Bright fires burned at the base of the pit, a central blaze and braziers spaced evenly between the long tables that circled it. Figures milled around them, some sitting, some talking in small groups. Despite the cold beyond the walls, the atmosphere in the pit was sweaty and fevered. A palpable anxiety filled the crackling air.

Loveless met them at the foot of the steps. In spite of her attempts to remain aloof, she radiated visible joy at their arrival. The Black Hawk Company were reunited.

‘You’re just in time,’ she said. Her hair was flame red now, trimmed back, shorn almost flat at the sides. ‘They’re about to start. You’ll make for a nice surprise.’

Rennic’s frown deepened. ‘Who’s running the show? We need words about our contract. Although everyone who signed it is dead.’

She ignored him. ‘Come on, I’ve got us seats at the back.’

Loveless had commandeered a small table behind the outer circle, one of a handful dotted around the pit’s perimeter. A clay jug of spiced wine and a collection of cups stood waiting. When Chel hesitated, Loveless clapped him on the shoulder and sat down. ‘Come on, my hussies, take a seat and have a drink before this bunch of old women bore the arses off us.’ She gestured with one of the wine cups toward the pit’s centre, where some of the greyest heads were gathered.

Chel did as he was told. ‘Who are they all?’

Loveless poured wine, pointing without looking. ‘That scruffy bunch are what remains of the western leadership, brotherhood of something, small-time but vocal. That fellow behind them you may recognize, he’s speaking for the lady of Wavecrest, and those dour types are some of the last Merciful Sisters.’ She paused. ‘Did you hear about that? The Sepulchre?’

Chel shook his head. Despite the warmth from the braziers, he could feel his skin prickling.

‘We weren’t exactly drowning in gossip in the cells,’ Rennic growled.

Foss was looking deep into the darkness of his wine cup. ‘Evil days, friends,’ he said without looking up, his sonorous voice reflected from the cup.

Loveless nodded at Tarfel, who was keeping a low profile behind the table, hood pulled low. Self-concealment seemed almost habit for him now. ‘Rest assured, princeling’s big brother has racked up a few more stains on his soul since last we chatted.’

Chel’s head was spinning, the heat of the chamber and the first gulps of wine sending his thoughts swirling. Corvel’s various crimes dimmed in his resumed proximity to Loveless, her hair glowing in the light, and he felt a dull ache return, a memory of his captive dreams. Thoughts of captivity made him think of the Nort, the young woman with a bag of alchemy and the ability to make fire on command. It was hard to shake the feeling there was a lot she wasn’t telling them—