‘Oh no, she won’t be offered, come the time of naming. Sounds like the old girl is just dragging the whole thing out for the spectacle, loves to see the body politic scrap and connive.’

Chel clicked his tongue. ‘Another succession drama looms? We’re getting to be connoisseurs.’

‘Aye, well, hardly a surprise, is it? You go round basing your systems of government on who fell out of whose bits, you’re going to come a cropper sooner or later. The whole notion’s inherently precarious. Now, if it’s good breeding you want, come the season in Clyden—’

‘You think Loveless is worried she’ll be dragged into it?’

They watched one long-moustached lord elbow another discreetly out of the way as the Keeper approached, then present an ostentatious bow as she passed.

‘Aye, I’d say so. Ach, I’ve no patience for more of this, wee bear. Catch me up later, I’m off to find some grub.’ With that she swaggered for the door.

The head seneschal bade the prince recline on a cushion-packed dais, while the Keeper arranged herself neatly opposite. The retinues stood behind their principals, hovering uneasy. Platters of fruit appeared before them, apricots, plums, pomegranates, and grapes, borne past by indifferent servants with fixed and dark expressions. A third space remained clear to the Keeper’s right, and she scanned the assembled group, looking for someone. Chel saw Loveless slide behind Foss and out of the old woman’s eyeline. The place remained empty. Matil was not invited to sit.

The Keeper did not eat, it seemed, but she stared hard at Tarfel until he caved in and picked up a plum to chew. It was far too juicy for polite consumption, and all present pretended to ignore the squirting dribbles of syrup that soon coated the prince’s hands and chin.

‘The message is delivered,’ the Keeper said. ‘The rabble at the Stop will now either depart, or be destroyed.’

‘Exalted Hayal,’ Tarfel said through a mouthful of plum, ‘I must once more impress caution – the forces that pursue us are of singular construction, an amalgam of church and crown, mercenary and fanatic. My brother is building armies for conquest, for empire. They have stolen the alchemy of the Norts, as our own alchemist can attest—’

From the corner came a quiet hiss: ‘Engineer!’

‘—and I’d not be surprised if half the folk on your doorstep weren’t victims of this latest aggression in one form or another.’

The Keeper watched, aloof, cold as marble. ‘Do you fear war, highness?’

‘Do I … Well, yes, I suppose I do. The provinces have suffered two decades of it, on and off. I think we could all do with some peace, eh?’ He offered a weak smile, but the Keeper made no acknowledgement. Instead, she nodded, once, as if marking off a task completed.