He crunched across the quiet courtyard, snow piled up into the corners, over to the high doors of Bethod's great hall. He raised his hands and pushed them creaking open. It wasn't much warmer inside than out in the snow. The high windows were open at the far end, the noise of the cold, cold river roaring from far below. Skarling's Chair stood on its raised-up platform, at the top of the steps, casting a long shadow across the rough floorboards towards him.

Someone was sitting in it, Logen realised, as his eyes got used to the dark. Black Dow. His axe and his sword leaned up against the side of the chair, the glint of sharpened metal in the darkness. Just like him, that. Always kept his weapons close to hand.

Logen grinned at him. 'Getting comfortable, Dow?'

'Bit hard on the arse, being honest, but it's better'n dirt for sitting in.'

'Did you find Calder and Scale?'

'Aye. I found 'em.'

'Dead, then, are they?'

'Not yet. Thought I'd try something different. We been talking.'

'Talking is it? To those two bastards?'

'I can think o' worse. Where's the Dogman at?'

'Still back there, trading words with the Union, sorting out an understanding.'

'Grim?'

Logen shook his head. 'Back to the mud.'

'Huh. Well, there it is. Makes this easier, anyway.' Dow's eyes flickered sideways.

'Makes what easier?' Logen looked round. Shivers was standing right at his shoulder, scowling as if he had someone's murder in mind. No need to ask whose. Steel gleamed beside him in the shadows. A blade, out and ready. He could've stabbed Logen in the back with time to spare. But he hadn't done, and he didn't now. It seemed as if they all stayed still for quite a while, frozen as the cold valley out beyond the windows.

'Shit on this.' Shivers tossed the knife away clattering across the floor. 'I'm better'n you, Bloody-Nine. I'm better than the pair o' you. You can get your own work done, Black Dow. I'm done with it.' He turned round and strode out, shoving his way past the two Carls from the gate, just now coming the other way. One of them hefted his shield as he frowned at Logen. The other one pulled the doors shut, swung the bar down with a final-sounding clunk.

Logen slid the Maker's sword out of its sheath, turned his head and spat on the boards. 'Like that, is it?'

'Course it is,' said Dow, still sat in Skarling's chair. 'If you'd ever looked a stride further than the end o' your nose you'd know it.'

'What about the old ways, eh? What about your word?'

'The old ways are gone. You killed 'em. You and Bethod. Men's words ain't worth much these days. Well then?' he called over his shoulder. 'Now's your chance, ain't it?'