Halder stared at him with those heavy-lidded eyes. “You reckon you’re quite the funny fucker, don’t you?”

“Laughter is a tonic in hard times. I have your welfare in mind.”

“No one laughs where you’re going.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hildi, frowning at him.

“His Majesty has been sent for.” And Halder pulled the barred door open.

“Oh, damn.” Orso draped himself as nonchalantly as he could against the damp pillar in the middle of the cellar. “Must I really leave my suite?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Have the chef prepare my morning repast for my return, Hildi.” And he flounced from the cell. He knew how much his attendants hated it when he did that. He much preferred the word “attendants” to “jailers.”

He hadn’t realised how warm it was beneath the palace until he stepped into the open air.

“It’s like winter’s tits out here!” he gasped. The gardens were all frozen, every branch on every tree picked out with a line of snow, the drainpipes dangling with glinting icicles, the heaps of fallen leaves from the creeper that covered the palace walls glittering with frost. It might’ve been beautiful had he been better dressed, but even wearing every stitch he still possessed the air had a bitter bite. He was not sure whether to blow on his hands or wedge them under his armpits. He settled for blowing on the left one while wedging the right and swapping them every few strides. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” said Halder, with a glance over his shoulder that implied he wouldn’t. Not that Orso had liked anything for some weeks now. Before the Great Change, he’d often joked that being High King of the Union was the worst job in the world. After the Great Change, it wasn’t even a joke. He’d heard they were selling night pots with his face on the inside of the bowl. Once, the ladies of Adua had scrambled into his bed. Now they queued up to shit on him. He could hardly say he didn’t deserve it.

Snow was falling on the park. Just dirty spots and specks against the House of the Maker, silhouetted in the winter haze. The place was almost empty. Lonely figures wobbled on the icy pathways, smoke pluming from their faces. A pair of children, ridiculously underdressed for the season, were chasing each other around leaving spirals of footprints, hands and faces chapped pink, scraping up snow and flinging it. Not so much snowballs as pointless showers of glittering powder. Their giggles rang out as they flopped down together in the white.

“Good to see someone’s having fun,” muttered Orso. He rather wished he could join them. Especially once his destination became clear. They were calling it the House of Purity now, of course, but its aspect was no more comforting. The same lowering, near-windowless façade. The same guards, prisoners, questions. Even the crimes were mostly the same. Only the direction of the treason had changed.