Despairing at the tawdriness of gossip, Malachi hurried to move the conversation on. “So what happens to his seat?”

“There’s a cousin, I believe. On Selann. It will doubtless take time for word to reach her.”

Malachi filed away the information and resolved to find out more. Anton’s death shifted council arithmetic yet again, but only into stalemate and not enough to overturn Ebigail’s machinations regarding the embattled southwealders. Viktor’s vote could have done so, but Viktor was leagues away. He might even be dead. But there was some hope. If Makrov brought the southwealder leaders north before the seat was filled, Viktor would come with them. A new vote could be called and won.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It might even be for the best if Anton’s successor didn’t arrive for some time. Perhaps Braxov could help with that – the steward had family in the Outer Isles. It wouldn’t take much. A small, harmless delay might make all the difference.

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t honourable, and it would likely cause more suffering before all was done. But perfection had ever been lacking in the Republic. If Ebigail was for ever outdancing him, as Lily had so forcefully said, perhaps it was time he learned some new steps of his own.

Malachi rose, wincing as bruises reknitted into new and exciting configurations. “Then with your permission, I’ll return to my family. I haven’t seen them as much as I should – as recent events have reminded me.”

“Yes, of course.” Ebigail’s brow knotted in concern. “Please offer my sympathies to your wife. The Republic is fortunate that you’re both still with us.”

To Marek’s understanding, the side table had been in the Kiradin family for at least four generations. A pinnacle of its creator’s art, the graceful, flowing curves of its legs combined masterfully with the slivers of semi-precious stones to grant the work a dazzling, iridescent quality. It was not only a treasured heirloom. It was irreplaceable. But when flung at a wall it shattered with much the same scraping crack as any slum-dweller’s table would have.

“Idiots!” shouted Lady Ebigail. “I’m surrounded by idiots!”

She aimed a kick at a forlorn table-leg. It skittered across the carpet, slid past Lady Sevaka and bounced off a chair.

“I’ve always known that.” Lady Sevaka’s tone held a certain dry satisfaction. “But you’ll have to narrow the selection if I’m to feel any sympathy.”

“That fool kernclaw for one!”

Satisfaction slid into horror. “So now you’re dealing with the Crowmarket? Is nothing beneath you?”

“Very little is beneath the powerful, when the need is there.”

“And the fact that someone had them kill Kasamor doesn’t matter? Have you no feelings? I know you don’t think much of me, but you loved my brother.”