Logen shrugged. 'Couldn't say. Some men always want more, I guess.'

'Some men always want more, eh, Brother Longfoot?' Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. 'I spared your other foot. I spared your life. Now you want freedom, too?'

'Superior,' he wheedled. 'If I may, you did undertake to release me… I have upheld my side of the bargain. That door should open onto a square not far from the House of Questions—'

'We shall see.'

One last splintering blow of the axe and the door shuddered back on its rusty hinges, daylight spilling into the narrow cellar. The mercenary with the tattooed neck stood aside and Glokta limped up and peered out. Ah, fresh air. A gift we so often take for granted. A short set of steps led up to a cobbled yard, hemmed in by the grubby backs of grey buildings. Glokta knew it. fust round the corner from the House of Questions, as promised.

'Superior?' murmured Longfoot.

Glokta curled his lip. But where's the harm? The chances are none of us will live out the day in any case, and dead men can afford to be merciful. The only kind of men that can, in fact. 'Very well. Let him go.' The one-eyed mercenary slid out a long knife and sawed through the rope round Longfoot's wrists. 'It would be best if I didn't ever see you again.'

The Navigator had the ghost of a grin on his face. 'Don't worry, Superior. I was only this moment thinking the very same thing.' He hobbled back the way they had come, down the dank stairway towards the sewers, rounded a corner and was gone.

'Tell me you brought the things,' said Glokta.

'I'm untrustworthy, Superior. Not incompetent.' Cosca flicked a hand at the mercenaries. 'Time, my friends. Let's black up.'

As a unit they pulled out black masks and buckled them on, pulled off their ragged coats, their torn clothes. Every man wore clean black underneath, from head to toe, with weapons carefully stowed. In a few moments a crowd of criminal villains was transformed into a well-ordered unit of Practicals of his Majesty's Inquisition. Not that there's too much of a leap from one to the other.

Cosca himself whisked his coat off, pulled it quickly inside out and dragged it back on. The lining was black as night. 'Always wise to wear a choice of colours,' he explained. 'In case one should be called upon to change sides in a pinch.' The very definition of a turncoat. He took off his hat, flicked at the filthy feather. 'Can I keep it?'

'No.'