“Does it matter?”

“Of course not.” Sult rose gracefully from his chair and paced slowly over to the window, tapping the rolled-up scroll against his fingers. He stood there for some time, staring out. When he turned, he had developed a look of the deepest self-satisfaction.

“It occurs to me that there will be a feast tomorrow evening, a celebration for our new champion swordsman, Captain Luthar.” That cheating little worm. “The great and the good will be in attendance: the Queen, both Princes, most of the Closed Council, several leading noblemen.” Not forgetting the King himself. It has come to something when his presence at dinner is not even worth mentioning. “That would be the ideal audience for our little unmasking, don’t you think?”

Glokta cautiously bowed his head. “Of course, Arch Lector. The ideal audience.” Providing it works. It might be an embarrassing audience to fail in front of.

But Sult was already anticipating his triumph. “The perfect gathering, and just enough time to make the necessary arrangements. Send a messenger to our friend the First of the Magi, and let him know that he and his companions are cordially invited to a dinner tomorrow evening. I trust that you will attend yourself?”

Me? Glokta bowed again. “I would not miss it for anything, your Eminence.”

“Good. Bring your Practicals with you. Our friends might become violent when they realise the game is up. Barbarians of this sort, who can tell what they might be capable of?” A barely perceptible motion of the Arch Lector’s gloved hand indicated that the interview was finished. All those stairs, just for this?

Sult was looking down his nose at the scroll as Glokta finally reached the threshold. “The ideal audience,” he was muttering, as the heavy doors clicked shut.

In the North, a chieftain’s own Carls ate with him every night in his hall. The women brought the food in wooden bowls. You’d stab the lumps of meat out with a knife and with a knife you’d cut them up, then you’d stuff the bits in your mouth with your fingers. If you found some bone or gristle you’d toss it down on the straw for the dogs. The table, if there was one, was a few slabs of ill-fitting wood, stained and gouged and scarred from having knives stuck in it. The Carls sat on long benches, with maybe a chair or two for the Named Men. It’d be dark, especially in the long winters, and smoky from the fire-pit and the chagga pipes. There’d often be singing of songs, usually shouting of good-natured insults, sometimes screaming of bad-natured ones, and always a lot of drink. The only rule was that you waited for the chief to begin.

Logen had no idea what the rules might be here, but he guessed there were a lot.

The guests were sat round three long tables set out in a horseshoe, sixty people or more. Everyone had their own chair, and the dark wood of the table tops was polished to a high sheen, made bright enough for Logen to see the blurry outline of his face in by hundreds of candles scattered round the walls and down the tables. Every guest had at least three blunt knives, and several other things scattered about in front of them that Logen had no idea of the use for, including a big flat circle of shiny metal.

There was no shouting and certainly no singing, just a low murmur like a beehive as people muttered between themselves, leaning towards each other as if they were swapping secrets. The clothes were stranger than ever. Old men wore heavy robes of black, red and gold, trimmed with shining fur, even in the heat.

Young men wore tight fitting jackets in bright crimson, green, or blue, festooned with ropes and knots of gold and silver thread. Women were hung with chains and rings of glittering gold and flashing jewels, wearing strange dresses of vivid cloth that were ridiculously loose and billowing in places, painfully tight in others, and left others still entirely, distractingly bare.

Even the servants were dressed like lords, prowling around behind the tables, leaning forward silently to fill goblets with sweet, thin wine. Logen had already drunk a deal of it, and the bright room had taken on a pleasant glow.

The problem was the lack of food. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and his stomach was growling. He’d been eyeing the jars of plants sat on the tables before the guests. They had bright flowers on them, and didn’t look much like food to him, but then they ate some strange things in this country.

There was nothing for it but to try. He snatched one of the things from the jar, a long piece of green plant with a yellow flower on the end. He took a nibble from the bottom of the stem. Tasteless and watery, but at least it was crunchy. He took a larger bite and munched on it without relish.

“I don’t think they’re meant for eating.” Logen glanced round, surprised to hear the Northern tongue spoken here, surprised that anyone was speaking to him at all. His neighbour, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, lined face, was leaning towards him with an embarrassed smile. Logen recognised him vaguely. He’d been at the sword game—holding the blades for the lad from the gate.

“Ah,” mumbled Logen round his mouthful of plant. The taste of the stuff got worse with time. “Sorry,” he said once he had forced it down his throat, “I don’t know much about these things.”

“Honestly, neither do I. How did it taste?”

“Like shit.” Logen held the half-eaten flower uncertainly in his fingers. The tiled floor was spotlessly clean. It hardly seemed right to toss the thing under the table. There were no dogs anyway, and even if there had been he doubted they’d have eaten the thing. A dog would have had more sense than him. He dropped it on the metal platter and wiped his fingers on his chest, hoping that no one had noticed.

“My name is West,” said the man, offering his hand, “I come from Angland.”

Logen gave the hand a squeeze. “Ninefingers. A Brynn, from way up north of the High Places.”

“Ninefingers?” Logen waggled his stump at him and the man nodded. “Ah, I see.” He smiled as though remembering something funny. “I heard a song once, in Angland, about a nine-fingered man. What was he called now? The Bloody-Nine! That was it!” Logen felt his grin slipping. “One of those Northern songs, you know the kind, all violence. He cut off heads by the cartload, this Bloody-Nine, and burned towns, and mixed blood with his beer and whatnot. That wasn’t you, was it?”

The man was making a joke. Logen laughed nervously. “No, no, I never heard of him,” but luckily West had already moved on.

“Tell me, you look like you’ve seen some battles in your time.”

“I’ve been in some scrapes.” It was pointless to deny it.

“Do you know of this one they call the King of the Northmen? This man Bethod?”

Logen glanced sideways. “I know of him.”

“You fought against him in the wars?”

Logen grimaced. The sour taste of the plant seemed to be lingering in his mouth. He picked up his goblet and took a swallow. “Worse,” he said slowly as he set it down. “I fought for him.”

This only seemed to make the man more curious than ever. “Then you know about his tactics, and his troops. His way of making war?” Logen nodded. “What can you tell me about him?”

“That he’s a most cunning and ruthless opponent, with no pity or scruple in him. Make no mistake, I hate the man, but there’s been no war leader in his league since the days of Skarling Hoodless. He has that in him which men respect, or fear, or at least obey. He pushes his men hard, so he can make the field first and choose his own ground, but they march hard for him because he brings them victories. He’s cautious when he must be, and fearless when he must be, but neglects no detail. He delights in every trick of war—in setting traps and ambushes, in mounting feints and deceptions, in sending sudden raids against the unwary. Look for him where you expect him least, and expect him to be strongest where he seems the weakest. Beware him most of all when he seems to run. Most men fear him, and those that don’t are fools.”