'I should've killed you then.'

'Damn right you should've.' Dow circled round him, always moving, weapons gleaming in the cold light from the tall windows. 'But you love to play the good man, don't you? Do you know what's worse than a villain? A villain who thinks he's a hero. A man like that, there's nothing he won't do, and he'll always find himself an excuse. We've had one ruthless bastard make himself King o' the North, and I'll be damned before I see a worse.' He feinted forward and Logen jerked back.

He heard the click of Calder's flatbow again and saw the bolt flash right between them. Dow scowled over at him. 'You trying to kill me? You loose another bolt and you're spitted, you hear?'

'Stop pissing around and kill him, then!' snapped Calder, cranking away at his flatbow.

'Kill him!' bellowed Scale, from somewhere in the shadows.

'I'm working at it, pig.' Dow jerked his head at the two Carls by the door. 'You two going to pitch in or what?' They looked at each other, none too keen. Then they came forward into the hall, their round shields up, their eyes on Logen, herding him towards one corner.

Logen bared his teeth as he backed off. 'That's how you'll get it done, is it?'

'I'd rather kill you fair. But kill you crooked?' Dow shrugged his shoulders. 'Just as good. I ain't in the business o' giving chances. Go on then! At him!'

The two of them closed in, cautious, Dow moving off to the side. Logen scrambled back, trying to look scared and waiting for some kind of chance. It wasn't long coming. One of the Carls stepped a touch too close, let his shield drop low. He chose a bad moment to raise his axe and a bad way to do it. There was a click as the Maker's sword took his forearm off, left it hanging from his elbow by a scrap of chain-mail. He stumbled forward, dragging in a great wheezing breath, making ready to scream, blood spurting out of the stump of his arm and splattering on the boards. Logen chopped a great gash out of his helmet and he dropped down on his knees.

'Gwarghh . . .' he muttered, blood pouring down the side of his face. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he flopped on his side. The other Carl jumped over his body, roaring at the top of his lungs. Logen caught his sword, their blades scraping together, then he barged into the man's shield with his shoulder, sent him sprawling on his arse. He gave a wail, the Carl, one boot sticking up. Logen swung the Maker's sword down and split that foot in half up to his ankle.

Quick footsteps came up under the Carl's shriek. Logen spun, saw Black Dow charging at him, face crushed up into a killing grin.

'Die!' he hissed. Logen lurched away, the blade just missing him on one side, the axe on the other. He tried to swing the Maker's sword but Dow was too quick and too clever, shoved Logen back with his boot and sent him staggering.

'Die, Bloody-Nine!' Logen dodged, parried, stumbled as Dow came on again, no pauses and no mercy. Steel glinted in the darkness, blades lashing, killing blows, every one.

'Die, you evil fucker!' Dow's sword chopped down and Logen only just brought his own round in time to block it. The axe came out of nowhere, up from underneath, clattered into the crosspiece and tore Logen's blade spinning from his numb hand. He wobbled back a couple of strides and stood, heaving in air, sweat tickling at his neck.

It was quite a scrape he was in. He'd been in some bad ones alright, and lived to sing the songs, but it was hard to see how this could get much worse. Logen nodded towards the Maker's sword, lying on the boards just next to Dow's boot. 'Don't suppose you fancy giving a man a fair chance, and letting me have that blade, eh?'

Dow grinned wider than ever. 'What's my name? White Dow?'

Logen had a knife to hand, of course. He always did, and more than one. His eyes flickered from the notched blade of Dow's sword to the glinting edge of his axe and back. No amount of knives were going to be a match for those, not in Black Dow's hands. Then there was Calder's flatbow still rattling away as he tried to load the bastard thing again. He wouldn't miss forever. The Carl with the split foot was dragging himself squealing towards the door, on his way to let some more men in and finish the job. If Logen stood and fought he was a dead man, Bloody-Nine or not. So it came to a choice between dying and a chance at living, and that's no choice at all.

Once you know what has to be done, it's better to do it, than to live with the fear of it. That's what Logen's father would have said. So he turned towards the tall windows. The tall, open windows with the bright white sunlight and the cold wind pouring through, and he ran at them.

