Helena and Grange picked up an honour guard of two watchmen first class as they strode through the blockhouse and out into Hangman’s Square. Gallowhill was the highest district in Draconium, spreading as it did across a hilltop of quite some size, and the City Watch blockhouse stood at its highest point. The cobbled expanse of Hangman’s Square was featureless barring the stark row of gallows that lined its northern edge, and despite the slab-sided administration buildings that huddled around it, the square still afforded a magnificent view of Draconium.

Slate roofs marched away down the hill’s slopes, and beyond them Helena could see the city she had dwelt in all her life – the city she loved, spread out in morning tableaux. To the north lay Hallowheart, the regent militant’s palace, glittering amidst a collection of martial structures, Sigmarite shrines and the homes of the local nobility, all hemmed in behind a high wall of marble and iron. Beyond it, the homes and businesses of Rookswatch marched away to the northern wall, the old Rookswatch towers looming precariously over the surrounding structures. To the south she saw Pipers, Docksflow, High Drake, Forges and the Slump. Fountains Square sat amongst them all, a broad expanse near half a mile across dominated by the magnificent statue-fountain of Sigmar Triumphant. The south wall closed off the pass some miles from her, both road and canal gates heavily fortified and pugnacious. She caught the distant glint of daylight on metal where militiamen patrolled the ramparts, and felt her heart stir at the sight of the banners of Draconium flapping in the warm winds that rolled down off the volcanic slopes. East sprawled Pole Hill, with its shrines ruled over by the acid-burned priests known as the Etched. Westward from her lay the common grazing-land of Westslope, fenced off by tall wooden stockades, the impressive spectacle of the Statuegarden, and the sprawling mass of Marketsway district.

Dry lightning crackled through the pale sky above, reaching out to brush the mountainsides, and reminding Helena uncomfortably of the touch of insect legs in her nightmares. The recollection soured her moment of pleasure at the sight of her city. Squaring her shoulders, Helena set off down the hill, gaggles of administrators and scribes parting before her purposeful stride.

‘Let’s get to the bottom of some things, shall we?’ she said, as much to herself as the two watchmen who marched in her wake.

Helena made first for Fountains Square. Since her earliest days as a watchman fourth class, she had been dealing with Old Posver, and now she had a mind to do so again.

‘Go on Grange, ask,’ she said as they walked.

‘Captain?’

‘Ask your question, I can practically hear you wondering.’

‘Very well, captain,’ said Grange, clearly uncomfortable at questioning his senior officer in front of two watchmen. ‘Why are we prioritising a doom-saying vagrant over taking a hand in the murder cases?’