'Merchants maybe?' asked Logen, hopefully. He and Ferro looked at each other for a moment. 'Might be better if we stay off the track from now on.'

'Too slow.' Bayaz had made it down into the village now. Quai and Longfoot weren't far behind with the cart and the horses. 'Far too slow. We stick to the track. We'll see anyone coming in good time out here. Plenty of time.'

Luthar didn't look convinced. 'If we see them, they'll see us. What then?'

'Then?' Bayaz raised an eyebrow. 'Then we have the famous Captain Luthar to protect us.' He looked round at the ruined village. 'Running water, and shelter, of a kind. Seems like a good place to camp.'

'Good enough,' muttered Logen, already rooting through the cart for logs to start a fire of their own. 'I'm hungry. What happened to those birds?'

Logen sat, and watched the others eat over the rim of his pot.

Ferro squatted at the very edge of the shifting light from the campfire, hunched over, shadowy face almost stuck right into her bowl, staring around suspiciously and shoving food in with her fingers like she was worried it might be snatched away any moment. Luthar was less enthusiastic. He was nibbling daintily at a wing with his bared front teeth, as though touching it with his lips might poison him, discarded morsels lined up carefully along the side of his platter. Bayaz chewed away with some relish, his beard glistening with gravy. 'It's good,' he muttered around a mouthful. 'You might want to consider cookery as a career, Master Ninefingers, if you should ever grow tired of . . .' he waved his spoon, 'whatever it is you do.'

'Huh,' said Logen. In the North everyone took their turn at the fire, and it was reckoned an honour to do it. A good cook was almost as valued as a good fighter. Not here. These were a sorry crowd when it came to minding the pot. Bayaz could just about get his tea boiled, and that was as far as he went. Quai could get a biscuit out of the box on a good day. Logen doubted whether Luthar would even have known which way up the pot went. As for Ferro, she seemed to despise the whole notion of cooking. Logen reckoned she was used to eating her food raw. Perhaps while it was still alive.

In the North, after a hard day on the trail, when the men gathered around the long fires to eat, there was a strict order to who sat where. The chief would go at the top, with his sons and the Named Men of the clan around him. Next came the Carls, in order of fame. Thralls were lucky to get their own small fires further out. Men would always have their place, and only change it when their chief offered, out of respect for some great service they'd done him, or for showing rare good bones in a fight. Sitting out of place could earn you a kicking, or a killing even. Where you sat round the fire was where you stood in life, more or less.

It was different out here on the plains, but Logen could still see a pattern in who sat where, and it was far from a happy one. He and Bayaz were close enough to the fire, but the others were further than comfort would have put them. Drawn close by the wind, and the cold, and the damp night, pushed further out by each other. He glanced over at Luthar, sneering down into his bowl as though it was full of piss. No respect. He glanced over at Ferro, staring yellow knives at him through narrowed eyes. No trust. He shook his head sadly. Without trust and respect the group would fall apart in a fight like walls without mortar.

Still, Logen had won over tougher audiences, in his time. Threetrees, Tul Duru, Black Dow, Harding Grim, he'd fought each one in single combat, and beaten them all. Spared each man's life, and left him bound to follow. Each one had tried their best to kill him, and with good reasons too, but in the end Logen had earned their trust, and their respect, and their friendship even. Small gestures and a lot of time, that was how he'd done it. 'Patience is the chief of virtues,' his father used to say, and 'you won't cross the mountains in a day.' Time might be against them, but there was nothing to be gained by rushing. You have to be realistic about these things.

Logen uncrossed his stiff legs, took hold of the water-skin and got up, walked slowly over to where Ferro was sitting. Her eyes followed him all the way across. She was a strange one, no doubt, and not just the looks of her, though the dead knew her looks were strange enough. She seemed hard and sharp and cold as a new sword, ruthless as any man that Logen could think of. You would have thought she wouldn't throw a log to save a drowning man, but she'd done more than that to save him, and more than once. Out of all of them, she was the one he'd trust first, and furthest. So he squatted down and held the skin out to her, its bulbous shadow flickering and shifting on the rough wall behind her.

She frowned at it for a moment, then frowned up at Logen. Then she snatched it off him and bent back over her pot, half turning her bony shoulders on him. Not a word of thanks, or a gesture even, but he didn't mind. You won't cross the mountains in a day, after all.

He dropped down again beside the fire, watched the flames dancing, casting shifting light across the grim faces of the group. 'Anyone know any stories?' he asked, hopefully.

Quai sucked at his teeth. Luthar curled his lip at Logen across the fire. Ferro gave no sign that she had even heard. Hardly an encouraging start.

