Articles of Faith

‘Sand-flower! Why in God’s name must everyone …’ Vashenda leaned her head against the crook of her staff, eyes clenched shut. ‘I suppose we’ll find out how much you’ll be missed after all, you stupid boy.’

Chel didn’t move. He couldn’t. His gaze was locked on Hurkel. The enormous confessor was grinning again. Chel’s vision was twitching in time with the thump of his pulse, a taste like burning at the back of his throat.

The distant peal of bells carried on the sea breeze, from somewhere out past the headland. They were joined by others, closer at the harbour’s edge, then a moment later the plaza rang with the clang and jangle of churches, chapels and watchtowers.

Chel blinked. It couldn’t yet be ten bells, surely?

Hurkel looked at Vashenda, who looked back at Hurkel, eyes narrowed, brows low. His expression matched hers. ‘That’s an alarm,’ Vashenda said slowly. Hurkel grunted, his attention dragged away from Chel.

Shouts followed the bells. Suddenly the plaza was full of people again, running this way and that, their shouts and calls vying with the cacophony of bells.

Vashenda grimaced. ‘We’ll have to take the heretic’s confession later. Brother Hurkel, put her in the cart with the others.’

Chel stood his ground. Already the plaza was thick with motion, the sound of the bells sporadically near-deafening. ‘Leave her alone,’ he shouted over the noise.

Someone was bellowing Vashenda’s name from across the plaza, another red-robed, tufted type, his features animated with alarm. Vashenda exhaled in exasperation, then leaned forward and fixed Chel with a fearsome glare as the chaos enveloped them. ‘This is not over, sand-flower. You may yet enjoy the chance to regret your choices.’

She growled at Hurkel and jerked her head for him to follow. Hurkel gestured at the cart, but she shook her head. ‘They’ll still be there when we come back.’ The two of them stalked away, leaving the cart with its whimpering cargo locked at the plaza’s centre. Chel felt his insides unclench as they passed from view. He needed to get back to the palace.

Heali was pushing his way through the crowd, his fleshy face waxy and pallid. ‘God’s breath, Master Chel. That’s pushing your luck, even for someone of your blood.’ He shook his head. ‘Why would you get yourself involved in all that?’

Chel had stilled his breathing, although the light-headedness remained. ‘You saw? I could have used some moral support there, Heali. Besides, I’m sworn. They couldn’t have touched me.’ I hope, he added to himself.

‘I’m sure that knowledge would have been a comfort once they had you strung up by your ankles in the croft. You want my advice, young man, you stay—’

‘Beating the poor wasn’t in any Article I ever heard.’

Heali gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Maybe you’ve not heard the new ones. They’ll let anyone in these days, give some alley-boy a stick and a red robe and call him a confessor, I dunno, makes me question sometimes …’ He tailed off. ‘Stay out of their way, Master Chel, for your own sake. The Rose have a long memory and a longer reach.’

Chel only sniffed. His legs were trembling. He hoped Heali couldn’t tell.

The wild-haired preacher’s head emerged from beneath the rancid cart. ‘They’re gone,’ Chel said, doing his best to look reassuring.

She clambered out and fixed him with her clear eyes. ‘Mother bless you, child. You and your people shall be in her highest favour.’

‘Er, if you say so.’

She turned and began working at the cage’s bolt, trying to prise it open. Within, the sallow and frightened faces shrank back, more alarmed than ever. Interfering with the Rose’s confessionals was simply not done.

‘Hey,’ Chel called after her. ‘Hey! They’ll be coming back, you don’t want to hang around for that, right? This will make things worse!’

The preacher stopped for a moment, and looked out over the harbour as a briny gust from the coast blew dust around the plaza and the bells rang on around them. ‘A great storm is coming,’ she said, her eyes still on the harbour. ‘The Mother has shown me. There will be a cleansing flood.’

He squinted out at the sea, still glittering in the morning sun, trying to work out what she saw; her words were all too close to Mercunin’s earlier proclamation. ‘You know, there’s a porter up at the palace you should meet, you two would get on like a house on fire.’

Heali grabbed his arm, pulling him away. ‘That’s enough, Master Chel. You can’t help the touched any more than you already have. We’d better get back up the hill.’

With one last look at the struggling preacher, they made for the palace.

TWO

What seemed like half the palace’s population was crammed onto its white walls, jostling and bickering for a clear view of the bay. Above them, the lone, sad warning bell of the palace’s solitary spire tolled in fitful answer to the jangling mass below.

