'It is hard to say at this stage what direction our conversation might take, but the drink I can promise you.' She poured him a glass and he tossed it back in four long swallows. He held it out again, sucking his sweet gums.

'In all seriousness, the Gurkish are no more than a week from taking Adua under siege. You should leave as soon as possible.'

She filled his glass again, and then her own. 'Haven't you noticed that half the city has had the same idea? Such flea-bitten nags not requisitioned by the army are changing hands at five hundred marks a piece. Nervous citizens are pouring out to every corner of Midderland. Columns of defenceless refugees, wandering through a mass of mud at a mile a day as the weather turns cold, laden down with everything of value they possess, easy prey for every brigand within a hundred miles.'

'True,' Glokta had to admit as he wriggled his painful way into a chair near the fire.

'And where would I go to anyway? I swear I have not a single friend or relative anywhere in Midderland. Would you have me hide in the woods, lighting fires by rubbing sticks together and hunting down squirrels with my bare hands? How the hell would I stay drunk in those circumstances? No, thank you, I will be safer here, and considerably more comfortable. I have coal for the fire and the cellar is full to capacity. I can hold out for months.' She waved a floppy hand towards the wall. 'The Gurkish are coming from the west, and we are on the eastern side of town. I could not be safer in the palace itself, I daresay.'

Perhaps she is right. Here, at least, I can keep some kind of watch over her. 'Very well, I bow to your reasoning. Or I would, if my back allowed it.'

She settled herself opposite. 'And how is life in the corridors of power?'

'Chilly. As corridors often are.' Glokta stroked his lips with a finger. 'I find myself in a difficult situation.'

'I have some experience with those.'

'This one is… complicated.'

'Well then, in terms a dull wench like me might understand.'

Where's the harm? I stare death in the face already. 'In the terms of a dull wench, then, imagine this… desperately needing certain favours, you have promised your hand in marriage to two very rich and powerful men.'

'Huh. One would be a fine thing.'

'None would be a fine thing, in this particular case. They are both old and of surpassing ugliness.'

She shrugged. 'Ugliness is easily forgiven in the rich and powerful.'

'But both these suitors are prone to violent displays of jealousy. Dangerous displays, if your wanton faithlessness were to become common knowledge. You had hoped to extricate yourself from one promise or the other at some stage, but now the date of the weddings draws near, and you find that you are… still considerably entangled with both. More so than ever, in fact. Your response?'