Glokta pushed the bushes aside, one hand pressed over his face. The butchered corpse lay there, glistening red, scarcely recognisable as human. Ardee laughed and laughed at the sight of it. 'Partially eaten!' she tittered at him. Colonel Glokta did not find the business in any way amusing. The sound of flies was growing louder and louder, threatening to drown out the music entirely. Worse yet, it was getting terribly cold in the park.

'Careless of me,' said a voice from behind.

'How do you mean?'

'Just to leave it there. But sometimes it is better to move quickly, than to move carefully, eh, cripple?'

'I remember this,' murmured Glokta. It had grown colder yet, and he was shivering like a leaf. 'I remember this!'

'Of course,' whispered the voice. A woman's voice, but not Ardee. A low and hissing voice, that made his eye twitch.

'What can I do?' The Colonel could feel his gorge rising. The wounds in the red meat yawned. The flies were so loud he could hardly hear the reply.

'Perhaps you should go to the University, and ask for advice.' Icy breath brushed his neck and made his back shiver. 'Perhaps while you are there… you could ask them about the Seed.'

Glokta lurched to the bottom of the steps and staggered sideways, falling back against the wall, the breath hissing over his wet tongue. His left leg trembled, his left eye twitched, as though the two were connected by a cord of pain that cut into his arse, guts, back, shoulder, neck, face, and tightened with every movement, however small.

He forced himself to be still. To breathe long and slow. He made his mind move off the pain and on to other things. Like Bayaz, and his failed quest for this Seed. After all, his Eminence is waiting, and is not known for his patience. He stretched his neck out to either side and felt the bones clicking between his twisted shoulder-blades. He pressed his tongue into his gums and shuffled away from the steps, into the cool darkness of the stacks.

They had not changed much in the past year. Or probably in a few centuries before that. The vaulted spaces smelled of fust and age, lit only by a couple of nickering, grimy lamps, sagging shelves stretching away into the shifting shadows. Time to go digging once again through the dusty refuse of history. The Adeptus Historical did not appear to have changed much either. He sat at his stained desk, poring over a mouldy-looking pile of papers in the light from a single squirming candle flame. He squinted up as Glokta hobbled closer.

'Who's there?'

'Glokta.' He peered up suspiciously towards the shadowy ceiling. 'What happened to your crow?'

'Dead,' grunted the ancient librarian sadly.

'History, you might say!' The old man did not laugh. 'Ah, well. It happens to us all.' And some sooner than others. 'I have questions for you.'

The Adeptus Historical craned forward over his desk, peering dewily up at Glokta as though he had never seen another human before. 'I remember you.' Miracles do happen, then? 'You asked me about Bayaz. First apprentice of great Juvens, first letter in the alphabet of the—'