He wasn't sure he knew. He wasn't sure what he meant, or how he felt any more. He wanted to start again, but he didn't know how. The whole thing was an inexplicable nightmare from which he hoped soon to wake. 'What do you mean, why?'

She bent over, fists clenched, and screamed at him. 'I'm fucking nothing! Everyone who knows me hates me! My own father hated me! My own brother!' Her voice cracked, and her face screwed up, and her mouth spat with anger and misery. 'Everything I touch I ruin! I'm nothing but shit! Why can't you see it?' And she put her hands over her face, and turned her back on him, and her shoulders shook.

He blinked at her, his own lip trembling. The old Jezal dan Luthar would most likely have made a quick grab for that key, sprinted from the room and off down the street, never to come back, and counted himself lucky to have got away so easily. The new one thought about it. He thought about it hard. But he had more character than that. Or so he told himself.

'I love you.' The words tasted like lies in his bloody mouth, but he had gone far too far now to turn back. 'I still love you.' He crossed the room, and though she tried to push him off he put his arms around her. 'Nothing's changed.' He pushed his fingers into her hair, and held her head against his chest while she cried softly, sobbing snot down the front of his garish uniform.

'Nothing's changed,' he whispered. But of course it had.

Feeding Time They did not sit so close that it was obvious they were together. Two men who, in the course of their daily business, happen to have placed their arses on the same piece of wood. It was early morning, and although the sun cast a stinging glare in Glokta's eyes and lent the dewy grass, the rustling trees, the shifting water in the park a golden glow, there was still a treacherous nip to the air. Lord Wetterlant was evidently an early riser. But then so am I. Nothing encourages a man to leave his bed like being kept awake all night by searing cramps.

His Lordship reached into a paper bag, drew out a pinch of bread dust between thumb and forefinger, and tossed it at his feet. A mob of self-important ducks had already gathered, and now they fussed at each other furiously in their efforts to get at the crumbs while the old nobleman watched them, his lined face a slack and emotionless mask.

'I am under no illusions, Superior,' he droned, almost without moving his lips and without looking up at all. 'I am not a big enough man to compete in this contest, even should I wish to. But I am big enough to get something from it. I intend to get what I can.' Straight to business, then, for once. No need to talk about the weather, or how the children are, or the relative merits of different-coloured ducks.

'There is no shame in that.'

'I do not think so. I have a family to feed, and it grows by the year. I strongly advise against too many children.' Hah, That shouldn't be a problem. 'And then I keep dogs, and they must be fed also, and have great appetites.' Wetterlant gave a long, wheezing sigh, and tossed the birds another pinch of bread. 'The higher you rise, Superior, the more dependents cry at you for scraps; that is a sad fact.'

'You carry a large responsibility, my Lord.' Glokta grimaced at a spasm in his leg, and cautiously stretched it out until he felt his knee click. 'How large, might I ask?'

'I have my own vote, of course, and control the votes of three other chairs on the Open Council. Families tied to my own by bonds of land, of friendship, of marriage, and of long tradition.' Such bonds may prove insubstantial in times such as these.

'You are certain of those three?'

Wetterlant turned his cold eyes on Glokta. 'I am no fool, Superior. I keep my dogs well chained. I am certain of them. As certain as we can be of anything, in these uncertain times.' He tossed more crumbs into the grass and the ducks quacked, and pecked, and beat at each other with their wings.

'Four votes in total, then.' No mean share of the great pie.

'Four votes in total.'

Glokta cleared his throat, checked quickly that there was no one within earshot. A girl with a tragic face stared listlessly into the water just down the path. Two dishevelled officers of the King's Own sat on a bench as far away on the other side, holding forth to each other loudly about who had been drunker the night before. Might the tragic girl be listening for Lord Brock? Might the two officers report to High Justice Marovia? I see agents everywhere, and it is just as well. There are agents everywhere. He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'His Eminence would be willing to offer fifteen thousand marks for each vote.'

'I see.' Wetterlant's hooded eyes did not so much as twitch. 'So little meat would scarcely satisfy my dogs. It would leave nothing for my own table. I should tell you that Lord Barezin, in a highly roundabout manner, already offered me eighteen thousand a vote, as well as an excellent stretch of land that borders my own estates. Deer hunting woods. Are you a hunting man, Superior?'