‘Can’t see a bastard thing,’ Heali muttered, squeezing around a gaggle of servants. He was a hand shorter than Chel, who didn’t have much of a view himself. They laboured along the crowded battlements until at last they found a space between the chattering crowds.

‘God’s breath,’ he whispered as Chel pressed in alongside.

The mid-morning sun, kept low in the northern sky over the sea by autumn’s arrival, gleamed from the gentle waves of the bay. But where sea should have followed, the neck of the bay was blocked by a giant black vessel: long, wide and low, a floating fortress of dark wood and metal, its sails and oar banks crimson and gilded with silver. A pair of smaller vessels, just as dark, trailed it like ducklings. Chel guessed even the smallest would have rivalled the largest ship currently moored in the harbour. The main ship could have sailed over the grand duke’s pleasure barge without scratching its hull.

They didn’t seem to be advancing. The dark ships sat out to sea, riding the waves up and down in place, anchors dropped, while the terrified bells rang out around the bay. A small boat, black flag of truce fluttering from its prow, had dropped from the largest ship and was rowing into the bay beneath the watching eyes of the port’s population, and the swivelling half-dozen giant skein-bows on the headland sea-fort. From the other direction came the duke’s barges, moving to encircle it, the tin hats of crossbowmen glinting from their decks.

‘What are they? Who are they?’ Chel asked, his eyes not leaving the floating fortress. Adrenaline washed through him, refreshing the fearsome trembling that had only just left him from his encounter with Brother Hurkel.

Heali’s brow was slick, his breath short. ‘Norts, boy. The black ships of the Norts have come for us.’

Others were joining them, muttering and shouting filling the air as guardsmen jostled with servants and house staff, occasionally shunted aside by the arrival of someone with a title to wield. Their hubbub filled Chel’s ears.

‘Is it an invasion?’

‘It’s a blockade!’

‘But if Denirnas Port is closed, it’ll be nothing but river traffic ferried up from Sebemir! The north will starve!’

Chel nudged Heali. ‘We’re not enemies of the Norts. Are we?’

‘I’m not much inclined to go down and ask them, Master Chel.’

In the port, the bells faltered, then one by one they stopped. Perhaps the operators were now watching the scene in the bay, or piling their worldly goods onto a mule and making for the mountains. Two fluttering objects had risen from the main deck of the giant Nort vessel, like outsize birds with wings of spider-silk. They glimmered and glistened, borne aloft on the inland breeze, anchored by thin ropes or cables to the vessel beneath. The silk-birds soared up and over the little boat and the approaching barges, twinkling beneath as if they carried lanterns.

‘What in hells do you suppose those are, Master Chel? Totems? Decorations?’

‘If they’re sails, they’re very small and very far away.’

A further commotion ran through the crowd like a wave. ‘Oh joy,’ muttered Chel as he watched ducal guards pushing their way to the promontory. ‘The grand duke and his entourage are here. I’m sure everything will be just fine now.’

‘You sound a touch insincere, Master Chel.’

‘Call me judgemental, but if three years in Sokol’s service have taught me anything it’s that the more skivvies, flunkies and lickspittles that surround a lord, the less contemplative their decisions.’ And that’s without counting his repellent offspring, he added to himself.

Robed notables scuttled in the duke’s wash, hemmed by the brooding house-guards. Chel half expected to see Lord Sokol among them, but it was still early yet. He watched them bustle their bullish way through those already gathered, his lip curled. There was the duke’s eldest, Count Esen, pushing an inattentive kitchen-waif from his path and almost off the ramparts; only the swift hands of a watching guardsman prevented her from falling. Count Esen only smirked.

Chel felt Heali’s restraining hand on his arm.

He spat into the dust and sighed. ‘At least that ghastly prick actively blackens his father’s name.’ He watched a pale, slumped figure come trudging after the other nobles. ‘That little prince doesn’t do a thrice-damned thing, just slopes along like a kicked dog after the rest of them.’

Heali chuckled. ‘Tough job, being the ward of a grand duke. No doubt takes a lot out of him, weekly lectures at the Academy, the feasts and festivals.’

Chel froze. One last figure had come to join the ducal party: Sister Vashenda had stopped a way short of the promontory, looking out over the bay. Chel was rooted to the spot, sweat-slick, praying she didn’t turn his way.

