'There is no cause for alarm,' croaked Varuz, 'our defences are impregnable.' His voice quavered, then cracked entirely at the final word, doing little to give anyone the slightest reassurance. Only a few short weeks ago, nobody would have dared to suggest that the Agriont could ever fall. But nobody would ever have dreamed that it would be surrounded by legions of Gurkish soldiers, either. Very plainly, the rules had changed. A deep blast of horns rang out.

'Down there,' muttered one of his staff.

Jezal peered through his borrowed eye-glass. Some form of great cart had been drawn up through the streets, like a wooden house on wheels, covered by plates of beaten metal. Even now, Gurkish soldiers were loading barrels into it under the direction of two men in white armour.

'Explosive powder,' someone said, unhelpfully.

Jezal felt Marovia's hand on his arm. 'Your Majesty, it might be best if you were to retire.'

'And if I am not safe here? Where, precisely, will I be out of danger, do you suppose?'

'Marshal West will soon deliver us, I am sure. But in the meantime the palace is much the safest place. I will accompany you.' He gave an apologetic smile. 'At my age, I fear I will be little use on the walls.'

Gorst held out one gauntleted hand towards the stairs. 'This way.'

'This way,' growled Glokta, limping up the hall as swiftly as his ruined feet would carry him, Cosca ambling after. Click, tap, pain.

Only one secretary remained outside the office of the High Justice, peering disapprovingly over his twinkling eye-glasses. No doubt the rest have donned ill-fitting armour and are manning the walls. Or, more likely, have locked themselves in cellars. If only I were with them.

'I am afraid his Worship is busy.'

'Oh, he will see me, don't worry about that.' Glokta hobbled past without stopping, placed his hand on the brass doorknob of Marovia's office, and almost jerked it back in surprise. The metal was icy cold. Cold as hell. He turned it with his fingertips and opened the door a crack. A breath of white vapour curled out into the hall, like the freezing mist that would hang over the snowy valleys in Angland in the midst of winter.

It was deathly cold in the room beyond. The heavy wooden furniture, the old oak panelling, the grubby window panes, all glittered with white hoar-frost. The heaps of legal papers were furry with it. A bottle of wine on a table by the door had shattered, leaving behind a bottle-shaped block of pink ice and a scattering of sparkling splinters.