‘Just go along and watch for anything untoward,’ said Captain Morthan. ‘I don’t know what – Sigmar knows, I wish I did – but I can’t shake this dreadful feeling that today is merely the calm before the real storm.’

‘A disturbing notion, and not one without merit if what you say is true,’ said Bartiman. ‘But our duardin friend is not wrong. We do have another contract that is now quite pressing. We should really be away.’

‘I’ll find you extra coin for tonight, if payment is your concern,’ said Morthan, and Hendrick heard the deep worry that underlaid her voice. ‘Selvador may be a deeply infuriating man, but he is a good one. He is the beating heart of this city. If anything should happen to him, I fear Draconium might not recover.’

‘We’ll be there,’ said Hendrick, staring at Borik and daring the duardin to gainsay him. Borik just set his jaw and looked away angrily. ‘At best, we get paid to attend a feast. At worst…’

‘Just keep your eyes open and your wits about you, and keep the regent militant safe,’ said Morthan. ‘Please.’

The rest of the day was spent in preparation. Olt was no happier than Borik to be staying, and Hendrick half-expected both to be gone by the evening. Romilla seemed angry with him, but he left her alone; whatever conflict of faith she was undergoing, Hendrick trusted the priest to speak to him about it if it became a real issue. Aelyn, by comparison, confided quietly that she agreed with Captain Morthan. Something felt off, but even her keen aelven senses couldn’t place precisely what.

They were no closer to a solution by the time the Swords of Sigmar assembled before the Drake’s Crown, clad in what passed for their smartest attire. They were all there, Hendrick saw with relief. Everyone – except Olt, who lurked under his cloak with a sour expression – had made some effort to look presentable. Borik had buffed his armour. Bartiman appeared both splendid and ominous in his full wizardly regalia. Romilla looked the part of the noble priest, Eleanora the astute, if somewhat awkward-looking artisan, Aelyn the regal aelven Wanderer with her hooded cloak set aside and a thin circlet of bloodwood and silver on her brow. Hendrick wore his own approximation of an officer’s dress uniform, richly coloured and well starched garb he had put together with great care the year after he had been thrown from the Freeguild. It paid to be able to impress rich clients, after all, and showing up looking like the archetypal grubby sellsword rarely had the desired effect.

Their only concession to their true natures was that everyone went armed, with additional munitions, blades and other tools of the trade concealed about their persons.

‘After all,’ Hendrick had said earlier, ‘we’ll be damn all use if anything does occur, if we’re stood there empty-handed.’