'Our tomb,' whispered Ferro.

'What?'

'Good place to stop,' she said out loud. 'Get a look across the plain.'

Ninefingers frowned up at it. 'Alright. We stop.'

Ferro stood on one of the stones, hands on hips, staring out across the plain through narrowed eyes. The wind tore at the grass and made waves from it, like the waves on the sea. It tore at the great clouds too, twisting them, ripping them open, dragging them through the sky. It lashed at Ferro's face, nipped at her eyes, but she ignored it.

Damn wind, just like always.

Ninefingers stood beside her, squinting into the cold sun. 'Anything out there?'

'We are followed.' They were far away, but she could see them. Tiny dots in the far distance. Tiny riders moving on the ocean of grass.

Ninefingers grimaced. 'You sure?'

'Yes. You surprised?'

'No.' He gave up looking and rubbed at his eyes. 'Bad news is never a surprise. Just a disappointment.'

'I count thirteen.'

'You can count 'em? I can't even see 'em. They coming for us?' She raised her arms. 'You see anything else out here? Might be that laughing bastard Finnius found some more friends.'

'Shit.' He looked down at the cart, drawn up at the base of the hill. 'We can't outrun them.'

'No.' She curled her lip. 'You could ask the spirits for their opinion.'

'So they could tell us what? That we're fucked?' Silence for a moment. 'Better to wait, and fight them here. Bring the cart up to the top. At least we've got a hill, and a few rocks to hide behind.'

'That's what I was thinking. Gives us some time to prepare the ground.'

'Alright. We'd best get to it.'

The point of the shovel bit into the ground with the sharp scrape of metal on earth. An all too familiar sound. Digging pits and digging graves. What was the difference?

Ferro had dug graves for all kinds of people. Companions, or as close as she had come to companions. Friends, or as close as she had come to friends. A lover or two, if you could call them that. Bandits, killers, slaves. Whoever hated the Gurkish. Whoever hid in the Badlands, for whatever reason.

Spade up and spade down.

When the fighting is over, you dig, if you are still alive. You gather up the bodies in a line. You dig the graves in a row. You dig for your fallen comrades. Your slashed, your punctured, your hacked and your broken comrades. You dig as deep as you can be bothered, you dump them in, you cover them up, they rot away and are forgotten, and you go on, alone. That's the way it's always been.

But here, on this strange hill in the middle of this strange country, there was still time. Still a chance for the comrades to live. That was the difference, and for all her scorn, and her scowls, and her anger, she clung to it as she clung to the spade, desperate tight.

Strange how she never stopped hoping.

'You dig well,' said Ninefingers. She squinted up at him, standing over her at the edge of the pit.

'Lots of practice.' She dug the spade into the earth beside the hole, planted her hands on the sides and jumped out, sat on the edge with her legs hanging down. Her shirt was stuck to her with sweat, her face was running with it. She wiped her forehead with her dirty hand. He handed her the water-skin and she took it from him, pulled the stopper out with her teeth.

'How long do we have?'

She sucked a mouthful out of the skin and worked it round, spat it out. 'Depends how hard they go.' She took another mouthful and swallowed. 'They are going hard now. They keep that up, they could be on us late tonight, or maybe dawn tomorrow.' She handed the skin back.

'Dawn tomorrow.' Ninefingers slowly pushed the stopper back in. 'Thirteen you said, eh?'

'Thirteen.'

'And four of us.'

'Five, if the Navigator comes to help.'

Ninefingers scratched at his jaw. 'Not very likely.'

'That apprentice any use in a fight?'

Ninefingers winced. 'Not much.'

'How about Luthar?'

'I'd be surprised if he's ever thrown a fist in anger, let alone a blade.'

Ferro nodded. 'Thirteen against two, then.'

'Long odds.'

'Very.'

He took a deep breath and stared down into the pit. 'If you had a mind to run, I can't say I'd blame you.'

'Huh,' she snorted. Strange, but she hadn't even thought about it. 'I'll stick. See how it turns out.'

'Alright. Good. Can't say I don't need you.'

The wind rustled in the grass and sighed against the stones. There were things that should be said at a time like this, Ferro guessed, but she did not know what. She had never had much talk in her.

'One thing. If I die, you bury me.' She held her hand out to him. 'Deal?'

He raised an eyebrow at it. 'Done.' It was a long time, she realised, since she touched another person without the purpose of hurting them. It was a strange feeling, his hand gripped in hers, his fingers tight round hers, his palm pressed against hers. Warm. He nodded at her. She nodded at him. Then they let go.

'What if we both die?' he said.

She shrugged. 'Then the crows can pick us clean. After all, what's the difference?'

'Not much,' he muttered, starting off down the slope. 'Not much.'

The Road to Victory West stood by a clump of stunted trees, in the cutting wind, on the high ground above the river Cumnur, and watched the long column move. More accurately, he watched it not move.

