‘Not the point, Vedren! Not the point! Am I being unreasonable? He could have knocked, warned me in good order – instead he smashed in the door and dragged me out in the all-together. These people, Vedren, they’re not like us. Their only recourse is violence. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you here to look after me. And once again, I’m denied my birthday feast!’

‘I’m sure once you’re king—’

‘People need to start listening to me, taking me seriously!’

Chel rested a tired hand on the steel-sided wagon beside them as the prince began to pace. ‘I quite understand, Tarf. You’ve every right to feel aggrieved. But do you think, perhaps,’ he swallowed, ‘we could get the wagon hitched and get things moving? For all his, uh, impertinence, Rennic did seem mightily concerned that we get out of here without delay.’

The prince paused, one finger raised, recollection interrupting his pity-procession. ‘Why did he say that was?’

‘People are coming, he said. For us. For you.’

‘For me? Here?’

Chel nodded, his fingers on the cold metal of the keg’s band. There was something so familiar about them. ‘Have I seen these kegs somewhere before?’

The prince turned and squinted in the gloom, as if noticing the heavy wagon he’d been pacing beside for the first time.

‘Saints’ breath,’ he whispered.

‘What? What is it?’

Tarfel was ghost-white in the distant firelight, sweat popping from his sallow brow. ‘From … from Black Rock. The keg your sister placed at the wall, for the d-diversion.’

Chel whipped his hand back and stepped away from the wagon. ‘The one that exploded and blasted a hole in the citadel wall?’

Tarfel nodded, his throat bobbing like a raft in a storm.

‘But there are … dozens of them here.’ Chel took a step around the wagon, peering over its side. ‘And these crates? What are these?’

‘Don’t touch them!’

Kosh’s head poked up from the canvas behind them. ‘What is all this wittering? I thought we were to depart without— What is that?’

Chel couldn’t help himself. He levered up a loose lid, exposing a nest of packed straw inside, and within it, a handful of strange objects. They were metallic, a dull grey in the low light of the courtyard, and roundish, about as big as two fists. Short, uneven, jutting prongs covered them, like spikes. They looked heavy and unpleasant.

‘What in hells do you think these are?’

‘Great spirits!’

Kosh was beside him, descended from their wagon, her eyes wide and white-rimmed in the gloom, flares of distant torchlight reflected in the onyx gleam of her irises.

‘This is bad, right?’

‘Get back!’

‘What are they?’

She was backing away from the wagon, her mouth working, eyes trembling, beads of sweat clear on her brow. ‘We must get away from here. We must flee this place immediately. Immediately!’