'Continue!' blustered Hoff, waving his hand, 'we don't have all day!'

'A most malicious and underhanded attack-'

The Lord Chamberlain squinted down. 'An attack you say? A common assault is a matter for the City Watch!'

Magister Kault grimaced. He and his two companions were already starting to sweat. 'Not an attack of that variety, my Lord Chamberlain, but an insidious and underhanded assault, designed to discredit the shining reputation of our Guild, and to damage our business interests in the Free Cities of Styria, and across the Union. An attack perpetrated by certain deceitful elements of his Majesty's Inquisition, and-'

'I have heard enough!' The Lord Chamberlain jerked up his big hand for silence. 'If this is a matter of trade, then it should be handled by His Majesty's Commission for Trade and Commerce.' Hoff spoke slowly and precisely, in the manner of a schoolmaster addressing his most disappointing pupil. 'If this is a matter of law, then it should be handled by the department of High Justice Marovia. If it is a matter of the internal workings of his Majesty's Inquisition, then you must arrange an appointment with Arch Lector Sult. In any case, it is hardly a matter for the attention of his August Majesty.'

The head of the Mercer's Guild opened his mouth but the Lord Chamberlain spoke over him, voice louder than ever. 'Your King employs a Commission, selects a High Justice, and appoints an Arch Lector, so that he need not deal with every trifling issue himself! Incidentally, that is also why he grants licences to certain merchant guilds, and not to line the pockets . . .' and his lip twisted into an unpleasant sneer ' . . . of the trading class! Good day.' And the doors were opened.

Kault's face had turned pale with anger at that last comment. 'You may depend upon it, Lord Chamberlain,' he said coldly, 'that we will seek redress elsewhere, and with the very greatest of persistence.'

Hoff glared back at him for a very long while. 'Seek it wherever you like,' he growled, 'and with as much persistence as you please. But not here. Good . . . day!' If you could have stabbed someone in the face with the phrase 'good day', the head of the Guild of Mercers would have lain dead on the floor.

Kault blinked a couple of times, then turned angrily and strode out with as much dignity as he could muster. His two lackeys followed close on his heels, their fabulous gowns flapping behind them. The doors were pushed shut.

Hoff smashed the table once again with his fist. 'An outrage!' he spluttered. 'Those arrogant swine! Do they seriously think they can flout the King's law and still seek the King's help when things turn sour?'

'Well, no,' said Morrow, 'of course . . .'

The Lord Chamberlain ignored his Under-Secretary and turned to West with a sneering smile. 'Still, I fancy I could see the vultures circling around them, despite the low ceiling, eh, Major West?'

'Indeed, my Lord Chamberlain,' mumbled West, thoroughly uncomfortable and wishing this torture would end. Then he could get back to his sister. His heart sank. She was even more of a handful than he remembered. She was clever alright, but he worried that she might be too clever for her own good. If only she would just marry some honest man and be happy. His position here was precarious enough, without her making a spectacle of herself.

'Vultures, vultures,' Hoff was murmuring to himself. 'Nasty-looking birds, but they have their uses. What's next?'

The sweating Under-Secretary looked even more uncomfortable than before as he fumbled for the right words. 'We have a party of . . . diplomats?'

The Lord Chamberlain paused, goblet halfway to his mouth. 'Diplomats? From whom?'

'Er . . . from this so-called King of the Northmen, Bethod.'

Hoff burst out laughing. 'Diplomats?' he cackled, mopping his face on his sleeve. 'Savages, you mean!'

The Under-Secretary chuckled unconvincingly. 'Ah yes, my Lord, ha, ha! Savages, of course!'

'But dangerous, eh, Morrow?' snapped the Lord Chamberlain, his good humour evaporating instantly. The Under-Secretary's cackling gurgled to a halt. 'Very dangerous. We must be careful. Show them in!'

There were four of them. The two smallest were great big, fierce-looking men, scarred and bearded, clad in heavy battered armour. They had been disarmed at the gate of the Agriont, of course, but there was still a sense of danger about them, and West had the feeling they would have given up a lot of big, well-worn weapons. These were the sort of men who were crowded on the borders of Angland, hungry for war, not far from West's home.