'I was.' Glokta tapped his ruined leg. 'But not for some time.'

'Ah. My commiserations. I have always loved the sport. But then Lord Brock came to visit me.' How charming for you both. 'He was good enough to make an offer of twenty thousand, and a very suitable match of his youngest daughter for my eldest son.'

'You accepted?'

'I told him it was too early to accept anything.'

'I am sure his Eminence could stretch to twenty-one, but that would have to be-'

'High Justice Marovia's man already offered me twenty-five.'

'Harlen Morrow?' hissed Glokta through his remaining teeth.

Lord Wetterlant raised an eyebrow. 'I believe that was the name.'

'I regret that I can only match that offer at present. I will inform his Eminence of your position.' His delight, I am sure, will know no bounds.

'I look forward to hearing from you, Superior.' Wetterlant turned back to his ducks and permitted them a few more crumbs, a vague smile hovering round his lips as he watched them tussle with each other.

Glokta hobbled painfully up to the ordinary house in the unexceptional street, something resembling a smile on his face. A moment free of the suffocating company of the great and the good. A moment in which I do not have to lie, or cheat, or watch for a knife in my back. Perhaps I'll even find a room that doesn't still stink of Harlen Morrow. That would be a refreshing- The door opened sharply even as he raised his fist to knock, and he was left staring into the grinning face of a man wearing the uniform of an officer in the King's Own. It was so unexpected that Glokta did not recognise him at first. Then he felt a surge of dismay.

'Why, Captain Luthar. What a surprise.' And a thoroughly unpleasant one.

He was considerably changed. Where once he had been boyish and smooth, he had acquired a somewhat angular, even a weather-beaten look. Where once he had carried his chin with an arrogant lift, he now had an almost apologetic tilt to his face. He had grown a beard too, perhaps in an unsuccessful attempt to disguise a vicious-looking scar through his lip and down his jaw. Though it has far from rendered him ugly, alas.

'Inquisitor Glokta . . . er . . .'

'Superior.'

'Really?' Luthar blinked at him for a moment. 'Well . . . in that case . . .' The easy smile reappeared, and Glokta was surprised to find himself being shaken warmly by the hand. 'Congratulations. I would love to chat but duty calls. I haven't long in the city, you see. Off to the North, and so on.'

'Of course.' Glokta frowned after him as he stepped jauntily off up the street, with just the one furtive glance over his shoulder as he rounded the corner. Leaving only the question of why he was here in the first place. Glokta hobbled through the open door and shut it quietly behind him. Although honestly, a young man leaving a young woman's house in the early morning? One scarcely requires his Majesty's Inquisition to solve that particular mystery. Did I not leave more than my share of residences in the early hours, after all? Pretending to hope that I wasn't observed, but really rather hoping that I was? He passed through the doorway into the living room. Or was that a different man?

Ardee West stood with her back to him, and he heard the sound of wine trickling into a glass. 'Did you forget something?' she asked over her shoulder, voice soft and playful. Not a tone I often get to hear women use. Horror, disgust, and the slightest touch of pity are more common. There was a clinking as she put the bottle away. 'Or did you decide you really couldn't live without another-' She had a crooked smile on her face as she turned, but it slid off suddenly when she saw who was standing there.

Glokta snorted. 'Don't worry, I get that reaction from everyone. Even myself, every morning, when I look into the mirror.' If I can even manage to stand up in front of the damn thing.

'It's not like that, and you know it. I just wasn't expecting you to wander in.'

'We've all had quite the shock this morning, then. You'll never guess who I passed in your hallway.'

She froze for just a moment, then tossed her head dismissively and slurped wine from her glass. 'Aren't you going to give me a clue?'

'Alright, I will.' Glokta winced as he lowered himself into a chair, stretching his aching leg out in front of him. 'A young officer in the King's Own, no doubt with a scintillating future ahead of him.' Though we can all hope otherwise.

Ardee glared at him over the rim. 'There are so many officers in the King's Own I can scarcely tell one from another.'

'Really? This one won last year's Contest, I believe.'

'I hardly remember who was in the final. Every year is like the last, don't you find?'

'True. Since I competed it's been straight downhill. But I thought you might remember this particular fellow. Looked as if someone might have hit him in the face since we last met. Quite hard, I would say.' Though not half as hard as I'd have liked.

