Loveless slid beside him, still hooded. She said something in a language that Chel didn’t recognize that seemed to feature a lot of long vowels, and she sounded fluent doing so.

‘Of course,’ Tarfel muttered. ‘Our imperial forebears never made it through the pass, did they? Are you announcing me?’

‘Your name carries little weight up here,’ she murmured, ‘but I’m doing what I can. We may be better off—’

He shook his head in irritation. ‘My name, dear girl, is all I have left. And if it carries no weight, we may as well turn around and march back to meet my brother’s minions. What, after all, is the point of me? What am I for? If I can’t command a modicum of respect, then our every effort is wasted.’

Loveless stared at the prince from beneath her hood, calculating. Those in the shadow of the gate were watching their hushed, if unintelligible, exchange: guards, clerks, traders, and pilgrims all. The tall guard with the long moustache gazed from one to the other, brow lowered, then waved a hand to a knot of his companions, his indulgence expired. The men began to approach, spears loose in their hands.

Loveless spoke, fast and clear, again in the language Chel took to be Serican, or whatever they called the tongue. The faint lilt of her accent slotted against her words, and he realized at last that she was a native. Whatever she said, the guards paused their advance, and as one their attention swung back to Tarfel.

‘I announced you, like you wanted. Now it’s your turn. Do something royally mag-fucking-nificent.’

‘Right,’ he said, looking flushed beneath his dust-coat. ‘Right.’

It was suddenly very quiet in the gloom beneath the gatehouse. The guards shifted in expectation, their mail jingling. Their gear really was of intimidating quality.

Tarfel introduced himself, trotting out his full name and titles as Loveless translated. He spoke with sudden, unexpected confidence, and brandished his signet with a flourish at the peak of his words. One of the guard captain’s eyebrows rose.

‘Under the terms of the treaty of Kelsuus,’ Tarfel said, ‘as a visiting head of state I request an audience with the Keeper, and the hospitality and protection of the city.’

Loveless translated. The guard captain’s other eyebrow rose. He spoke, and Loveless repeated his words.

‘Head of state? What head? What state?’

‘I am king-in-exile, disputing my brother’s claim to the throne of Vistirlar. As Arowan has no active alliance, under the terms of the treaty I must be recognized as a sovereign.’