With them came an older man, also in pitted armour, and with long hair and a great white beard. There was a livid scar across his face and through his eye, which was blind white. He had a broad smile on his lips though, and his pleasant demeanour was greatly at odds with that of his two dour companions, and with the fourth man, who came behind.

He had to stoop to get under the lintel, which was a good seven feet above the floor. He was swathed and hooded in a rough brown cloak, features invisible. As he straightened up, towering over everyone else, the room began to seem absurdly cramped. His sheer bulk was intimidating, but there was something more, something that seemed to come off him in sickly waves. The soldiers around the walls felt it, and they shifted uncomfortably. The Under-Secretary for Audiences felt it, sweating and twitching and fussing with his documents. Major West certainly felt it. His skin had gone cold despite the heat, and he could feel every hair on his body standing up under his damp uniform.

Only Hoff seemed unaffected. He looked the four Northmen up and down with a deep frown on his face, no more impressed with the hooded giant than he had been with Goodman Heath. 'So you are messengers from Bethod.' He rolled the words around in his mouth, then spat them out, 'The King of the Northmen.'

'We are,' said the smiling old man, bowing with great reverence. 'I am White-Eye Hansul.' His voice was rich, round and pleasant, without any accent, not at all what West had been expecting.

'And you are Bethod's emissary?' asked Hoff casually, taking another swallow of wine from his goblet. For the first time ever West was pleased the Lord Chamberlain was in the room with him, but then he glanced up at the hooded man and the feeling of unease returned.

'Oh no,' said White-Eye, 'I am here merely as translator. This is the emissary of the King of the Northmen,' and his good eye flicked nervously up to the dark figure in the cloak, as though even he was afraid. 'Fenris.' He stretched out the 's' on the end of the name so that it hissed in the air. 'Fenris the Feared.'

An apt name indeed. Major West thought back to songs he had heard in his childhood, stories of bloodthirsty giants in the mountains of the distant north. The room was silent for a moment.

'Humph,' said the Lord Chamberlain, unmoved. 'And you seek an audience with his August Majesty, the High King of the Union?'

'We do indeed, my Lord Chamberlain,' said the old warrior. 'Our master, Bethod, greatly regrets the hostility between our two nations. He wishes only to be on the best of terms with his southern neighbours. We bring an offer of peace from my King to yours, and a gift to show our good faith. Nothing more.'

'Well, well,' said Hoff, sitting back in his high chair with a broad smile. 'A gracious request, graciously made. You may see the King in Open Council tomorrow, and present your offer, and your gift, before the foremost peers of the realm.'

White-Eye bowed respectfully. 'You are most kind, my Lord Chamberlain.' He turned for the door, followed by the two dour warriors. The cloaked figure lingered for a moment, then he too slowly turned and stooped through the doorway. It wasn't until the doors were shut that West could breathe easily again. He shook his head and shrugged his sweaty shoulders. Songs about giants indeed. A great big man in a cloak was all. But looking again, that doorway really was very high . . .

'There, you see, Master Morrow?' Hoff looked intensely pleased with himself. 'Hardly the savages you led me to expect! I feel we are close to a resolution of our northern problems, don't you?'

The Under-Secretary did not look in the least convinced. 'Er . . . yes, my Lord, of course.'

'Yes indeed. A lot of fuss over nothing. A lot of pessimistic, defeatist nonsense from our jumpy citizens up north, eh? War? Bah!' Hoff whacked his hand on the table again, making wine slop out of his goblet and spatter on the wood. 'These Northmen wouldn't dare! Why, next thing you know they'll be petitioning us for membership of the Union! You see if I'm not right, eh, Major West?'

'Er ...'

'Good! Excellent! We've got something done today at least! One more and we can get out of this damn furnace! Who do we have, Morrow?'

The Under-Secretary frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. 'Er . . . we have one Yoru Sulfur,' he wrestled with the unfamiliar name.

'We have a who?'

'Er . . . Sulfir, or Sulfor, or something.'

'Never heard of him,' grunted the Lord Chamberlain, 'what manner of a man is he? Some kind of a southerner? Not another peasant, please!'

The Under-Secretary examined his notes, and swallowed. 'An emissary?'