'You're angry with me,' she said, but without the appearance of the slightest concern.

'I'd say disappointed. But what would you expect? I thought you were cleverer than this.'

'Cleverness is no guarantee of sensible behaviour. My father used to say so all the time.' She finished her wine with a practised flick of her head. 'Don't worry. I can look after myself.'

'No you can't. You've made that abundantly clear. You realise what will happen if people find out? You'll be shunned.'

'What would be the difference?' she sneered at him. 'Perhaps you'll be surprised to learn I get few invitations to the palace now. I barely even qualify as an embarrassment. No one speaks to me.' Apart from me, of course, but I'm hardly the type of company young women hope for. 'No one cares a shit what I do. If they find out it will be no worse than they expect from a slattern like me. Damn commoners, no more self-control than animals, don't you know. Anyway, didn't you tell me I could fuck who I pleased?'

'I also told you the less fucking the better.'

'And I suppose that's what you told all your conquests, is it?'

Glokta grimaced. Not exactly. I coaxed and I pleaded, I threatened and I bullied. Your beauty has wounded me, wounded me in the heart! I am wretched, I will die without you! Have you no pity? Do you not love me? I did everything short of display the instruments, then when I got what I wanted I tossed them aside and went merrily on to the next with never a backward glance.

'Hah!' snorted Ardee, as though she guessed what he was thinking. 'Sand dan Glokta, giving lectures on the benefits of chastity? Please! How many women did you ruin before the Gurkish ruined you? You were notorious!'

A muscle began to tremble in his neck, and he worked his shoulder round until he felt it soften. She makes a fair point. Perhaps a soft word with the gentleman in question will do the trick. A soft word, or a hard night with Practical Frost. 'Your bed, your business, I suppose, as they say in Styria. How does the great Captain Luthar come to be among the civilians in any case? Doesn't he have Northmen to rout? Who will save Angland, while he's here?'

'He wasn't in Angland.'

'No?' Father find him a nice, out of the way spot, did he?

'He's been in the Old Empire, or some such. Across the sea to the west and far away.' She sighed as though she had heard a great deal about it and was now thoroughly bored of the subject.

'Old Empire? What the hell was he up to out there?'

'Why don't you ask him? Some journey. He talked a lot about a Northman. Ninefingers, or something.'

Glokta's head jerked up. 'Ninefingers?'

'Mmm. Him and some old bald man.'

A flurry of twitches ran down Glokta's face. 'Bayaz.' Ardee shrugged and swigged from her glass again, already developing a slight drunken clumsiness to her movements. Bayaz. All we need, with an election coming, is that old liar sticking his hairless head in. 'Is he here, now, in the city?'

'How should I know?' grumbled Ardee. 'Nobody tells me anything.'

So Much in Common Ferro stalked round the room, and scowled. She poured her scorn out into the sweet-smelling air, onto the rustling hangings, over the great windows and the high balcony beyond them. She sneered at the dark pictures of fat pale kings, at the shining furniture scattered about the wide floor. She hated this place, with its soft beds and its soft people. She infinitely preferred the dust and thirst of the Badlands of Kanta. Life there was hard, and hot, and brief.

But at least it was honest.

This Union, and this city of Adua in particular, and this fortress of the Agriont especially, were all packed to bursting with lies. She felt them on her skin, like an oily stain she could not rub off. And Bayaz was sunk in the very midst of it. He had tricked her into following him across the world for nothing. They had found no ancient weapon to use against the Gurkish. Now he smiled, and laughed, and whispered secrets with old men. Men who came in sweating from the heat outside, and left sweating even more.

She would never have admitted it to anyone else. She despised having to admit it to herself. She missed Ninefingers. Though she had never been able to show it, it had been a reassurance, having someone she could halfway trust.

Now she had to look over her own shoulder.

All she had for company was the apprentice, and he was worse than nothing. He sat and watched her in silence, his book ignored on the table beside him. Watching and smiling without joy, as though he knew something she should have guessed. As though he thought her a fool for not seeing it. That only made her angrier than ever. So she prowled round the room, frowning at everything, her fists clenched and her jaw locked light.

'You should go back to the South, Ferro.'

