‘Well, I am glad we could educate you, my lord,’ Stylee replied. His gaze was fixed on my seer-skull. It was still inspecting the tree, delicate limbs prodding the branches and dislodging a shower of blossom in the process.

I caught his expression and brought Kikazar to heel, though I could not help note that the petals clinging to its sides were dry, almost desiccated, as if they had wilted as soon as they fell.

‘And how go your preparations, my lord?’ Stylee asked.

‘Tolerable,’ I replied. ‘I have pieces of footage, though there is much to do.’

He managed an almost inaudible sigh. ‘No, my lord. I meant how go your preparations for the Harvest Banquet?’

I did not take his meaning at first. Apparently, my expression conveyed this.

‘You have not forgotten, my lord?’ he said, suddenly sounding alarmed.

‘I am not sure I follow.’

‘The banquet, my lord!’

I had been aware of the preparations. It was hard to miss the footmen buffing the château’s walls and floors with purified waxes, rendering the wood so slick that it became a hazard to the hurried staff. Even Dolos had been occupied. I received periodic notes apologising for her absence and detailing the myriad responsibilities involved in hosting the lavish gala. I had disposed of these and thought no more of it. But, at some point since my arrival, my status had shifted from distant spectator to prized attendee.

Sadly, I had not been informed of this.

‘But we sent you the robes! A full itinerary of events!’ Stylee protested.

In his defence, I had received a bundle of orange fabric in a hand-woven wicker basket, but given the volume of material I had assumed it was fresh bedding. There may also have been a poem of some kind, a meandering sonnet on the wonders of the God-Emperor’s bounty. I read half but, finding it uninspired, crumpled the composition and left it in the refuse.

My confusion was not well received. I could not tell if Stylee’s face was white with fear or crimson with fury, the shades playing sequentially, but the other onlookers took a step back from him, as though he were primed to explode.

‘I would be grateful to attend,’ I said, but this did not placate him. He was swaying, and I was suddenly aware of his age and frailty, how accustomed he had become to the rhythms of the estate. To him, the risk of a potential faux pas was far more troubling than a horde of orks rampaging through the surrounding swamps.

‘You don’t understand,’ he wailed. ‘This is a formal affair! It is one of our most sacred rituals! The governor made special allowances to facilitate your attendance. You would be of the inner circle, and there are steps you must memorise and customs you must observe. Do you even have an escort? You cannot attend alone!’

‘Why?’

I recognised the voice, and turned.