He heard men shouting behind, but he paid them no mind. He kept running, breath hissing, long strips of light wobbling closer. He was up the steps in a couple of bounds, flashed past Skarling's Chair, faster and faster. His right foot clomped down on the hollow floorboards. His left foot slapped down on the stone window sill. He sprang out into empty space with all the strength he had left, and for a moment he was free.

Then he began to fall. Fast. The rough walls, then the steep cliff face flashed past grey rock, green moss, patches of white snow, all tumbling around him.

Logen turned over slowly in the air, limbs flailing pointlessly, too scared to scream. The rushing wind whipped at his eyes, tugged at his clothes, plucked the breath out of his mouth. He'd chosen this? Didn't seem like such a clever choice, right then, as he plunged down towards the river. But then say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say that- The water came up to meet him. It hit him in the side like a charging bull, punched the air out of his lungs, knocked the sense out of his head, sucked him in and down into the cold darkness . . .

Acknowledgments.

Four people without whom: Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it

Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it

Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages

Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up

Then, at the House of Questions,

all those who assisted in this testing interrogation,

but particularly:

Superior Spanton, Practical Weir,

and, of course, Inquisitor Redfearn.

You can put away the instruments.

I confess . . .

BEST SERVED COLD.

JOE.

ABERCROMBIE.

For Grace.

One day you will read this.

And be slightly worried.

Benna Murcatto Saves a Life.

The sunrise was the colour of bad blood. It leaked out of the east and stained the dark sky red, marked the scraps of cloud with stolen gold. Underneath it the road twisted up the mountainside towards the fortress of Fontezarmo a cluster of sharp towers, ash-black against the wounded heavens. The sunrise was red, black and gold.

The colours of their profession.

'You look especially beautiful this morning, Monza.'

She sighed, as if that was an accident. As if she hadn't spent an hour preening herself before the mirror. 'Facts are facts. Stating them isn't a gift. You only prove you're not blind.' She yawned, stretched in her saddle, made him wait a moment longer. 'But I'll hear more.'

He noisily cleared his throat and held up one hand, a bad actor preparing for his grand speech. 'Your hair is like to . . . a veil of shimmering sable!'

'You pompous cock. What was it yesterday? A curtain of midnight. I liked that better, it had some poetry to it. Bad poetry, but still.'

'Shit.' He squinted up at the clouds. 'Your eyes, then, gleam like piercing sapphires, beyond price!'

'I've got stones in my face, now?'

'Lips like rose petals?'

She spat at him, but he was ready and dodged it, the phlegm clearing his horse and falling on the dry stones beside the track. 'That's to make your roses grow, arsehole. You can do better.'

'Harder every day,' he muttered. 'That jewel I bought looks wonderful well on you.'

She held up her right hand to admire it, a ruby the size of an almond, catching the first glimmers of sunlight and glistening like an open wound. 'I've had worse gifts.'

'It matches your fiery temper.'

She snorted. 'And my bloody reputation.'

'Piss on your reputation! Nothing but idiots' chatter! You're a dream. A vision. You look like . . .' He snapped his fingers. 'The very Goddess of War!'

'Goddess, eh?'

'Of War. You like it?'

'It'll do. If you can kiss Duke Orso's arse half so well, we might even get a bonus.'

Benna puckered his lips at her. 'I love nothing more of a morning than a faceful of his Excellency's rich, round buttocks. They taste like . . . power.'

Hooves crunched on the dusty track, saddles creaked and harness rattled. The road turned back on itself, and again. The rest of the world dropped away below them. The eastern sky bled out from red to butchered pink. The river crept slowly into view, winding through the autumn woods in the base of the steep valley. Glittering like an army on the march, flowing swift and merciless towards the sea. Towards Talins.

'I'm waiting,' he said.

'For what?'

'My share of the compliments, of course.'

'If your head swells any further it'll fucking burst.' She twitched her silken cuffs up. 'And I don't want your brains on my new shirt.'

'Stabbed!' Benna clutched one hand to his chest. 'Right here! Is this how you repay my years of devotion, you heartless bitch?'

'How dare you presume to be devoted to me, peasant? You're like a tick devoted to a tiger!'

'Tiger? Hah! When they compare you to an animal they usually pick a snake.'

'Better than a maggot.'

'Whore.'

'Coward.'

'Murderer.'

She could hardly deny that one. Silence settled on them again. A bird trilled from a thirsty tree beside the road.