'Yes.' More than enough. He left Cosca shouting himself hoarse in Styrian and pushed breathlessly through the press of mercenaries towards the steps. He followed a stretcher down, wincing at every painful step, trying to keep up while a steady stream of men shoved past the other way. Never thought that I'd be glad to be going down a set of steps again. His happiness did not last long, however. By the time he reached the bottom his left leg was twitching with the all-too-familiar mixture of agony and numbness.

'Damn it!' he hissed to himself, hopping back against the wall. 'There are casualties more mobile than I am!' He watched the wounded hobbling past, bandaged and bloody.

'This isn't right,' hissed Severard. 'We've done our bit. We found the traitors. What the hell are we still doing here?'

'Fighting for the King's cause beneath you, is it?'

'Dying for it is.'

Glokta snorted. 'You think there's anyone in this whole fucking city enjoying themselves?' He thought he heard the faint sound of Cosca screaming insults floating down over the clamour of the fighting. 'Apart from that crazy Styrian of course. Keep an eye on him, eh, Severard? He betrayed Eider, he'll betray us, especially if things look bleak.'

The Practical stared at him, and for once there was no trace of a smile round his eyes. 'Do things look bleak?'

'You were up there.' Glokta grimaced as he stretched his leg out. 'They've looked better.'

The long, dim hall had once been a temple. When the Gurkish assaults had begun the lightly wounded had been brought here, to be tended to by priests and women. It was an easy place to bring them: down in the Lower City, close to the walls. This part of the slums was mostly empty of civilians now, in any case. The risks of raging fire and plummeting boulders can quickly render a neighbourhood unpopular. As the fighting continued the lightly wounded had gone back to the walls, leaving the more serious casualties behind. Those with severed limbs, with deep cuts, with terrible burns, with arrows in the body, lay scattered round the dim arcades on their bloody stretchers. Day by day their numbers had mounted until they choked every part of the floor. The walking wounded were dealt with outside, now. This place was reserved for the ruined, for the maimed. For the dying.

Every man had his own special language of agony. Some screamed and howled without end. Some cried out for help, for mercy, for water, for their mothers. Some coughed and gurgled and spat blood. Some wheezed and rattled out their last breaths. Only the dead are entirely silent. And there were a lot of them. From time to time you would see them being dragged out, limbs lolling, ready to be wrapped in cheap shrouds and heaped up behind the back wall.