'Good, because you've nothing to be amused about, I can tell you! Keys?' he sneered. 'Stories? Scrolls? What could have possessed me to listen to your drivel?'

'I know, Arch Lector, I apologise.' Glokta edged humbly into the chair that Goyle had so recently vacated.

'You apologise, do you? Everyone apologises! Some good that does me! Fewer apologies and more successes is what I need! And to think, I had such high hopes for you! Still, I suppose we must work with the tools we have.'

Meaning? But Glokta said nothing.

'We have problems. Very serious problems, in the South.'

'The South, Arch Lector?'

'Dagoska. The situation there is grave. Gurkish troops are flocking to the peninsula. They already outnumber our garrison by ten to one, and all our strength is committed in the North. Three regiments of the King's Own remain in Adua, but with the peasants getting out of hand across half of Midderland, they cannot be spared. Superior Davoust was keeping me informed in weekly letters. He was my eyes, Glokta, do you understand? He suspected that there was a conspiracy afoot within the city. A conspiracy intending to deliver Dagoska into the hands of the Gurkish. Three weeks ago the letters stopped, and yesterday I learned that Davoust has disappeared. Disappeared! A Superior of the Inquisition! Vanished into thin air! I am blind, Glokta. I am fumbling in the dark at a most crucial time! I need someone there that I can trust, do you understand?'

Glokta's heart was thumping. 'Me?'

'Oh you're learning,' sneered Sult. 'You are the new Superior of Dagoska.'

'Me?'

'Many congratulations, but forgive me if we leave the feast until a quieter moment! You, Glokta, you!' The Arch Lector leaned down over him. 'Go to Dagoska and dig. Find out what happened to Davoust. Weed the garden down there. Root out everything disloyal. Everything and anyone. Light a fire under them! I need to know what's going on, if you have to toast the Lord Governor until he drips gravy!'

Glokta swallowed. 'Toast the Lord Governor?'

'Is there an echo in here?' snarled Sult, looming even lower. 'Sniff out the rot, and cut it away! Hack it off! Burn it out! All of it, wherever it is! Take charge of the city's defences yourself if you must. You were a soldier!' He reached out and slid a single sheet of parchment across the table top. 'This is the King's writ, signed by all twelve chairs on the Closed Council. All twelve. I sweated blood to get it. Within the city of Dagoska, you will have full powers.'

Glokta stared down at the document. A simple sheet of cream-coloured paper, black writing, a huge red seal at the bottom. We, the undersigned, confer upon His Majesty's faithful servant, Superior Sand dan Glokta, our full powers and authority . . . Several blocks of neat writing, and below, two columns of names. Crabby blotches, flowing swirls, near illegible scrawls. Hoff, Sult, Marovia, Varuz, Halleck, Burr, Torlichorm, and all the rest. Powerful names. Glokta felt faint as he picked up the document in his two trembling hands. It seemed heavy.

'Don't let it go to your head! You still have to tread carefully. We can stand no more embarrassments, but the Gurkish must be kept out at all costs, at least until this business in Angland is settled. At all costs, do you understand?'

I understand. A posting to a city surrounded by enemies and riddled with traitors, where one Superior has already mysteriously disappeared. Closer to a knife in the back than a promotion, but we must work with the tools we have. 'I understand, Arch Lector.'

'Good. Keep me well informed. I want to be swamped by your letters.'

'Of course.'

'You have two Practicals, correct?'

'Yes, your Eminence, Frost and Severard, both very-'

'Not nearly enough! You won't be able to trust anyone down there, not even the Inquisition.' Sult seemed to think about that for a moment. 'Especially the Inquisition. I have picked out a half dozen others whose skills are proven, including Practical Vitari.'

That woman, watching over my shoulder? 'But, Arch Lector-'

'Don't "but" me, Glokta!' hissed Sult. 'Don't you dare "but" me, not today! You're not half as crippled as you could be! Not half as crippled, you understand?'