His prayers were for dust. As if sensing him, Sister Vashenda turned, and the sharp lines of her face locked rigid. She advanced, her hook-headed staff tapping the stone, signalling to her lackeys as she came. ‘Sand-flower!’ she called, her eyes burning. ‘Impeding the work of God’s messengers is a vile crime …’

Chel tried to stand his ground again, but his legs were shaking uncontrollably. He was safe here, surely, within the walls of the palace. A sworn man, a guest of the duke—

‘… But the release of heretics is beyond contempt.’

‘What? You mean … But that wasn’t me!’

‘There will be a reckoning, boy!’

Something had happened out in the bay. One of the seneschals gasped, ‘Beneath a flag of truce no less!’ Others around him shushed and jeered. The duke’s barges had fired on the little Nort boat. Then the mutterings rose in pitch and urgency. ‘What in hells!’ a guardsman shrieked. Chel turned from the prelate and peered out over the jostling assemblage, toward the harbour.

‘Sand-flower! Do not turn your back to me.’ He heard Vashenda shout over the crowd. ‘Brother Hurkel,’ she called, ‘take the Andriz!’

The floating silken birds were spewing flame. Streams of liquid fire poured from the sky, dousing the duke’s barges. Screams filled the air as the flaming mass gushed over them, the men within scrabbling overboard as the flames roared up. Tin hats glinted on the waters of the bay, while gobbets of fire spat and hissed, burning on the surface.

‘Witchfire!’ came the cry along the battlements. Others joined it. People started to run, and at once the ramparts churned.

‘Come hither, Andriz.’ Chel turned to see Brother Hurkel come lumbering into view, his grin undiminished by the chaos around them. ‘You’re late for your lesson.’

‘He means to take you, Master Chel, Norts be damned.’ Heali was at Chel’s shoulder. ‘I’ll stall him. Make for the sea-fort!’

Chel ran, the duke’s roar to attack ringing over the thundering of his heart in his ears. He pelted off down the rampart, weaving in between hurrying guardsmen, servants and seneschals, all of whom had remembered urgent business elsewhere. Witchfire! he thought. Mercunin was right, we shall all of us burn. From behind him came Heali’s bright wheedling. ‘Ah, Brother Hurkel, if I might—’

‘Fuck off, Heali,’ was all Chel heard before the duke’s signal drums rang out from the walls, loud over the sounds of the fleeing crowd. Ahead of him, the massive skein-bows cranked and turned, while ghastly burning smells were drifting over the palace, borne by the same wind that kept the silk-birds aloft.

Chel rounded a turret as great thrums filled the air. A whistling volley of giant bolts, each as long as Chel was tall, soared out over the bay, blurs rippling through the air. He heard the distant eruptions of water and great tin booms like kettledrums where they found their mark. A ragged cheer rose from those guards still at the wall as the spray subsided.

Quickly, gasps and oaths replaced the cheer. Chel slowed, snatching a glance over the bay. The black ships remained, unsunk, bobbing on the gentle waves.

‘Are they made of iron?’ one of the guardsmen said, incredulous. ‘How the fuck do they float?’

Something flew out from the black ship, something like a fireball, trailing bright flame and black smoke. The fireball shot over the water, faster than a skein-bolt, screaming like a demon. It smashed into the headland below the sea-fort, exploding in white and crimson flame and sending chunks of rock soaring into the air, stone splashing out into the bay.

Chel tumbled and skittered, his heart galloping up his throat in what felt like a desperate bid to escape. ‘What in all the saints …?’

Another fireball launched from the black ship, then the turret ahead of him exploded. The blast showered flame and stone across the walls as the turret’s skein-bow, arms burning, pitched over the collapsing battlement and dropped into the bay. A wall of choking smoke blew over the rampart, forcing Chel to hunch and gasp, while stone shards and pebbles rained down around him. From somewhere through the fog came the sound of Brother Hurkel’s calls.

Chel wiped at his eyes and pushed himself to his feet as another explosion rocked the stone beneath him. ‘Fuck. This.’

As smothering clouds of smoke and ash billowed over the walls, Chel ran.

***

He dropped from the wall above the stables. The palace was emptying, he couldn’t see Sokol and his retinue, and their mounts were gone too. They must have cleared out at the first warning bells. How very Sokol. Chel took a long, ragged breath to try to calm his nerves. He had to get out before the Norts razed the entire port. There were still horses left, although not for much longer: already palace staff were tussling with liveried riders over the ownership and use of those that remained. Then, of course, there was Brother Hurkel and his companion confessors to consider. If witchfire hadn’t put them off his trail, they may yet be lying in wait.

