“Huh.” Glokta frowned. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

“Keep it. It isn’t worth shit to me. Just trust me next time.”

“A fair demand,” he conceded, glancing sideways at her. But you have to be joking.

The chamber was filled with fine furniture. Almost overfilled. Richly upholstered chairs, an antique table, a polished cabinet, all lavish for the small sitting-room. A huge old painting of the Lords of the Union paying homage to Harod the Great entirely filled one wall. A thick Kantic carpet had been rolled out across the boards, almost too big for the floor. A healthy fire crackled in the grate between two antique vases, and the room was homely, and pleasant, and warm. What a difference a day can make, with the right encouragement.

“Good,” said Glokta as he looked round. “Very good.”

“Of course,” muttered Fallow, head bowed respectfully, hat halfway to being crushed in his hands. “Of course, Superior, I have done everything possible. Most of the furniture I had… I had sold already, and so I replaced with better, the best I could find. The rest of the house is just the same. I hope that… I hope that it’s adequate?”

“I hope so too. Is it adequate?”

Ardee was scowling at Fallow. “It will serve.”

“Excellent,” said the moneylender nervously, glancing briefly at Frost and then down at his boots. “Excellent! Please accept my very deepest apologies! I had no idea, of course, absolutely no idea, Superior, that you were involved in any way. Of course, I would never… I am so very sorry.”

“It really isn’t me you should be apologising to, is it?”

“No, no, of course.” He turned slowly to Ardee. “My lady, please accept my deepest apologies.”

Ardee glared at him, lip curled, and said nothing.

“Perhaps if you were to beg,” suggested Glokta. “On your knees. That might do it.”

Fallow dropped to his knees without hesitation. He wrung his hands “My lady, please—”

“Lower,” said Glokta.

“Of course,” he muttered as he fell to all fours. “I do apologise, my lady. Most humbly. If you could only find it in your heart, I beg you—” He reached out gingerly to touch the hem of her dress and she jerked back, then swung her foot and kicked him savagely in the face.

“Gah!” squawked the moneylender, rolling onto his side, dark blood bubbling out of his nose and all over the new carpet. Glokta felt his brows go up. That was unexpected.

“That’s for you, fucker!” The next kick caught him in the mouth and his head snapped back, spots of blood spattering onto the far wall. Ardee’s shoe thudded into his gut and folded him up tight.

“You,” she snarled, “you…” She kicked him again and again and Fallow shuddered and grunted and sighed, curling up in a ball. Frost moved away from the wall a step, and Glokta held up his finger.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, “I think she has it covered.”

The kicks began to slow. Glokta could hear Ardee gasping for air. Her heel dug into Fallow’s ribs, her toe cracked into his nose again. If she ever gets bored, she might have a bright future as a Practical. She worked her mouth, leaned over and spat onto the side of his face. She kicked him again, weakly, then stumbled back against the cabinet and leaned on the polished wood, bent over and breathing hard.

“Happy?” asked Glokta.

She stared up at him through her tangled hair. “Not really.”

“Will kicking him some more make you happier?”

Her brows wrinkled as she looked down at Fallow, wheezing on his side on the carpet. She took a step forward and booted him hard in the chest one more time, rocked away, wiping some snot from under her nose. She pushed her hair out of her face. “I’m done.”

“Fine. Get out,” hissed Glokta. “Out, worm!”

“Of course,” Fallow drooled through his bloody lips, crawling for the door, Frost looming over him the whole way. “Of course! Thank you! Thank you all so much!” The front door banged shut.

Ardee sat down heavily in one of the chairs, elbows resting on her knees, forehead resting on her palms. Glokta could see her hands trembling slightly. It can really be very tiring, hurting someone. I should know. Especially if you aren’t used to it. “I wouldn’t feel too badly,” he said. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

She looked up, and her eyes were hard. “I don’t. He deserves worse.”

That was unexpected too. “Do you want him to have worse?”

She swallowed, slowly sat back. “No.”

“Up to you.” But it’s nice to have the option. “You may want to change your clothes.”

She looked down. “Oh.” Spots of Fallow’s blood were spattered as far as her knees. “I don’t have anything—”

“There’s a room full of new ones, upstairs. I made sure of it. I’ll arrange for some dependable servants as well.”

“I don’t need them.”

“Yes, you do. I won’t hear of you here alone.”

She shrugged her shoulders hopelessly. “I have nothing to pay them with.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” All compliments of the hugely generous Valint and Balk, after all. “Don’t worry about anything. I made a promise to your brother, and I mean to see it through. I’m very sorry that things came this far. I had a great deal to take care of… in the South. Have you heard from him, by the way?”

Ardee looked up sharply, her mouth slightly open. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

She swallowed, and stared down at the floor. “Collem was with Prince Ladisla, at this battle that everyone is talking of. Some prisoners were taken, have been ransomed—he wasn’t among them. They presume…” She paused for a moment, staring at the blood on her dress. “They presume he was killed.”

“Killed?” Glokta’s eyelid fluttered. His knees felt suddenly weak. He took a lurching step back and sank into a chair. His own hands were trembling now, and he clasped them together. Deaths. They happen every day. I caused thousands of them not long ago, with hardly a thought. I looked at heaps of corpses and shrugged. What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was.

“Killed?” he whispered.

She nodded slowly, and put her face in her hands.

Cold Comfort

West peered out of the bushes, through the drifting flakes of snow, down the slope toward the Union picket. The sentries were sat in a rough circle, hunched round a steaming pan over a miserable tongue of fire on the far side of the stream. They wore thick coats, breath smoking, weapons almost forgotten in the snow around them. West knew how they felt. Bethod might come this week, he might come next week, but the cold they had to fight every minute of every day.

“Right then,” whispered Threetrees. “You’d best go down there on your own. They might not like the looks of me and the rest of the boys, all rushing down on ’em from the trees.”

The Dogman grinned. “Might shoot one of us.”

“And that’d be some kind o’ shame,” hissed Dow, “after we come so far.”

“Give us the shout when they’re good and ready for a crew of Northmen to come wandering out the woods, eh?”

“I will,” said West. He dragged the heavy sword out of his belt and handed it to Threetrees. “You’d better hold on to this for me.”

“Good luck,” said the Dogman.

“Good luck,” said Dow, lips curling back into his savage grin. “Furious.”

West walked out slowly from the trees and down the gentle slope towards the stream, his stolen boots crunching in the snow, his hands held up above his head, to show he was unarmed. Even so, he could hardly have blamed the sentries if they shot him on sight. No one could have looked more like a dangerous savage than he did now, he knew. The last tatters of his uniform were hidden beneath a bundle of furs and torn scraps, tied around his body with twine, a stained coat stolen from a dead Northman over the top. He had a few weeks’ growth of scraggy beard across his scabby face, his eyes were sore and watering, sunken with hunger and exhaustion. He looked like a desperate man, and what was more, he knew, he was one. A killer. The man who murdered Crown Prince Ladisla. The very worst of traitors.