She Loves Me . . . Not.

'Ah!' cried Jezal, as the point of Filio's steel dug hard into his shoulder. He stumbled back, wincing and cursing, and the Styrian smiled at him and flourished his steels.

'A touch to Master Filio!' bellowed the referee. 'That's two each!' There was some scattered clapping as Filio strutted back to the contestant's enclosure with an irritating smile across his face. 'Slippery bastard,' Jezal hissed to himself as he followed. He should have seen that lunge coming. He had been careless, and he knew it.

'Two apiece?' hissed Varuz, as Jezal flopped down into his chair, breathing hard. 'Two apiece? Against this nobody? He's not even from the Union!'

Jezal knew better than to point out that Westport was supposed to be a part of the Union these days. He knew what Varuz meant, and so did everyone else in the arena. The man was an outsider as far as they were concerned. He grabbed the cloth from West's outstretched hands and wiped his sweaty face. Five touches was a long match, but Filio looked far from exhausted. He was springing up and down on his toes as Jezal glanced across, nodding his head to the noisy Styrian advice spilling from his trainer.

'You can beat him!' West murmured, as he handed Jezal the water bottle. 'You can beat him, and then it's the final.' The final. That meant Gorst. Jezal wasn't entirely sure he wanted any of that.

But Varuz was in no doubt. 'Just damn well beat him!' hissed the Marshal, as Jezal took a swig from the bottle, swilled it round in his mouth. 'Just beat him!' Jezal spat half out into the bucket and swallowed the rest. Just beat him. Easy to say, but he was a devious bastard, this Styrian.

'You can do it!' said West again, rubbing Jezal's shoulder. 'You've come this far!'

'Kill him! Just kill him!' Marshal Varuz stared into Jezal's eyes. 'Are you a nobody, Captain Luthar? Did I waste my time on you? Or are you somebody? Eh? Now's the time to decide!'

'Gentlemen, please!' called the referee, 'the deciding touch!'

Jezal blew out hard, took his steels from West, got to his feet. He could hear Filio's trainer shouting encouragements over the swelling noise of the crowd. 'Just kill him!' shouted Varuz one last time, then Jezal was off on his way to the circle.

The deciding touch. The decider. In so many ways. Whether Jezal would be in the final or not. Whether he would be somebody or not. He was tired though, very tired. He had been fencing solidly for nearly half an hour, in the heat, and that takes it out of you. He was sweating again already. He could feel it leaking out of his face in big drops.

He moved towards his mark. A bit of chalk on some dry grass. Filio was standing there waiting, still smiling, anticipating his triumph. The little shit. If Gorst could club those others around the circle, then surely Jezal could grind this fool's face in the turf. He squeezed the grips of his steels and concentrated on that nauseating little smile. He wished for a moment that the steels weren't blunted, until it occurred to him that he might be the one who got stabbed.

'Begin!'

Jezal sorted through his cards, shuffling them this way and that in his hands, barely even looking at the symbols on them, barely caring whether he kept them out of sight of the others.

'I'll raise you ten,' said Kaspa, sliding some coins across the table with a look that said . . . oh, something probably, Jezal didn't care what, he really wasn't concentrating. There was a lengthy pause.

'It's your bet, Jezal,' grumbled Jalenhorm.

'It is? Oh, er . . .' He scanned across the meaningless symbols, unable to take any of it too seriously. 'Erm, oh . . . I'll fold.' He tossed the cards on to the table. He was down today, well down, for the first time in he couldn't remember how long. Ever probably. He was too busy thinking about Ardee: wondering how he could bed her without doing either one of them lasting harm, most particularly without his being killed by West. He was still no closer to an answer, unfortunately.

Kaspa swept up the coins, smiling broadly at his most unlikely victory. 'So that was well fought today, Jezal. A close one, but you came through, eh?'

'Uh,' said Jezal. He took his pipe from the table.