A narrow, two-wheeled cart stood just beside the stable arch, abandoned midway through unloading supplies for the kitchens from the look of it. It stood, facing the wrong way, a burly, bored-looking mule hitched before it. A dusty cloak lay across the driver’s bench.

‘Perfect.’

He jumped up to the cart and threw the cloak over himself. Sweating from the morning’s heat, the strain of Hurkel’s chase, the Nort attack and now cart-theft to boot, Chel geed the reins and drove the cart and mule forward, wheeling around the stables and toward the main courtyard and the outside world.

***

Chel couldn’t keep his hands tight on the reins. They shook and slipped with his still-thumping heartbeats as well as with each rut on the road. He’d joined the main road out to the provinces, but all around him people surged, creating a long line back to the city. He could only hope that Vashenda and Hurkel had more to worry about than his escape.

A cloaked figure poked his head out from the crates in the back of the cart. ‘Why are we slowing?’

‘Argh! Who in hells are you?’ Chel shrieked.

‘We’ve been invaded! Invaded! They’re going to kill us all! Why aren’t we going faster?’

‘Because this road is full of people, you plank. I’d rather not tip this thing and kill us and them before we get anywhere.’

Something about the way his companion stiffened when he’d called him a plank bothered Chel. ‘Who are you? Why were you hiding in this cart?’

The figure pulled back his hood and looked up at him. Chel’s insides congealed. He looked back at the pallid face of the hang-dog prince, the runt of the litter: Tarfel Merimonsun, Junior Prince of Vistirlar.

‘Five bloody, blasted hells …’

‘Why aren’t we going faster?’ shrieked the prince.

THREE

‘Your highness! I’m so— I didn’t realize. I was just trying to get out of the city and find my liege—’

‘Immaterial! I’m commandeering you.’

‘But—’

‘Listen, peasant: whoever you’re sworn to, whoever they’re sworn to, totter high enough up the stack and they’re all sworn to the crown. And who wears that?’

‘Uh, your father?’

‘Well, yes, but he’s ill, isn’t he? So while he recovers, the master of the Star Court is …?’

‘Your brother, highness?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But he’s not the one commandeering me.’

‘Well, no, you gormless pleb, but that’s why you’re going to take me to him.’

‘But your brother is in Omundi and that’s days away – I’d be an oathbreaker! I have to be released, it doesn’t work if I just walk away.’

‘In my father’s name, are all you provincials so thick-skulled? Your pestilent oath won’t matter a gnat’s fart once we reach my brother. The crown can supplant or dissolve inferior pledges, you homespun halfwit. You’ll be released the moment my brother decrees it.’

Chel’s hands went very still on the thin reins. The mule plodded on, making progress into the rough countryside. In Chel’s mind, a second road was unfurling, one that led into a suddenly unconstrained future. For a moment he forgot his fear. ‘Released from my oath?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

‘And what about a pardon for any unwitting offences against the Church?’

‘Of course! My brother is on excellent terms with Primarch Vassad. Just get me to safety. And fast! This whole coast is unsafe. One of my brothers was murdered on the road by brigands, you know.’

Chel’s mind was galloping ahead. The prince slapped at his arm.

‘Do you dare defy a prince of the kingdom in a time of war? I’ll have you e—’

‘I’ll take you, highness. I’ll get you to safety, I swear it.’

‘Well, about bloody time. There you go, you have a new oath already.’

Chel saw no sign of any of Sokol’s band on the road. Images floated in his mind: silken birds pouring fire onto the water beneath, the screaming fireballs ripping across the bay and into the fort, the giant black ship, sitting implacable between frothing plumes. Already the memories were becoming unreal, too much to absorb, greasy moments slipping away into his subconscious.

He still felt a burn of shame at the thought of abandoning his sworn duty, despite the young prince’s commands. He told himself that Sokol would no doubt be on the road east already, and that they’d likely catch him up, whereupon Prince Tarfel could explain the situation. Perhaps they’d all make the journey together, Sokol prideful of his new charge right up to the moment where Crown Prince Mendel dissolved Chel’s oath before his eyes.

Chel and the prince went east, toward Omundi and the army.

***

The port was burning, great gouts of flame pouring from the sky like incandescent pillars. Whole buildings were reduced to rubble, the palace on the bluffs a blackened cadaver, the Academy opposite a scorching glare too bright to regard.

The city walls crumbled to ash as the entire sea lit with alchemical fire, washing like a wave over the port. He watched it rise before him, screaming silently, anchored to the spot in the ruin of the sea-fort. Heali’s voice called to him, exhorting him to flee, but he remained rooted as the curtain of flame rose higher until it consumed the sky. There, at its centre, just before it fell upon him, he saw a tiny figure, dark against the blaze. It wore a snarling mask.

