'Save it for your whores, Cosca. I don't need to catch what you've got.'

The mercenary gave a bubbling sound, half laugh, half cough. 'You still have the manners of a princess,' he wheezed.

'Then this shithouse must be a palace.'

Cosca shrugged. 'It all looks the same if you're drunk enough.'

'You think you'll ever be drunk enough?'

'No. But it's worth trying.' As if to prove the point he sucked another mouthful from the bottle.

Vitari perched herself on the edge of the table. 'So what brings you here? I thought you were busy spreading the cock-rot across Styria.'

'My popularity at home had somewhat dwindled.'

'Found yourself on both sides of a fight once too often, eh?'

'Something like that.'

'But the Dagoskans welcomed you with open arms?'

'I'd rather you welcomed me with open legs, but a man can't get everything he wants. Who's your friend?'

Glokta slid out a rickety chair with one aching foot and eased himself into it, hoping it would bear his weight. Crashing to the floor in a bundle of broken sticks would hardly send the right message, now, would it? 'My name is Glokta.' He stretched his sweaty neck out to one side, and then the other. 'Superior Glokta.'

Cosca looked at him for a long time. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken, heavy-lidded. And yet there is a certain calculation there. Not half as drunk as he pretends, perhaps. 'The same one who fought in Gurkhul? The Colonel of Horse?'

Glokta felt his eyelid flicker. You could hardly say the same man, but surprisingly well remembered, nonetheless. 'I gave up soldiery some years ago. I'm surprised you've heard of me.'

'A fighting man should know his enemies, and a hired man never knows who his next enemy might be. It's worth taking notice of who's who, in military circles. I heard your name mentioned, some time ago, as a man worth taking notice of. Bold and clever, I heard, but reckless. That was the last I heard. And now here you are, in a different line of work. Asking questions.'

'Recklessness didn't work out for me in the end.' Glokta shrugged. 'And a man needs something to do with his time.'

'Of course. Never doubt another's choices, I say. You can't know his reasons. You come here for a drink, Superior? They've nothing but this piss, I'm afraid.' He waved the bottle. 'Or have you questions for me?'

That I have, and plenty of them. 'Do you have any experience with sieges?'

'Experience?' spluttered Cosca, 'Experience, you ask? Hah! Experience is one thing I am not short of-'

'No,' murmured Vitari over her shoulder, 'just discipline and loyalty.'

'Yes, well,' Cosca frowned up at her back, 'that all depends on who you ask. But I was at Etrina, and at Muris. Serious pair of sieges, those. And I besieged Visserine myself for a few months and nearly had it, except that she-devil Mercatto caught me unawares. Came on us with cavalry before dawn, sun behind and all, damned unfriendly trick, the bitch-'

'I heard you were passed out drunk at the time,' muttered Vitari.

'Yes, well . . . Then I held Borletta against Grand Duke Orso for six months-'

Vitari snorted. 'Until he paid you to open the gates.'

Cosca gave a sheepish grin. 'It was an awful lot of money. But he never fought his way in! You'd have to give me that, eh, Shylo?'

'No one needs to fight you, providing they bring their purse.'

The mercenary grinned. 'I am what I am, and never claimed to be anything else.'

'So you've been known to betray an employer?' asked Glokta.

The Styrian paused, the bottle halfway to his mouth. 'I am thoroughly offended, Superior. Nicomo Cosca may be a mercenary, but there are still rules. I could only turn my back on an employer under one condition.'

'Which is?'

Cosca grinned. 'If someone else were to offer me more.'

Ah, the mercenary's code. Some men will do anything for money. Most men will do anything for enough. Perhaps even make a Superior of the Inquisition disappear? 'Do you know what became of my predecessor, Superior Davoust?'

