‘Well …’ he swallowed again, looked up at the rainbow-lit ceiling far above. ‘Am I fit to rule? I’ve tried to be decisive, assert myself, and that disaster at the Bridge House was the result. How can I challenge my brother for a kingdom I couldn’t summon the strength to master?’

‘One mistake, one accident, Tarf—’

‘I’ve sold the southern coast to a pack of reavers, pushed the free cities into chaos and insurrection, and come within a gnat’s chuff of surrendering dominion over the territories. Half the kingdom is in uproar while my brother chases after me with his armies, leaving ruin in his wake. Might it …’ He squinted, rubbed at one eye, and his voice dropped. ‘Might it not be simpler if we just let him win? Surely it would be a more peaceful outcome than what’s ahead?’

Chel moved himself into the prince’s eyeline, met his wavering, watery gaze. ‘We’re doing the right thing, highness. We do it because we must. You know Corvel won’t stop unless someone makes him. That someone is you.’

The prince nodded, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Yes, yes. Right you are, Vedren. The right thing. Thank you.’ He seemed to stand a little taller.

‘I’ll be with you all the way, Tarf. Father always said a problem shared is a problem halved.’

‘How true.’ The prince’s smile crinkled. ‘Reckon we could find forty or fifty thousand others to share this one with?’

A crack and groan from the gallery’s far end signalled the opening of the grand doors and the Keeper’s imminent arrival. Matil’s face lost all expression, and she stood tall and stiff, leaving Kosh gabbling to her chest. She had eyes only for her mother, as the Keeper swept into the room in a torrent of swishing silk, flanked by flunkies and censer-swinging ascetics.

Lemon was at the back of the assembly, looking uncomfortable. Chel joined her. ‘Loveless had plenty to say on this place,’ he murmured.

‘Aye, I was right, wasn’t I? There’s history there.’

‘What dark scheming do you think she was referring to?’

‘Aye, well, probably relating to the current political cloud in this here juncture, vis-a-vis succession.’

‘What?’

Lemon sighed in expansive disappointment, although Chel saw the corners of her mouth lift as she did so. ‘Her radiance, Exalted Hayal, has yet to name a successor for the Keeper-ship. Keeper-dom? Keeper-age. Hence a substantial volume of political jockeying for her favour.’ She indicated the assembled worthies who bowed and scraped at the Keeper’s approach.

‘Surely Matil is in line for succession? Is that not how it works here?’

‘Yes and no, wee bear. While she’s indeed currently on the hook for it, she’s more of a – what’s the word? – a place-holder.’

‘She’d refuse it, or something?’