'Yes, yes, but from whom?'

Morrow was positively cringing, like a child expecting a slap. 'From the Great Order of Magi!' he blurted out.

There was a moment of stunned silence. West's eyebrows went up and his jaw came open, and he guessed that the same was happening, unseen, behind the visors of the soldiers. He winced instinctively as he anticipated the response of the Lord Chamberlain, but Hoff surprised them all by bursting into peals of laughter. 'Excellent! At last some entertainment. It's been years since we had a Magus here! Show in the wizard! We mustn't keep him waiting!'

Yoru Sulfur was something of a disappointment. He had simple, travel-stained clothes, was scarcely better dressed than Goodman Heath had been, in fact. His staff was not shod with gold, had no lump of shining crystal on the end. His eye did not flash with a mysterious fire. He looked a fairly ordinary sort of a man in his middle thirties, slightly tired, as though after a long journey, but otherwise well at his ease before the Lord Chamberlain.

'A good day to you, gentlemen,' he said, leaning on his staff. West was having some difficulty working out where he was from. Not the Union, because his skin was too dark, and not Gurkhul or the far south, because his skin was too light. Not from the North or from Styria. Further then, but where? Now that West looked at him more closely he noticed that his eyes were different colours: one blue, one green.

'And a good day to you, sir,' said Hoff, smiling as though he really meant it. 'My door is forever open to the Great Order of Magi. Tell me, do I have the pleasure of addressing great Bayaz himself?'

Sulfur looked puzzled. 'No, was I wrongly announced? I am Yoru Sulfur. Master Bayaz is a bald gentleman.' He pushed a hand through his own head of curly brown hair. 'There is a statue of him outside in the avenue. But I did have the honour to study under him for several years. He is a most powerful and knowledgeable master.'

'Of course! Of course he is! And how may we be of service?'

Yoru Sulfur cleared his throat, as though to tell a story. 'On the death of King Harod the Great, Bayaz, the First of the Magi, left the Union. But he swore an oath to return.'

'Yes, yes, that's true,' chuckled Hoff. 'Very true, every school-child knows it.'

'And he pronounced that, when he returned, his coming would be heralded by another.'

'True, also.'

'Well,' said Sulfur, smiling broadly, 'here I am.'

The Lord Chamberlain roared with laughter. 'Here you are!' he shouted, thumping the table. Harlen Morrow allowed himself a little chuckle, but shut up immediately as Hoff's smile began to fade.

'During my tenure as Lord Chamberlain, I have had three members of the Great Order of Magi apply to me for audiences with the King. Two were most clearly insane, and one was an exceptionally courageous swindler.' He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers before him. 'Tell me, Master Sulfur, which kind of Magus are you?'

'I am neither of those.'

'I see. Then you will have documents.'

'Of course.' Sulfur reached into his coat and brought out a small letter, closed with a white seal, a single strange symbol stamped into it. He placed it carelessly on the table before the Lord Chamberlain.

Hoff frowned. He picked up the document and turned it over in his hands. He examined the seal carefully, then he dabbed his face with his sleeve, broke the wax, unfolded the thick paper and began to read.

Yoru Sulfur showed no sign of nerves. He didn't appear troubled by the heat. He strolled around the room, he nodded to the armoured soldiers, he didn't seem upset by their lack of response. He turned suddenly to West. 'It's terribly hot in here, isn't it? It's a wonder these poor fellows don't pass out, and crash to the floor with a sound like a cupboard full of saucepans.' West blinked. He had been thinking the very same thing.

The Lord Chamberlain put the letter down carefully on the table, no longer in the least amused. 'It occurs to me that the Open Council would be the wrong place to discuss this matter.'

'I agree. I was hoping for a private audience with Lord Chancellor Feekt.'

'I am afraid that will not be possible.' Hoff licked his lips. 'Lord Feekt is dead.'

Sulfur frowned. 'That is most unfortunate.'

'Indeed, indeed. We all feel his loss most keenly. Perhaps I and certain other members of the Closed Council can assist you.'

Sulfur bowed his head. 'I am guided by you, my Lord Chamberlain.'

'I will try to arrange something for later this evening. Until then we will find you some lodgings within the Agriont . . . suitable for your station.' He signalled to the guards, and the doors were opened.

