This time there was not even the shadow of applause. The crowd roared their hatred, booing and hissing at Gorst for all they were worth as he trudged back to his enclosure.

'Damn you, Gorst, you thug!'

'Get up Luthar! Up and at him!'

'Go home, you brute!'

'You damn savage!'

Their hisses turned to halfhearted cheers as Jezal picked himself up off the grass, his whole left side pulsing. He would have screamed with the pain if he had any breath left in him. For all his effort, for all his training, he was utterly outclassed and he knew it. The thought of doing it all again next year made him want to vomit. He did his best to appear undaunted as he struggled back to his enclosure, but he could not help sagging down heavily in his chair when he got there, dropping his notched steels on the flags and gasping for breath.

West bent over him and pulled up his shirt to check the damage. Jezal peered down gingerly, half expecting to see a great hole caved in his side, but there was only an ugly red welt across his ribs, some bruising already coming up around it.

'Anything broken?' asked Marshal Varuz, peering over West's shoulder.

Jezal fought back the tears as the Major probed his side. 'I don't think so, but damn it!' West threw his towel down in disgust. 'You call this the beautiful sport? Is there no rule against these heavy steels?'

Varuz shook his head grimly. 'They all have to be the same length, but there's no rule for the weight. I mean, why would anyone want heavy ones?'

'Now we know, don't we!' snapped West. 'Are you sure we shouldn't stop this before that bastard takes his head off?'

Varuz ignored him. 'Now look here,' said the old Marshal, leaning down to talk in Jezal's face. 'It's the best of seven touches! First to four! There's still time!'

Time for what? For Jezal to get cut in half, blunted steels or no? 'He's too strong!' Jezal gasped.

'Too strong? No one's too strong for you!' But even Varuz looked doubtful. 'There's still time! You can beat him!' The old Marshal tugged at his moustaches. 'You can beat him!'

But Jezal noticed he did not suggest how.

Glokta was becoming worried he might choke, so convulsive was his laughter. He tried to think of something he would rather see than Jezal dan Luthar being smashed around a fencing circle, and failed. The young man winced as he just barely blocked a raking cut. He had not been handling his left side at all well since he took that blow in the ribs, and Glokta could almost feel his pain. And my, my, how nice it is to feel someone else's for a change. The crowd sulked, silent and brooding as Gorst harried their favourite around with his brutal slashes, while Glokta spluttered giggles through his clenched gums.

Luthar was quick and flashy, and he moved well once he saw the steels coming. A competent fighter. Good enough to win a Contest, no doubt, in a mediocre year. Quick feet, and quick hands, but his mind is not as sharp as it should be. As it needs to be. He is too predictable.

Gorst was an entirely different proposition. He seemed to be swinging, and swinging, without a thought in his head. But Glokta knew better. He has a whole new way of doing things. It was all jab, jab in my day. By next year's Contest they'll all be chopping away with these big, heavy steels. Glokta wondered idly if he could have beaten Gorst, at his best. It would have been a bout worth seeing anyway a damn sight better than this mismatch.

Gorst easily dealt with a couple of limp jabs, then Glokta winced and the crowd hissed as Luthar just barely parried another great butcher's chop, the force of it nearly lifting him off his feet. He had no way to avoid the next swing, pressed against the edge of the circle as he was, and he was forced to jump back into the sand.

'Three to nothing!' shouted the referee.

Glokta shook with merriment as he watched Luthar chop at the ground in frustration, sending up a petulant spray of sand, his face a picture of pale self-pity. Dear me, Captain Luthar, it will be four to nothing. A whitewash. An embarrassment. Perhaps this will teach that whining little shit some humility. Some men are better off for a good beating. Only look at me, eh?

'Begin!'

The fourth touch began precisely as the third had ended. With Luthar taking a hammering. Glokta could see it, the man was out of ideas. His left arm was moving slowly, painfully, his feet looked heavy. Another numbing blow crashed against his long steel, making him stumble back towards the edge of the circle, off-balance and gasping. Gorst needed only to press his attack a little further. And something tells me he is not the man to let up when he's ahead. Glokta grabbed his cane, pushed himself to his feet. Anyone could see it was all over, and he had no wish to be caught in the crush as the disappointed crowds all tried to leave at once.