'I swear, I thought he had you for a minute there, but then,' and he snapped his fingers under Brint's nose, 'just like that! Knocked him right over. The crowd loved it! I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself, I swear!'

'Do you reckon you can beat Gorst?' asked Jalenhorm.

'Uh.' Jezal shrugged, lighting the pipe and leaning back in his chair, looking up at the grey sky and sucking on the stem.

'You seem pretty calm about it all,' said Brint.

'Uh.'

The three officers glanced at each other, disappointed by the failure of their chosen topic. Kaspa picked another. 'Have you fellows seen the Princess Terez yet?'

Brint and Jalenhorm sighed and gasped, then the three of them prattled their gormless appreciation of the woman. 'Have I seen her? Have I ever!'

'They call her the jewel of Talins!'

'The rumours didn't lie where she's concerned!'

'I hear the marriage to Prince Ladisla is a fixed thing.'

'The lucky bastard!' And so on.

Jezal stayed where he was, sat back in his chair, blowing smoke at the sky. He wasn't so sure about Terez, from the little he'd seen. Beautiful from a distance, no doubt, but he imagined that her face would feel like glass to the touch: cold, hard and brittle. Nothing like Ardee's . . .

'Still,' Jalenhorm was spouting, 'I have to say, Kaspa, my heart still belongs to your cousin Ariss. Give me a Union girl any day over one of these foreigners.'

'Give you her money, you mean,' murmured Jezal, head still tipped back.

'No!' complained the big man. 'She's a perfect lady! Sweet, demure, well-bred. Ah!' Jezal smiled to himself. If Terez was cold glass, then Ariss was a dead fish. Kissing her would be like kissing an old rag, he imagined: limp and tedious. She couldn't kiss the way Ardee did. No one could . . .

'Well, they're both of them beauties, no doubt,' Brint was blathering, 'fine women to dream about, if dreams are all you're after . . .' He leaned forward to a conspiratorial distance, smirking shiftily round as though he had something secret and exciting to say. The other two edged their chairs forward, but Jezal stayed where he was. He had no interest at all in hearing about whatever whore that idiot was bedding.

'Have you met West's sister?' murmured Brint. Jezal's every muscle stiffened. 'She's not the equal of those two of course, but she's really quite pretty in a common sort of way and . . . I think she'd be willing.' Brint licked his lips and nudged Jalenhorm in the ribs. The big man grinned guiltily like a schoolboy at a dirty joke. 'Oh yes, she strikes me as the willing type.' Kaspa giggled. Jezal put his pipe down on the table, noticing that his hand was trembling slightly. The other was gripping the arm of his chair so hard that his knuckles were white.

'I do declare,' said Brint, 'if I didn't think the Major would stick me with his sword, I'd be tempted to stick his sister with mine, eh?' Jalenhorm spluttered with laughter. Jezal felt one of his eyes twitching as Brint turned his smirk towards him. 'Well, Jezal, what do you think? You've met her haven't you?'

'What do I think?' His voice seemed to come from a terribly long way away as he stared at those three grinning faces. 'I think you should watch your mouth, you son of a fucking whore.'

He was on his feet now, teeth gritted so tight together they felt like they might crack apart. The three smiles blinked and faded. Jezal felt Kaspa's hand on his arm. 'Come on, he only meant-'

Jezal ripped his arm away, seized the edge of the table and flung it over. Coins, cards, bottles, glasses, flew through the air and spilled out across the grass. He had his sword in his other hand, still sheathed luckily, leaning right down over Brint, spraying spit in his face. 'Now you fucking listen to me, you little bastard!' he snarled, 'I hear anything more like that, anything, and you won't have to worry about West!' He pressed the grip of his steel into Brint's chest. 'I'll carve you like a fucking chicken!'

The three men stared up at him, aghast, their mouths wide open, their astonishment at this sudden display of violence equalled only by Jezal's own.

'But-' said Jalenhorm.

'What?' screamed Jezal, seizing a fistful of the big man's jacket and dragging him half out of his chair. 'What d'you fucking say?'

