The fortress on the hill smelled even worse than the harbour, but it was wonderfully warm. Hacked and quarried into the hillside and walled in its rough grey-black stone, it offered both sweeping views over the darkening bay and respite from the blasted winter beyond. Brecki and two of the giant reavers from the boat led them out of the bitter night and through thick double doors, beneath an archway carved with a snarling parade of voracious faces. The hallway within was bright with torchlight, reflecting from racks of weaponry lining the walls, axes and pikes, shields and serrated daggers, some notched, stained, well-used, others ancient in style or appearance.

‘It’s half-armoury, half-museum,’ Lemon muttered.

‘What’s a museum?’

‘Aw, ancestors, Fossy, are you messing with me?’

Their escorts seemed unconcerned by their proximity to all the hardware, and they remained unchained and had not been disarmed. If anything, that made it worse: as far as the hard-faced, pale-skinned lumps marching either side of them were concerned, the group were no threat at all, armed or otherwise.

They were led into a vaulted great hall, a combination throne room and dining chamber. Tables were laid out in a spreading pattern from a dais at the far end, where a grand old throne, carved from dark wood and topped with what Chel guessed was a bear skull, looked down on the staff scurrying around, laying out preparations for what looked like a coming feast. Guards stood at regular intervals, hefty types in boiled leather with axes in their hands and at their backs.

A woman stood before the dais, taller than Brecki but not towering like the reavers who’d brought them in. She was hard-featured, inescapably pale, but frost-sharp with it, and wore a dark blue stone on a clasp at her neck. Her hair was unbraided, pulled back from her head in a loose pile, interwoven with coloured ties. On seeing Brecki, her eyebrows gave the slightest flex, and she turned half away.

‘You stay,’ Brecki growled, gesturing fiercely with her hand as if they were dogs of questionable obedience, then walked off toward the woman. She seemed to shrink as she approached, her stride losing its swagger, her shoulders hunching.

‘We’re all agreed this is Brecki’s queen, right?’ Loveless muttered, to general murmurs of assent. Rennic was craning forward to catch their conversation, but whatever passed between reaver and queen remained impenetrable. Chel had expected their language to be all grunts and hawking, but to his ear their speech was almost sing-song, a roll of even vowels and trills.