Gorst's heavy long steel flashed down through the air. The final blow, surely. Luthar's only choice was to try and block it and be knocked clean out of the circle. Or it might just split his fat head. We can hope for that. Glokta smiled, half turned to leave.

But out of the corner of his eye, somehow, he saw the cut miss. Gorst blinked as his heavy long steel thudded into the turf, then grunted as Luthar caught him across the leg with a left-handed cut. It was the most emotion he had shown all day.

'One to Luthar!' shouted the referee after a brief pause, unable to entirely keep the amazement out of his voice.

'No,' murmured Glokta to himself, as the crowd around him erupted into riotous applause. No. He had fought hundreds of touches in his youth, and watched thousands more, but he had never seen anything quite like that, never seen anyone move so quickly. Luthar was a good swordsman, he knew it. But no one is that good. He frowned as he watched the two finalists come out from their second break and take their marks.

'Begin!'

Luthar was transformed. He harried Gorst with furious, lightning jabs, giving him no time to get started. It was the big man now who seemed stretched to the limit: blocking, dodging, trying to stay out of reach. It was as though they had sneaked the old Luthar away in the break and replaced him with a different man altogether: a stronger, faster, far more confident twin brother.

So long denied something to cheer for, the crowd whooped and yelled as though they'd split their throats. Glokta did not share their enthusiasm. Something is wrong here. Something is wrong. He glanced across the faces nearby, but no one else had sensed anything amiss. They only saw what they wanted to see: Luthar giving the ugly brute a spectacular and well-deserved thrashing. Glokta's eyes scanned across the benches, not knowing what he was looking for.

Bayaz, so-called. Sitting near the front, leaning forward and staring at the two fighters with fixed concentration, his 'apprentice' and the scarred Northman beside him. No one else noticed it, everyone was intent on the fighters before them, but Glokta did. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Something wrong.

'Say one thing for the First of the Magi, say he's a cheating bastard, ' growled Logen.

Bayaz had a little smile at the corner of his mouth as he mopped the sweat from his forehead. 'Who ever said he wasn't?'

Luthar was in trouble again. Bad trouble. Each time he blocked one of those heavy sweeps, his swords snapped back further, his grip seemed slacker. Each time he dodged, he ended up a little further back towards the edge of the yellow circle.

Then, when the end seemed certain, out of the corner of his eye, Logen saw the air above Bayaz' shoulders shimmer, as it had on the road south when the trees burned, and he felt that strange tugging at his guts.

Luthar seemed suddenly to find new vigour. He caught the next great blow on the grip of his short sword. A moment before, it might easily have sent the thing flying from his hand. Now he held it there for an instant, then flung it away with a cry, pushing his opponent off balance and jumping forward, suddenly on the attack.

'If you were caught cheating in a Northern duel,' growled Logen, shaking his head, 'they'd cut the bloody cross into your stomach and pull your guts out.'

'Lucky for me,' murmured Bayaz through gritted teeth, without taking his eyes away from the fighters, 'that we are in the North no longer.' Sweat was already beading his bald scalp again, running down his face in fat drops. His fists were clenched tight and trembling with effort.

Luthar struck furiously, again and again, his swords a flashing blur. Gorst grunted and growled as he turned the blows away, but Luthar was too quick for him now, and too strong. He drove him mercilessly across the circle like a crazy dog might drive a cow.

'Fucking cheating,' growled Logen again, as Luthar's blade flashed and left a bright red line across Gorst's cheek. A few drops of blood spattered across into the crowd on Logen's left, and they exploded into riotous cheering. That, just for a moment, was a shadow of his own duels. The referee's cry of three apiece could hardly be heard at all. Gorst frowned slightly and touched one hand to his face.

Above the din, Logen could just hear Quai's whisper. 'Never bet against a Magus ...'

Jezal knew that he was good, but he had never dreamed he could be this good. He was sharp as a cat, nimble as a fly, strong as a bear. His ribs no longer hurt, his wrists no longer hurt, all trace of tiredness had left him, all trace of doubt. He was fearless, peerless, unstoppable. The applause thundered around him and yet he could hear every word of it, see every detail of every face in the crowd. His heart was pumping tingling fire instead of blood, his lungs were sucking in the very clouds.