Glokta bowed his head. 'I apologise.'

'You're thinking, aren't you? I can see the cogs turning. Thinking you don't want one of Goyle's people getting in the way? Well, before she worked for him she worked for me. A Styrian, from Sipano. Cold as the snow, those people, and she's the coldest of them, I can tell you. So you needn't worry. Not about Goyle, anyway.' No. Only about you, which is far worse.

'I will be honoured to have her along.' I will be damned careful.

'Be as honoured as you damn well please, just don't let me down! Make a mess of this and you'll need more than that piece of paper to save you. A ship is waiting at the docks. Leave. Now.'

'Of course, your Eminence.'

Sult turned away and strode over to the window. Glokta quietly got up, quietly slid his chair under the table, quietly shuffled across the room. The Arch Lector was still standing, hands clasped behind him, as Glokta ever so carefully pulled the doors to. It was not until they clicked shut that he realised he had been holding his breath.

'How'd it go?'

Glokta turned round sharply, his neck giving a painful click.

Strange, how I never learn not to do that. Practical Vitari was still flopped in her chair, looking up at him with tired eyes. She did not seem to have moved the whole time he was inside. How did it go? He ran his tongue around his mouth, over his empty gums, thinking about it. That remains to be seen. 'Interesting,' he said in the end. 'I am going to Dagoska.'

'So I hear.' The woman did indeed have an accent, now he thought about it. A slight whiff of the Free Cities.

'I understand you're coming with me.'

'I understand I am.' But she did not move.

'We are in something of a hurry.'

'I know.' She held out her hand. 'Could you help me up?'

Glokta raised his eyebrows. I wonder when I was last asked that question? He had half a mind to say no, but in the end he held his hand out, if only for the novelty. Her fingers closed round it, started to pull. Her eyes were narrowed, he could hear her breath hissing as she unfolded herself slowly from the chair. It hurt, having her pull on him like that, in his arm, in his back. But it hurts her more. Behind her mask, he was pretty sure, her teeth were gritted with pain. She moved her limbs one at a time, cautiously, not sure what would hurt and how much. Glokta had to smile. A routine I go through myself every morning. Strangely invigorating, to see someone else doing it.

Eventually she was standing, her bandaged hand clutched against her ribs. 'You able to walk?' asked Glokta.

'I'll loosen up.'

'What happened? Dogs?'

She gave a bark of laughter. 'No. A big Northman knocked the shit out of me.'

Glokta snorted. Well, forthright at least. 'Shall we go?'

She looked down at his cane. 'Don't suppose you've got one of those spare, have you?'

'I'm afraid not. I only have the one, and I can't walk without it.'

'I know how you feel.'

Not quite. Glokta turned and began to limp away from the Arch Lector's office. Not quite. He could hear the woman hobbling along behind. Strangely invigorating, to have someone trying to keep up with me. He upped the pace, and it hurt him. But it hurts her more.

Back to the South, then. He licked at his empty gums. Hardly a place of happy memories. To fight the Gurkish, after what it cost me last time. To root out disloyalty in a city where no one can be trusted, especially those sent to help me. To struggle in the heat and the dust, at a thankless task almost certain to end in failure. And failure, more than likely, will mean death.

He felt his cheek twitch, his eyelid flicker. At the hands of the Gurkish? At the hands of plotters against the crown? At the hands of his Eminence, or his agents? Or simply to vanish, as my predecessor did? Has one man ever had such a range of deaths to choose from? The corner of his mouth twitched up. I can hardly wait to get started.

That same question came into his head, over and over, and he still had no answer.

Why do I do this?

Why?

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

And also . . .

Matthew Amos, for solid advice

at a shaky time

Gillian Redfearn, who read past

the beginning and made me change it

Simon Spanton, who bought it

before he got to the end.

THE FIRST LAW: BOOK TWO.

JOE.