'Had Prince Ladisla been more willing to listen to them, sir,' intoned West, 'he might still be with us. As might his division.' General Poulder chuckled heartily to himself and his staff joined him. Kroy, predictably, was less amused. He shot a deadly glare across the tent, one which West returned with an icy blankness.

Burr cleared his throat, and soldiered on. 'Bethod holds the fortress of Dunbrec.' The point of his stick tapped at the black hexagon. 'Positioned to cover the only significant road out of Angland, where it fords the river Whiteflow, our border with the North. The road approaches the fortress from the west, cutting eastwards down a wide valley between two wooded ridges. The body of Bethod's forces are encamped near the fortress, but he means to mount an attack, westward up the road, as soon as we show our faces.' And Burr's stick slashed along the dark line, swishing against the heavy paper. 'The valley through which the road passes is bare, open grass with some gorse and rocky outcroppings, and will give him ample room for manoeuvre.' He turned back to the assembled officers, stick clenched tight, and placed his fists firmly on the table before him. 'I mean to fall into his trap. Or at least . . . to seem to. General Kroy?'

Kroy finally broke off glowering at West to reply with a sullen, 'Yes, Lord Marshal?'

'Your division is to deploy astride the road and push steadily eastwards towards the fortress, encouraging Bethod to launch his attack. Slowly and steadily, with no heroics. General Poulder's division, meanwhile, will have worked its way through the trees on top of the northern ridge, here,' and his stick tapped at the green blocks of the wooded high ground, 'just forward of General Kroy's position.'

'Just forward of General Kroy's position,' grinned Poulder, as though he was being shown special favour. Kroy scowled with disgust.

'Just forward, yes,' continued Burr. 'When Bethod's forces are entirely occupied in the valley, it shall be your task to attack them from above, and take them in the flank. It is important that you wait until the Northmen have been fully engaged, General Poulder, so that we can surround them, overwhelm them, and hope to bag the majority at one throw. If they are allowed to retire to the fords the fortress will cover their retreat, and we will be unable to pursue. Reducing Dunbrec might take us months.'

'Of course, my Lord Marshal,' exclaimed Poulder, 'my division will wait until the last moment, you may depend upon it!'

Kroy snorted. 'That should present no difficulty. Arriving late is a specialty of yours, I understand. There would be no need for a battle if you had intercepted the Northmen last week, rather than allowing them to get around you!'

Poulder bristled. 'Easy for you to say, while you were sitting on the right wing doing nothing! It's fortunate they didn't pass by in the night! You might have taken their retreat for an assault and fled with your entire division!'

'Gentlemen, please!' roared Burr, smashing the table with his stick. 'There will be fighting enough for every man in the army, that I promise you, and if each man does his part there will be ample glory too! We must work together if this plan is to bear fruit!' He burped and grimaced and licked his lips sourly, while the two Generals and their staffs glowered at one another. West would almost have laughed, had men's lives not hung in the balance, his own among them.

'General Kroy,' said Burr, in the tone of a parent addressing a wayward child. 'I wish to make sure that you understand your orders.'

'To deploy my division in line astride the road,' hissed Kroy, 'and to advance slowly and in good order, eastwards down the valley towards Dunbrec, drawing Bethod and his savages into an engagement.'

'Indeed. General Poulder?'

'To move my division out of sight through the trees, just ahead of General Kroy's regiments, so that at the last moment I can charge down on the Northern scum and take them in the flank.'

Burr managed a smile. 'Correct.'

'An excellent plan, Lord Marshal, if I may!' Poulder tugged happily at his moustaches. 'You can depend upon it that my horse will cut them to pieces. To! Pieces!'

'I am afraid you will not have any cavalry, General,' said West in an emotionless monotone. 'The woods are dense and horse will be useless to you there. They might even alert the Northmen to your presence. A risk we cannot take.'

'But . . . my cavalry,' muttered Poulder, stricken with woe. 'My best regiments!'

'They will be kept here, sir,' droned West, 'near Marshal Burr's headquarters, and under his direct control, as a reserve. They will be deployed if they are needed.' Now it was Poulder's fury he met with a stonewall stare, while the faces of Kroy and his staff broke out in broad, neat, utterly joyless smiles.