He did not bother even to sit in the break, so great was his eagerness to get back into the circle. The chair was an insult to him. He was not listening to what Varuz and West were saying. They were of no importance. Little people, far below. They stared at him: flushed, amazed, as well they might be.

He was the greatest swordsman ever.

That cripple Glokta could not have known how right he was: Jezal had only to try, it seemed, and he could have anything he wanted. He chuckled as he danced back to the mark. He laughed as he heard the crowds cheer. He smiled at Gorst as he stepped back into the circle. All was precisely as it should be. Those eyes were still heavy-lidded, lazy above the little red cut that Jezal had given him, but there was something else there now as well: a trace of shock, of wariness, of respect. As well there might be.

There was nothing that Jezal could not do. He was invincible. He was unstoppable. He was . . .

'Begin!'

. . . completely lost. The pain lanced through his side and made him gasp. Suddenly he was afraid, and tired, and weak again. Gorst growled and unleashed his savage cuts, jarring the steels in Jezal's hands, making him jump like a frightened rabbit. The mastery was gone, the anticipation, the nerve, and Gorst's onslaught was more brutal than ever. He felt a terrible lurch of despair as his long steel was torn from his buzzing fingers, flew through the air and clattered into the barrier. Jezal was bludgeoned to his knees. The crowd gasped. It was all over . . .

. . . It was not over. The blow was arcing down towards him. The final blow. It seemed to drift. Slow, slow, as though through honey. Jezal smiled. It was a simple matter for him to push it away with his short steel. The strength flowed again. He sprang upwards, shoved Gorst away with his empty hand, flicked another swing aside, and then another, his one sword doing the work of two with time to spare. The arena was breathless silent but for the rapid clashing of the steels. Right and left, right and left went the short blade, flashing faster than his eye could follow, faster than his mind could think, seeming almost to be dragging him along behind it.

There was a squeal of metal on metal as it tore Gorst's notched long steel from his hand, then another as it flickered across and did the same with his short. For a moment, all was still. The big man, disarmed and with his heels on the very edge of the circle, looked up at Jezal. The crowd was silent.

Then Jezal slowly lifted his short steel, all of a sudden seeming to weigh a ton, and poked Gorst gently in the ribs with it.

'Huh,' said the big man quietly, raising his eyebrows.

Then the crowd exploded into deafening applause. The noise went on and on, rising and rising, washing over Jezal in waves. Now that it was finished he felt drained beyond description. He closed his eyes, swaying, his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers and he sank to his knees. He was beyond exhaustion. It was as though he had used a whole week's energy in a few moments. Even kneeling was an effort he was not sure he could sustain for long, and if he fell he was not sure he could ever get up again.

But then he felt strong hands taking him under the arms, and felt himself being lifted. The noise of the crowd grew even louder as he was hoisted into the air. He opened his eyes bleary, blurry colour flashed in front of him as he was turned around. His head rang with the sound. He was up on someone's shoulders. A shaved head. Gorst. The big man had lifted him up, as a father might lift his child, displaying him to the crowd, smiling up at him with a big, ugly grin. Jezal smiled back despite himself. It was a strange moment, all in all.

'Luthar wins!' cried the referee pointlessly, barely audible. 'Luthar wins!'

The cheering had resolved itself into a steady chant of 'Luthar! Luthar! Luthar!' The arena shook with it. Jezal's head swam with it. It was like being drunk. Drunk on victory. Drunk on yourself.

Gorst lowered him back to the circle as the cheering of the crowd began to fade. 'You beat me,' he said, smiling wide. His voice was strangely high and soft, almost like a woman's. 'Fair and square. I'd like to be the first to congratulate you.' And he nodded his big head and smiled again, rubbing at the cut under his eye without the slightest bitterness. 'You deserve it,' he said, holding out his hand.

'Thank you.' Jezal flashed a sour smile and gave the man's big paw as cursory a squeeze as possible, then he turned away towards his enclosure. Of course he fucking deserved it, and he was damned if he would let that bastard bask in his reflected glory a moment longer.

