“Shivers, you’re a good man. I like you. We all do. You got bones, lad, and brains too, and men’ll follow you. You could go a long way if you don’t get yourself killed, and there’s the problem. I don’t want to see you start up something you can’t put a good end to.”

“You needn’t worry then. Anything I start I’ll make sure I finish.”

Dogman shook his head. “No, no, that ain’t my point, lad, not at all. Maybe you come out on top, maybe you don’t. My point is neither one’s a victory. Blood makes blood, and nothing else. My point is it ain’t too late for you. It ain’t too late for you to be better’n that.”

Shivers frowned at him. Then he tossed the heel of bread away, turned his big shoulder and headed off without another word. Dogman sighed. Some things can’t be put right just with talk. Some things can’t be put right at all.

They came out from the maze of buildings and onto a river. It must’ve been as wide as the Whiteflow, only the banks on each side were made of stone. The biggest bridge the Dogman had ever seen spanned it, railings made of curly iron, wide enough to drive two carts across side by side. Another wall stood at the far end, even bigger than the one they came through first. Dogman took a few gawping steps forward, and he looked up and down the gleaming water, and he saw that there were more bridges. A lot more, and some even bigger, standing out from a great forest of walls, and towers, and soaring high buildings.

A lot of the others were staring too, eyes wide open like they’d stepped out onto the moon. Even Grim had a twist to his face that might’ve been surprise.

“Bloody hell,” said Shivers. “You ever see the like o’ this?”

Dogman’s neck was aching from staring round at it all. “They’ve got so much here. Why do they even want bloody Angland? Place is a shit-hole.”

Logen shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Some men always want more, I guess.”

“Some men always want more, eh, Brother Longfoot?” Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. “I spared your other foot. I spared your life. Now you want freedom, too?”

“Superior,” he wheedled. “If I may, you did undertake to release me… I have upheld my side of the bargain. That door should open onto a square not far from the House of Questions—”

“We shall see.”

One last splintering blow of the axe and the door shuddered back on its rusty hinges, daylight spilling into the narrow cellar. The mercenary with the tattooed neck stood aside and Glokta limped up and peered out. Ah, fresh air. A gift we so often take for granted. A short set of steps led up to a cobbled yard, hemmed in by the grubby backs of grey buildings. Glokta knew it. Just round the corner from the House of Questions, as promised.

“Superior?” murmured Longfoot.

Glokta curled his lip. But where’s the harm? The chances are none of us will live out the day in any case, and dead men can afford to be merciful. The only kind of men that can, in fact. “Very well. Let him go.” The one-eyed mercenary slid out a long knife and sawed through the rope round Longfoot’s wrists. “It would be best if I didn’t ever see you again.”

The Navigator had the ghost of a grin on his face. “Don’t worry, Superior. I was only this moment thinking the very same thing.” He hobbled back the way they had come, down the dank stairway towards the sewers, rounded a corner and was gone.

“Tell me you brought the things,” said Glokta.

“I’m untrustworthy, Superior. Not incompetent.” Cosca flicked a hand at the mercenaries. “Time, my friends. Let’s black up.”

As a unit they pulled out black masks and buckled them on, pulled off their ragged coats, their torn clothes. Every man wore clean black underneath, from head to toe, with weapons carefully stowed. In a few moments a crowd of criminal villains was transformed into a well-ordered unit of Practicals of his Majesty’s Inquisition. Not that there’s too much of a leap from one to the other.

Cosca himself whisked his coat off, pulled it quickly inside out and dragged it back on. The lining was black as night. “Always wise to wear a choice of colours,” he explained. “In case one should be called upon to change sides in a pinch.” The very definition of a turncoat. He took off his hat, flicked at the filthy feather. “Can I keep it?”

“No.”

“You’re a hard man, Superior.” He grinned as he tossed the cap away into the shadows. “And I love you for it.” He pulled his own mask on, then frowned at Ardee, standing, confused and exhausted in a corner of the store-room. “What about her?”

“Her? A prisoner, Practical Cosca! A spy in league with the Gurkish. His Eminence expressed his desire to question her personally.” Ardee blinked at him. “It’s easy. Just look scared.”

She swallowed. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Wandering through the House of Questions with the aim of arresting the Arch Lector? I should say not. Glokta snapped his fingers. “We need to move.”

“We need to move,” said West. “Have we cleared the docks? Where the hell is Poulder?”

“Nobody seems to know, sir.” Brint tried to push his horse further, but they were squashed in by a grumbling throng. Spears waved, their points flailing dangerously close. Soldiers cursed. Sergeants bellowed. Officers clucked like frustrated chickens. It was hard to imagine more difficult terrain than the narrow streets behind the docks through which to manoeuvre an army of thousands. To make matters worse there was now an ominous flow of wounded, limping or being carried, in the opposite direction.

“Make some room for the Lord Marshal!” roared Pike. “The Lord Marshal!” He lifted his sword as though he was more than willing to lay about him with the flat, and men rapidly cleared out of the way, a valley forming through the rattling spears. A rider came clattering up out of their midst. Jalenhorm, a bloody cut across his forehead.

“Are you alright?”

The big man grinned. “It’s nothing, sir. Caught my head on a damn timber.”

“Progress?”

“We’re forcing them back towards the western side of the city. Kroy’s cavalry made it to the Four Corners, as far as I can tell, but the Gurkish still have the Agriont well surrounded, and now they’re regrouping, counterattacking from the west. A lot of Kroy’s foot are still all caught up in the streets on the other side of the river. If we don’t get reinforcement there soon—”

“I need to speak to General Poulder,” snapped West. “Where the hell is bloody Poulder? Brint?”

“Sir?”

“Take a couple of these fellows and bring Poulder here, right away!” He stabbed at the air with a finger. “In person!”

“Yes, sir!” Brint did his best to turn his horse around.

“What about at sea? Is Reutzer up?”

“As far as I’m aware he’s engaged the Gurkish fleet, but I’ve no idea how…” The smell of rotting salt and burning wood intensified as they emerged from the buildings and onto the harbour. “Bloody hell.”

West could only agree.

The graceful curve of Adua’s docks had been transformed into a crescent of carnage. Near to them the quay was blackened, wasted, scattered with broken gear and broken bodies. Further off, crowds of men were struggling in ill-formed groups, polearms sticking up in all directions like hedgehog’s spines, the air heavy with their noise. Union battle-flags and Gurkish standards flailed like scarecrows in the breeze. The epic conflict covered almost the entire long sweep of the shoreline. Several warehouses were in flames, sending up a shimmering heat-haze, lending a ghostly air to the hundreds of men locked in battle beyond them. Long smears of choking smoke, black, grey, white, rolled from the burning buildings and out into the bay. There, in the churning harbour, a host of ships was engaged in their own desperate struggle.

Vessels ploughed this way and that under full sail, turning, tacking, jockeying for position, flinging glittering spray high into the air. Catapults hurled flaming missiles, archers on the decks loosed flaming volleys, sailors crawled high in the cobwebs of rigging. Other ships were locked together in ungainly pairs by rope and grapple, like fighting dogs snapping at one another, glinting sunlight showing men in savage melée on their decks. Stricken vessels limped vainly, torn sailcloth hanging, slashed rigging dangling. Several were burning, sending up brown columns of smoke, turning the low sun into an ugly smudge.