'I hardly think-' hissed Poulder.

Burr cut him off. 'That is my decision. There is one last point that you should all bear in mind. There are some reports that Bethod has called on reinforcements. Some manner of wild men, savages from across the mountains to the north. Keep your eyes open and your flanks well screened. You will receive word from me tomorrow when it is time to move, most likely before first light. That is all.'

'Can we really rely on them to do what they are told?' muttered West as he watched the two surly groups file from the tent.

'What choice do we have?' The Marshal threw himself into a chair with a grimace and rested his hands on his belly, frowning up at the great map. 'I wouldn't worry. Kroy has no option but to move down the valley and fight.'

'What about Poulder? I wouldn't put it past him to find some excuse to stay sitting in the woods.'

The Lord Marshal grinned as he shook his head. 'And leave Kroy to do all the fighting? What if he were to beat the Northmen on his own, and take all the glory for himself? No. Poulder could never risk that. This plan gives them no choice but to work together.' He paused, looking up at West. 'You might want to treat the pair of them with a touch more respect.'

'Do you think they deserve it, sir?'

'Of course not. But if, for instance, we should lose tomorrow, one of them will most likely step into my boots. Then where will you be?'

West grinned. 'I'll be finished, sir. But my being polite now won't change that. They hate me for what I am, not what I say. I might as well say what I please while I can.'

'I suppose you might at that. They're a damn nuisance, but their folly can be predicted. It's Bethod that worries me. Will he do what we want him to?' Burr burped, and swallowed, and burped again. 'Damn this damn indigestion!'

Threetrees and the Dogman were sprawled on a bench outside the tent flap, an odd pair in amongst the well-starched press of officers and guards.

'Smells like battle to me,' said Threetrees as West strode up to them.

'Indeed.' West pointed after Kroy's black-uniformed staff. 'Half the army are going down the valley tomorrow morning, hoping to draw Bethod into a fight.' He pointed to Poulder's crimson entourage. 'The other half are going up into the trees, and hope to surprise them before they can get away.'

Threetrees nodded slowly to himself. 'Sounds like a good plan.'

'Nice and simple,' said the Dogman. West winced. He could hardly bear to look at the man.

'We'd have no plan at all if you hadn't brought us that information,' he managed to say through gritted teeth. 'Are you sure we can trust it?'

'Sure as we can be,' said Threetrees.

Dogman grinned. 'Shivers is alright, and from what I've scouted up, I reckon it's true. No promises, course.'

'Of course not. You deserve a rest.'

'We wouldn't say no.'

'I've arranged a position for you up at the far left of the line, at the end of General Poulder's division, up in the trees, on the high ground. You should be well out of the action there. The safest place in the whole army tomorrow, I shouldn't wonder. Dig in and make yourself a fire, and if things go right, we'll talk again over Bethod's dead body.' And he held out his hand.

Threetrees grinned as he took it. 'Now that's our kind of language, Furious. You take care, now.' He and the Dogman started to trudge away up the slope towards the tree line.

'Colonel West?'

He knew who it was before he turned. There weren't many women in the camp that would have had much to say to him. Cathil, standing in the slush, a borrowed coat wrapped round her. She looked somewhat furtive, somewhat shamefaced, but the sight of her still somehow brought up a sudden surge of anger and embarrassment.

It was unfair, he knew. He had no rights over her. It was unfair, but that only made it worse. All he could think of was the side of the Dogman's face and her grunting, uh . . . uh . . . uh. So horribly surprising. So horribly disappointing. 'You'd better go with them,' said West with an icy formality, scarcely able to bring himself to say anything at all. 'Safest place.' He turned away but she brought him up short.

'It was you, wasn't it, outside the tent . . . the other night?'

'Yes, I'm afraid it was. I simply came to check if there was anything you needed,' he lied. 'I really had no idea . . . who you would be with.'

'I certainly never meant for you to-'

'The Dogman?' he muttered, face suddenly crunching up with incomprehension. 'Him? I mean . . . why?' Why him instead of me, was what he wanted to say, but he managed to stop himself.

