‘He’s spared no expense here, has he?’ commented Bartiman as their carriage rumbled to a halt on the edge of the statue-lined square. As he alighted from the carriage into the warm evening air, Hendrick saw what Bartiman meant. The front of the palace had been illuminated with ornate crystal lanterns that lent it an artfully magical air. As the rich and powerful of Draconium approached the palace entrance they passed between a twin row of gold-robed palace guards, who held crackling spark-lanterns in their left hands and heavy ceremonial hammers in their right.

Off to one side of the palace entrance, Hendrick saw to his amazement that a troupe of entertainers was putting on an elaborate performance. A bulky iron fuel-wagon sat just out of the lantern-lights, hoses snaking out to power a huge mechanical pipe-organ and a number of burning braziers by whose firelight grease-painted figures capered and danced.

‘Is it a play of some sort?’ he asked as the Swords approached the palace.

‘I could be mistaken, but that looks like a mummers’ tale recounting the very events that have just transpired,’ said Bartiman.

‘That is in very poor taste,’ commented Romilla archly.

Hendrick couldn’t help but agree with her. Faces painted into grotesque masks or twisted by the addition of prosthetics into monstrous aspects, the players capered about in time to the music and imitated insect attacks, terrible nightmares, abductions and the eventual departure of Krysthenna’s cult. The Swords stood and watched for a few minutes, Hendrick feeling increasingly dismayed at the gruesome parody being played out before him. How would he feel, he wondered, if he saw Varlen’s end reduced so?

‘Can’t have been without cost, either,’ commented Borik.

‘In Hammerhal Aqsha, their fuel wagon would cost in the region of five hundred flaregilt,’ said Eleanora. ‘The organ is a Hegson’s Triumphal, which are only made to order and cost eight hundred flaregilt.’

‘No, not without cost,’ said Hendrick, shaking his head. ‘But cheapening, all the same.’

‘When desperate and fearful folk find sudden relief, they sometimes wish to lampoon that which terrified them,’ said Bartiman.

‘Doesn’t make it right,’ said Hendrick. ‘Come on, we’re wasting time here.’

The Swords moved on, striding between the palace guards and their shimmering lanterns. They were stopped at the foot of the steps by several more guards, who looked at them haughtily.

‘Weapons,’ said one, who wore a richly decorated tabard that Hendrick assumed denoted a rank of some sort.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Borik.

‘Weapons,’ repeated the officer, beckoning impatiently. Behind the Swords, a richly garbed couple waited with thinly veiled impatience. Hendrick thought quickly and decided to gamble on a slight stretching of the truth. There didn’t seem many other options. He motioned to the palace guardsman to lean closer, which the man did with a grimace.