'Bravely done, my boy, bravely done!' frothed Marshal Varuz, slapping him on the shoulder as he stumbled back to his chair on wobbly legs. 'I knew you could do it!'

West grinned as he handed him the towel. 'They'll be talking about this for years.'

Other well-wishers crowded in, offering their congratulations, leaning over the barrier. A whirl of smiling faces, and in amongst them the face of Jezal's father, shining with pride. 'I knew that you could do it, Jezal! I never doubted! Not for a minute! You've brought honour to our family!' Jezal noticed that his elder brother didn't look all that pleased about it, though. He had the usual stodgy, envious expression on his face, even at Jezal's moment of victory. The stodgy, envious bastard. Could he not be happy for his brother, if only for one day?

'May I too congratulate the winner?' came a voice from over his shoulder. It was that old idiot, the one from the gate, the one whom Sulfur had called his master. The one who had used the name Bayaz. He had sweat on his bald skull, a lot of it. His face was pale, his eyes sunken. Almost as if he had just done seven touches with Gorst. 'Well done indeed, my young friend, an almost . . . magical performance.'

'Thank you,' muttered Jezal. He was not at all sure who this old man was, or what he was after, but he did not trust him in the least. 'I am sorry though, I must-'

'Of course. We will talk later.' He said it with a disturbing finality, as if it were a thing already arranged. Then he turned away and vanished smoothly into the crowds. Jezal's father stared after him, ashen-faced now, as though he had seen a ghost.

'Do you know him, father?'

'I ...'

'Jezal!' Varuz grabbed his arm excitedly. 'Come! The King wishes to congratulate you!' He dragged Jezal from his family and towards the circle. A scattering of applause rose up again as they walked together across the dry grass, the scene of Jezal's victory. The Lord Marshal slung a fatherly arm around his shoulder, and smiled up at the crowds as though the applause was all for him. Everyone wanted a piece of his glory, it seemed, but Jezal was able to shake the old man off as he mounted the steps of the royal box.

Prince Raynault, youngest son of the King, was first in line, humbly dressed, honest and thoughtful-seeming, scarcely looking like royalty at all. 'Well done!' he shouted over the roar of the crowd, sounding truly delighted for Jezal's victory. 'Well done indeed!' His older brother was more exuberant.

'Incredible!' shouted Crown Prince Ladisla, the sunlight glinting off the golden buttons on his white jacket. 'Capital! Amazing! Spectacular! I never saw such a thing!' Jezal grinned and bowed humbly as he went past, hunching his shoulders as the Crown Prince slapped him somewhat too hard on the back. 'I always knew you'd do it! You were always my man!'

The Princess Terez, only daughter of the Grand Duke Orso of Talins, watched Jezal pass with a tiny, disdainful smile, tapping two languid fingers against her palm in a quarter-hearted imitation of clapping. Her chin was raised painfully high, as though just to be looked at by her was an honour he could never fully appreciate, and certainly did not deserve.

And so he came at last to the high seat of Guslav the fifth, High King of the Union. His head was slumped sideways, squashed down under the sparkling crown. His pasty pale fingers twitched on his crimson silk mantle like white slugs. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling gently, accompanied by gentle splutterings as spittle issued from his slack lips and ran down his chin, joining the sweat on his bulging jowls and helping it to turn his high collar dark with wet.

Truly, Jezal was in the presence of greatness.

'Your Majesty,' murmured Lord Hoff. The head of state did not respond. His wife the Queen looked on, painfully erect, a fixed, emotionless smile plastered across her well-powdered face.

Jezal hardly knew where to look, and settled on his dusty shoes. The Lord Chamberlain coughed loudly. A muscle twitched beneath the sweaty fat on the side of the King's face, but he did not wake. Hoff winced, and, glancing around to make sure no one was watching too closely, jabbed the royal ribs with his finger.

The King jumped, eyelids suddenly flicking wide open, heavy jowls wobbling, staring at Jezal with wild, bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes.

'Your Majesty, this is Captain . . .'

'Raynault!' exclaimed the King, 'my son!'