'Not any?' No reply. 'Alright then, I know a song or two, if I can remember the words,' he cleared his throat.

'Very well!' cut in Bayaz. 'If it will save us from a song, I know hundreds of stories. What did you have it in mind to hear about? A romance? A comedy? A tale of bravery against the odds?'

'This place,' cut in Luthar. 'The Old Empire. If it was such a great nation, how did it come to this?' He jerked his head over at the crumbling walls, and what they all knew lay beyond. The miles and miles of nothing. 'A wasteland.'

Bayaz sighed. 'I could tell that tale, but we are lucky enough to have a native of the Old Empire with us on our little trip, and a keen student of history to boot. Master Quai?' The apprentice looked up lazily from the fire. 'Would you care to enlighten us? How did the Empire, once the glittering centre of the world, come to this pass?'

'That story is long in the telling,' murmured the apprentice. 'Shall I start from the beginning?'

'Where else should a man ever start?'

Quai shrugged his bony shoulders and began to speak. 'Almighty Euz, vanquisher of demons, closer of gates, father of the World, had four sons, and to each he gave a gift. To his eldest, Juvens, he gave the talent of High Art, the skill to change the world with magic, tempered by knowledge. To his second son, Kanedias, went the gift of making, of shaping stone and metal to his own purposes. To his third son, Bedesh, Euz gave the skill of speaking with spirits, and of making them do his bidding.' Quai gave a wide yawn, smacked his lips and blinked at the fire. 'So were born the three pure disciplines of magic.'

'I thought he had four sons,' grumbled Luthar.

Quai's eyes slid sideways. 'So he did, and therein lies the root of the Empire's destruction. Glustrod was the youngest son. To him should have gone the gift of communing with the Other Side. The secrets of summoning devils from the world below and binding them to one's will. But such things were forbidden by the First Law, and so Euz gave nothing to his youngest son but his blessing, and we all know what those are worth. He taught the other three their share of his secrets and left, ordering his sons to bring order to the world.'

'Order.' Luthar tossed his platter down on the grass beside him and glanced disdainfully round at the shadowy ruins. 'They didn't get far.'

'At first they did. Juvens set about his purpose with a will, and bent all his power and all his wisdom to it. He found a people that pleased him, living beside the Aos, and favoured them with laws and learning, government and science. He gave to them the skills to conquer their neighbours, and made of their chief an Emperor. Son followed father, year followed year, and the nation grew and prospered. The lands of the Empire stretched as far as Isparda in the south, Anconus in the north, the very shores of the Circle Sea to the east, and beyond. Emperor followed Emperor, but always Juvens was there guiding, advising, shaping all things according to his grand design. All was civilised, all was peaceful, all was content.'

'Almost all,' muttered Bayaz, poking at the guttering fire with a stick.

Quai gave a smirk. 'We have forgotten Glustrod, just as his father did. The ignored son. The shunned son. The cheated son. He begged all three brothers for a share of their secrets, but they were jealous of their gifts, and all three refused him. He looked upon what Juvens had achieved, and was bitter beyond words. He found dark places in the world, and in secret he studied those sciences forbidden by the First Law. He found dark places in the world, and he touched the Other Side. He found dark places, and he spoke in the tongue of devils, and he heard their voices answer him.' Quai's voice dropped down to a whisper. 'And the voices told Glustrod where to dig . . .'

'Very good, Master Quai,' cut in Bayaz, sternly. 'Your grip on the histories seems much improved. Let us not tarry on the details, however. We can leave Glustrod's diggings for another day.'

'Of course,' murmured Quai, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight, his gaunt face full of gloomy hollows. 'You know best, master. Glustrod laid plans. He watched from the shadows. He garnered secrets. He flattered, and he threatened, and he lied. It did not take him long to turn the weak-willed to his purposes, and the strong-willed against each other, for he was cunning, and charming, and fair to look upon. He heard the voices always, now, from the world below. They suggested that he sow discord everywhere, and he listened. They urged him to eat the flesh of men, and steal their power, and he did so. They commanded him to seek out those devil-bloods that remained in our world, spurned, hated, exiled, and make from them an army, and he obeyed.'

Something touched Logen's shoulder from behind and he near jumped in the air. Ferro was standing over him, the water-skin held out in her hand. 'Thanks,' he growled as he took it from her, pretending that his heart wasn't knocking at his ribs. He took a quick swig and banged the stopper in with his palm, then put it down beside him. When he looked up, Ferro hadn't moved. She stood there above him, looking down at the dancing flames. Logen shuffled up a step, making room. Ferro scowled, sucked her teeth, kicked at the ground, then slowly squatted down on her haunches, making sure to leave plenty of space between them. She held her hands out to the fire and bared her shining teeth at it.