His head knocked against the crate behind him and with a gulp of air Chel woke. The reins were still in his hands, soaked through. Mortified, he tried to wipe away the worst of his slick sheen, while the mule plodded faithfully on. He felt in no hurry to sleep again.

It was a three-day trip to Omundi, rattling along the pitted dirt roads in the mule cart. The makeshift convoy moved as fast as it could, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the invading Norts as conditions allowed, the bulk of their contingent likewise seeking the safety of the League’s armies.

They camped only briefly and stopped at few roadside shrines. Prince Tarfel made for a dreadful travelling companion: he insisted on hiding among the kitchen supplies in the back of the cart, where he alternated between gibbering panic, which was tiresome, and ostentatious boredom, which was worse. He was prone to bursting into song when under-occupied; his reedy tenor could at least carry a tune, but his limited repertoire ground down Chel’s resolve as the journey wore on, to the extent that he considered teaching the prince some of the more rustic ditties favoured by Sokol’s regulars. When not singing, the prince demanded explanations for everything they passed on the road, from the meaning of the plague quarantine markers to the frequency of the smoking char pits. The only sight to hush him was a rack of gibbets strung at a crossroads, the bodies dangling beneath shorn of noses and ears, the signs around their shredded necks clearly reading ‘Rau Rel’. Otherwise, Chel kept his answers short. When a kingdom has been fighting the same war on itself for twenty years, there’s little new to say, he thought to himself.

Chel tried to focus on the immediate future. He would ditch the prince with his brother, hop back on the cart and roll on south, cut east at the Lakes and be home ahead of the news of Denirnas Port’s destruction. Away from the madness, away from murderous confessors and their lingering venom. By the time he arrived, he could shape the story of the Nort invasion to his choosing, his interactions with the prince, how he came to be reprieved from Sokol’s pointless service, assuming Sokol had even survived. Enough remained of the cart’s contents to barter his way all the way back to Barva. He was going far away from all this. He was going home. All he had to worry about was what to say when he arrived. What to say to his sisters, what to say to his step-father. What to say to his mother. Chel bit his lip in contemplation. At least he’d have plenty of time to think.

‘Look, the pennants, the pennants!’

Tarfel had roused himself and was pointing down into the river valley. Ahead of them, down the curve of the dusty road as it wound its way into the river valley, the bright walls of Omundi shone in the evening sun.

Spread like a dark blanket pocked with campfires before the walls, the armies of the Glorious League lay camped, the Church-blessed alliance of great Names and small, the crown-led instrument of divine unification. Siege engines stood idle in their earthworks, just out of bowshot, and Chel noted with distaste the rocky dam that had diverted the river’s flow away from the city and down deep-cut channels in the earth. Little seemed to be happening.

Highest of all the pennants that fluttered at the centre of the camp was the white lion of Merimonsun, and Tarfel squealed with glee at its sight. ‘Go there, go there!’ Chel geed the mule down the slope toward the camp.

***

Whether or not the pickets at the camp’s edge believed that the mule cart was an official royal conveyance, Tarfel’s shrieking, princely entitlement and signet-waving had them escorted to the camp’s centre in short order by nervous men-at-arms. An equally sceptical vizier bade them wait, still guarded, at the edge of a wide earth circle, ringed by the exotic tents of the great and good of the royal forces. Lions, pictorially speaking, were everywhere.

Overhead, a host of messenger-birds, doves and pigeons, seemed in constant circulation, teeming from the cotes stacked beside the grandest pavilion, coming and going in a ceaseless flutter of feathers. Panting foot messengers with grime-streaked faces came pelting past at regular intervals. All activity seemed centred on the pavilion, the hub for messages from hand and wing, a commotion of traffic in each direction at its entrance. Chel guessed that the news from Denirnas must have reached them by now. Beside the pavilion’s flap, watching every item in and out, stood a tall, hooded figure, robed in white and vermilion and dusted with travel-muck.

Chel’s heart thudded once and stopped, his pulse replaced with a sudden flooding lightness that spread over his skin. How had Vashenda got here ahead of them? His mouth was dry, tongue thick. Then his brain registered the difference of stance, of height, the curved sword belted beneath the robes, and he felt his heartbeat restart. It was not Vashenda. Another senior prelate, but not one who’d ordered him adjusted.

