Not every occupant of the keep was at the confession, and their progress was skittering and irregular as they ducked in and out of doorways to avoid the occasional squeamish clerk. Overhead, the early bell had begun to toll once more. The second confession was imminent.

The smell announced that the stables were close. They peered through a narrow window into a low, separate courtyard, strewn with straw and dung piles. A stone-walled building occupied the far wall, plumes of steam billowing from the horses tied in the stalls within.

‘Up there, above the stables. The room with the narrow windows.’ Tarfel gestured redundantly upward, and Rennic rewarded him with a withering look.

A sound pricked Chel’s ears: footsteps.

‘Someone’s com—’ he began, but Rennic was already bundling them out of the hallway and into a side room. The big man followed, staying pressed against the cold stone of the door-frame, breathing into his arm to hide his breath-fog.

Chel counted the footsteps, four sets. No, five, moving fast but heavy. Armed men, most of them. Approaching from the main keep, either heading for the stables or the walls. Rennic met his eye. They were both unarmed. He knew Rennic was perfectly capable of incapacitating an adversary with little more than his thumbs, even a couple if he had the drop, but five was pushing it.

Rennic was scanning the gloomy room, an office from the look of it, as most of them seemed to be on this floor: rolled scrolls, writing desks, quills, and ink. He plucked a quill from its holder, tested the point against his finger, then sighed in disgust, snapped it and discarded the remains.

‘… cannot be allowed to escape the citadel, you understand? There’s no way he drugged that guard himself, and if he’s loose, he’s had help.’ A voice, pompous, northern. Familiar. Chel’s gaze snapped back to meet Rennic’s. He recognized it too. ‘You two, check the walls, make sure he’s not sneaking out that way. We’ll look in the stables, count the horses. That ghastly little shit may have his brother’s indulgence, but he does not have mine.’

The footsteps split, two sets heading up the hallway toward them, the rest continuing toward the stables. Chel slid deeper inside the room, ushering the prince into the shadows. The two men flashed past down the hallway, swords at their hips and shields on their arms. Their colours confirmed his suspicions – the freshly minted Grand Duke of Denirnas, Esen Basar, was hunting the prince.

Tarfel poked his head up, jaw flapping. ‘Esen Basar!’

‘Esen fucking Basar,’ Chel growled, feeling the throb of his shoulder. The cowardly count who’d killed his own father and tried to murder Tarfel in the process.

‘Prick-weasel escaped me once at the winter palace.’ Rennic was already moving, padding out into the hallway. ‘Not going to let that become a habit.’