‘I’ll take this one.’ Vashenda was at Chel’s elbow, steering him away from the surprised confessors who’d held him. Chel looked at her askance, but she stared straight ahead, moving him to an empty space by the bunched canopy.

‘Told you he was desperate,’ she murmured. ‘I wish to God you’d come before.’

‘What—’

‘Shh. Keep looking ahead.’ He realized she was slightly taller than him, or perhaps he was shrinking from exhaustion. ‘White plague,’ she said after a moment. They were apart from the others in the pavilion, and it seemed Vashenda wanted someone to talk to. ‘Strangest thing. Some pox-riddled peasant at a triumphal, just ran at him. Managed to cough on him before he was hacked apart. That was all it took, Shepherd’s mercy.’ She shook her head and made the sign of the crook.

Chel felt a strange coldness in his gut. He’d only ever heard of one person speak of using the plague-afflicted as a weapon. But Spider was dead. Spider had to be dead.

Lemon’s words again: did you see a body? Nobody’s dead until you see a body.

Corvel was speaking again, and Tarfel replying, their voices low. Chel was close enough to listen if he strained.

‘… My works, brother. I may not be able to complete the restoration. You must continue it, as my successor.’ Tarfel was shaking his head, in disagreement or disbelief. ‘The Empire is too important, it is the only way we can bring peace to these divided lands. Only through empire can we unify the peoples as one. Unity. Purpose. Greatness. You understand. Only one of my blood could understand.’

He stopped to cough again, less aggressive this time.

‘You wanted only peace?’ Tarfel said, his tone acerbic, but Corvel either missed it or ignored it as he quelled his hacking. The emperor-in-waiting laid back against the pallet, lips flecked with blood, sweat glossy on his brow.

‘Brother, where are you? My eyes are … weakened.’ Tarfel took a reluctant step forward, taking his brother’s unbloodied hand with a look of revulsion. He kept his head averted, no doubt mindful of the danger of contracting the plague himself. ‘Ah, Tarfel, my sweet baby brother. They found it, you know. The proof, in the archives of citadel. Everything we always knew.’ He coughed again, rattling in his sunken chest. Tarfel turned his head away until it passed.

Corvel’s failing eyes opened wide and delirious. ‘Brother, it is our birthright. We are descended from emperors!’

Tarfel withdrew his hand, dabbed at something spattering his chest with a careful sleeve. ‘Brother, why did mother kill herself?’

Corvel frowned, his eyes still unfocused. ‘Does it matter? She had served her purpose long before. She had … borne us …’

Tarfel’s reply was a vicious hiss. ‘And you never thought to … mention her?’