Three figures approached, a pair of the gleaming house guards led by a tall, angular woman, dressed not in silk but in rich, soft leather, a long sabre at her belt. Her breastplate was ornate but functional; Chel guessed her to be a captain of the guard, perhaps some level of overseer. Loveless came to a stop as they met, bowed, still hooded, then stepped aside, clearing the way for Tarfel with a flourish.

Chel watched Tarfel and the tall woman converse, watched the prince attempting to mask his nerves with bombast, the woman’s impassive expression, the mirror of the glazed archers staring out from the fortress in the pass. Lemon was beside him, chewing at one thumbnail, her attention matching his.

‘What’s with all the butterflies in here?’

‘National symbol, innit? Serican butterfly and all that.’

‘Any idea why?’

Lemon paused, chewing a tiny piece of nail-grit. ‘Butterflies look impressive but are fucken useless?’ she offered. Chel let the matter drop.

‘Who’s the prince talking to?’

‘No idea. The Keeper’s keeper, perhaps?’

‘Very good, Lemon. That’s not the Keeper, then?’

‘Her, fuck no, wee bear. Word is, the Keeper’s ruled the city for eighty years, so the old girl will be showing a few creases I expect.’

‘Eighty years? That’s not possible.’

‘Who am I to say? I am merely a simple Clydish wench.’

‘Do you think he’s making an impression?’

The tall woman’s lip had curled in a small but perceptible sneer. She inclined her head in a formal but dismissive bow, then turned on her heel.

‘Ah, bugger-burps,’ Lemon said.

Something bright and shimmering arced over her head, swooping like a diving bird then rising, soaring up into the rainbow gleam of the windowed gallery. It was butterfly shaped, yet far bigger than any of the creatures that flitted around the chamber, its wings fixed and stiff. At last, it dipped again, following the bend of the wall in a lazy curve, before skidding over the polished marble floor to a skittering stop. The tall woman stared at it, mesmerized, then at Kosh, who with casual strides walked to where the object had come to rest, scooped it up, and fussed over the dents of its impact. She turned, ostensibly oblivious to her audience, revealing one of the oversized silken butterflies in her arms, the filigree of its wings reshaped into something altogether more birdlike.

The tall woman approached, gaze intent on the butterfly and the woman holding it, eyes burning with questions. Kosh looked up, then away. If her modesty was affected, Chel thought, she was giving a masterful performance.