Little of that fear showed through Hadon Akadra’s wolfish anticipation. The death of a Hadari emperor could never be entirely a bad thing, whatever complications it offered. Though well past his sixtieth year, the elder Lord Akadra still cut a powerful figure. A physique hardened in battle had softened only a little to a councillor’s comfortable life. His hair remained as black as Viktor’s own, save for a burnishing of grey at the temples.

Lady Marest knotted cadaverous fingers in the Sign of the Sun. “May the Raven shred his bellicose soul.”

“Indeed. But it would have been better for us all if he’d clung to life a good while longer.”

Viktor’s father returned his gaze to the bow-legged meeting table, a flicker of disdain stifled almost as soon as it surfaced. Viktor suspected no one else had noticed, but he’d expected it. Mutual loathing of Abitha Marest was one of the few things that brought them together. The old woman clung to power as grimly as to life, and with just as little obvious benefit to others. Her silvery-white hair and frail, uncertain movements gave her the aspect of one who’d already one foot set in the mists. Then again, Viktor couldn’t recall a time when she’d seemed young and vibrant. Perhaps piety did bring its own rewards. If an interminable, withered existence could be considered such.

“A heathen’s death is always timely,” Lady Marest replied primly. “Ceredic’s passing is Lumestra’s gift.”

“Oh please, spare us your homilies. You may flatter the goddess in your own time.”

Dissembling wasn’t in Lady Kiradin’s nature. Nor was restraint. She addressed highborn and low with equal respect, which was to say none at all – save for when she wished something in return, which was rare.

Her steel-grey hair and patrician profile perfectly matched the image of a Tressian matriarch, and if she didn’t care for overt displays of faith, she nonetheless clung to tradition with a granite grip. For all that Ebigail Kiradin was Kasamor’s mother, there was little to connect them. Where he was warm and generous, she was cold and calculating. It was said – though never in Lady Kiradin’s earshot – that her late husband had gone gladly into the mists, for they were surely warmer than his marriage bed.

“I see no flattery in simple truth, Ebigail,” replied Lady Marest.

Lady Kiradin’s sneer grew somehow drier. “So we’re all painfully aware.”

Malachi cleared his throat. Never a tall man, he seemed smaller than ever in this auspicious company – as if he wished to shrink from sight. “Forgive me, but we’re certain Ceredic’s gone? Our spies have been wrong before, and the borderers have never been reliable when it comes to tidings.”

“Not this time,” Viktor’s father replied. “We’ve three witnesses to his corpse getting carried into the mists. The Last Ride, they call it . . .”