The Northman toppled slowly sideways, slid from his chair and thumped onto the patchy turf beneath the fruit trees. He rolled gently over onto his back, knees up in the air in precisely the form he had taken while sitting, body rigid as a block of wood, eyes staring helplessly upwards.

“Ah,” observed Morveer as he peered over the table. “The advantage to Morveer, it would seem.”

Murcatto’s eyes flicked sideways, then back. A flurry of twitches ran up one side of her face. Her gloved hand trembled on the tabletop by the slightest margin, and then lay still.

“It worked,” murmured Day.

“How could you doubt me?” Morveer, liking nothing better than a captive audience, could not resist explaining how it had been managed. “Yellowseed oil was first applied to my hands.” He held them up, fingers outspread. “In order to prevent the agent affecting me, you understand. I would not want to find myself suddenly paralysed, after all. That would be a decidedly unpleasant experience!” He chuckled to himself, and Day joined him at a higher pitch while she bent down to check the Northman’s pulse, second cake wedged between her teeth. “The active ingredient was a distillation of spider venom. Extremely effective, even on touch. Since I held his hand for longer, your friend has taken a much heavier dose. He’ll be lucky to move today… if I choose to let him move again, of course. You should have retained the power of speech, however.”

“Bastard,” Murcatto grunted through frozen lips.

“I see that you have.” He rose, slipped around the table and perched himself beside her. “I really must apologise, but you understand that I am, as you have been, a person at the precarious summit of my profession. We of extraordinary skills and achievements are obliged to take extraordinary precautions. Now, unimpeded by your ability to move, we can speak with absolute candour on the subject of… Grand Duke Orso.” He swilled around a mouthful of wine, watched a little bird flit between the branches. Murcatto said nothing, but it hardly mattered. Morveer was happy to speak for them both.

“You have been done a terrible wrong, I see that. Betrayed by a man who owed you so much. Your beloved brother killed and you rendered… less than you were. My own life has been littered with painful reverses, believe me, so I entirely empathise. But the world is brimming with the awful and we humble individuals can only alter it by… small degrees.” He frowned over at Day, munching noisily.

“What?” she grunted, mouth full.

“Quietly if you must, I am trying to expound.” She shrugged, licking her fingers with entirely unnecessary sucking sounds. Morveer gave a disapproving sigh. “The carelessness of youth. She will learn. Time marches in only one direction for us all, eh, Murcatto?”

“Spare me the fucking philosophy,” she forced through tight lips.

“Let us confine ourselves to the practical, then. With your notable assistance, Orso has made himself the most powerful man in Styria. I would never pretend to have your grasp of all things military, but it scarcely takes Stolicus himself to perceive that, following your glorious victory at the High Bank last year, the League of Eight are on the verge of collapse. Only a miracle will save Visserine when summer comes. The Osprians will treat for peace or be crushed, depending on Orso’s mood, which, as you know far better than most, tends towards crushings. By the close of the year, barring accidents, Styria will have a king at last. An end to the Years of Blood.” He drained his glass and waved it expansively. “Peace and prosperity for all and sundry! A better world, surely? Unless one is a mercenary, I suppose.”