Dathenar sighed. ‘When leaders wrongly lead, why, best that others step in to take their place. You and I, perhaps? See, they recover – those that can – and look to us with the broken regard of the broken.’

‘Ah, so I see. Not goats then after all.’

‘No. Sheep.’

‘Shall we dog them, brother?’

‘Why not? They’ve seen our bite.’

‘Enough to heed our bark?’

‘I should think so.’

‘I should, too.’

Side by side, the two officers rode back to the deserters. Overhead, crows had already gathered, wheeling and crying out their impatience.

BOOK TWO

In One Fleeting Breath

CHAPTER NINE

BENEATH THE FLOOR OF THEIR FATHER’S PRIVATE ROOM THERE was a hypocaust, through which lead pipes ran, the hot water in them serving to heat the chamber above. There was height enough to crawl, and to kneel, if one was careful to avoid the scalding pipes.

Envy and Spite sat cross-legged, facing each other. They were rank and scrawny, their clothes and skin smeared with soot, grease and dust. Of late, their meals had consisted of rats, mice and spiders, and the occasional pigeon that lingered too long on a ledge within reach. Both girls had become adept at hunting since the new kitchen staff had arrived, and with them a host of other strangers, replenishing the household. Raiding the pantry was no longer possible, and guards now paced the corridors at night.

The taste of misery could be sweeter with company, but the two daughters of Lord Draconus looked upon one another with venom rather than camaraderie. For all that, circumstances were what they were, and both understood the necessity of their continued alliance. For now.

When they spoke, it was in hushed whispers, despite the gurgle of the pipes.

‘Again,’ hissed Spite, her eyes wide and glittering.

Envy nodded. Heavy footsteps paced above them, from a sealed chamber forbidden to all but Draconus himself. Each time Spite and Envy had ventured into this heady passage, seeking warmth as the winter bit deeper into the stones of the estate, they had heard these same muffled strides, pacing as would a prisoner, circling the confines, spiralling inward to the room’s centre, only to begin again, reversing the pattern.

Their father was still in Kharkanas. Had he returned, freedom would have quickly come to a messy and most final end for Envy and Spite. In the wake of murder, the loyalty of blood was a thread that could snap.

‘I miss Malice,’ Spite said, in a near whimper.

Envy snorted. ‘Yes, dear, we should have kept her around, flesh rotting off, hair falling out, and those horrible dead eyes that never blinked. Worse, she stank. That’s what happens when you break her neck and she comes back anyway.’

‘It was an accident. Father would see that. He’d understand that, Envy. Power, he told us, has its limits, and they need testing.’