'Nothing,' he squeaked, his hands raised, 'nothing.' Jezal let him drop. The fury was draining fast. He had half a mind to apologise, but when he saw Brint's ashen face all he could think of was 'she strikes me as the willing type'.

'Like! A! Fucking! Chicken!' he snarled again, then turned on his heel and stalked off. Halfway to the archway he realised he had left his coat behind, but he could hardly go back for it now. He made it into the darkness of the tunnel, took a couple of steps down it then sagged against the wall, breathing hard and trembling as if he'd just run ten miles. He understood now what it meant to lose one's temper, and no mistake. He had never even realised that he had one before, but there could be no doubt now.

'What the hell was that about?' Brint's shocked voice echoed quietly down the tunnel, only just audible over the thumping of Jezal's heart. He had to hold his breath to hear.

'Damned if I know.' Jalenhorm, sounding even more surprised. There was the rattle and scrape of the table being put straight. 'Never knew he had such a temper.'

'I suppose he must have a lot to think about,' said Kaspa, uncertainly, 'what with the Contest and all ...'

Brint cut him off. 'That's no excuse!'

'Well they're close, aren't they? Him and West? What with all the fencing together and what have you, maybe he knows the sister or something . . . I don't know!'

'There is another explanation,' Jezal could hear Brint saying, voice tense as though he was about to deliver a punchline. 'Perhaps he's in love with her!' The three of them burst out laughing. It was a good joke alright. Captain Jezal dan Luthar, in love, and with a girl whose station in life was so far beneath his own. What a ridiculous idea! What an absurd notion! What a joke!

'Oh shit.' Jezal put his head in his hands. He didn't feel like laughing. How the hell had she done this to him? How? What was it about her? She was fine to look at, of course, and clever, and funny, and all those things, but that was no explanation. 'I cannot see her again,' he whispered to himself, 'I will not!' And he thumped his hand against the wall. His resolve was iron. It always was.

Until the next note came under his door.

He groaned and slapped the side of his head. Why did he feel like this? Why did he . . . he couldn't even bring himself to think the word . . . like her so much? Then it came to him. He knew why.

She didn't like him.

Those mocking half-smiles. Those sidelong glances he caught sometimes. Those jokes that went just a little too close to the bone. Not to mention the occasional examples of outright scorn. She liked his money, maybe. She liked his position in the world, of course. She liked his looks, undoubtedly. But, in essence, the woman despised him.

And he'd never had that feeling before. He had always just assumed that everybody loved him, had never really had cause to doubt he was a fine man, worthy of the highest respect. But Ardee didn't like him, he saw it now, and that made him think. Apart from the jaw, of course, and the money and the clothes, what was there to like?

She treated him with the contempt he knew he deserved. And he couldn't get enough of it. 'Strangest thing,' Jezal mumbled to himself, slouching miserably against the wall of the tunnel. 'Strangest thing.'

It made him want to change her mind.

The Seed.

'How are you, Sand?' Colonel Glokta opened his eyes. It was dark in the room. Damn it, he was late!

'Damn it!' he shouted, shoving back the covers and leaping out of bed. 'I'm late!' He snatched up his uniform trousers, shoving his legs in, fumbling with his belt.

'Don't worry about that, Sand!' His mother's voice was half soothing, half impatient. 'Where is the Seed?'

Glokta frowned over as he pushed his shirt in. 'I've no time for this nonsense, mother! Why do you always think you know what's best for me?' He cast around him for his sword, but couldn't see it. 'We're at war you know!'

'We are indeed.' The Colonel looked up, surprised. It was the voice of Arch Lector Sult. 'Two wars. One fought with fire and steel, and another one beneath an old war, long years in the making.' Glokta frowned. How ever could he have mistaken that old windbag for his mother? And what was he doing in Glokta's chambers in any case? Sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed, prattling about old wars?

