Glokta rubbed his arm gently, pressing the sore flesh with his fingertips. Nothing. Just a dream. And yet something was niggling at him. He looked over at the back of the door. The key was still in the lock, shining orange in the light from the lamp. Not locked, and yet I must have locked it. Must have. I always do. Glokta looked back to the empty chair. What did that idiot apprentice say? Magic comes from the Other Side. The world below. Hell.

Somehow, at that moment, after that dream, it did not seem so difficult to believe. The fear was building in him again, now he was alone. He stretched out his good hand towards the chair. It took an age to get there, trembling, shaking. His fingers touched the wood. Cool, but not cold. Not cold. There is nothing there. He slowly withdrew his hand, cradled his pulsing arm. Nothing. Empty.

A dream.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. “Fell out of bed.” He scratched absently at his wrist through the dressing. Until a moment ago it had been throbbing like hell, but the sight in front of him had pushed the pain into the back of his mind. I could be worse off. A lot worse. “Not a pretty sight. Not at all.”

“You’re damn right it’s not.” Severard looked as disgusted as was possible with half his face covered. “I nearly puked when I first saw it. Me!”

Glokta peered down, frowning, at the tangled mess of butchery, supporting himself against a tree-trunk with one hand and pushing some of the ferns aside with the tip of his cane to get a better look. “Are we even sure it’s a man?”

“Might be a woman. Human anyway. That’s a foot.”

“Ah, so it is. How was it found?”

“He found it.” Severard nodded over towards a gardener: sat on the ground, pale-faced and staring, and with a small pool of drying vomit on the grass beside him. “In amongst the trees here, hidden in the bushes. Looks as if whatever killed it tried to hide it, but not long ago. It’s fresh.” It is indeed—barely any smell, and only a couple of flies have arrived. Very fresh, perhaps last night even. “It might not have been found for days, except someone asked for one of these trees to be pruned. Blocking out the light or something. You ever see anything like this?”

Glokta shrugged. “In Angland, once, before you came. One of the convicts tried to escape. He made it a few miles, then succumbed to the cold. A bear made free with the corpse. That was quite a mess, though not near as bad as this one.”

“I can’t see anyone freezing to death last night. It was hot as hell.”

“Mmm,” said Glokta. If hell is hot. I’ve always thought it might be cold. Cold as ice. “There are few bears within the Agriont in any case. Do we have any idea as to the identity of this…” he waved his cane towards the carcass “…person?”

“None.”

“Is anyone unaccounted for? Reported missing?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“So we have not the slightest idea even who our victim is? Why the hell are we taking an interest? Don’t we have a fake Magus to be watching?”

“That’s just it. Their new quarters are right over there.” Severard’s gloved finger pointed out a building not twenty strides away. “I was watching them when this came to light.”

Glokta raised an eyebrow. “I see. And you suspect some connection, do you?” The Practical shrugged. “Mysterious intruders in the dead of night, gruesome murders on their very doorstep? Our visitors draw trouble like shit draws flies.”

“Huh,” said Severard, swatting a fly away with his gloved hand. “I looked into that other thing as well. Your bankers. Valint and Balk.”

Glokta looked up. “Really? And?”

“And not a lot. An old house. Very old and very well respected. Their notes are good as gold among the merchants. They’ve got offices all across Midderland, Angland, Starikland, in Westport, in Dagoska. Even outside the Union. Powerful people, by all accounts. All kind of folk owe them money, I reckon. Strange thing though, no one seems ever to have met a Valint or a Balk. Who can tell with banks though, eh? They love secrets. You want me to dig any more?”

It could be dangerous. Very dangerous. Dig too far and we might be digging our own graves. “No. We’d better leave off. For now. Keep your ears open though.”

“My ears are always open, chief. So who do you like for the Contest?”

Glokta glanced across at the Practical. “How can you think about that with this in front of you?”

The Practical shrugged. “It won’t do ’em any harm, will it?” Glokta looked back at the mangled body. I suppose it wont, at that. “So come on, you should know, Luthar or Gorst?”

“Gorst.” I hope he carves the little bastard in two.

“Really? People say he’s a clumsy ox. Lucky is all.”

“Well, I say he’s a genius,” said Glokta. “In a couple of years they’ll all be fencing like him, if you can call it fencing. You mark my words.”

“Gorst, eh? Maybe I’ll have a little bet.”

“You do that. But in the meantime you’d better scrape this mess up and take it to the University. Get Frost to give you a hand, he’s got a strong stomach.”

“The University?”

“Well we can’t just leave it here. Some fashionable lady taking a turn in the park could get an awful shock.” Severard giggled. “And I might just know of someone who can shed some light on this little mystery.”

“This is quite an interesting discovery you’ve made, Inquisitor.” The Adeptus Physical paused in his work and peered over at Glokta, one eye enormously magnified through his glittering eyeglass. “Quite a fascinating discovery,” he muttered, as he returned to the corpse with his instruments: lifting, prodding, twisting, squinting down at the glistening flesh.

Glokta peered round the laboratory, his lip curling with distaste. Jars of many different sizes lined two of the four walls, filled with floating, pickled lumps of meat. Some of those floating things Glokta recognised as parts of the human body, some he did not. Even he felt slightly uncomfortable in amongst the macabre display. I wonder how Kandelau came by them all? Do his visitors end up dismembered, floating in a dozen different jars? Perhaps I would make an interesting specimen?

“Fascinating.” The Adeptus loosened the strap of his eye-glass and perched it on top of his head, rubbing at the pink ring it had left behind around his eye. “What can you tell me about it?”

Glokta frowned. “I came here to find out what you can tell me about it.”

“Of course, of course.” Kandelau pursed his lips. “Well, er, as to the gender of our unfortunate friend, er…” he trailed off.

“Well?”

“Heh heh, well, er, the organs that would allow one to make an easy determination are…” and he gestured at the meat on the table, harshly lit under the blazing lamps “…absent.”

“And that is the sum of your investigation?”

“Well, there are other things: a man’s third finger is typically longer than his first, not necessarily so with a woman but, heh, our remnant does not have all the digits necessary to make such a judgement. As to gender, therefore, without the fingers, we are quite stumped!” He giggled nervously at his own joke. Glokta did not.

“Young or old?”

“Well, er, again that is quite difficult to determine, I am afraid. The, er,” and the Adeptus tapped at the corpse with his tongs, “teeth here are in good condition and, heh, such skin as remains would appear to be consistent with a younger person but, er, this is really just, heh heh—”

“So what can you tell me about the victim?”

“Er, well… nothing.” And he smiled apologetically. “But I have made some interesting discoveries as to the cause of death!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, look at this!” I would rather not. Glokta limped cautiously over to the bench, peering down at the spot the old man was indicating.