“Your grace.” The merest ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “Your people await.”

Josiri noted familiar faces in the crowd. Some had stood their turn as servants of the manor. Others had crossed his path in darker and more clandestine hours. Makrov had roused half of Eskavord, and half of the villages beyond.

Blue tabards and plate armour lined the terrace. A few soldiers bore halberds, the bas relief of Lumestra’s radiant flames blazing where the backswept blade gathered to a billhook. The rest had scabbarded swords. Heavy oblong shields sat grounded at booted feet, the blazing sunburst bright upon a king’s blue field. A pair of kraikons stood to the terrace’s rear, flanking the knot of soldiery serving as escort to Captain Sark. The nearest was a particularly battered specimen. It bore a jagged scar where its left eye had been. Golden magic spattered and hissed from a rent in its breastplate. Its handler – a proctor with a flickering sun-stave held tight – waited close by.

“So many people,” said Calenne. “I hope they’re not expecting anything interesting. Josiri tends to ramble.”

She extended her hand. Makrov’s brow creased, then with visible effort he put aside old ghosts. Expression clearing, he stooped and pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m certain his grace knows what is required.”

“I’m sure he does,” Calenne said warmly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you yesterday. I wasn’t feeling altogether myself.”

“Please, think nothing of it. I’m sure we’ll see more of one another once you’re wed. Lady Kiradin appreciates the value of spiritual advice.”

To her credit, Calenne’s smile didn’t waver. Josiri felt a rush of admiration for his sister, who was a better actor than he’d ever be. “And won’t that be something to look forward to?”

Josiri peered over the balcony’s edge. The canvas-draped bundle was in position. Anastacia waited close by, her back to the balcony and her hands looped below her waist. Good.

“Could we begin?” asked Yanda. “I don’t want to keep the enchantment quelled any longer than necessary.”

Josiri fancied he heard real worry in her voice. Of course they’d had a proctor quell the enchantment. There weren’t enough ward-brooches to admit even a fraction of the enormous crowd.

Makrov offered a thin smile. “You worry too much, governor. I doubt his grace is about to flee through the gardens . . .” The smile faded as he turned his attention to Josiri. “. . . are you, your grace?”

Josiri let his gaze linger on the undergrowth of the outer grounds. Sunlight gleamed on the bronze of a simarka’s stylised fur. “I’d not make it halfway to the gate, would I?”

The smile grew frosty. “No, you wouldn’t.”

At Yanda’s nod, the buccinator set his lips to the instrument’s mouthpiece. The brash clarion swept away the murmurs of the crowd.