The neat blocks of the King's Own, up at the head of Prince Ladisla's army, marched smartly enough. You could tell them from their armour, glinting in the odd ray of pale sun that broke through the ragged clouds, from the bright uniforms of their officers, from the red and golden standards snapping at the front of each company. They were already across the river, formed up in good order, a stark contrast with the chaos on the other side.

The levies had started eagerly, early that morning, no doubt relieved to be leaving the miserable camp behind, but it hadn't been an hour before a man here or a man there, older than the others, or worse shod, had started to lag, and the column had grown ragged. Men slipped and stumbled in the half-frozen muck, cursing and barging into their neighbours, boots tripping on the boots of the man in front. The battalions had twisted, stretched, turned from neat blocks into shapeless blobs, merged with the units in front and behind, until the column moved in great ripples, one group hurrying forward while the next was still, like the segments of some monstrous, filthy earthworm.

As soon as they reached the bridge they had lost all semblance of order. The ragged companies squeezed into that narrow space, shoving and grunting, tired and bad-tempered. Those waiting behind pressed in tighter and tighter, impatient to be across so they could rest, slowing everything down still further with the weight of their bodies. Then a cart, which had no business being there in any case, had lost a wheel halfway across, and the sluggish flow of men over the bridge had become a trickle. No one seemed to know how to move it, or who to get to fix it, and contented themselves with clambering over it, or slithering around it, and holding up the thousands behind.

Quite a press had built up in the mud on this side of the fast-flowing water. Men barged and grumbled shoulder to shoulder, spears sticking up into the air at all angles, surrounded by shouting officers and an ever increasing detritus of rubbish and discarded gear. Behind them the great snake of shambling men continued its spastic forward movement, feeding ever more soldiers into the confusion before the bridge. There was not the slightest evidence that anyone had even thought about trying to make them stop, let alone succeeded.

All this in column, under no pressure from the enemy, and with a half decent road to march on. West dreaded to imagine trying to manoeuvre them in a battle line, through trees or over broken ground. He jammed his tired eyes shut, rubbed at them with his fingers, but when he opened them the horrifying, hilarious spectacle was still there before him. He hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.

He heard the sound of hooves on the rise behind him. Lieutenant Jalenhorm, big and solid in his saddle. Short on imagination, perhaps, but a fine rider, and a trustworthy man. A good choice for the task that West had in mind.

'Lieutenant Jalenhorm reporting, sir.' The big man turned in his saddle and looked down towards the river. 'Looks like they're having some trouble on the bridge.'

'Doesn't it just. Only the start of our troubles, I fear.'

Jalenhorm grinned down. 'I understand we have the advantage of numbers, and of surprise-'

'As far as numbers go, maybe. Surprise?' West gestured down at the men milling around on the bridge, heard the vague, desperate shouts of their officers. 'This rabble? A blind man would hear us coming from ten miles distance. A blind and a deaf one would probably smell us before we were halfway to battle order. We'll be all day just getting across the river. And that's hardly the worst of our shortcomings. In the area of command, I fear, the gulf between us and our enemy could not possibly be wider. The Prince lives in a dream, and his staff exist only to keep him there, at any price.'

'But surely-'

'The price could be our lives.'

Jalenhorm frowned. 'Come on, West, I hardly want to be going into battle with that thought first on my mind-'

'You won't be going.'

'I won't?'

'You will pick out six good men from your company, with spare mounts. You will ride as hard as possible for Ostenhorm, then north to Lord Marshal Burr's camp.' West reached into his coat and pulled out his letter. 'You will give him this. You will inform him that Bethod is already behind him with the greater part of his strength, and that Prince Ladisla has most ill-advisedly decided to cross the river Cumnur and give the Northmen battle, directly against the Marshal's orders.' West clenched his teeth. 'Bethod will see us coming from miles away. We are handing the choice of the ground to our enemy, so that Prince Ladisla can appear bold. Boldness is the best policy in war, apparently.'

'West, surely it's not that bad?'

'When you reach Marshal Burr, tell him that Prince Ladisla has almost certainly been defeated, quite possibly destroyed, and the road to Ostenhorm left open. He'll know what to do.'

Jalenhorm stared down at the letter, reached out to take it, then paused. 'Colonel, I really wish that you'd send someone else. I should fight-'

'Your fighting cannot possibly make any real difference, Lieutenant, but your carrying this message might. There is no sentiment in this, believe me. I have no more important task than this one, and you are the man I trust to get it done. Do you understand your orders?'

The big man swallowed, then he took the letter, undid a button and slid it carefully down inside his coat. 'Of course, sir. I am honoured to carry it.' He began to turn his horse.

'There is one more thing.' West took a deep breath. 'If I should . . . get myself killed. When this is over, could you carry a message to my sister?'

'Come on, there'll be no need for-'

'I hope to live, believe me, but this is war. Not everyone will. If I don't come back, just tell Ardee . . .' He thought about it for a moment. 'Just tell her I'm sorry. That's all.'

