'Parleys,' growled the First of the Magi, slowly shaking his head.

'What are they but an excuse for old fools who love to hear their own voices to prattle about fair treatment before they start on the butchery?'

'I suppose on the subject of old fools who love to hear their own voices, you are the absolute expert.' That was what Jezal thought but he kept it to himself, watching the Gurkish party approach in brooding silence. A tall man came at their head, gold shining on his sharply pointed helmet and his polished armour, riding with that upright arrogance that shouts, even from a distance, of high command.

Marshal Varuz frowned. 'General Malzagurt.'

'You know him?'

'He commanded the Emperor's forces, during the last war. We grappled with each other for months. We parleyed more than once. A most cunning opponent.'

'You got the better of him though, eh?'

'In the end, your Majesty.' Varuz looked far from happy. 'But I had an army then.'

The Gurkish commander clattered up the road, through the jumble of deserted buildings scattered beyond Casamir's wall. He reined in his horse before the gate, staring proudly upwards, one hand resting casually on his hip.

'I am General Malzagurt,' he called in a sharp Kantic accent, 'the chosen representative of his magnificence, Uthman-ul-Dosht, Emperor of Gurkhul.'

'I am King Jezal the First.'

'Of course. The bastard.'

It was pointless to deny it. 'That's right. The bastard. Why don't you come in, General? Then we can speak face to face, like civilised men.'

Malzagurt's eyes flickered across to Glokta. 'Forgive me, but the response of your government to unarmed emissaries of the Emperor has not always been… civilised. I think I will remain outside the walls. For now.'

'As you wish. I believe you are already acquainted with Lord Marshal Varuz?'

'Of course. It seems an age since we tussled in the dry wastelands. I would say that I have missed you… but I have not. How are you, my old friend, my old enemy?'

'Well enough,' grunted Varuz.

Malzagurt gestured towards the vast array of manpower deploying behind him. 'Under the circumstances, eh? I do not know your other—'

'He is Bayaz. First of the Magi.' A smooth, even voice. It came from one of Malzagurt's companions. A man dressed all in simple white, somewhat in the manner of a priest. He seemed hardly older than Jezal, and very handsome, with a dark face, perfectly smooth. He wore no armour, carried no weapon. There was no adornment on his clothes or his simple saddle. And yet the others in the party, even Malzagurt himself, seemed to look at him with great respect. With fear, almost.

'Ah.' The General peered up, stroking thoughtfully at his short grey beard. 'So this is Bayaz.'

The young man nodded. 'This is he. It has been a long time.'

'Not long enough, Mamun, you damned snake!' Bayaz clung to the parapet, teeth bared. The old Magus was so good at playing the kindly uncle that Jezal had forgotten how terrifying his sudden fury could be. He took a shocked step away, half raising a hand to shield his face. The Gurkish aides and flag-carriers cringed, one going so far as to be noisily sick. Even Malzagurt lost a sizeable chunk of his heroic bearing.