'Ah, the riddle of the invisible torturer!' Cosca scratched thoughtfully at his sweaty beard, picked a little at the rash on his neck and examined the results, wedged under his fingernail. 'Who knows or cares to know? The man was a swine. I hardly knew him and what I knew I didn't like. He had plenty of enemies, and, in case you hadn't noticed, it's a real snake pit down here. If you're asking which one bit him, well . . . isn't that your job? I was busy here. Drinking.'

Not too difficult to believe. 'What would your opinion be of our mutual friend, General Vissbruck?'

Cosca hunched his shoulders and sank a little lower into his chair. 'The man's a child. Playing soldiers. Tinkering with his little castle and his little fence, when the big walls are all that count. Lose those and the game is done, I say.'

'I've been thinking the very same thing.' Perhaps the defence of the city could be in worse hands, after all. 'Work has already begun on the land walls, and on the ditch beyond. I hope to flood it.'

Cosca raised an eyebrow. 'Good. Flood it. The Gurkish don't like the water much. Poor sailors. Flood it. Very good.' He tipped his head back and sucked the last drops from the bottle, then he tossed it on the dirty floor, wiped his mouth with his dirty hand, then wiped his hand on the front of his sweat-stained shirt. 'At least someone knows what they're doing. Perhaps when the Gurkish attack, we'll last longer than a few days, eh?' Providing we aren't betrayed beforehand.

'You never know, perhaps the Gurkish won't attack.'

'Oh, I hope they do.' Cosca reached under his chair and produced another bottle. There was a glint in his eye as he pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it across the room. 'I get paid double once the fighting starts.'

It was evening, and a merciful breeze was washing through the audience chamber. Glokta leaned against the wall by the window, watching the shadows stretch out over the city below.

The Lord Governor was keeping him waiting. Trying to let me know he's still in charge, whatever the Closed Council might say. But Glokta didn't mind being still for a while. The day had been a tiring one. Slogging round the city in the baking heat, examining the walls, the gates, the troops. Asking questions. Questions to which no one has satisfactory answers. His leg was throbbing, his back was aching, his hand was raw from gripping his cane. But no worse than usual. I am still standing. A good day, all in all.

The glowing sun was shrouded in lines of orange cloud. Beneath it a long wedge of sea glittered silver in the last light of the day. The land walls had already plunged half the ramshackle buildings of the Lower City into deep gloom, and the shadows of the tall spires of the great temple stretched out across the roofs of the Upper City, creeping up the slopes of the rock towards the citadel. The hills on the mainland were nothing more than a distant suggestion, full of shadows. And crawling with Gurkish soldiers. Watching us, as we watch them, no doubt. Seeing us dig our ditches, patch our walls, shore up our gates. How long will they be content to watch, I wonder? How long before the sun goes down for us?

The door opened and Glokta turned his head, wincing as his neck clicked. It was the Lord Governor's son, Korsten dan Vurms. He shut the door behind him and strode purposefully into the room, metal heel tips clicking on the mosaic floor. Ah, the flower of the Union's young nobility. The sense of honour is almost palpable. Or did someone fart?

'Superior Glokta! I hope I have not kept you waiting.'

'You have,' said Glokta as he shuffled to the table. 'That is what happens when one comes late to a meeting.'

Vurms frowned slightly. 'Then I apologise,' he said, in the most unapologetic tone imaginable. 'How are you finding our city?'

'Hot and full of steps.' Glokta dumped himself into one of the exquisite chairs. 'Where is the Lord Governor?'

The frown turned down further. 'I am afraid that my father is unwell, and cannot attend. You understand that he is an old man, and needs his rest. I can speak for him however.'

'Can you indeed? And what do the two of you have to say?'

'My father is most concerned about the work that you are undertaking on the defences. I am told that the King's soldiers have been set to digging holes on the peninsula, rather than defending the walls of the Upper City. You realise that you are leaving us at the mercy of the natives!'

Glokta snorted. 'The natives are citizens of the Union, no matter how reluctant. Believe me, they are more inclined to mercy than the Gurkish.' Of their mercy I have first-hand experience.