'I know . . . I know you must think-'

'You've no need to explain yourself to me!' he hissed, though he knew he'd just asked her to. 'Who cares what I think?' He spat it out with a deal more venom than he had intended, but his own loss of control only made him angrier, and he lost more. 'I don't care what you choose to fuck!'

She winced and stared down at the ground beside his feet. 'I didn't mean to . . . well. I owe you a lot, I know. It's just that . . . you're too angry for me. That's all.'

West stared at her as she trudged off up the hill after the Northmen, hardly able to believe his ears. She was happy to bed that stinking savage, but he was too angry? It was so unfair he almost choked on his rage.

Questions Colonel Glokta charged into his dining room in a tremendous hurry, wrestling manfully with the buckle on his sword belt. 'Damn it!' he fumed. He was all thumbs. Couldn't get the thing closed. 'Damn it, damn it!'

'You need some help with that?' asked Shickel, sitting wedged in behind the table, black burns across her shoulders, cuts hanging open, dry as meat in the butcher's shop.

'No I do not need bloody help!' he shrieked, flinging his belt onto the floor. 'What I need is for someone to explain what the hell is going on here! This is a disgrace! I will not have members of my regiment sitting around naked! Especially with such unsightly wounds! Where is your uniform, girl?'

'I thought you were more worried about the Prophet.'

'Never mind about him!' snapped Glokta, worming his way onto the bench opposite her. 'What about Bayaz? What about the First of the Magi? Who is he? What's he really after, the old bastard?'

Shickel smiled a sweet smile. 'Oh, that. I thought everyone knew that. The answer is . . .'

'Yes!' muttered the Colonel, mouth dry, eager as a schoolboy, 'The answer is?'

She laughed, and slapped at the bench beside her. Thump, thump, thump.

'The answer is . . .'

The answer is . . .

Thump, thump, thump. Glokta's eyes snapped open. It was still half dark outside. Only a faint glow was coming through the curtains. Who comes belting at the door at this hour? Good news comes in the daylight.

Thump, thump, thump. 'Yes, yes!' he screeched. 'I'm crippled, not deaf! I damn well hear you!'

'Then open the bloody door!' The voice came muffled from the corridor, but there was no mistaking the Styrian note. Vitari, the bitch. Just what one needs in the middle of the night. Glokta did his best to stifle his groans as he carefully disentangled his numb limbs from his sweaty blanket, rolling his head gently from side to side, trying to stretch some movement into his twisted neck, and failing.

Thump, thump. I wonder, when was the last time I had a woman beating down my bedroom door? He snatched his cane from its place, resting against the mattress, then pressed one of his few teeth hard into his lip, grunting softly to himself as he wormed his way down the bed and let one leg flop off onto the boards. He threw himself forward, eyes squeezed shut at a withering pain through his back, and finally reached sitting, gasping as though he had run ten miles. Fear me, fear me, all must fear me! If I can just get out of bed, that is.

Thump. 'I'm coming, damn it!' He footed his cane on the floor and rocked himself up to standing. Careful, careful. The muscles in his mutilated left leg were shaking violently, making his toeless foot twitch and flop like a dying fish. Damn this hideous appendage! It would feel like someone else's, if it didn't hurt so much. But calm, calm, we must be gentle.

'Shhh,' he hissed, like a parent trying to sooth a wailing child, kneading softly at his ruined flesh and trying to breathe slow. 'Shhh.' The convulsions slowly calmed to a more manageable trembling. About the best that we can hope for, I fear. He was able to pull his nightshirt down and shuffle to the door, flip the key angrily round in the lock, and pull it open. Vitari stood outside in the corridor, draped against the wall, a darker shape in the shadows.

'You,' he grunted, hopping to the chair. 'You just can't stay away, can you? What is your fascination with my bedchamber?'

She sauntered through the door, peering around scornfully at the miserable room. 'Perhaps I just like seeing you in pain.'

Glokta snorted, rubbing gingerly at his burning knee. 'Then you must be wet between the legs right now.'

'Surprisingly, no. You look like death.'

'When don't I? Did you come to mock my looks, or have we some business?'

Vitari folded her long arms and leaned against the wall. 'You need to get dressed.'