'Of course. But I hope you'll tell her yourself.'

'So do I. Good luck.' West held out his hand.

Jalenhorm reached down and squeezed it in his own. 'And to you.' He spurred his mount down the rise, away from the river. West watched him go for a minute, then he took a deep breath and set off in the other direction, towards the bridge.

Someone had to get that damn column moving again.

Necessary Evils The sun was half a shimmering golden disc beyond the land walls, throwing orange light into the hallway down which Glokta shuffled, Practical Frost looming at his shoulder. Through the windows as he passed painfully by he could see the buildings of the city casting long shadows up towards the rock. He could almost tell, at each window that he came to, that the shadows were longer and less distinct, the sun was dimmer and colder. Soon it would be gone. Soon it will be night.

He paused for a moment before the doors to the audience chamber, catching his breath, letting the ache in his leg subside, licking at his empty gums. 'Give me the bag, then.'

Frost handed him the sack, put one white hand against the doors. 'You reathy?' he mumbled.

Ready as I'll ever be. 'Let's get on with it.'

General Vissbruck was sitting stiff in his well-starched uniform, jowls bulging slightly over his high collar, hands plucking nervously at each other. Korsten dan Vurms was doing his best to look nonchalant, but his darting tongue betrayed his anxiety. Magister Eider was sitting upright, hands clasped on the table before her, face stern. All business. A necklace of large rubies glowed with the last embers of the setting sun. Didn't take her too long to find some more jewels, I see.

There was one more member of the gathering, and he showed not the slightest sign of nerves. Nicomo Cosca was lounging against the far wall, not far behind his employer, arms crossed over his black breastplate. Glokta noted that he had a sword at his hip, and a long dagger at the other.

'What's he doing here?'

'This concerns everyone in the city,' said Eider calmly. 'It is too important a decision for you to make alone.'

'So he's going to ensure that you get a fair say, eh?' Cosca shrugged and examined his dirty fingernails. 'And what of the writ, signed by all twelve chairs on the Closed Council?'

'Your paper will not save us from the Emperor's vengeance if the Gurkish take the city.'

'I see. So you have it in mind to defy me, to defy the Arch Lector, to defy the King?'

'I have it in mind to hear out the Gurkish emissary, and to consider the facts.'

'Very well,' said Glokta. He stepped forwards and upended the bag. 'Give him your ear.' Islik's head dropped onto the table with a hollow clonking sound. It had no expression to speak of, beyond an awful slackness, eyes open and staring off in different directions, tongue lolling slightly. It rolled awkwardly along the beautiful table top, leaving an uneven curve of bloody smears on the brightly polished wood, and came to rest, face up, just in front of General Vissbruck.

A touch theatrical, perhaps, but dramatic. You'd have to give me that. No one can be left in any doubt as to my level of commitment. Vissbruck gawped down at the bloody head on the table before him, his mouth slowly falling further and further open. He started up from his seat and stumbled back, his chair clattering over on the tiles. He raised a shaking finger to point at Glokta.

'You're mad! You're mad! There'll be no mercy for anyone! Every man, woman, and child in Dagoska! If the city falls now, there's no hope for any of us!'

Glokta smiled his toothless smile. 'Then I suggest that every one of you commits themselves wholeheartedly to ensuring that the city does not fall.' He looked over at Korsten dan Vurms. 'Unless it's already too late for that, eh? Unless you've already sold the city to the Gurkish, and you can't go back!'

Vurms' eyes flickered to the door, to Cosca, to the horrified General Vissbruck, to Frost, hulking ominous in the corner, and finally to Magister Eider, still sitting steely calm and composed. And our little conspiracy is jerked from the shadows.

'He knows!' screamed Vurms, shoving back his chair and stumbling up, taking a step towards the windows.

'Clearly he knows.'

'Then do something, damn it!'

'I already have,' said Eider. 'By now, Cosca's men will have seized the land walls, bridged your channel, and opened the gates to the Gurkish. The docks, the Great Temple, and even the Citadel itself, are also in their hands.' There was a faint rattling beyond the door. 'I do believe that I can hear them now, just outside. I am sorry, Superior Glokta, indeed I am. You have done everything his Eminence could have expected, and more, but the Gurkish will already be pouring into the city. You see that further resistance is pointless.'

Glokta looked up at Cosca. 'May I retort?' The Styrian gave a small smile, a stiff bow. 'Most kind. I hate to disappoint you, but the gates are in the hands of Haddish Kahdia, and several of his most committed priests. He said that he would open them to the Gurkish what was his phrase "when God himself commanded it." Do you have a divine visitation planned?' It was plain from Eider's face that she had not. 'As for the Citadel, it has been seized by the Inquisition, for the safety of his Majesty's loyal subjects, of course. Those are my Practicals that you can hear outside. As for Master Cosca's mercenaries-'