'A charming little house down near the docks. A little past its best, but plenty of character. Like the two of us, you could say.'

There were heavy footsteps in the hallway and Cosca stuck his head into the room. 'Superior, we should leave if we want to reach the docks by—' He stopped, staring at Ardee. There was an uncomfortable silence.

'Who is this?' she murmured.

Cosca pushed flamboyantly into the room, swept off his hat, displaying his scabrous bald patch, and bowed low, low, low. Any lower and his nose would scrape the floorboards. 'Forgive me, my lady. Nicomo Cosca, famed soldier of fortune, at your service. Abject, in fact, at your feet.' His throwing knife dropped out of his coat and rattled against the boards.

They all stared at it for a moment, then Cosca grinned up. 'You see that fly, against the wall?'

Glokta narrowed his eyes. 'Perhaps not the best moment for—'

The blade spun across the room, missed the target by a stride, hit the wall handle-first and gouged out a lump of plaster, bounced back and clattered across the floor.

'Shit,' said Cosca. 'I mean… damn.'

Ardee frowned down at the knife. 'I'd say shit.'

Cosca passed it off with a rotten smile. 'I must be dazzled. When the Superior described to me your beauty I thought he must have… how do you say… exaggerated? Now I see that he came short of the mark.' He retrieved his knife and jammed his hat back on, slightly askew. 'Please allow me to declare myself in love.'

'What did you tell him?' asked Ardee.

'Nothing.' Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. 'Master Cosca has a habit of overstating the case.'

'Especially when in love,' threw in the mercenary. 'Especially then. When I fall in love, I fall hard, and, as a rule, I do it no more than once a day.'

Ardee stared at him. 'I don't know whether to feel flattered or scared.'

'Why not be both?' said Glokta. 'But you will have to do it on the way.' We are short of time, and I have a rank garden to weed.

The gate came open with an agonised shrieking of rusted metal. Glokta lurched over the decaying threshold, his leg, his hip, his back all stabbing at him from the long limp to the docks. The ruined mansion loomed out of the gloom at the far end of the shattered courtyard. Like a mighty mausoleum. A suitable tomb for all my dead hopes. Severard and Frost waited in the shadows on the broken steps, dressed all in black and masked, as usual. But not at all alike. A burly man and a slender, one white haired and one dark, one standing, arms folded, the other sitting, cross-legged. One is loyal, the other… we shall find out.