‘Bear?’ He was jolted out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. ‘Bear, is that you?’

‘Five bastard hells, it can’t be,’ he whispered.

***

Chel and the prince turned to find a young woman standing behind them, excitement and trepidation surging over her face. Her straight hair was bound and shrouded in the fashion of the Star Court, and she gazed at them with eyes as grey as Chel’s own.

Her face split in a wide grin and she threw her arms around him. ‘I knew it was you!’

‘Sab?’ Chel reeled, carried backward by her momentum. ‘How are you here? What are the chances? You look …’

She released him from her crushing grip. ‘Taller? More dynamic? Matured like fine spiced wine?’

‘Different.’

‘It’s been three years, Bear, near as matters. I wasn’t going to stay small and grotty. You look the same, if dirtier. But what are you doing here?’

‘I should ask likewise. Why aren’t you at home?’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Why’d you think, Bear-of-Mine?’

Tarfel cleared his throat with a frown, and the girl grinned again. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

Chel sighed. ‘May I present Sabina Chel of Barva, my little sister.’

Tarfel inclined his head, looking Sabina up and down. ‘Not so little any more, eh?’

Frowning, Chel continued. ‘Sab, this is His Royal Highness Tarfel Merimonsun, prince of the realm, youngest son of King Lubel.’

She’d already begun a bow of her own and she staggered at his words. ‘You’re friends with a fucking prince?’ she hissed, head bent.

‘Well, not friends exactly,’ he said, experiencing several different flavours of mortification.

‘Your brother was good enough to escort me here from Denirnas,’ Tarfel said haughtily. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ He extended a grubby hand for her to kiss. To Chel, he murmured, ‘Bear? You’re not very bear-like, Chel.’

‘It’s, ah, a family thing.’

The sneering vizier reappeared, informing them that negotiations with the city had paused, if not concluded, and Prince Mendel had a moment for an audience with his brother. Tarfel swanned off after the man and into the grand pavilion. The robed prelate lingered outside, her hooded gaze swinging back across the Chel siblings, black eyes glittering within. Chel felt an unpleasant tingling as it swept over him, then the figure ducked beneath the flaps and was gone.

‘Who is that? That prelate?’

Sab sniffed. ‘Ah, Balise da Loran: “Lo Vassad’s clenched fist”. She’s the Star’s chief minister and a double-bastard.’

‘Chief minister? She’s a Church prelate!’

‘She’s also first sworn to Prince Thick, you know, after he had to start afresh. Many feathers in that cap.’

‘Prince Thick?’

She gestured toward the pavilion. ‘Mendel, the crown prince. Your new chum’s big bro. The man’s a haircut in boots. Pretty, though, even with the scars.’

He shook his head, baffled. ‘So who’s left at home, if you’re here? Has everyone been sent away?’

‘The twins are still there, Bear. They’re too young to go anywhere yet.’ She offered a sad smile. ‘They’ll look after Mum.’

‘But why are you here? I mean, here, at Omundi?’

‘You know, bit of this, bit of that. Making friends, keeping my eyes open.’

‘Sab.’

‘I’m travelling with the court. Can’t you tell?’ She twirled in her formal garb.

‘As what?’

‘As a lady-in-waiting, seconded to the entourage of our crown prince’s intended. The Lady Latifah has about three dozen of us, so I just slot into the mass. Five hells, is that girl stupid: people call her Latifah the Dim, sometimes to her face, poor lamb. That was Prince Dunce’s pick from the nobility’s nubility. Shepherd’s tits, imagine their children! They’ll need breathing lessons!’

‘How long in service? And when did you start cursing like a sergeant?’

‘Are you interrogating me, Bear? Since the spring. Amiran thought it was time I made my way.’

‘Of course he bloody did. You’re far too young to be fending for yourself at court!’

‘I’m not a duckling, Bear. I’m the same age you were when you set off on your travels. Speaking of which, where’s Uncle Hanush? Is he with you?’

‘Don’t call him that. And no, he’s not.’ His cheeks coloured at the thought of Lord Sokol, and his clothes felt suddenly hot.

Sab narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s going on? How did you come to be escorting the little prince? Your last letter said you were spending the year burning farmers up north.’

‘We did. Not burning farmers – well, some of them might have been. We were suppressing insurrections in the northeast all summer. Then Sokol decided we’d be wintering with Grand Duke Reysel at the winter palace in Denirnas, where they don’t so much have winter as a cool spell between summers. Mostly we just seemed to chase people away from places.’