Even worse, on the other side of the room was that old, bald man, the one who had called himself Bayaz. Jezal had still not got to the bottom of his strange words of congratulation at the Contest—or his father’s reaction to the man, for that matter. And he had his hideous friend, the nine-fingered barbarian, beside him.

Major West had the misfortune of being seated next to the primitive, but he was making the best of it; indeed, the two were engaged in a lively conversation. The Northman broke into sudden peals of laughter and thumped the table with his big fist, making the glasses rattle. At least they were enjoying themselves at his party, Jezal thought sourly, but he almost wished he was down there with them.

Still, he knew that he wanted to be a big, important man some day. To wear things with a lot of fur, and a heavy golden chain of office. To have people bow and scrape and fawn before him. He had made that decision long ago, and he supposed he still liked the idea. It was just that, up close, the whole thing seemed so awfully false and boring. He would much, much rather have been on his own with Ardee, even though he had seen her the night before. There was nothing boring about her…

“…the savages are closing on Ostenhorm, that’s what I heard!” someone shouted over on Jezal’s left. “The Lord Governor, Meed, he’s raising an army and has sworn to turn them out of Angland!”

“Hah. Meed? That swollen-headed old fool couldn’t turn a pie out of a dish!”

“Enough to beat these Northern animals though, what? One good Union man’s worth ten of their kind.

Jezal heard Terez’ voice cutting suddenly shrill above the hubbub, almost loud enough to be heard at the far end of the room, “…of course I will marry where my father commands me, but I don’t have to like it!” She appeared so vicious at that moment that he would not have been surprised to see her stab the Crown Prince in the face with her fork. Jezal felt somewhat gratified to see that he was not the only one who had trouble with women.

“…oh yes, a remarkable performance! Everyone’s talking about it,” Varuz was still droning.

Jezal squirmed in his chair. How long was this bloody business going to take? He felt suffocated. He glanced across the faces again and caught Glokta’s eye, staring at him with that grim, suspicious look on his wasted face. Jezal still couldn’t meet that gaze for long, his party or no. What the hell did the cripple have against him anyhow?

The little bastard. He cheated. Somehow. I know it. Glokta’s eyes tracked slowly across the table opposite until they lighted on Bayaz. The old fraud was sitting there, quite at home. And he had some part in it. They cheated, together. Somehow.

“My lords and ladies!” The chatter faded as the Lord Chamberlain rose to address the room. “I would like to welcome you all, on his Majesty’s behalf, to this humble gathering.” The King himself stirred briefly, gazed vacantly about him, blinked, then closed his eyes. “We are gathered, of course, in honour of Captain Jezal dan Luthar, who has recently added his name to that most select roll of honour: those swordsman who have been victorious at the summer Contest.” A few glasses were raised and there were some half-hearted mumblings of agreement.

“I recognise several other winners among the assembly here today, many of them now the holders of high office: Lord Marshal Varuz, Commander Valdis of the Knights Herald, Major West down there, now on Marshal Burr’s staff, of course. Even I was a winner in my day.” He smiled and looked down at his bulging paunch. “Though my day was some time ago, of course.” A polite ripple of laughter passed round the room. I notice that I don’t get a mention. Not all winners are enviable, eh?

“Victors at the Contest,” continued the Lord Chamberlain, “have so often gone on to great things. I hope, and indeed we all hope, that it may prove so for our young friend, Captain Luthar.” I hope he meets a slow death in Angland, the cheating little bastard. But Glokta raised his glass along with everyone else to toast the arrogant ass, while Luthar sat there, loving every instant of it.

And to think. I sat in that very chair, being applauded and envied and clapped on the back after I won the Contest. Different men in the big clothes, different faces sweating in the heat, but nothing very much has changed. Was my grin really any less smug? Of course not. If anything I was worse. But at least I earned it.

Such was Lord Hoffs commitment that he did not stop toasting until his goblet was entirely empty, then he shoved it back on the table and licked his lips. “And now, before the food arrives, a small surprise has been prepared by my colleague Arch Lector Sult, in honour of another of our guests. I hope you will all find it diverting.” And the Lord Chamberlain sat heavily back down, holding his empty goblet out for more wine.

Glokta glanced across at Sult. A surprise, from the Arch Lector? Bad news for somebody.

The heavy red curtains of the stage rolled slowly back. They revealed an old man lying on the boards, his white garment daubed with colourful blood. A broad canvas behind depicted a forest scene beneath a starry sky. It reminded Glokta rather unpleasantly of the mural in the round room. The room beneath Severard’s crumbling pile by the docks.

A second old man swept on from the wings: a tall, slender man with remarkably fine, sharp features. His head was shaved bald and he had grown a short white beard, but Glokta recognised him immediately. Iosiv Lestek, one of the city’s most respected actors. He gave a mannered start as he noticed the bloody corpse.

“Oooooooh!” he wailed, spreading his arms wide in an actor’s approximation of shock and despair. It was a truly enormous voice, loud enough to make the rafters shake. Confident that he had the undivided attention of the chamber, Lestek began to intone his lines, hands sweeping through the air, towering passions sweeping across his face.

The old actor threw back his head, and Glokta saw tears sparkling in his eyes. A neat trick, to cry on demand like that. A lonely drop trickled slowly down his cheek, and the audience sat spellbound. He turned once again to the body.

He threw himself down on his knees and beat upon his ageing breast.

Lestek looked slowly up towards the audience, slowly clambered to his feet, his expression shifting from deepest sorrow to grimmest determination.