The meeting finally got under way, as the various necessary people arrived. Giles Deathstalker was first, of course, with a soldier’s sense of punctuality. He looked calm and relaxed and incredibly dangerous, as always. He bowed to me and to the Matriarch, and it would have been hard to say which was the more respectful nod. I was beginning to think that maybe I should have duelled with him after all. Soldiers only respect strength. But if I’d lost . . . I’d seen Giles fight, and he really was very good indeed.

Next to arrive were Harry and Roger, both smiling easily and innocently, as though they hadn’t just been trying to persuade my Molly to betray me. The Matriarch glared daggers at them both, but restricted her acid tongue for the good of the family. I could think of lots of things I wanted to say, but I restricted myself to a polite nod. I needed Harry and Roger. The family needed them.

Mr. Stab strolled in, accompanied by the Sarjeant-at-Arms, and it felt like the temperature in the Sanctity dropped several degrees. We all looked at him, but none of us had anything to say. Mr. Stab smiled coolly back at us, as though he was used to awkward situations like this. He had volunteered for the mission I was putting together as soon as I explained it to him, and I was glad to have him on board. As long as the Sarjeant-at-Arms was there to keep an eye on him.

The next to arrive was another volunteer, the Blue Fairy. Who might have agreed in order to make up for his plan to steal a torc, but still didn’t have the grace to look in any way guilty. He was dressed in his best, all flashing colours and elaborate cuts, and he had a smile for everyone. It was hard to dislike the man, but worth the effort.

The Armourer wandered in and stood off to one side, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his charred and stained lab coat, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He knew the mission I planned was dependant on the new weapon he’d devised, and clearly resented spending time here explaining it to the meeting when he could have been working to perfect it. Ever since he retired from field work, Uncle Jack had not so much lost his people skills as thrown them away.

And the last to arrive, as always, was Callan Drood. For him, showing up on time was something other people did. He wore a long leather duster and a floppy wide-brimmed hat, and looked like he’d come straight from a cattle roundup. Callan always liked to give the impression that you’d just dragged him away from something far more important, that he couldn’t wait to get back to.