'They are primitives!' sneered Vurms, 'and dangerous to boot! You have not been here long enough to understand the threat they pose to us! You should talk to Harker. He's got the right ideas as far as the natives are concerned.'

'I talked to Harker, and I didn't like his ideas. I suspect he may have been forced to rethink them, in fact, downstairs, in the dark.' I suspect he is rethinking even now, and as quickly as his pea of a brain will allow. 'As for your father's worries, he need no longer concern himself with the defence of the city. Since he is an old man, and in need of rest, I have no doubt he will be happy to pass the responsibility to me.'

A spasm of anger passed across Vurms' handsome features. He opened his mouth to hiss some curse, but evidently thought better of it. As well he should. He sat back in his chair, rubbing one thumb and one finger thoughtfully together. When he spoke, it was with a friendly smile and a charming softness. Now comes the wheedling. 'Superior Glokta, I feel we have got off on the wrong foot-'

'I only have one that works.'

Vurms' smile slipped somewhat, but he forged on. 'It is plain that you hold the cards, for the time being, but my father has many friends back in Midderland. I can be a significant hindrance to you, if I have the mind. A significant hindrance or a great help-'

'I am so glad that you have chosen to cooperate. You can begin by telling me what became of Superior Davoust.'

The smile slipped off entirely. 'How should I know?'

'Everyone knows something.' And someone knows more than the rest. Is it you, Vurms?

The Lord Governor's son thought about it for a moment. Dense, or guilty? Is he trying to think of ways to help me, or ways to cover his tracks? 'I know the natives hated him. They were forever plotting against us, and Davoust was tireless in his pursuit of the disloyal. I have no doubt he fell victim to one of their schemes. I'd be asking questions down in the Lower City, if I was you.'

'Oh, I am quite confident the answers lie here in the Citadel.'

'Not with me,' snapped Vurms, looking Glokta up and down. 'Believe me when I say, I would be much happier if Davoust was still with us.'

Perhaps, or perhaps not, but we will get no answers today. 'Very well. Tell me about the city's stores.'

'The stores?'

'Food, Korsten, food. I understand that, since the Gurkish closed the land routes, everything must be brought in by sea. Feeding the people is surely one of a governor's most pressing concerns.'

'My father is mindful of his people's needs in any eventuality!' snapped Vurms. 'We have provisions for six months!'

'Six months? For all the inhabitants?'

'Of course.' Better than I expected. One less thing to worry about, at least, from this vast tangle of worries. 'Unless you count the natives,' added Vurms, as though it was of no importance.

Glokta paused. 'And what will they eat, if the Gurkish lay siege to the city?'

Vurms shrugged. 'I really hadn't thought about it.'

'Indeed? What will happen, do you suppose, when they begin to starve?'

'Well . . .'

'Chaos is what will happen! We cannot hold the city with four fifths of the population against us!' Glokta sucked at his empty gums in disgust. 'You will go to the merchants, you will secure provisions for six months! For everyone! I want six months' supplies for the rats in the sewers!'

'What am I?' sneered Vurms. 'Your grocery boy?'

'I suppose you're whatever I tell you to be.'

All trace of friendliness had vanished from Vurms' face now. 'I am the son of a Lord Governor! I refuse to be addressed in this manner!' The legs of his chair squealed furiously as he sprang up and made for the door.

'Fine,' murmured Glokta. 'There's a boat that goes to Adua every day. A fast boat, and it takes its cargo straight to the House of Questions. They'll address you differently there, believe me. I could easily arrange a berth for you.'

Vurms stopped in his tracks. 'You wouldn't dare!'

Glokta smiled. His most revolting, leering, gap-toothed smile. 'You'd have to be a bold man to bet your life on what I'd dare. How bold are you?' The young man licked his lips, but he did not meet Glokta's gaze for long. I thought not. He reminds me of my friend Captain Luthar. All flash and arrogance, but with no kind of character to hang it on. Prick him with a pin, and he sags like a punctured wineskin.