'More excuses to see me naked?'

'Sult wants you.'

'Now?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Oh no, we can take our time. You know how he is.'

'Where are we going?'

'You'll see when we get there.' And she upped her pace, making him gasp and wince, snorting his aching way through the dim archways, down the shadowy lanes and the grey court-yards of the Agriont, colourless in the thin light of early morning.

His clumsy boots crunched and scraped in the gravel of the park. The grass was heavy with cold dew, the air thick with dull mist. Trees loomed up, black and leafless claws in the murk, and then a towering, sheer wall. Vitari led him towards a high gate, flanked by two guards. Their heavy armour was worked with gold, their heavy halberds were studded with gold, the golden sun of the Union was stitched into their surcoats. Knights of the Body. The King's personal guard.

'The palace?' muttered Glokta.

'No, the slums, genius.'

'Halt.' One of the two knights raised his gauntleted hand, voice echoing slightly from the grill in his tall helmet. 'State your names and business.'

'Superior Glokta.' He hobbled to the wall and leaned against the damp stones, pressing his tongue into his empty gums against the pain in his leg. 'As for the business, ask her. This wasn't my idea, I can damn well tell you that.'

'Practical Vitari. And the Arch Lector is expecting us. You know that already, fool, I told you on the way out.'

If it were possible for a man in full armour to appear hurt, this one did. 'It is a matter of protocol that I ask everyone-'

'Just get it open!' barked Glokta, pressing his fist into his trembling thigh, 'while I can still lurch through on my own!'

The man thumped angrily on the gate and a small door opened inside it. Vitari ducked through and Glokta limped after her, along a path of carefully-cut stones through a shadowy garden. Drops of cold water clung to the budding branches, dripped from the towering statuary. The cawing of a crow somewhere out of sight seemed ridiculously loud in the morning stillness. The palace loomed up ahead of them, a confusion of roofs, towers, sculptures, ornamental stonework outlined against the first pale glow of morning.

'What are we doing here?' hissed Glokta.

'You'll find out.'

He limped up a step, between towering columns and two more Knights of the Body, still and silent enough to have been empty suits of armour. His cane clicked on the polished marble floor of an echoing hallway, half lit by flickering candles, the high walls covered entirely with dim friezes. Scenes of forgotten victories and achievements, one king after another pointing, brandishing weapons, reading proclamations, standing with their chests puffed out in pride. He struggled up a flight of steps, ceiling and walls carved entirely in a glorious pattern of golden flowers, flashing and glittering in the candlelight, while Vitari waited impatiently for him at the top. Their being priceless doesn't make them any easier to climb, damn it.

'Down there,' she muttered at him.

A worried-looking group were gathered round a door twenty strides away. A Knight of the Body sat bent over on a chair, his helmet on the floor beside him, his head in his hands, fingers pushed through curly hair. Three other men stood, huddled together, their urgent whispering rebounding from the walls and echoing down the hallway.

'Aren't you coming?'

Vitari shook her head. 'He didn't ask for me.'

The three men looked up at Glokta as he limped towards them. And what a group to find muttering in a palace corridor before daybreak. Lord Chamberlain Hoff was wearing a quickly flung on nightgown, his puffy face stricken as though by a nightmare. Lord Marshal Varuz had one collar of his rumpled shirt sticking up, the other down, his iron grey hair shooting off his skull at all angles. High Justice Marovia's cheeks were gaunt, his eyes were rimmed with red, and there was a slight tremble to his liverish hand as he raised it to point at the door.

'In there,' he whispered. 'A terrible business. Terrible. Whatever shall be done?'

Glokta frowned, stepped past the sobbing guard and limped over the threshold.

It was a bedchamber. And a magnificent one. This is a palace, after all. The walls were papered with vivid silk, hung with dark canvases in old gilt frames. An enormous fireplace was carved from brown and red stone to look like a miniature Kantic temple. The bed was a monstrous four-posted creation whose curtains probably enclosed more space than Glokta's entire bedroom. The covers were flung back and rumpled, but there was no sign of the former occupant. One tall window was standing ajar, and a chill breeze washed in from the grey world outside, making the flames on the candles dance and flutter.