'What the hell are you doing in my chambers?' growled Colonel Glokta, 'and what have you done with my sword?'

'Where is the Seed?' A woman's voice now, but not his mother's. Someone else. He did not recognise it. He squinted against the darkness, straining to see who was in the chair. He could make out a vague outline, but the shadows were too deep to tell more.

'Who are you?' asked Glokta sternly.

'Who was I? Or what am I?' The figure in the chair shifted as it rose slowly, smoothly, from its seat. 'I was a patient woman, but I am woman no more, and the grinding years have worn my patience thin.'

'What do you want?' Glokta's voice quivered, reedy and weak as he backed away.

The figure moved, stepping through the shaft of moonlight from the window. A woman's form, slender and graceful, but shadows stuck to the face. A sudden fear clawed at him and he stumbled back against the wall, raising his arm to fend the woman off.

'I want the Seed.' A pale hand snaked out and closed around his outstretched arm. A gentle touch, but cold. Cold as stone. Glokta trembled, gasped, squeezed shut his eyes. 'I need it. You cannot know the need I have. Where is it?' Fingers plucked at his clothes, quick and deft, seeking, searching, darting in his pockets, in his shirt, brushing his skin. Cold. Cold as glass.

'The Seed?' squeaked Glokta, half paralysed with terror.

'You know what I speak of, broken man. Where is it?'

'The Maker fell . . .' he whispered. The words welled up, he knew not from where.

'I know it.'

'... burning, burning ...'

'I saw it.' The face was close enough for him to feel the breath upon his skin. Cold. Cold as frost.

'. . . he broke upon the bridge below ...'

'I remember it.'

'. . . they searched for the Seed ...'

'Yes . . .' whispered the voice, urgent in his ear, 'where is it?' Something brushed against his face, his cheek, his eyelid, soft and slimy. A tongue. Cold. Cold as ice. His flesh crawled.

'I don't know! They could not find it!'

'Could not?' Fingers closed tight around his throat, squeezing, crushing, choking the air from him. Cold. Cold as iron, and just as hard. 'You think you know pain, broken man? You know nothing!' The icy breath rasped in his ear, the icy fingers squeezed, squeezed. 'But I can show you! I can show you!'

Glokta screamed, thrashed, struggled. He fought his way up, stood for a dizzy instant, then his leg buckled and he plunged into space. The dark room tumbled around him and he crashed to the boards with a sickening crunch, his arm folded beneath him, his forehead cracking against the floor.

He struggled up, clawing at the leg of his bed, pushing himself against the wall, snorting for breath, staring wild-eyed towards the chair, yet barely able to look for fear. A bar of moonlight spilled through the window, cut across the rumpled bed-clothes and onto the polished wood of the seat. Empty.

Glokta cast around the rest of the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness, peering into every shadowy corner. Nothing. Empty. A dream.

And now, as the crazy hammering of his heart relaxed, as his ragged breathing slowed, the pain came on. His head thumped, his leg screamed, his arm was throbbing dully. He could taste blood, his eyes stung and wept, his guts heaved, sick and spinning. He whimpered, made an agonising hop towards the bed, then collapsed on the moonlit mattress, exhausted, wet with cold sweat.

There was an urgent knocking at the door. 'Sir? Are you alright? ' Barnam's voice. The knocking came again. No good. It is locked. Always locked, but I don't think I'll be moving. Frost will have to break it down. But the door swung open, and Glokta shielded his eyes from the sudden ruddy glow of the old servant's lamp.

'Are you alright?'

'I fell,' mumbled Glokta. 'My arm ...'

The old servant perched on the bed, taking Glokta's hand gently and pushing up the sleeve of his night-shirt. Glokta winced, Barnam clicked his tongue. His forearm had a big pink mark across it, already beginning to swell and redden.

'I don't think it's broken,' said the servant, 'but I should fetch the surgeon, just in case.'

'Yes, yes.' He waved Barnam away with his good hand. 'Fetch him.'