Scarpius towered over her as she started up the steps, peering down out of the corners of his lichen-crusted eyes as if to say, Is this bitch the best they could do? The monstrous pediment loomed behind him, and she wondered if the hundred tons of rock balanced on those pillars might finally choose that moment to crash down and obliterate the entire leadership of Styria, herself along with them. No small part of her hoped that it would, and bring this sticky ordeal to a swift end.

A gaggle of leading citizens—meaning the sharpest and the greediest—had clustered nervously in the centre of the platform, sweating in their most expensive clothes, looking hungrily towards her like geese at a bowl of crumbs. They bowed as she and Rogont came closer, heads bobbing together in a way that suggested they’d been rehearsing. That somehow made her more irritated than ever.

“Get up,” she growled.

Rogont held his hand out. “Where is the circlet?” He snapped his fingers. “The circlet, the circlet!”

The foremost of the citizens looked like a bad caricature of wisdom—all hooked nose, snowy beard and creaky deep voice under a green felt hat like an upended chamber pot. “Madam, my name is Rubine, nominated to speak for the citizens.”

“I am Scavier.” A plump woman whose azure bodice exposed a terrifying immensity of cleavage.

“And I am Grulo.” A tall, lean man, bald as an arse, not quite shouldering in front of Scavier but very nearly.

“Our two most senior merchants,” explained Rubine.

It carried little weight with Rogont. “And?”

“And, with your permission, your Excellency, we were hoping to discuss some details of the arrangements—”

“Yes? Out with it!”

“As regards the title, we had hoped perhaps to steer away from nobility. Grand duchess smacks rather of Orso’s tyranny.”

“We hoped…” ventured Grulo, waving a vulgar finger-ring, “something to reflect the mandate of the common people.”

Rogont winced at Monza, as though the phrase “common people” tasted of piss. “Mandate?”

“President elect, perhaps?” offered Scavier. “First citizen?”

“After all,” added Rubine, “the previous grand duke is still, technically… alive.”

Rogont ground his teeth. “He is besieged two dozen miles away in Fontezarmo like a rat in his hole! Only a matter of time before he is brought to justice.”

“But you understand the legalities may prove troublesome—”

“Legalities?” Rogont spoke in a furious whisper. “I will soon be King of Styria, and I mean to have the Grand Duchess of Talins among those who crown me! I will be king, do you understand? Legalities are for other men to worry on!”

“But, your Excellency, it might not be seen as appropriate—”

For a man with a reputation for too much patience, Rogont’s had grown very short over the last few weeks. “How appropriate would it be if I was to, say, have you hanged? Here. Now. Along with every other reluctant bastard in the city. You could argue the legalities to each other while you dangle.”