‘Look at her.’ Lemon was gazing at the Keeper with something approaching awe. ‘Buried three husbands and countless offspring, yet still here she is.’

‘You sound like a fan.’

‘Pff, three husbands more than I’d fancy, but you’ve got to admire the old girl’s staying power.’

‘Any idea what they’re saying?’

‘The usual, no doubt. Princeling will be doing his best to enkindle her affections in search of protection, alliance and mutual beneficence, and she’ll be working the angle to see what’s in it for her. Blah blah, fate of nations et cetera.’

‘Affections? Is he going to try to marry her?’

‘Her? Come on, wee bear, keep up. Friend Keeper still has one living daughter. Last living scion of the dynasty, never married. If our man can secure her hand, we’re nailed on for alliance and reconquest. For the time being, at least. The winds of courtly favour blow fast and capricious in these parts.’

‘How do you know all this? You studied Serican politics?’

‘Told you, man, I’m educated! May not have hattended a fancy hacademy, but I know things. I know many things. The only shame in learning is confining your horizons.’

‘How do you think it’s going?’

Lemon furrowed her brow, squinting as if reading the micro-expressions of the involved parties. ‘I would say …’

The Keeper took a step away from Tarfel, her expression soured and impatient, face pinched like a raisin.

‘… Not well.’

‘Maybe if Kosh throws her butterfly again?’

‘Tall order, wee bear, tall order.’

Tarfel took a step forward, one arm out in entreaty, but the Keeper raised a hand to still him. Instead, she turned toward Loveless, who skulked at the prince’s side.

‘Is there perhaps,’ she said clearly, in a voice like rustling parchment, ‘something you wish to say for yourself?’

Loveless froze.

‘Remove that hood. Did you think I would not recognize you?’

With glacial slowness, Loveless reached up a hand and pulled back her hood, revealing her travel-stained and glowering visage beneath, the faded lilac of her hair revitalized beneath the vivid light of the glowing dome. Once more her beauty hit Chel in the gut, his ardour for her carving a streak through his innards. She looked sidelong toward Rennic, her eyes radiating both fury and deep unhappiness.

‘You see,’ she muttered toward him, ‘they always know. They always know.’

‘That is better. Perhaps now we can speak without veils.’ She murmured something to a flunky, then turned back to the prince, who regarded her through narrowed eyes but said nothing. ‘Shall we start again, your highness?’