Viktor wouldn’t, of course. Or at least, he didn’t believe he would. After all, he and Yorvin were the same, in a way. Except if Yorvin were taken he’d be pressed to service in the foundry as an indentured crafts-man. If Makrov learnt about Viktor’s shadow . . . ? Well, that would end far worse, for someone. But the truth had no place in this conversation. Yorvin had to believe.

“I’ll take you to him myself.”

Viktor took no joy in the old man’s crestfallen expression. Less still in Calenne’s glower. The first was of no consequence . . . And as for the second? If she was truly her mother’s daughter, she’d understand, sooner or later.

Yorvin drew himself up. “Damn you, but I’ll do it. But you’d better keep your end of the bargain.”

“I’ll hold my tongue, never fear.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Yorvin. “I’ll die before I let the shadowthorns have my family. I expect you to do the same.”

That would prove the harder promise to keep. But it was also a challenge already set. “You have my word that I’ll do all I can. I’m not accustomed to failure.”

Calenne snorted. Yorvin nodded.

“I guess that’ll have to do, Lord Akadra.” He sighed. “It’ll be ready for midnight. I can’t do better.”

Viktor nodded. “Then that must do. Have it sent to Branghall.”

“Yes, my lord. And have you given thought to the other matter? I can bind the joints with steel pins, but clay doesn’t flex. It’ll look a mite odd with gaps showing everywhere. And that’s before we’ve made a covering.”

“Bind the gaps with leather.” Viktor unclasped his velvet cloak and shrugged it free. “Use this for the rest.”

Yorvin hesitated, but took the cloak anyway. “You’re sure? Good cloth to waste on a toy.”

“It’s not a toy.” Viktor shot a glance at Calenne, who was back to regarding him with suspicion. “Besides, I’m told it makes me look like an executioner. With it gone, perhaps folk will find it easier to see that I’m not.”

“I’m sorry, your grace, but it can’t be done.”

Drakos Crovan didn’t sound sorry. He delivered every word with an orator’s precision as he paced about the crackling bonfire at the heart of Maiden’s Hollow, addressing them not to Josiri, but to members of the Vagabond Council seated in the circle of headless dancers. Them, and the scores upon scores of wolf’s-heads, rogues and outcasts on the slopes above.

Most wore the wolf-cloaks of Crovan’s followers, a few the tattered phoenix of Revekah’s band. The loyalties of the remainder were shown less by raiment and more by the knots they formed in the broader throng, islands of battered battle-gear and worn leather in a sea of silver fur and phoenix blue.