'Cold over there.'

Logen nodded. 'These walls don't keep the wind off much.'

'No.' Her eyes swept across the group and found Quai. 'Don't stop for me,' she snapped.

The apprentice grinned. 'Strange and sinister was the host that Glustrod gathered. He waited for Juvens to leave the Empire, then he crept into the capital at Aulcus and set his well-laid schemes in motion. It seemed as if a madness swept the city. Son fought with father, wife with husband, neighbour with neighbour. The Emperor was cut down on the steps of his palace by his own sons and then, maddened with greed and envy, they turned upon each other. Glustrod's twisted army had slithered into the sewers beneath the city and rose up, turning the streets into charnel pits, the squares into slaughter yards. Some among them could take forms, stealing the faces of others.'

Bayaz shook his head. 'Taking forms. A dread and insidious trick.' Logen remembered a woman, in the cold darkness, who had spoken with the voice of his dead wife, and he frowned and hunched his shoulders.

'A dread trick indeed,' said Quai, his sickly grin growing even wider. 'For who can be trusted if one cannot trust one's own eyes, one's own ears, to tell friend from foe? But worse was to come. Glustrod summoned demons from the Other Side, bound them to his will and sent them to destroy those who might resist him.'

'Summoning and sending,' hissed Bayaz. 'Cursed disciplines. Dire risks. Terrible breaches of the First Law.'

'But Glustrod recognised no law beyond his own strength. Soon he sat in the Emperor's throne room upon a pile of skulls, sucking the flesh of men as a baby sucks milk, basking in his awful victory. The Empire descended into chaos, the very slightest taste of the chaos of ancient days, before the coming of Euz, when our world and the world below were one.'

A gust of wind sighed through the chinks in the ancient stonework around them, and Logen shivered and pulled his blanket tight around him. Damn story was making him nervous. Stealing faces, and sending devils, and eating men. But Quai did not stop. 'When he found out what Glustrod had done, Juvens' fury was terrible, and he sought the aid of his brothers. Kanedias would not come. He stayed sealed in his house, tinkering with his machines, caring nothing for the world outside. Juvens and Bedesh raised an army without him, and they fought a war against their brother.'

'A terrible war,' muttered Bayaz, 'with terrible weapons, and terrible casualties.'

'The fighting spread across the continent from one end to the other, and drew in every petty rivalry, and gave birth to a host of feuds, and crimes, and vengeances, whose consequences still poison the world today. But in the end Juvens was victorious. Glustrod was besieged in Aulcus, his changelings unmasked, his army scattered. Now, in his most desperate moment, the voices from the world below whispered to him a plan. Open a gate to the Other Side, they said. Pick the locks, and crack the seals, and throw wide the doors that your father made. Break the First Law one last time, they said, and let us back into the world, and you will never again be ignored, be shunned, be cheated.'

The First of the Magi nodded slowly to himself. 'But he was cheated once more.'

'Poor fool! The creatures of the Other Side are made of lies. To deal with them is to grasp the most awful peril. Glustrod made ready his rituals, but in his haste he made some small mistake. Only a grain of salt out of place, perhaps, but the results were horrible indeed. The great power that Glustrod had gathered, strong enough to tear a hole in the fabric of the world, was released without form or reason. Glustrod destroyed himself. Aulcus, great and beautiful capital of the Empire, was laid waste, the land around it forever poisoned. No one ventures within miles of the place now. The city is a shattered graveyard. A blasted ruin. A fitting monument to the folly and the pride of Glustrod and his brothers.' The apprentice glanced up at Bayaz. 'Do I speak the truth, master?'

'You do,' murmured the Magus. 'I know. I saw it. A young fool with a full and lustrous head of hair.' He ran a hand over his bald scalp. 'A young fool who was as ignorant of magic, and wisdom, and the ways of power as you are now, Master Quai.'

The apprentice inclined his head. 'I live only to learn.'

'And in that regard, you seem much improved. How did you like that tale, Master Ninefingers?'

Logen puffed out his cheeks. 'I'd been hoping for something with a few more laughs, but I guess I'll take what's offered.'

'A pack of nonsense, if you ask me,' sneered Luthar.

'Huh,' snorted Bayaz. 'How fortunate for us that no one did. Perhaps you ought to get the pots washed, Captain, before it gets too late.'

'Me?'

'One of us caught the food, and one of us cooked it. One of us has entertained the group with a tale. You are the only one among us who has as yet contributed nothing.'

'Apart from you.'