'Six months' food. Six months for everyone. And see that it's done promptly.' Grocery boy.

'Of course,' growled Vurms, still staring grimly at the floor.

'Then we can get started on the water. The wells, the cisterns, the pumps. People will need something to wash all your hard work down with, eh? You will report to me every morning.'

Vurms' fists clenched and unclenched by his sides, his jaw muscles worked with fury. 'Of course,' he managed to splutter.

'Of course. You may go.'

Glokta watched him stalk away. And I have talked to two out of four. Two of four, and I have made two enemies. I will need allies if I am to succeed here. Without allies, I will not last, regardless of what documents I hold. Without allies I will not keep the Gurkish out, if they decide to try and come in. Worse yet, I still know nothing of Davoust. A Superior of the Inquisition, disappeared into thin air. Let us hope the Arch Lector will be patient.

Hope. Arch Lector. Patience. Glokta frowned. Never have three ideas belonged together less.

The Thing About Trust The wheel on the cart turned slowly round, and squeaked.

It turned round again, and squeaked. Ferro scowled at it. Damn wheel. Damn cart. She shifted her scorn from the cart to its driver.

Damn apprentice. She didn't trust him a finger's breadth. His eyes flickered over to her, lingered an insulting moment, then darted off. As if he knew something about Ferro that she did not know herself. That made her angry. She looked away from him to the first of the horses, and its rider.

Damn Union boy with his stiff back, sitting in his saddle like a King sits on his throne, as though being born with a good-shaped face was an achievement to be endlessly proud of. He was pretty, and neat, and dainty as a princess. Ferro smiled grimly to herself. The princess of the Union, that's what he was. She hated fine-looking people even more than ugly ones. Beauty was never to be trusted.

You would have had to look far and wide to find anyone less beautiful than the big nine-fingered bastard. He sat in his saddle slumped over like some great sack of rice. Slow-moving, scratching, sniffing, chewing like a big cow. Trying to look like he had no killing in him, no mad fury, no devil. She knew better. He nodded to her and she scowled back. He was a devil wearing a cow's skin, and she was not fooled.

Better than that damn Navigator, though. Always talking, always smiling, always laughing. Ferro hated talk, and smiles, and laughter, each one more than the last. Stupid little man with his stupid tales. Underneath all his lies he was plotting, watching, she could feel it.

That left the First of the Magi, and she trusted him least of all. She saw his eyes sliding to the cart. Looking at the sack he'd put the box in. Square, grey, dull, heavy box. He thought no one had seen, but she had. Full of secrets is what he was. Bald bastard, with his thick neck and his wooden pole, acting as if he had done nothing but good in his life, as if he would not know where to begin at making a man explode.

'Damn fucking pinks,' she whispered to herself. She leaned over and spat onto the track, glowered at their five backs as they rode ahead of her. Why had she let Yulwei talk her into this madness? A voyage way off into the cold west where she had no business. She should have been back in the South, fighting the Gurkish.

Making them pay what they owed her.

Cursing the name of Yulwei silently to herself, she followed the others up to the bridge. It looked ancient pitted stones splattered with stains of lichen, the surface of it rutted deep where a cart's wheels would roll. Thousands of years of carts, rolling back and forward. The stream gurgled under its single arch, bitter cold water, flowing fast. A low hut stood beside the bridge, settled and slumped into the landscape over long years. Some wisps of smoke were snatched from its chimney and out across the land in the cutting wind.

One soldier stood outside, alone. Drew the short straw, maybe. He'd pressed himself against the wall, swathed in a heavy cloak, horse-hair on his helmet whipping back and forth in the gusts, his spear ignored beside him. Bayaz reined his horse in before the bridge and nodded across.

'We're going up onto the plain. Out towards Darmium.'

'Can't advise it. Dangerous up there.'