It had been bad luck, Jezal thought as he lurched back towards the entrance, stumbling down the broken steps and wincing at the pain in his knee. Bad luck that Bayaz had decided to stop, right here and now. Bad luck that Jezal's leg had been broken and he couldn't run after that repulsive thing. Bad luck that they had come to Aulcus, instead of being able to cross the river miles downstream.

'How did they get here?' Logen was shouting at Bayaz.

'I can only guess,' grunted the Magus, wincing and breathing hard. 'After the Maker's death we hunted them. We drove them into the dark corners of the world.'

'There are few corners darker than this one.' Longfoot hurried past them for the entrance and down the steps, two at a time, and Jezal hopped after him.

'What is it?' called Ferro, pulling her bow off her shoulder.

'Flatheads!' roared Ninefingers.

She gazed at him blankly and the Northman flapped his free hand at her. 'Just fucking ride!'

Bad luck. That Jezal had beaten Bremer dan Gorst and been chosen by Bayaz for this mad journey. Bad luck that he had ever held a fencing steel. Bad luck that his father had wanted him to join the army instead of doing nothing with his life like his two brothers. Strange how that had always seemed like good luck at the time. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

Jezal stumbled up to his horse, grabbed the saddle-bow and dragged himself clumsily up. Longfoot and Ninefingers were already in their saddles. Bayaz was just shoving his staff back into its place with trembling hands. Somewhere in the city behind them, a bell began to clang.

'Oh dear,' said Longfoot, peering wide-eyed through the multitude of statues. 'Oh dear.'

'Bad luck,' whispered Jezal.

Ferro was staring at him. 'What?'

'Nothing.' Jezal gritted his teeth, and gave his horse the spurs.

There was no such thing as luck. Luck was a word idiots used to explain the consequences of their own rashness, and selfishness, and stupidity. More often than not bad luck meant bad plans. And here was the proof.

She had warned Bayaz that there was something in the city besides her and five pink fools. She had warned him, but no one had listened. People only believe what they want to. Idiots, anyway.

She watched the others, while she rode. Quai, on the seat of the jolting cart, eyes narrowed and fixed ahead. Luthar, with his lips curled back from his teeth, pressed into the saddle in the crouch of a practised rider. Bayaz, jaw clenched tight, face pale and drawn, clinging on grimly. Longfoot, looking often over his shoulder, eyes wide with fear and alarm. Ninefingers, jolting in his saddle, breathing hard, spending more time looking at his reins than at the road. Five idiots, and her.