be said. One man came away from the others as Logen
watched, started walking towards him through the trees. He had a big
grin on his face, just as friendly as you like, but that meant
nothing, Logen had known plenty of men who could grin while they
planned to kill you. He’d done it himself, and more than once.
    He turned his
body sideways a touch, sliding his hand down out of sight and curling
it tight round the grip of a knife. You can never have too many
knives, his father had told him, and that was strong advice. He
looked around, slow and easy, just to make sure there was no one at
his back, but there were only empty trees. So he shifted his feet for
a better balance and stayed sitting, trying to look as if nothing
worried him, but with every muscle tensed and ready to spring.
    â€œMy name’s
Red Hat.â€

Best of Enemies
    Tap, tap.
    â€œNot now!â€

Fortunes of War
    Lord Marshal
Burr was in the midst of writing a letter, but he smiled up as West
let the tent flap drop.
    â€œHow are
you, Colonel?â€

The Kingmaker
    It was a hot day
outside, and sunlight poured in through the great stained-glass
windows, throwing coloured patterns across the tiled floor of the
Lords’ Round. The great space usually felt airy and cool, even
in the summer. Today it felt stuffy, suffocating, uncomfortably hot.
Jezal tugged his sweaty collar back and forth, trying to let some
breath of air into his uniform without moving from his attitude of
stiff attention.
    The last time he
had stood in this spot, back to the curved wall, had been the day the
Guild of Mercers was dissolved. It was hard to imagine that it was
little more than a year ago, so much seemed to have happened since.
He had thought then that the Lords’ Round could not possibly
have been more crowded, more tense, more excited. How wrong he had
been.
    The curved banks
of benches that took up the majority of the chamber were crammed to
bursting with the Union’s most powerful noblemen, and the air
was thick with their expectant, anxious, fearful whispering. The
entire Open Council was in breathless attendance, wedged shoulder to
fur-trimmed shoulder, each man with the glittering chain about his
shoulders that marked him out in gold or silver as the head of his
family. Jezal might have had little more understanding of politics
than a mushroom, but even he had to be excited by the importance of
the occasion. The selection of a new High King of the Union by open
vote. He felt a flutter of nerves in his throat at the thought. As
occasions went, it was difficult to imagine one bigger.
    The people of
Adua certainly knew it. Beyond the walls, in