'You've got the right idea, but it can wait for the interrogation. Would you be kind enough to take his Eminence into custody?'

'Happily.' Cosca strolled across the floor of the wide room, his boots sending up puffs of white powder, leaving a trail of ruination through the intricate patterns.

'Glokta, you blundering idiot!' shrieked Sult. 'You have no idea of the danger Bayaz poses! This First of the Magi and his bastard king! Glokta! You have no right! Gah!' He yelped as Cosca dragged his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees, his white hair in disarray. 'You have no idea—'

'If the Gurkish don't kill the lot of us, you'll get ample time to explain it to me. Of that I assure you.' Glokta leered his toothless smile as Cosca drew the rope tight around Sult's wrists. If you only knew how long I have dreamed of saying these words. 'Arch Lector Sult. I arrest you for high treason against his Majesty the King.'

Jezal could only stand and stare. One of the twins, the one spattered in blood, lifted her long arms slowly over her head and gave a long, satisfied stretch. The other raised an eyebrow.

'How would you like to die?' she asked.

'Your Majesty, get behind me.' Gorst hefted his long steel in his one good hand.

'No. Not this time.' Jezal pulled the crown from his head, the crown that Bayaz had been so particular in designing, and tossed it clattering away. He was done with being a king. If he was to die, he would die a man, like any other. He had been given so many advantages, he realised now. Far more than most men could ever dream of. So many chances to do good, and he had done nothing besides whine and think of himself. Now it was too late. 'I've lived my life leaning on others. Hiding behind them. Climbing on their shoulders. Not this time.'

One of the twins raised her hands and started slowly to clap, the regular tap, tap, echoing from the mirrors. The other giggled. Gorst raised his sword. Jezal did the same, one last act of pointless defiance.

Then High Justice Marovia flashed between them. The old man moved with impossible speed, his dark robe snapping around him. He had something in his hand. A long rod of dark metal with a hook on the end.

'What—' muttered Jezal.

The hook blazed suddenly, searingly white, bright as the sun on a summer's day. A hundred hooks burned like stars, reflected back from the mirrors round the walls, and back, and back, into the far distance. Jezal gasped, squeezed his eyes shut, holding one hand over his face, the long trail left by that brilliant point burned fizzing into his vision.