'Oh, I am far too old to be sloshing around in streams at this time of night.' Bayaz' face grew hard. 'A great man must first learn humility. The pots await.'

Luthar opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, pushed himself angrily up from his place and threw his blanket down in the grass. 'Damn pots,' he cursed as he snatched them up from around the fire and stomped off towards the brook.

Ferro watched him go, a strange expression on her face that might even have been her version of a smile. She looked back at the fire, and licked her lips. Logen pulled the stopper from the water skin and held it out to her.

'Uh,' she grunted, snatched it from his hand, took a quick swallow. While she was wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she glanced sideways at him, and frowned. 'What?'

'Nothing,' he said quickly, looking away and holding up his empty palms. 'Nothing at all.' He was smiling on the inside, though. Small gestures and time. That was how he'd get it done.

Small Crimes 'Cold, eh, Colonel West?' 'Yes, your Highness, winter is nearly upon us.' There had been a kind of snow in the night. A cold, wet sleet that covered everything in icy moisture. Now, in the pale morning, the whole world seemed half-frozen. The hooves of their horses crunched and slurped in the half-frozen mud. Water dripped sadly from the half-frozen trees. West was no exception. His breath smoked from his runny nose. The tips of his ears tingled unpleasantly, numb from the cold.

Prince Ladisla hardly seemed to notice, but then he was swathed in an enormous coat, hat and mittens of shining black fur, no doubt several hundred marks worth of it. He grinned over. 'The men seem good and fit, though, in spite of it all.'

West could scarcely believe his ears. The regiment of the King's Own that had been placed under Ladisla's command seemed happy enough, it was true. Their wide tents were pitched in orderly rows in the middle of the camp, cooking fires in front, horses tethered nearby in good order.

The position of the levies, who made up a good three quarters of their strength, was less happy. Many were shamefully ill-prepared. Men with no training or no weapons, some who were plainly too ill or too old for marching, let alone for battle. Some had little more than the clothes they stood up in, and those were in a woeful state. West had seen men huddled together under trees for warmth, nothing but half a blanket to keep the rain off. It was a disgrace.

'The King's Own are well provided for, but I'm concerned about the situation of some of the levies, your-'

'Yes,' said Ladisla, talking over him precisely as if he had not spoken, 'good and fit! Chomping at the bit! Must be the fire in their bellies keeps 'em warm, eh, West? Can't wait to get at the enemy! Damn shame we have to wait here, kicking our heels behind this damn river!'

West bit his lip. Prince Ladisla's incredible powers of self-deception were becoming more frustrating with every passing day. His Highness had fixed upon the idea of being a great and famous general, with a matchless force of fighting men under his command. Of winning a famous victory, and being celebrated as a hero back in Adua. Rather than exerting a single particle of effort to make it happen, however, he behaved as if it already had, utterly regardless of the truth. Nothing which was distasteful, or displeasing, or at odds with his cock-eyed notions could be permitted to be noticed. Meanwhile, the dandies on his staff, without a month's military experience between them, congratulated him on his fine judgement, slapped each other on the back, and agreed with his every utterance, no matter how ludicrous.

Never to want for anything, or work for anything, or show the tiniest grain of self-discipline in a whole life must give a man a strange outlook on the world, West supposed, and here was the proof, riding along beside him, smiling away as though the care of ten thousand men was a light responsibility. The Crown Prince and the real world, as Lord Marshal Burr had observed, were entire strangers to one another.

'Cold,' Ladisla murmured. 'Not much like the deserts of Gurkhul now, eh, Colonel West?'

'No, your Highness.'

'But some things are the same, eh? I'm speaking of war, West! War in general! The same everywhere! The courage! The honour! The glory! You fought with Colonel Glokta, didn't you?'

'Yes, your Highness, I did.'

'I used to love to hear stories of that man's exploits! One of my heroes, when I was young. Riding round the enemy, harassing his lines of communication, falling on the baggage train and whatnot. ' The Prince's riding crop rode around, harassed, and fell on imaginary baggage in the air before him. 'Capital! And I suppose you saw it all?'

'Some of it, your Highness, yes.' He had seen a great deal of saddle-soreness, sunburn, looting, drunkenness, and vainglorious showing-off.

'Colonel Glokta, I swear! We could do with some of that dash here, eh, West? Some of that vim! That vigour! Shame that he's dead.'

West looked up. 'He isn't dead, your Highness.'

'He isn't?'

'He was captured by the Gurkish, and then returned to the Union when the war ended. He . . . er . . . he joined the Inquisition.'

'The Inquisition?' The Prince looked horrified. 'Why on earth would a man give up the soldiering life for that?'