Jezal swallowed nervously, doing his best to maintain a rigid smile of his own. The senile old fool had mistaken him for his younger son. Worse yet, the Prince himself was standing not four paces away. The Queen's wooden grin twitched slightly. Princess Terez' perfect lips twisted with scorn. The Lord Chamberlain gave an awkward cough. 'Er, no, your Majesty, this is ...'

But it was too late. Without any warning, the monarch struggled to his feet and folded Jezal in an enthusiastic embrace, his heavy crown slipping over to one side of his head and one of its jewel-encrusted prongs nearly poking Jezal in the eye. Lord Hoff's jaw opened silently. The two Princes goggled. Jezal could only manage a helpless gurgle.

'My son!' blubbered the King, his voice choked with emotion. 'Raynault, I'm so glad you're back! When I am gone, Ladisla will need your help. He is so weak, and the crown is such a heavy weight! You were always the better suited for it! Such a heavy weight!' he sobbed into Jezal's shoulder.

It was like a hideous nightmare. Ladisla and the real Raynault gawped at each other, then back at their father, both looking sick. Terez was sneering down her nose at her prospective father-in-law with undisguised contempt. From bad to much, much worse. What the hell did one do in such a situation? Could there possibly be any etiquette devised for this? Jezal patted his King awkwardly on his fat back. What else could he do? Shove the senile old idiot over on his arse, with half of his subjects looking on? He was almost tempted to do it.

It was a small mercy that the crowds took the King's embrace for a ringing endorsement of Jezal's fencing abilities, and drowned out his words with a fresh wave of cheering. No one beyond the royal box heard what he said. They all missed the full significance of what was, without doubt, the most embarrassing moment of Jezal's life.

The Ideal Audience Arch Lector Sult was standing by his huge window when Glokta arrived, tall and imposing as always in his spotless white coat, gazing out across the spires of the University towards the House of the Maker. A pleasant breeze was washing through the great circular room, ruffling the old man's shock of white hair and making the many papers on his enormous desk crackle and flutter.

He turned as Glokta shuffled into the room. 'Inquisitor,' he said simply, holding out his white gloved hand, the great stone on his ring of office catching the bright sunlight from the open window and glittering with purple fire.

'I serve and obey, your Eminence.' Glokta took the hand in his, and grimaced as he bent down to kiss the ring, his cane trembling with the effort of keeping upright. Damn it if the old bastard doesn't hold his hand a little lower every time, just to watch me sweat.

Sult poured himself into his tall chair in one smooth motion, elbows on the table top, fingers pressed together before him. Glokta could only stand and wait, his leg burning from the familiar climb through the House of Questions, sweat tickling his scalp, and wait for the invitation to sit.

'Please be seated,' murmured the Arch Lector, then waited while Glokta winced his way into one of the lesser chairs at the round table. 'Now tell me, has your investigation met with any success?'

'Some. There was a disturbance at our visitors' chambers the other night. They claim that-'

'Plainly an attempt to add credence to this outrageous story. Magic!' Sult snorted his disdain. 'Have you discovered how the breach in the wall was really made?'

Magic, perhaps? 'I am afraid not, Arch Lector.'

'That is unfortunate. Some proof of how this particular trick was managed might be of use to us. Still,' and Sult sighed as though he had expected no better, 'one cannot have everything. Did you speak to these . . . people?'

'I did. Bayaz, if I may use the name, is a most slippery talker. Without the aid of anything more persuasive than the questions themselves, I could get nothing from him. His friend the Northman also bears some study.'

One crease formed across Sult's smooth forehead. 'You suspect some connection with this savage Bethod?'

'Possibly.'

'Possibly?' echoed the Arch Lector sourly, as though the very word was poison. 'What else?'

'There has been a new addition to the merry band.'

'I know. The Navigator.'

Why do I even bother? 'Yes, your Eminence, a Navigator.'

'Good luck to them. Those penny-pinching fortune-tellers are always more trouble than they're worth. Blubbering on about God and what have you. Greedy savages.'

'Absolutely. More trouble than they're worth, Arch Lector, though it would be interesting to know why they have employed one.'