'Lord Marshal!' It was Brint, hurrying down the quay at the front of a group of officers. One side of his face was covered in a long smear of ash. 'Lord Marshal, General Poulder—'

'At long bloody last!' snapped West. 'Now perhaps we'll have some answers. Where the hell is that bastard?' He shouldered Brint aside, and froze. Poulder lay on a stretcher held by four muddy and miserable-looking members of his staff. He had the expression of a man in peaceful sleep, to the degree that West kept expecting to hear him snore. A huge, ragged wound in his chest rather spoiled the effect, however.

'General Poulder led the charge from the front,' said one of the officers, swallowing his tears. 'A noble sacrifice…'

West stared down. How often had he wished that man dead? He jerked one hand over his face at a sudden wave of nausea. 'Damn it,' he whispered.

'Damn it!' hissed Glokta as he twisted his trembling ankle on the topmost step and nearly pitched onto his face. A bony Inquisitor coming the other way gave him a long look. 'Is there a problem?' he snarled back. The man lowered his head and hurried past without speaking.

Click, tap, pain. The dim hallway slid by with agonising slowness. Every step was an ordeal, now, but he forced himself on, legs burning, foot throbbing, neck aching, sweat running down his twisted back under his clothes, a rictus of toothless nonchalance clamped onto his face. At every gasp and grunt through the building he had expected a challenge. With each twinge and spasm he had been waiting for the Practicals to flood from the doorways and butcher him and his thinly disguised hirelings like hogs.

But those few nervous people they had passed had scarcely looked up. Fear has made them sloppy. The world teeters at a precipice. All scared to take a step in case they put a foot into empty air. The instinct of self-preservation. It can destroy a man's efficiency.

He lurched through the open doors and into the ante-room outside the Arch Lector's office. The secretary's head jerked angrily up. 'Superior Glokta! You cannot simply…' He stumbled on the words as the mercenaries began to tramp into the narrow room behind him. 'I mean to say… you cannot…'

'Silence! I am acting on the express orders of the king himself.' Well, everyone lies. The difference between a hero and a villain is whether anyone believes him. 'Step aside!' he hissed at the two Practicals flanking the door, 'or be prepared to answer for it.' They glanced at each other, then, as more of Cosca's men appeared, raised their hands together and allowed themselves to be disarmed. The instinct of self-preservation. A decided disadvantage.