She stopped in her tracks, and scowled at Quai. He was right, of course. Nothing would have pleased her more than to leave these Godless pinks behind forever and fight the Gurkish with weapons she understood. Tear vengeance from them with her teeth, if she had to. He was right, but that changed nothing. Ferro had never been much for taking advice. 'What do you know about what I should do, scrawny pink fool?'

'More than you think.' He did not take his slow eyes away from her for a moment. 'We are much alike, you and I. You may not see it, and yet we are. So much in common.' Ferro frowned. She did not know what the sickly idiot meant by that, but she did not like the sound of it. 'Bayaz will bring you nothing you need. He cannot be trusted. I found out too late, but you still have time. You should find another master.'

'I have no master,' she snapped at him. 'I am free.'

One corner of Quai's pale lips twitched up. 'Neither of us will ever be free. Go. There is nothing for you here.'

'Why do you stay, then?'

'For vengeance.'

Ferro frowned deeper. 'Vengeance for what?'

The apprentice leaned forward, his bright eyes fixed on hers. The door creaked open and he snapped his mouth shut, sat back and looked out of the window. Just as if he had never meant to speak.

Damn apprentice with his damn riddles. Ferro turned her scowl towards the door.

Bayaz came slowly through into the room, a teacup held carefully level in one hand. He did not so much as look in Ferro's direction as he swept past and out the open door onto the balcony. Damn Magus. She stalked after, narrowing her eyes at the glare. They were high up, and the Agriont was spread out before them, as it had been when she and Ninefingers climbed over the rooftops, long ago. Groups of idle pinks lazed on the shining grass below, just as they had done before Ferro left for the Old Empire. And yet not everything was the same.

Everywhere in the city, now, there was a kind of fear. She could see it in each soft, pale face. In their every word and gesture. A breathless expectation, like the air before the storm breaks. Like a field of dry grass, ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. She did not know what they were waiting for, and she did not care.

But she had heard a lot of talk about votes.

The First of the Magi watched her as she stepped through the door, the bright sun shining on the side of his bald head. 'Tea, Ferro?'

Ferro hated tea, and Bayaz knew it. Tea was what the Gurkish drank when they had treachery in mind. She remembered the soldiers drinking it while she struggled in the dust. She remembered the slavers drinking it while they talked prices. She remembered Uthman drinking it while he chuckled at her rage and her helplessness. Now Bayaz drank it, little cup held daintily between his thick thumb and forefinger, and he smiled.

Ferro ground her teeth. 'I am done here, pink. You promised me vengeance and have given me nothing. I am going back to the South.'

'Indeed? We would be sorry to lose you. But Gurkhul and the Union are at war. There are no ships sailing to Kanta at present. There may not be for some time to come.'

'Then how will I get there?'

'You have made it abundantly clear that you are not my responsibility. I have put a roof over your head and you show scant gratitude. If you wish to leave, you can make your own arrangements. My brother Yulwei should return to us shortly. Perhaps he will be prepared to take you under his wing.'

'Not good enough.' Bayaz glared at her. A fearsome look, perhaps, but Ferro was not Longfoot, or Luthar, or Quai. She had no master, and would never have another. 'Not good enough, I said!'

'Why is it that you insist on testing the limits of my patience? It is not without an end, you know.'

'Neither is mine.'

Bayaz snorted. 'Yours scarcely even has a beginning, as Master Ninefingers could no doubt testify. I do declare, Ferro, you have all the charm of a goat, and a mean-tempered goat at that.' He stuck his lips out, tipped up his cup and sucked delicately from the rim. Only with a mighty effort was Ferro able to stop herself from slapping it out of his hand, and butting the bald bastard in the face into the bargain. 'But if fighting the Gurkish is still what you have in mind-'

'Always.'

'Then I am sure that I can still find a use for your talents. Something that does not require a sense of humour. My purposes with regard to the Gurkish are unchanged. The struggle must continue, albeit with other weapons.' His eyes slid sideways, towards the great tower that loomed up over the fortress.

Ferro knew little about beauty and cared still less, but that building was a beautiful thing to her mind. There was no softness, no indulgence in that mountain of naked stone. There was a brutal honesty in its shape. A merciless precision in its sharp, black angles. Something about it fascinated her.

'What is that place?' she asked.

Bayaz narrowed his eyes at her. 'The House of the Maker.'

'What is inside?'

'None of your business.'