Tarfel coughed. ‘What about those new weapons you mentioned? Do we have anything to worry about?’

Another plink from behind, followed by a great metal boom. A moment later, a small Nort’s cheer.

Chel felt himself smile. ‘Maybe we’ll have some new weapons of our own.’

***

It loomed over the river, sheets of pale stone, topped with delicate crenellations, wrapped around an elegant cylinder of gleaming masonry, its circumference dotted with evenly spaced towers. Most of the pennants flying overhead boasted the sigil of a pair of crossed keys; over the gatehouse at the bridge’s end, a black flag flew. The whole thing struck Chel as more palace than stronghold, but the sheer number of curving walls that circled the rising mound on the far bank reassured him that for all its gaudiness, the building had at least once been planned with defence in mind.

He squinted at the black pennant over the distant gatehouse, fluttering against the undulating silver sky. ‘Black flag? Truce?’

‘Aye, all welcome at the Gracechurch on this chilly morning,’ Lemon muttered from beside him, where she worried at the packs on one of the new mules. ‘Official fortress-residence of the Company of Keys.’

‘Gracechurch? Are the Keys a religious order?’

She sniggered. ‘Hardly. They just had the coin to buy the place off the nuns years ago, liked the name enough to keep it. Makes them feel all grand and special, the danglers. They love to host the other companies, rub their faces in it.’

‘The other companies don’t have fortress-residences?’

‘Oh, aye, any company of charter size has a wee stack of stonework somewhere to call home, but few are as splendid as this. Most try to maximize their time in the field, after all – if you’re not burning, you’re not earning, as the saying goes.’

Chel’s gaze slipped back to the bridge, busy with small knots of people heading into the fortress, some on foot, some mounted, all seemingly armed and armoured. Most were coming from the north road. Chel and his party were the only group approaching from the south. ‘Looks like quite a turnout.’

‘It’s an Extraordinary Council of the Companies, wee bear, a chance to meet and greet and quaff with toffs. You’ll have your free companies, your agencies, freelancers and contract folk, hunters and quiet’ners—’

‘What are they?’

Lemon paused to bundle something into her arms. ‘Well, the hunters find things, or people, right?’

‘Yeah …’

‘And the quiet’ners, well, make them go quiet.’

‘I see.’

‘Friend Spider did a lot of work in that vein before taking up with the company, I believe. Ah, there we go.’ Lemon stepped away from the mule, arms draped with layered fabric, her boots crunching on the loose and broken stone of the road beneath the thin crust of churned snow.

‘Lemon!’ Loveless’s voice rose sharp and angry from the mule’s far side. ‘Where the fuck is my sword?’