The old man heaved his shoulders. “It’s good to see the young taking interest. Too many boys his age think only of battle. They don’t consider how its tools are made. A knight is more than his sword, yes. But the sword helps.”

“Kraikons are a little more complicated than swords.”

Another shrug. “I’m a proctor. You should expect metaphor. It’s why so few of us marry. Hard to find someone who’ll tolerate tangential replies.”

Far below, rattling chains lowered a glowing metal skeleton into a cooling vat. The hiss of steam almost drowned out Constans’ awed sigh, but only almost.

“If I’d an army of kraikons,” said the boy, “I’d conquer Fellhallow and wipe the Empire off the map.”

“I thought you were the King of Fellhallow?” asked Malachi.

“That was yesterday.” The boy spoke as one addressing a halfwit. “Today, I am Constans Reveque, Saviour of the Republic.”

Elzar chuckled. “And we shall be very glad to have you as such. But perhaps I might have a moment alone with your father?” He beckoned down the gantry to a young woman in apprentice’s robes, her tight curls the same rich red as the slow-flowing bronze. “Tailinn will look after you. She was about to name the new forging of simarka. You could help.”

“They have names?”

He nodded sagely. “Of course.”

Constans rounded on Malachi, eyes agleam. “May I, Father?”

“You may.” Malachi hesitated. “But only if you do exactly as Tailinn tells you.”

Tailinn’s freckles twitched in mirth. “He’ll be safe with me, my lord.”

“Ah, but will you be safe with him?”

She inclined her head and led Constans away.

“He’s a fine boy,” said Elzar. “You should be proud.”

Malachi grunted, not wanting to admit how little he had to do with his son’s raising, or his character. Besides, he’d been a politician too long not to hear an ambush coming. Elzar wanted something. “What you said last night, about expecting to talk about foundry business . . . ?”

“Ah. I grow transparent in my old age.”

“Don’t apologise. In many ways, it’s a relief,” Malachi replied. “What can the Council do for you, high proctor?”

Elzar glanced back and forth along the gantry. “Someone is stealing kraikons.”

Malachi didn’t respond at first. He scrutinised Elzar’s expression for a clue to what seemed a poor joke. The dull backwash from the molten metal revealed nothing but shadow and sober concern.

“One or two go missing every year,” he said. “The metal’s valuable, and not every proctor is as noble as yourself . . .”

“To my certain knowledge, we’ve lost a dozen this past year,” said Elzar. “And a similar number the year before. That’s a sizeable portion of our output. They leave here, bound for border garrisons or the Outer Isles – at least, that’s what the records show – but they aren’t reaching their destinations.”