They marched across the city in a tight column, Captain Horden at their head. Two dozen constables and Freemont hearthguard for a pair of unarmed and shackled captives. Ridiculous, Malachi decided, but for the reason.

No one appeared particularly happy, least of all Horden himself. The captain had made a perfunctory reading of the arrest warrant, but that hadn’t stopped him from making a thorough search of house and grounds.

“The captain doesn’t seem pleased,” Josiri muttered. The southwealder held his head high and shoulders back. Malachi envied his composure. “What do you reckon? Conscience, or confusion?”

Malachi sighed. “Does it matter?”

“It always matters. Just because they’ve made you a prisoner doesn’t mean you have to think like one.”

Malachi bit back an angry response. Josiri was right. He still had his wits. Better to use them. As the column drew to a halt outside the constabulary barracks, he took his opportunity.

“Captain Horden, I’d like to speak with you.”

Horden stiffened and made his way back along the ranks. Malachi’s escorts drew back, their newfound distance as much an illusion of privacy as it was the possibility of freedom.

“Don’t make this more difficult.” Horden spoke without meeting his gaze.

One vote for conscience. Perhaps. “You’re a servant of the Council. Of the Republic. What Ebigail’s doing . . . it’ll tear both apart. You’re better than this, Mikel.”

Horden clenched and unclenched a fist. “It is what it is.”

He turned away and bellowed towards the gate. “Bring the others! They’ll all hang come dusk!”

Malachi tamped down resurgent desperation. He’d always known this would end on the gallows. Treason always did, whether real or imagined. But to hear it confirmed . . .

“And what of your children?” he demanded. “What do they think of their father’s deeds?”

Horden’s bunched fist drove the breath from Malachi’s lungs and left him a winded wreck on filthy cobbles. Malachi twisted aside as a boot stomped down. Leather grazed his scalp.

“Leave him be!” Josiri thrust himself between them. Two constables dragged him away.

“My children?” Horden squatted beside Malachi, eyes blazing. He spoke in a hushed, bitter whisper. “The Crowmarket has them. What would you do?”

Malachi found no good answer. Not that he’d the breath for one.

Horden strode back towards the gate. “What’re the rest of you looking at?”

Constables averted their eyes.

Josiri, released with Horden’s retreat, helped Malachi stand. “Picking a fight wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Ebigail’s in league with the Crowmarket,” Malachi said. “That’s how she’s got her hooks into Horden. You can bet that’s why the chapter-houses are looking the other way. Tassandra refused to play, and they killed her for it.”

“Whatever Ebigail paid, the vranakin will want more.”

“Hardly helps us, does it?” Malachi frowned. There was something there, although he couldn’t quite see the shape of it . . .