“Bloody hell,” he breathed as a murmur went through the crowd. Were they… his niece and nephew, then? The thought made him feel vaguely nauseous.

Sworbreck, in his blood-red prosecutor’s suit, gazed at them with open disdain. “Babies are not permitted in the Court of the People!”

“My innocence may stand in question,” Savine’s voice rang out with no trace of fear, “but what crime have my children committed that they should be separated from their mother?”

Usually insults would shower on the accused, sometimes bits of food, coins and broken glass, on one memorable occasion a bucket of piss, but the mood was different today. The murmur from above was of approval. Support, even. It seemed there was almost as much admiration for Savine’s quiet dignity in the public galleries as there was in Orso’s cage. He could not suppress the slightest smile, the slightest shake of his fist. In the Court of the People, one had to celebrate small victories.

But Judge lazily waved it away. “They’re Citizens, too, ain’t they? All are equal and everyone’s welcome.” She slumped back in her chair, lifted her legs and let her bare feet drop on the table with a final-sounding thud. “It’s not as if it’ll change the result.”

That was painfully clear to someone who had watched the court send hundreds to their deaths, heedless of proof or process. Savine might bring the cunning of Glustrod, the dignity of Juvens, the will of Euz himself and perch on a mountain of babies in an ocean of sympathy. Orso could not see how it might make the slightest difference. Only the timely arrival of several thousand armed men could do that.

Savine gave her children a final touch then swept into the dock as calmly as she might have her box at the theatre. Orso glanced towards the benches, where Tunny sprawled on the front row, arms spread out and eyes narrowed lazily against the sunlight. His old gambling partner, panderer and occasional standard-bearer did not meet his eye, but he made a subtle turning motion with one finger, around and around.

Time. Teufel’s plan was in motion. Forest was on his way with the Young Lion. Orso chewed at his lip, glancing about the court with a new urgency. He had to find some way to buy time.

Judge bashed away for order, then tossed her hammer rattling down. “Bar all the doors!” she shrieked. “I want no fucking distractions!”

And a breathless silence closed in.

“Citizeness Brock!” Sworbreck swaggered towards Savine in his absurd scarlet coat, a sheaf of papers flapping in one hand. It appeared the pompous dolt had duped himself with his own play-acting and come to believe he really was the great legal mind of the age.

“You stand accused of epic profiteering, grand usury, consorting with enemies of the Union and conspiracy against the Great Change!” He delivered the charges like the famous final lines of a much-loved play, and with the same expectation of applause. But Savine’s old partner Citizen Vallimir must have carried out her instructions to the letter: stuffing the galleries with people who had benefitted from her charity and paying everyone else to act as if they had. Now, as the echoes of Sworbreck’s accusations faded into sullen silence, her final investment paid dividends and the faces of the public squashed in at the balconies glared down on the prosecutor with chilly hostility.