“You have brought only persecution,” said another. “Why should we accede, Lord Reveque?”

There was challenge in his voice, but curiosity also. The Parliament were at least prepared to listen. It was more than he’d expected.

“Because Ebigail is bad for business,” he said. “She knows loyalty to no one save herself. She killed her own son out of pride. How long before she turns on you?”

Shadows shifted about the central throne. Ridged, ivory fingers steepled. “She will not.”

“She cannot threaten us,” said another. “Nor can you.”

A bleak answer, but one Malachi had expected and prepared for. “Ebigail prizes order above all. Her fist will close so tight about the Republic that even down here you’ll find it hard to breathe. Do you think she’ll abide your smugglers slipping in and out of harbour, bleeding her domain of wealth? Do you believe she’ll tolerate the ‘influence’ you’ve spread? The blackmail you levy? The petty crime upon which your vranakin thrive?”

“She has before,” said one.

“She needed you before,” said Malachi.

His words faded, dampened by mist. No reply came. Had he, by directness, broken protocol? He glanced about the mist. Even now, a kernclaw could be drawing nigh, talons readied to repay insult.

A dull rumble arose in the distance – the rhythmic, growling grumble of a runaway wagon, running at the gallop. A dozen such wagons, with some howling beast swept along behind. The ground shook beneath Malachi’s feet. Wax-crusted feathers drifted lazily down from the chandelier. He closed his eyes, expecting the floor to open up and swallow him. That moment never came. The rumble faded to nothing and the floor ceased its dance.

Pallid fingers grasped the outer edge of the rightmost pulpit. “Your petition is understood.”

“What do you offer as payment?” said another.

Somehow, Malachi found his voice. “A return to normality.”

“Then you offer us nothing.”

“I offer certainty.”

Dry, rasping laughter echoed through the mists. “You offer what we already have.”

“How much is Ebigail Kiradin worth to you?” asked another.

“Fifty thousand crowns. Paid once the taken are returned.”

“Insufficient.”

“One hundred thousand, then.” He winced. Such a sum would leave him and Lily nearly penniless – unless sanity returned to Tressia, and with it a councillor’s access to the city treasury. He doubted that the Parliament would take payment in promises. “I’ve nothing more to offer.”

“Look around, Lord Reveque,” said one. “Drink in our glory.”

“What use do you suppose we have for gold?” said another.

“We are not fledglings, distracted by baubles,” said the third. “Your petition is rejected.”

“You may go.”

The bell tolled anew. The elder cousin rose and gestured.

Thoughts crowded by failure, Malachi held his ground. “What do you want of me?”

The thrones remained dark and silent.

“Their decision is made,” said the elder cousin. “You must leave.”