West groped for words, but then thought better of it. 'I cannot imagine, your Highness.'

'Joined the Inquisition! Well, I never.' They rode in silence for a moment. Gradually, the Prince's smile returned. 'But we were talking of the honour of war, were we not?'

West grimaced. 'We were, your Highness.'

'First through the breach at Ulrioch, weren't you? First through the breach, I heard! There's honour for you, eh? There's glory, isn't it? That must have been quite an experience, eh, Colonel? Quite an experience!'

Struggling through a mass of broken stones and timbers, littered with twisted corpses. Half-blind with the smoke, half-choking on the dust, shrieks and wails and the clashing of metal coming at him from all around, hardly able to breathe for fear. Men pressing in on all sides, groaning, shoving, stumbling, yelling, running with blood and sweat, black with grime and soot, half-seen faces twisted with pain and fury. Devils, in hell.

West remembered screaming 'Forward!', over and over until his throat was raw, even though he had no idea which way forward was. He remembered stabbing someone with his sword, friend or enemy, he did not know, then or now. He remembered falling and cutting his head on a rock, tearing his jacket on a broken timber. Moments, fragments, as if from a story he once heard someone else telling.

West pulled his coat tighter round his chilly shoulders, wishing it was thicker. 'Quite an experience, your Highness.'

'Damn shame that bloody Bethod won't be coming this way!' Prince Ladisla slashed petulantly at the air with his riding crop. 'Little better than damn guard duty! Does Burr take me for a fool, eh, West, does he?'

West took a deep breath. 'I couldn't possibly say, your Highness.'

The Prince's fickle mind had already moved off. 'What about those pets of yours? Those Northmen. The ones with the comical names. What's he called, that dirty fellow? Wolfman, is it?'

'Dogman.'

'Dogman, that's it! Capital!' The Prince chuckled to himself. 'And that other one, biggest damn fellow I ever saw! Excellent! What are they up to?'

'I sent them scouting north of the river, your Highness.' West rather wished he was with them. 'The enemy are probably far away, but if they aren't, we need to know about it.'

'Of course we do. Excellent idea. So that we can prepare to attack!'

A timely withdrawal and a fast messenger to Marshal Burr was more what West had in mind, but there was no point in saying so. Ladisla's whole notion of war was of ordering a glorious charge, then retiring to bed. Strategy and retreat were not words in his vocabulary.

'Yes,' the Prince was muttering to himself, eyes fixed intently on the trees beyond the river. 'Prepare an attack and sweep them back across the border . . .'

The border was a hundred leagues away. West seized his moment. 'Your Highness, if I may, there is a great deal for me to do.'

It was no lie. The camp had been organised, or disorganised, without a thought for convenience or defence. An unruly maze of ramshackle canvas in a great clearing near the river, where the ground was too soft and had soon been turned into a morass of sticky mud by the supply carts. At first there had been no latrines, then they had been dug too shallow and much too close to the camp, not far from where the provisions were being stored. Provisions which, incidentally, had been badly packed, inadequately prepared, and were already close to spoiling, attracting every rat in Angland. If it had not been for the cold, West did not doubt that the camp would already have been riddled with disease.

Prince Ladisla waved his hand. 'Of course, a great deal to do. You can tell me more of your stories tomorrow, eh, West? About Colonel Glokta and so forth. Damn shame he's dead!' he shouted over his shoulder as he cantered off towards his enormous purple tent, high up on the hill above the stink and confusion.

West turned his mount with some relief and urged it down the slope into the camp. He passed men tottering through the half-frozen sludge, shivering, breath steaming, hands wrapped in dirty rags. He passed men sitting in sorry groups before their patched tents, no two dressed the same, as close to meagre fires as they dared, fiddling with cooking pots, playing miserable games of damp cards, drinking and staring into the cold air.

The better-trained levies had gone with Poulder and Kroy to seek out the enemy. Ladisla had been left with the rump: those too weak to march well, too poorly equipped to fight well, too broken even to do nothing with any conviction. Men who might never have left their homes in all their lives, forced to cross the sea to a land they knew nothing of, to fight an enemy they had no quarrel with, for reasons they did not understand.

Some few of them might have felt some trace of patriotic fervour, some swell of manly pride when they left, but by now the hard marching, the bad food and the cold weather had truly worn, starved, and frozen all enthusiasm out of them. Prince Ladisla was scarcely the inspirational leader to put it back, had he even been making the slightest effort to do so.

West looked down at those grim, tired, pinched faces as he rode past, and they stared back, beaten already. All they wanted was to go home, and West could hardly blame them. So did he.