Last Argument of Kings

no other!â€

Questions
    A trace of
autumn fog had slunk off the restless sea as the sun went down over
crippled Adua, turning the chill night ghostly. A hundred strides
distant the houses were indistinct. Two hundred and they were
spectral, the few lights in the windows floating wraiths, hazy
through the gloom. Good weather for bad work, and we have much of
that ahead of us.
    No distant
explosions had rattled the still darkness so far. The Gurkish
catapults had fallen silent. At least for the moment, and why not?
The city almost belongs to them, and why burn your own city? Here, on the eastern side of Adua, far from the fighting, all seemed
timelessly calm. Almost as if the Gurkish had never come. So
when a vague clattering filtered through the gloom, as of the boots
of a body of well-armed men, Glokta could not help a pang of
nervousness, and pressed himself into the deeper shadows against the
hedge by the road. Faint, bobbing lights filtered through the murk.
Then the outline of a man, one hand resting casually on the pommel of
a sword, walking with a loose, strutting slouch that bespoke extreme
over-confidence. Something tall appeared to stick from his head,
waving with his movements.
    Glokta peered
into the murk. “Cosca?â€

The Day of Judgement
    Lord Marshal
West stood in the shadow of an abandoned barn, up on a rise above the
fertile plains of Midderland, his eye-glass clutched tightly in one
gloved hand. There was still a trace of morning mist clinging to the
flat autumn fields—patchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed
with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could
see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with
towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings
jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of
the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim
homecoming.
    There was not so
much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as
if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles
scheduled to begin. West swept his eye-glass back and forth, but he
could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a
tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of
pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be
sure of nothing.
    â€œThey must
be expecting us. They must be.â€

Sacrifices
    Dogman squeezed
through the gate along with a rush of others, some Northmen and an
awful lot of Union boys, all pouring into the city after that excuse
for a battle outside. There were a few folk scattered on the walls
over the archway, cheering and whooping like they were at a wedding.
A fat man in a leather apron was standing on the other side of the
tunnel, clapping folk on the back as they came past. “Thank
you, friend! Thank you!â€

Open the Box
    Logen could feel
the doubt in the men around him, could see the worry on their faces,
in the way they held their weapons, and he didn’t blame them. A
man can be fearless on his own doorstep, against enemies he
understands, but take him long miles over the salty sea to strange
places he never dreamed of, he’ll take fright at every empty
doorway. And there were an awful lot of those, now.
    The city of
white towers, where Logen had hurried after the First of the Magi,
amazed at the scale of the buildings, the strangeness of the people,
the sheer quantity of both, had become a maze of blackened ruins.
They crept down empty streets, lined with the outsize skeletons of
burned-out houses, charred rafters stabbing at the sky. They crept
across empty squares, scattered with rubble and dusted with ash.
Always the sounds of battle echoed, ghostly—near, far, all
around them.
    It was as if
they crept through hell.
    â€œHow d’you
fight in this?â€

Dark Paths
    Jezal hurried
through the tall archway and into the gardens of the palace, his
Knights around him. It was remarkable that High Justice Marovia had
been able to keep pace with them on their dash through the Agriont,
but the old man scarcely seemed out of breath. “Seal the
gates!â€

Reckonings
    Red Hat had been
right. There was no reason for anyone to die here. No one but the
Bloody-Nine, at least. It was high time that bastard took his share
of the blame.
    â€œStill
alive,â€

After the Rains
    Logen leaned on
the parapet, high up on a tower at one side of the palace, and
frowned into the wind. He’d