'Thank you so much, Lord Hoff. Master Morrow. Major West.' Sulfur nodded to them graciously, each in turn, and then turned and left. The doors were closed once more, leaving West wondering how the man had known his name.

Hoff turned to his Under-Secretary for Audiences. 'Go immediately to Arch Lector Sult, and tell him we must meet at once. Then fetch High Justice Marovia, and Lord Marshal Varuz. Tell them it is a matter of the very highest importance, and not a word of this to anyone beyond those three.' He shook his finger in Morrow's sweaty face. 'Not a word!'

The Under-Secretary stared back, spectacles askew. 'Now!' roared Hoff. Morrow leapt to his feet, stumbled on the hem of his gown, then hurried out through a side door. West swallowed, his mouth very dry.

Hoff stared long and hard at each man in the room. 'As for the rest of you, not a word to anyone about any of this, or the consequences for all of you will be most severe! Now out, everyone out!' The soldiers clanked from the room immediately. West needed no further encouragement and he hurried after them, leaving the brooding Lord Chamberlain alone in his high chair.

West's thoughts were dark and confused as he pulled the door shut behind him. Fragments of old stories of the Magi, fears about war in the North, images of a hooded giant, towering up near the ceiling. There had been some strange and some sinister visitors to the Agriont that day, and he felt quite weighed down by worries. He tried to shrug them off, told himself it was all foolishness, but then all he could think of was his sister, cavorting about the Agriont like a fool.

He groaned to himself. She was probably with Luthar right now. Why the hell had he introduced the two of them? For some reason he had been expecting the same awkward, sickly, sharp-tongued girl he remembered from years ago. He had got quite a shock when this woman had turned up at his quarters. He had barely recognised her. Undoubtedly a woman, and a fine-looking one too. Meanwhile, Luthar was arrogant and rich and handsome and had all the self-restraint of a six-year old. He knew they had seen each other since, and more than once. Just as friends, of course. Ardee had no other friends here. Just friends.

'Shit!' he cursed. It was like putting a cat by the cream and trusting it not to stick its tongue in. Why the hell hadn't he thought it through? It was a damn disaster in the making! But what could he do about it now? He stared off miserably down the hallway.

There's nothing like seeing another's misery to make you forget your own, and Goodman Heath was a sorry sight indeed. He was sitting alone on a long bench, face deathly pale, staring off into space. He must have been sitting there all this time, while the Mercers and the Northmen and the Magus came and went, waiting for nothing but with nowhere left to go. West glanced up and down the hallway. There was no one else nearby. Heath was oblivious to him, mouth open, eyes glassy, battered hat forgotten on his knees.

West couldn't simply leave the man like this, he didn't have it in him.

'Goodman Heath,' he said as he approached, and the peasant looked up at him, surprised. He fumbled for his hat and made to rise, muttering apologies.

'No, please, don't get up.' West sat down on the bench. He stared at his feet, unable to look the man in the eye. There was an awkward silence. 'I have a friend who sits on the Commission for Land and Agriculture. There might be something he can do for you . . .' He trailed off, embarrassed, squinting up the corridor.

The farmer gave a sad smile. 'I'd be right grateful for anything you could do.'

'Yes, yes, of course, I'll do what I can.' It would do no good whatsoever, and they both knew it. West grimaced and bit his lip. 'You'd better take this,' and he pressed his purse into the peasant's limp, calloused fingers. Heath looked at him, mouth slightly open. West gave a quick, awkward smile then got to his feet. He was very keen to be off.

'Sir!' called Goodman Heath after him, but West was already hurrying down the corridor, and he didn't look back.

On the List Why do I do this? The outline of Villem dan Robb's townhouse was cut out in black against the clear night sky. It was an unremarkable building, a two-storey-dwelling with a low wall and a gate in front, just like a hundred others in this street. Our old friend Rews used to live in a palatial great villa near the market. Robb really should have asked him for some more ambitious bribes. Still. Lucky for us he didn't. Elsewhere in the city the fashionable avenues would be brightly lit and busy with drunken revellers right through until dawn. But this secluded side street was far from the bright lights and the prying eyes.

