Glokta was much surprised, though he thought he hid it well. To go further? Why? The Mercers wriggle free and they keep on paying, and that keeps all kinds of people happy. As things are, they’re scared and soft—wondering who Rews named, who might be next in the chair. If we go further they may be hurt, or finished entirely. Then they’ll stop paying, and a lot of people will be unhappy. Some of them in this very building. “I can easily continue my investigations, your Eminence, if you would like me to.” Glokta took another sip. It really was an excellent wine.

“We must be cautious. Cautious and very thorough. The Mercers’ money flows like milk. They have many friends, even amongst the highest circles of the nobility. Brock, Heugen, Isher, and plenty more besides. Some of the very greatest men in the land. They’ve all been known to suck at that tit, one time or another, and babies will cry when their milk is snatched away.” A cruel grin flickered across Sult’s face. “But still, if children are to learn discipline, they must sometimes be made to weep… who did that worm Rews name in his confession?”

Glokta leaned forward painfully and slid Rews’ paper of confession toward him, unfolded it and scanned the list of names from bottom to top.

“Sepp dan Teufel, we all know.”

“Oh, we know and love him, Inquisitor,” said Sult, beaming down, “but I feel we may safely cross him off the list. Who else?”

“Well, let’s see,” Glokta took a leisurely look back at the paper. “There’s Harod Polst, a Mercer.” A nobody.

Sult waved his hand impatiently. “He’s nobody.”

“Solimo Scandi, a Mercer from Westport.” Also nobody.

“No, no, Glokta, we can do better than Solimo what’s-his-name can’t we? These little Mercers are of no real interest. Pull up the root, and the leaves die by themselves.”

“Quite so, Arch Lector. We have Villem dan Robb, minor nobility, holds a junior customs post.” Sult looked thoughtful, shook his head. “Then there’s—”

“Wait! Villem dan Robb…” The Arch Lector snapped his fingers, “His brother Kiral is one of the Queen’s gentlemen. He snubbed me at a social gathering.” Sult smiled. “Yes, Villem dan Robb, bring him in.”

And so we go deeper. “I serve and obey, your Eminence. Is there anyone’s name in particular that need be mentioned?” Glokta set down his empty glass.

“No.” The Arch Lector turned away and waved his hand again. “Any of ’em, all of ’em. I don’t care.”

The lake stretched away, fringed by steep rocks and dripping greenery, surface pricked by the rain, flat and grey as far as the eye could see. Logen’s eye couldn’t see too far in this weather, it had to be said. The opposite shore could have been a hundred strides away, but the calm waters looked deep. Very deep.

Logen had long ago given up any attempt at staying dry, and the water ran through his hair and down his face, dripped from his nose, his fingers, his chin. Being wet, tired, and hungry had become a part of life. It often had been, come to think on it. He closed his eyes and felt the rain patter against his skin, heard the water lapping on the shingle. He knelt by the lake, pulled the stopper from his flask and pushed it under the surface, watched the bubbles break as it filled up.

Malacus Quai stumbled out of the bushes, breathing fast and shallow. He sank down to his knees, crawled against the roots of a tree, coughed out phlegm onto the pebbles. His coughing sounded bad now. It came right up from his guts and made his whole rib cage rattle. He was even paler than he had been when they first met, and a lot thinner. Logen was somewhat thinner too. These were lean times, all in all. He walked over to the haggard apprentice and squatted down.

“Just give me a moment.” Quai closed his sunken eyes and tipped his head back. “Just a moment.” His mouth hung open, the tendons in his scrawny neck standing out. He looked like a corpse already.

“Don’t rest too long. You might never get up.”

Logen held out the flask. Quai didn’t even lift his arm to take it, so Logen put it against his lips and tipped it up a little. He took a wincing swallow, coughed, then his head dropped back against the tree like a stone.

“Do you know where we are?” asked Logen.

The apprentice blinked out at the water as though he’d only just noticed it. “This must be the north end of the lake… there should be a track.” His voice had sunk to a whisper. “At the southern end there’s a road with two stones.” He gave a sudden violent cough, swallowed with difficulty. “Follow the road over the bridge and you’re there,” he croaked.

Logen looked off along the beach at the dripping trees. “How far is it?” No answer. He took hold of the sick man’s bony shoulder and shook it. Quai’s eyelids flickered open, he stared up blearily, trying to focus. “How far?”

“Forty miles.”

Logen sucked his teeth. Quai wouldn’t be walking forty miles. He’d be lucky to make forty strides on his own. He knew it well enough, you could see it in his eyes. He’d be dead soon, Logen reckoned, a few days at the most. He’d seen stronger men die of a fever.

Forty miles. Logen thought about it carefully, rubbing his chin with his thumb. Forty miles.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He dragged the pack over and pulled it open. They had some food left, but not much. A few shreds of tough dried meat, a heel of mouldy black bread. He looked out over the lake, so peaceful. They wouldn’t be running out of drinking water any time soon at least. He pulled his heavy cookpot out of his pack and set it down on the shingle. They’d been together a long time, but there was nothing left to cook. You can’t become attached to things, not out here in the wild. He tossed the rope away into the bushes, then threw the lightened pack over his shoulder.

Quai’s eyes had closed again, and he was scarcely breathing. Logen still remembered the first time he had to leave someone behind, remembered it like it was yesterday. Strange how the boy’s name had gone but the face was with him still.

The Shanka had taken a piece out of his thigh. A big piece. He’d moaned all the way, he couldn’t walk. The wound was going bad, he was dying anyway. They had to leave him. No one had blamed Logen for it. The boy had been too young, he should never have gone. Bad luck was all, could happen to anyone. He’d cried after them as they made their way down the hillside in a grim, silent group, heads down. Logen seemed to hear the cries even when they’d left him far behind. He could still hear them.

In the wars it had been different. Men dropped from the columns all the time on the long marches, in the cold months. First they fell to the back, then they fell behind, then they fell over. The cold, the sick, the wounded. Logen shivered and hunched his shoulders. At first he’d tried to help them. Then he became grateful he wasn’t one of them. Then he stepped over the corpses and hardly noticed them. You learn to tell when someone isn’t getting up again. He looked at Malacus Quai. One more death in the wild was nothing to remark upon. You have to be realistic, after all.

The apprentice started from his fitful sleep and tried to push himself up. His hands were shaking bad. He looked up at Logen, eyes glittering bright. “I can’t get up,” he croaked.

“I know. I’m surprised you made it this far.” It didn’t matter so much now. Logen knew the way. If he could find that track he might make twenty miles a day.

“If you leave me some of the food… perhaps… after you get to the library… someone…”

“No,” said Logen, setting his jaw. “I need the food.”

Quai made a strange sound, somewhere between a cough and a sob.

Logen leaned down and set his right shoulder in Quai’s stomach, pushed his arm under his back. “I can’t carry you forty miles without it,” and he straightened up, hauling the apprentice over his shoulder. He set off down the shore, holding Quai in place by his jacket, his boots crunching into the wet shingle. The apprentice didn’t even move, just hung there like a sack of wet rags, his limp arms knocking against the backs of Logen’s legs.