'She did. She did.' But still. Glokta wiped at his runny eye, thinking. Someone murdered the Prince. Someone had something to gain from his death. I would like to know who, even if no one else cares. 'There are some questions I still need to ask. The guard at the Prince's chambers last night. I want to speak to him.'

The Practical raised his brows. 'Why? We've got the paper haven't we?'

'Just bring him in.'

Severard unfolded his legs and sprang up. 'Alright, then, you're the boss.' He pushed himself away from the greasy wall and sauntered off down the corridor. 'One Knight of the Body, coming right up.'

Holding the Line

Holding the Line

« ^ »

'Did you sleep?' asked Pike, scratching at the less burned side of his ruined face.

'No. You?'

The convict turned Sergeant shook his head.

'Not for days,' murmured Jalenhorm, wistfully. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up towards the northern ridge, a ragged outline of trees under the iron grey sky. 'Poulder's division already set off through the woods?'

'Before first light,' said West. 'We should hear that he's in position soon. And now it looks as if Kroy's ready to go. You have to respect his punctuality, at least.'

Below Burr's command post, down in the valley, General Kroy's division was moving into battle order. Three regiments of the King's Own foot formed the centre, with a regiment of levies on the higher ground on either wing and the cavalry just behind. It was an entirely different spectacle from the ragged deployment of Ladisla's makeshift army. The battalions flowed smoothly forwards in tightly ordered columns: tramping through the mud, the tall grass, the patches of snow in the hollows. They halted at their allotted positions and began to spread out into carefully dressed lines, a net of men stretching right across the valley. The chill air echoed with the distant thumping of their feet, the beating of their drums, the clipped calls of their commanders. Everything clean and crisp and according to procedure.

Lord Marshal Burr thrust aside his tent flap and strode out into the open air, acknowledging the salutes of the various guards and officers scattered about the space in front with sharp waves of his hand.

'Colonel,' he growled, frowning up at the heavens. 'Still dry, then?'

The sun was a watery smudge on the horizon, the sky thick white with streaks of heavy grey, darker bruises hanging over the northern ridge. 'For the moment, sir,' said West.

'No word from Poulder yet?'

'No, sir. But it might be hard-going, the woods are dense.' Not as dense as Poulder himself, West thought, but that hardly seemed the most professional thing to say.

'Did you eat yet?'