“I thought Curnsbick’s hanging machine was a great improvement.”

“Boring!” sang Judge.

“Hanged and emptied?”

“The methods of the old regime,” sneered Judge.

“In the North I hear they sometimes crush miscreants with rocks.”

“Meh,” grunted Judge.

“Boiling alive?”

“Impalement?”

“Execution by cannon?”

“If I may?” Sworbreck had risen, eyes shining with barely contained excitement. “The situation calls for something unforgettable. Something that will serve as lesson and deterrent. Something representative of the crime.”

Judge narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes.”

“Might I suggest that those who have fallen short of the principles of the Great Change… should themselves fall! In full view of the Citizens they have failed. From the top of the Tower of Chains, perhaps?”

A murmur ran around the hall. Fear? Awe? Excitement? All three mixed up? “By the Fates,” whispered Brint. A Burner had closed a cuff on the one wrist the general had but was scratching his head over what to do with the other one.

“Huh.” Judge tipped her head back so she could gaze up towards the gilded dome, scratching gently at her rashy neck with the backs of her broken fingernails. Slowly, the smile spread across her face. “My thanks, Citizen Sworbreck, and the nation’s thanks.” She jerked her head towards the door. “Take ’em up the Tower of Chains. And push ’em off.”

One of the arrested gave a little whimper. Another sagged against the High Table.

“No trial?” It was the king, and he wasn’t laughing now. His throat shifted as he nervously swallowed.

Judge grinned back at him. “The trial can be on the way down. The ground can give the verdict. You go with ’em, Broad. Make sure they all take the drop. Sarlby?”

“Judge?”

“Make sure he makes sure.”

Broad nudged his lenses down to rub at the sore bridge of his nose, then nudged them back into place and started rolling up his sleeves. Slowly. Carefully. Helps to have a routine, after all. Then he calmly set about it, like it was any other task. Or maybe his body set about it, without the need for him to be involved at all. They organised the dozen prisoners who’d been behind the table into a line, Brint near the front, Risinau near the back, Burners around ’em with weapons drawn. Then they shuffled across the tiled floor to the aisle, and up it, between the silent benches. Everyone watched. No one spoke.

“First things first,” Judge was saying as Broad trudged dumbly from the Round behind the prisoners. “This ain’t so much an Assembly now as a courtroom. And in it we will purge the Union of its enemies.”

The doors clattered shut.

It was cold outside, but Broad’s face felt hot. Across the Square of Marshals, Square of Equality, Square of Murder, whatever they were calling it now, curious eyes following them all the way. He narrowed his own eyes as a chilly gust swept up, brown leaves chasing each other across the flagstones.

“You cannot do this!” gurgled Risinau. “You cannot do this!”