“Hmmm,” mused Cosca. “I was wondering the same thing.”

“Wondering?” The Northman’s big fist was uncomfortably tight round Cosca’s arm. “When does wondering turn into shitting yourself?”

“I’ve often wondered.” Cosca peeled the hand away. “But it’s a funny thing. I simply don’t get scared.” He made off through the crowd, clapping backs, calling for drinks, pointing out attractions, spreading good humour wherever he went. He was in his element, now. Vice, and high living, but danger too.

He feared old age, failure, betrayal and looking a fool. Yet he never feared before a fight. Cosca’s happiest moments had been spent waiting for battles to begin. Watching the countless Gurkish march upon the walls of Dagoska. Watching the forces of Sipani deploy before the Battle of the Isles. Scrambling onto his horse by moonlight when the enemy sallied from the walls of Muris. Danger was the thing he most enjoyed. Worries for the future, purged. Failures of the past, erased. Only the glorious now remained. He closed his eyes and sucked in air, felt it tingling pleasantly in his chest, heard the excited babbling of the guests. He scarcely even felt the need for a drink anymore.

He snapped his eyes open to see two men stepping through the gate, others scraping away to make grovelling room for them. His Highness Prince Ario was dressed in a scarlet coat, silken cuffs drooping from his embroidered sleeves in a manner that implied he would never have to grip anything for himself. A spray of multicoloured feathers sprouted from the top of his golden mask, thrashing like a peacock’s tail as he looked about him, unimpressed.

“Your Highness!” Cosca swept off his hat and bowed low. “We are truly, truly honoured by your presence.”

“Indeed you are,” said Ario. “And by the presence of my brother.” He wafted a languid hand at the man beside him, dressed all in spotless white with a mask in the form of half a golden sun, somewhat twitchy and reluctant-seeming, Cosca rather thought. Foscar, no doubt, though he had grown a beard which very much suited him. “Not to mention that of our mutual friend, Master Sulfur.”

“Alas, I cannot stay.” A nondescript fellow had slipped in behind the two brothers. He had a curly head of hair, a simple suit and a faint smile. “So much to do. Never the slightest peace, eh?” And he grinned at Cosca. Inside the holes of his plain mask, his eyes were different colours: one blue, one green. “I must to Talins tonight, and speak to your father. We cannot allow the Gurkish a free hand.”

“Of course not. Damn those Gurkish bastards. Good journey to you, Sulfur.” Ario gave the slightest bow of his head.

“Good journey,” growled Foscar, as Sulfur turned for the gate.

Cosca jammed his hat back on his head. “Well, your two honours are certainly most welcome! Please, enjoy the entertainments! Everything is at your disposal!” He sidled closer, flashing his most mischievous grin. “The top floor of the building has been reserved for you and your brother. Your Highness will find, I rather think, a particularly surprising diversion in the Royal Suite.”