Still, the court had always been a bustling place, a hive of ambition and vanity, but one thing was certainly different from the way things had been here only a few months ago: during the short regency of Barrick and Briony the throne room had been raucous, less quiet and orderly than in Olin’s day (or so Tinwright had been told, since he had never been in the throne room, or even the Inner Keep, in Olin’s day) but even at its most respectful and ritualistic, the missing king’s throne room had been a place of clamorous conversation. Now it was nearly silent. As Tinwright was led across the room by the guard, the knots of people unraveling before them so they could pass, the noise never rose above a loud whisper. It was like being in a dovecote at night—nothing but quiet rustling.

Like a cold wind through dry leaves, he thought, and felt his stomach lurch again. Gods of hill and valley, they’re going to kill me! The oath, one of his mother’s that he hadn’t thought of, much less used, for years, brought him no solace. Zosim, cleverest of gods, are you listening? Save me from this monstrous fate and I…I’ll build you a temple. When I have the money. Even to himself, this sounded like a hollow promise. What else would the patron of poets and drunkards desire? I’ll put a bottle of the finest Xandian red wine on your altar. Don’t let Hendon Tolly kill me! But Zosim was famous for his fickleness. The sickening weight pressed down on Tinwright and he struggled not to weep. Zoria, blessed virgin, if you ever loved mankind, if you ever pitied fools who meant no harm, help me now! I will be a better man. I promise I will be a better man.

Hendon Tolly was not in the chair where he ordinarily held court. Tirnan Havemore stood beside the empty seat instead, peering at a sheaf of papers in his hand, his spectacles halfway down his nose.

“Who is this wretch?” Havemore asked, looking at the poet over the rim of his lenses. “Tinwright, isn’t that it?” He turned and held out his hand. The page standing behind him put a piece of thick, official-looking parchment in his hand. Havemore squinted at it. “Ah, yes. He’s to be executed, it says here.”

Matty Tinwright screeched. The world spun wildly, it seemed, then he realized it was himself—or rather it wasn’t him, it was the world: he was flat on his back and the world wasn’t simply spinning, it was whirling like a child’s top, and he was about to be sick. He only just swallowed the bile back down.

As he lay with his cheek against the stones and the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, he heard Havemore speak again, in irritation. “Look at what you’ve done, lackwit! It’s not Tinwright at all to be executed, this says someone named Wainwright—fellow who strangled a reeve.” The poet heard a grunt and a squeak of pain as the castellan struck his page. “Can’t you read, idiot child? I wanted the order for ‘Tinwright,’ not ‘Wainwright’!” Matt Tinwright could hear more rustling of parchment and the whispering of the surrounding courtiers rose again like a flock of bats taking flight. “Here it is. He’s to wait for His Lordship.”