We can work undisturbed.

Round the side of the building, on the upper floor, a lamp was burning in a narrow window. Good. Our friend is at home. But still awake we must tread gently. He turned to Practical Frost and pointed down the side of the house. The albino nodded and slipped away silently across the street.

Glokta waited for him to reach the wall and disappear into the shadows beside the building, then he turned to Severard and pointed at the front door. The eyes of the lanky Practical smiled at him for a moment, then he scuttled quickly away, staying low, rolled over the low wall and dropped without a sound onto the other side.

Perfect so far, but now I must move. Glokta wondered why he had come. Frost and Severard were more than capable of dealing with Robb by themselves, and he would only slow them down. I might even fall on my arse and alert the idiot to our presence. So why did I come? But Glokta knew why. The feeling of excitement was already building in his throat. It felt almost like being alive.

He had muffled the end of his cane with a bit of rag, so he was able to limp to the wall, ever so delicately, without making too much noise. By that time Severard had swung the gate open, holding the hinge with one gloved hand so that it didn't make a noise. Nice and neat. That little wall might as well be a hundred feet high for all my chances of getting over it.

Severard was kneeling on the step against the front door, picking the lock. His ear was close to the wood, his eyes squinting with concentration, gloved hands moving deftly. Glokta's heart was beating fast, his skin prickly with tension. Ah, the thrill of the hunt.

There was a soft click, then another. Severard slipped his glittering picks into a pocket, then reached out and slowly, carefully turned the doorknob. The door swung silently open. What a useful fellow he is. Without him and Frost I am just a cripple. They are my hands, my arms, my legs. But I am their brains. Severard slipped inside and Glokta followed him, wincing with pain every time he put his weight on his left leg.

The hallway was dark, but there was a shaft of light spilling down the stairs from above and the banisters cast strange, distorted shadows on the wooden floor. Glokta pointed up the steps, and Severard nodded and began to tiptoe toward them, keeping his feet close to the wall. It seemed to take him an age to get there.

The third step made a quiet creaking sound as he put his weight on it. Glokta winced, Severard froze in place. They waited, still as statues. There was no sound from upstairs. Glokta began to breathe again. Severard moved ever so slowly upwards, step by gentle step. As he got towards the top he peered cautiously round the corner, back pressed against the wall, then he took the last step and disappeared from view without a sound.

Practical Frost emerged from the shadows at the far end of the corridor. Glokta raised an eyebrow at him but he shook his head. Nobody downstairs. He turned to the front door and started to close it, ever so gently. Only when it was shut did he slowly, slowly release the doorknob, so the latch slid silently into place.

'You'll want to see this.'

Glokta gave a start at the sudden sound, turning round quickly and causing a jolt of pain to shoot through his back. Severard was standing, hands on hips, at the head of the stairs. He turned and made off towards the light, and Frost bounded up the steps after him, no longer making any pretence at stealth.

Why can no one ever stay on the ground floor? Always upstairs. At least he didn't have to try to be quiet as he struggled up the steps after his Practicals, right foot creaking, left foot scraping on the boards. Bright lamplight was flooding out into the upstairs corridor from an open door at the far end, and Glokta limped toward it. He paused as he crossed the threshold, catching his breath after the climb.

Oh dear me, what a mess. A big bookcase had been torn away from the wall, and books were scattered, open and closed, all about the floor. A glass of wine had been knocked over on the desk, making sodden red rags of the crumpled papers strewn across it. The bed was in disarray, the covers pulled half off, the pillows and the mattress slashed and spilling feathers. A wardrobe had its doors open, one of them dangling half off. A few tattered garments were hanging inside, but most were lying torn in a heap below.

A handsome young man lay on his back under the window, staring up, pale-faced and open mouthed at the ceiling. It would have been an understatement to say that his throat had been cut. It had been hacked so savagely that his head was only just still attached. There was blood splattered everywhere, on the torn clothes, on the slashed mattress, all over the body itself. There were a couple of smeared, bloody palm-prints on the wall, a great pool of blood across a good part of the floor, still wet. He was killed tonight. Perhaps only a few hours ago. Perhaps only a few minutes.

'I don't think he'll be answering our questions,' said Severard.