Creaking footsteps announced the king’s presence at his side. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it, Vedren? Turns out some of my brother’s endeavours were genuinely in service of restoration after all. I shall be thinking of him as we ride over it. Albeit not fondly.’

‘Ride over what?’

‘The bridge, Vedren, the bridge! Look at it! It’s a masterwork. That carving, those towers, they must have worked from records, I don’t know how. Let’s hope this incarnation lasts a bit longer than the one before, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you all right, old chap? You seem a touch down. Still thinking about the siege?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Well, nothing to dwell on there, God’s truth. You did more than anyone to avert bloodshed, and certainly can’t be blamed for what happened. Which reminds me, Her Radiance Exalted Matil has sent her felicitations on this august occasion, and her regrets that she cannot attend in person. She’s up and about now, I understand, although she has rather a lot to deal with, as you can imagine. She sent a rather generous gift nonetheless, it’s piled with the others on one of the carriages …’

Chel didn’t turn to look. The king noticed. He leaned in close, his voice low, intimate. ‘You mustn’t brood, old boy. I know you feel like you lost some friends, but in truth, they weren’t really our friends at all, were they? They were mercenaries, paid to abduct us – well, me – and they would have cut our throats at a stroke if the winds of profit had blown otherwise. So come on, chin up. It’s a big day.’

They’d had no chance to speak in the aftermath of Tarfel’s sudden elevation; as head of the kingdom, he’d been whisked away, absorbed at once into the machinery of state, and Chel had barely seen him since. Tarfel’s new minders, the royal staff, regarded Chel with a sort of wary respect, which could have been worse, but seemed to go out of their way to keep him at a distance from their new charge, to whom they had taken with unseemly enthusiasm. On reflection, that distance had suited Chel just fine.

The king put a heavy, gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and at last Chel turned.

‘God’s balls,’ he murmured, ‘that’s …’

‘My brother’s armour, yes.’ Tarfel flexed his arms and shimmered, even in the watery spring sun. His nose had healed a little off-centre, and it gave his face an unexpected, weathered look. Even his beard was coming in, a dark moustache and whiskers giving his face a novel definition.

‘It fits you?’

‘Needed some adjustment, of course. Turns out I’ve got a couple of inches on the old boy. Royal smith assures me I’ll grow into the girth.’

‘No doubt.’