“You think I wanted to? They wouldn’t listen to me. They intend to bring her before council this morning.”

Which meant she’d be dead by afternoon, Marek judged. Justice flowed all the swifter when a councillor’s family had been wronged. Doubly so for a family of the first rank.

“You should have made them listen!” Ice crackled beneath Lady Ebigail’s words. “You are a Kiradin, not some jumped-up dockworker with a badge. You’re such a disappointment. Your brother was worth ten of you.”

Lady Sevaka’s face fell. “No one’s disputing that.”

Marek averted his gaze. He knew the chastisement sprang from love. The elder Lady Kiradin sought to shape her daughter as a sculptor shaped clay, smoothing away the unnecessary and the unlovely to reveal the hard, beautiful form beneath. But he doubted he could have spoken to his own daughter thus, had Lumestra blessed him with one.

“The Republic needs strong blood, and strong leadership,” said Lady Ebigail. “It does not need callow young women who let others fight their battles and abandon them thereafter.”

“Fight their own battles?” Lady Sevaka ripped back her sleeve to reveal a stained bandage. “How do you think I got this?” Her spread hand encompassed the cuts and bruises and her face, her voice growing ragged. “Or these? Do you think I came here for sympathy? For maternal concern? Lumestra knows I wouldn’t expect that from you. I can’t help Rosa, but I know you can.”

She stopped, breathless.

The corner of Lady Ebigail’s mouth twitched. She gave a sharp nod. “Then I have not entirely failed to instil you with good sense. We will see what can be done. Marek? Prepare the carriage. We leave as soon as my daughter has scraped away the gutter.”

He bowed, glad that the rift between mother and daughter was, if not sealed, then at least bridged. “At once, lady.”

The turnkey slammed the swollen door closed. The cell stank of salt, mould and the worst kind of filth. A green tidemark halfway up the plasterwork showed the levels to which the chamber had last flooded. Pooled water beneath Malachi’s boots spoke to drains long since clogged.

He could have coped with all that. Filth could be swept away, clothes cleaned and skin scrubbed free of blemish. But the sight of Rosa, sitting hunched on the rusted chain bunk with her arms wrapped about her knees? That tested him.

The constabulary had shown little concession to rank. She still wore the once-expensive dress – ripped to the thigh and stained with blood and gutter-muck though it was. There was also blood beneath her nails, though Rosa had assured him it wasn’t hers.

“How is it out there?” Rosa asked without looking up.