“…Harding Grim. I never saw a better man with a bow. Not ever. Can’t count the number o’ times he saved my life, and never expected thanks for it. Except maybe that I’d do the same for him. Guess I couldn’t, this time. Guess none of us could…”

The Dogman’s voice trailed off. A few heads turned to look at Logen as his footsteps crunched in the gravel. “If it ain’t the King o’ the Northmen,” someone said.

“The Bloody-Nine his self.”

“We should bow, shouldn’t we?”

They were all looking at him now. He could see their eyes gleaming in the dusk. Nothing more than shaggy outlines, hard to tell one man from another. A crowd of shadows. A crowd of ghosts, and just as unfriendly.

“You got something you want to say, Bloody-Nine?” came a voice from near the back.

“I don’t reckon,” he said. “You’re doing alright.”

“Was no reason for us to be here.” A few mumbles of agreement.

“Not our bloody fight.”

“No need for them to have died.” More mutters.

“Should be you we’re burying.”

“Aye, maybe.” Logen would have liked to weep at that. But instead he felt himself smiling. The Bloody-Nine’s smile. That grin that skulls have, with nothing inside but death. “Maybe. But you don’t get to pick who dies. Not unless you’ve got the bones to put your own hand to it. Have you? Have any of you?” Silence. “Well, then. Good for Harding Grim. Good for the rest o’ the dead, they’ll all be missed.” Logen spat onto the grass. “Shit on the rest of you.” And he turned and walked back the way he came.

Into the darkness.

Answers

So much to do.

The House of Questions still stood, and someone had to take the reins. Who else will do it? Superior Goyle? A flatbow bolt through the heart prevents him, alas. Someone had to look to the internment and questioning of the many hundreds of Gurkish prisoners, more captured every day as the army drove the invaders back to Keln. And who else will do it? Practical Vitari? Left the Union forever with her children in tow. Someone had to examine the treason of Lord Brock. To dig him up, and root out his accomplices. To make arrests, and obtain confessions. And who else is there, now? Arch Lector Sult? Oh, dear me, no.

Glokta wheezed up to his door, his few teeth bared at the endless pains in his legs. A fortunate decision, at least, to move to the eastern side of the Agriont. One should be grateful for the small things in life, like a place to rest one’s crippled husk. My old lodgings are no doubt languishing under a thousand tons of rubble, just like the rest of—

His door was not quite shut. He gave it the gentlest of pushes and it creaked open, soft lamplight spilling out into the corridor, a glowing stripe over the dusty floorboards, over the foot of Glokta’s cane and the muddy toe of one boot. I left no door unlocked, and certainly no lamps burning. His tongue slithered nervously over his empty gums. A visitor, then. An uninvited one. Do I go in, and welcome them to my rooms? His eyes slid sideways into the shadows of the corridor. Or do I make a run for it? He was almost smiling as he shuffled over the threshold, cane first, then the right foot, then the left, dragging painfully behind him.

Glokta’s guest sat by the window in the light of a single lamp, brightness splashed across the hard planes of his face, cold darkness gathered in the deep hollows. The squares board was set before him, just as Glokta left it, the pieces casting long shadows across the chequered wood.

“Why, Superior Glokta. I have been waiting for you.”

And I for you. Glokta limped over to the table, his cane scraping against the bare boards. As reluctantly as a man limping to the gallows. Ah, well. No one tricks the hangman forever. Perhaps we’ll have some answers, at least, before the end. I always dreamed of dying well-informed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered himself grunting into the free chair.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Master Valint, or Master Balk?”

Bayaz smiled. “Both, of course.”

Glokta wrapped his tongue round one of his few remaining teeth and dragged it away with a faint sucking sound. “And to what do I owe the overpowering honour?”

“I said, did I not, that day we visited the Maker’s House, that we should have a talk at some point? A talk about what I want, and about what you want? That point has come.”

“Oh joyous day.”

The First of the Magi watched him, the same look in his bright eyes that a man might have while watching an interesting beetle. “I must admit that you fascinate me, Superior. Your life would seem to be entirely unbearable. And yet you fight so very, very hard to stay alive. With every weapon and stratagem. You simply refuse to die.”

“I am ready to die.” Glokta returned his gaze, like for like. “But I refuse to lose.”

“Whatever the cost, eh? We are two of a kind, you and I, and we are a rare kind indeed. We understand what must be done, and we do not flinch from doing it, regardless of sentiment. You remember Lord Chancellor Feekt, of course.”

If I cast my mind a long way back… “The Golden Chancellor? They say he ran the Closed Council for forty years. They say he ran the Union.” Sult said so. Sult said his death left a hole, into which he and Marovia were both keen to step. That is where this ugly dance began, for me. With a visit from the Arch Lector, with the confession of my old friend Salem Rews, with the arrest of Sepp dan Teufel, Master of the Mints…

Bayaz let one thick fingertip trail across the pieces on the squares board, as though considering his next move. “We had an agreement, Feekt and I. I made him powerful. He served me, utterly.”

Feekt… the foundation on which the nation rested… served you? I expected delusions of grandeur, but this will take some beating. “You would have me suppose that you controlled the Union all that time?”

Bayaz snorted. “Ever since I forced the damn thing together in the time of Harod the Great, so-called. It has sometimes been necessary for me to take a hand myself, as in this most recent crisis. But mostly I have stood at a distance, behind the curtain, as it were.”

“A little stuffy back there, one imagines.”

“An uncomfortable necessity.” The lamplight gleamed on the Magus’ white grin. “People like to watch the pretty puppets, Superior. Even a glimpse of the puppeteer can be most upsetting for them. Why, they might even suddenly notice the strings around their own wrists. Sult caught a glimpse of something, behind the curtain, and only look at the trouble he caused for everyone.” Bayaz flicked one of the pieces over and it clattered onto its side, rocked gently back and forth.

“Let us suppose you are indeed the great architect, and you have given us…” Glokta waved his hand towards the window. Acres of charming devastation. “All this. Why such generosity?”

“Not entirely selfless, I must confess. Khalul had the Gurkish to fight for him. I needed soldiers of my own. Even the greatest of generals needs little men to hold the line.” He absently nudged one of the smallest pieces forward. “Even the greatest of warriors needs his armour.”

Glokta stuck out his bottom lip. “But then Feekt died, and you were left naked.”

“Naked as a babe, at my age.” Bayaz gave a long sigh. “And in poor weather too, with Khalul making ready for war. I should have arranged a suitable successor more quickly, but my thoughts were elsewhere, deep in my books. The older you get, the more swiftly the years pass. It’s easy to forget how quickly people die.”

And how easily. “The death of the Golden Chancellor left a vacuum,” muttered Glokta, thinking it through. “Sult and Marovia saw a chance to take power for themselves, and advance their own notions of what the nation should be.”