And a boot could scarcely be better fitted to its owner. Cosca's long moustaches, no doubt meant to be waxed out sideways in the fashion of a Styrian dandy, flopped limp and lifeless round his half-open mouth. His neck and jaw were covered in a week's growth, somewhere between beard and stubble, and there was a scabrous, flaking rash peering out above his collar. His greasy hair stuck from his head at all angles, excepting a large bald spot on his crown, angry red with sunburn. Sweat beaded his slack skin, a lazy fly crawled across his puffy face. One bottle lay empty on its side on the table. Another, half-full, was cradled in his lap.

Vitari stared down at this picture of drunken self-neglect, expression of contempt plainly visible despite her mask. 'So it's true then, you are still alive.' Just barely.

Cosca prised open one red-rimmed eye, blinked, squinted up, and then slowly began to smile. 'Shylo Vitari, I swear. The world can still surprise me.' He worked his mouth, grimacing, glanced down and saw the bottle in his lap, lifted it and took a long, thirsty pull. Deep swallows, just as if it were water in the bottle. A practised drunkard, as though there was any doubt. Hardly the man one would choose to entrust the defence of the city to, at first glance. 'I never expected to see you again. Why don't you take off the mask? It's robbing me of your beauty.'

'Save it for your whores, Cosca. I don't need to catch what you've got.'

The mercenary gave a bubbling sound, half laugh, half cough. 'You still have the manners of a princess,' he wheezed.

'Then this shithouse must be a palace.'

Cosca shrugged. 'It all looks the same if you're drunk enough.'

'You think you'll ever be drunk enough?'

'No. But it's worth trying.' As if to prove the point he sucked another mouthful from the bottle.

Vitari perched herself on the edge of the table. 'So what brings you here? I thought you were busy spreading the cock-rot across Styria.'

'My popularity at home had somewhat dwindled.'

'Found yourself on both sides of a fight once too often, eh?'

'Something like that.'

'But the Dagoskans welcomed you with open arms?'

'I'd rather you welcomed me with open legs, but a man can't get everything he wants. Who's your friend?'

Glokta slid out a rickety chair with one aching foot and eased himself into it, hoping it would bear his weight. Crashing to the floor in a bundle of broken sticks would hardly send the right message, now, would it? 'My name is Glokta.' He stretched his sweaty neck out to one side, and then the other. 'Superior Glokta.'