“You asked what I wanted to do. It’s not . . .” He broke off as a shadow fell across him.

“So strident a tone, young Master Reveque.” Makrov emerged from the market’s throng. His plummy tones walked the line between chastisement and kindness – a wise proctor handing down advice to a soul in torment. “You should have more respect for your father.”

Constans lapsed into downcast silence. Makrov offered Malachi a stiff bow.

“My Lord Reveque. It feels like for ever since we last spoke.”

Malachi smiled without pleasure. “I thought you were in the Southshires, excellency.”

“Lumestra called me home on sable wings.” He lowered his voice. “The Goddess believes I can serve better as a witness to Council than to war.”

“Is that so?”

Malachi felt little surprise at the revelation. Most priests stood a turn on the border, offering spiritual succour to the garrisons along the Ravonn. To his knowledge, Makrov had never willingly come within a league of a Hadari – save for the occasional prisoners paraded through the streets.

“There are . . . developments in the Southshires that she finds most concerning, my lord. Viktor Akadra has set the Trelans loose. He has spoken of restoring them to Council!”

“I take it you don’t approve?” asked Malachi.

“Did I not say so?” Irritation crept into Makrov’s voice. “I cannot believe the Council . . .”

“Viktor has the Council’s full support.”

Makrov’s eyes narrowed. “I see. So you are as responsible for this lamentable state as he?”

“I’m proud to be so. The shadowthorns must be contained, by any means.”

Makrov’s jaw tightened. “A lax view, Lord Reveque, and one we all may yet regret.”

He waddled away up the steps and into the church. Malachi took no small satisfaction from a rolling, lurching gait that spoke to too many leagues travelled on horseback in too short a time. An irritation well-paired with its victim.

“Father, what’s a shadowthorn?”

Malachi cursed silently. “It’s a word that your mother should on no account hear you use, nor learn that I’ve been using. Do you understand?”

Constans grinned, but only briefly. “Yes, Father.”

A bribe was called for, Malachi decided. “How would you like to see the foundry?”

Constans had ambled and dragged his heels all afternoon. Now he was a blur of excited activity and wide-eyed wonder among sparking magic and rivers of sun-bright ore.

Malachi, who could hardly breathe in the smoke-bittered air of the observation gantries, was as grateful for having finally hit upon something to hold his son’s interest. He was also increasingly concerned at what Lily would say at his having brought him there. Still, some rules were made to be broken. And Constans had respected the dangers . . . so far.

“Thank you for this, Elzar.”