It was Shard. At some point she had joined the crowd, or perhaps she was there from the start, her face hidden by a broad umbrella emblazoned with the von Shard crest. It had not rained since my arrival, so I could only assume she carried the parasol to protect her pallid skin from Bacchus’ unyielding sun. Her other hand was propped on the pommel of her sabre.

Stylee seemed momentarily stunned by her question.

‘Wh-what?’ he spluttered.

‘Why do guests require an escort?’ she asked innocently. ‘Don’t tell me this is a… fertility festival?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘Certainly not!’ he snapped, indignant. ‘It is a celebration of the harvest and cycle of life. There must be even numbers – each honoured guest must be paired, like the sun and moon. When midnight comes those select few will flank the entrance to the throne room, where–’

‘So it’s basically a dance. Got it,’ Shard replied, cutting him off before turning to me. ‘In that case, as an act of charity, I will permit the propagandist to escort me.’

She smiled. It was not cruel, but neither was it kind.

‘You wish to go with me?’ I asked.

‘That’s a little strong,’ she said, wrinkling her nose, as though she had smelt something unpleasant. ‘But my superiors are of the opinion that we may work together again, so I am bound to assist you. I was attending anyway, all the officers do, but if we go together then I get to sit at the top table. I hear they’re serving real meat. Can’t miss that.’

I am not sure Stylee supported this plan, given his expression. He looked torn, unsure whether it was worse to endure the botched seating plan, or Shard sitting with the nobles.

And I?

I do not know how I felt, other than enjoying Stylee’s discomfort. But it was in my best interests to establish a working relationship with Shard.

I shrugged. ‘Then it would seem the matter is settled.’

‘Once again I have saved the day,’ she said, with a sliver of a smile. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get out of the sun. I have a delicate complexion.’

She turned away, though her gaze lingered a moment on the blue blossom adorning the governor’s abode.

‘I can’t say I’m impressed by the display this year,’ she said. ‘Damn ­flowers almost look stuck on.’

The morning of the Harvest Banquet I awoke with a skull-splitting migraine, interspersed by broken images of swamp water and barbed vines.

I hoped it was Mizar, data-fragments transmitted from the errant seer-skull. But they could just as easily have been aftershocks from the forced separation. I nevertheless spent the day trying to triangulate its location using the remaining two seer-skulls. It was tiresome and ultimately fruitless work.