‘Watch Captain Morthan has ordered us to attend this gathering in an official capacity, if you follow my meaning,’ he murmured. ‘She has some lingering concerns about certain elements within the local nobility and perceived sympathies with the heretics. We’re to apprehend them if anything untoward occurs, while your men protect the regent militant.’ Hendrick took in the man’s aquiline nose, his high cheekbones and sneering expression, and decided to push his gamble a little further. He’d learned enough about Draconium this past turning to make an educated guess at the officer’s prejudices. ‘There’s evidence to suggest that some of those who achieved their station through commerce rather than breeding may have patron­ised the cult.’

Hendrick shot a quick glance back at the gaudily bedecked man and woman behind them, and the equally haughty and irritated looking nobles now queuing up behind the pair.

He watched the calculation going on behind the guard’s eyes, saw him weighing his dislike of obvious mercenaries and his love of his own unquestioned authority against the possibility that he might be to blame if one of the mercantile class turned out to be a threat to the regent militant.

‘Very well, you hand over anything you can’t conceal, and you don’t go brandishing your blades without good cause,’ said the officer. ‘If I find out one of your ruffians got inebriated and ­menaced anyone with a weapon, it’ll be the scald-cells for the lot of you. Understood?’

Hendrick drew himself up to his full and considerable height and glared down at the officer.

‘Perfectly,’ he said.

It still took a good few minutes to part certain of the Swords from certain of their weapons, but eventually they were permitted entry to the palace still carrying an assortment of daggers, pistols and various other lethal accoutrements concealed about their persons.

Inside the building, spark-lanterns and smiling servants indicated the route feastgoers were expected to take. Hendrick led his comrades along a richly carpeted stone hallway, beneath the sombre gaze of gilded statues of Sigmarite saints, and into a vast hall lit from above by crystal chandeliers.

‘It’s beautiful,’ breathed Eleanora, and Hendrick had to agree. The floor was black and white marble, threaded through with whirling designs of rich gold. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting victories over the forces of Chaos, while fluted columns held up a vaulted ceiling that bore incredible frescoes. Through some visual illusion, the painted images seemed to recede up and up into the heavens themselves, depicting majestic storm clouds, wheeling stars, mighty Stormcast Eternals in their sigmarite armour and the gilded spires of high Sigmaron towering over all.

‘Quadratura,’ commented Bartiman, pointing upwards. ‘Style of painting that conjures a receding illusion. Clever stuff.’

‘You do know some rubbish, don’t you?’ said Romilla, shaking her head.