Last Argument of Kings (The First Law, #3)

by Joe Abercrombie

Torlichorm gave a syrupy smile, of the kind a wet-nurse might use while trying to calm a troublesome infant. “So you see, your Majesty, we cannot possibly consider Colonel West as—” Jezal’s empty goblet bounced off Torlichorm’s bald forehead with a loud crack and clattered away into the corner of the room. The old man gave a wail of shock and pain and slid from his chair, blood running from a long gash across his face. “Cannot?” screamed Jezal, on his feet, eyes starting from his head. “You dare to give me fucking ‘cannot,’ you old bastard? You belong to me, all of you!” His finger stabbed furiously at the air. “You exist to advise me, not to dictate to me! I rule here! Me!” He snatched up the ink bottle and hurled it across the room. It burst apart against the wall, spraying a great black stain across the plaster and spattering the arm of Arch Lector Sult’s perfect white coat with black spots. “Me! Me! The tradition we need here is one of fucking obedience!” He grabbed a sheaf of documents and flung them at Marovia, filling the air with fluttering paper. “Never again give me ‘cannot’! Never!”