“I’ll keep a warrant warm for him,” said Judge, her black eyes gleaming, “but sad to say the First o’ the Magi’s beyond our reach. You done?”

“I beg the court’s patience for just one more! The worst of the pack. The lowest of the low. Lastly, and most fiercely, I denounce… myself.” And he spread his arms wide as though inviting the crowd to shoot him full of arrows. There was laughter. There was applause, of a mocking variety. “I have been lazy. I have been vain. I have been as petty as my mother and as indecisive as my father. I could have done good, but I could not be bothered. I could have made peace, but I was too busy making love. I could have made the Union a better place! If only I hadn’t been so very, very drunk. I have no doubt that history will judge me to have been not only the last High King of the Union, but the worst, and my brief reign the most disastrous on—”

There was a boom as the doors at the top of the aisle were flung open and a Burner in red-smeared armour staggered breathless to the steps.

Judge leaped up, raising her hammer as if she was about to fling it at him. “I said we weren’t to be disturbed!”

“But there’s royalists approaching the Agriont!” he squealed, cringing.

“There’s what?”

“Inside the city! Lord Marshal Forest is leading ’em!”

There was no stopping the noise now. Gasps of “Royalists?” Screams of “Treachery?” Shrieks of “Forest?”

“Where’s the fucking Young Lion?” demanded Judge.

“He’s with ’em!”

For a moment, even she was lost for words. Everyone was. And as Orso looked across the staring faces on the Representatives’ benches, from Citizens Heugen and Isher to a surprisingly popular beggar elected from the Three Farms, he knew they were all working desperately at this strange new sum, trying to tally up where their best interests lay, and therefore what mixture of emotion to put on display. He suspected loyalties shifted quicker in that moment than at any time since his father was unexpectedly voted to the throne.

Those most loyal to the Great Change shook fists and roared their dismay. Several of the ex-lords did not look surprised, let alone displeased. Most chose, perhaps wisely, to hedge their bets and stay quiet. But up in the public gallery they were more vocal.

“The Young Lion!” someone called, in what sounded very much like full-throated support.

“The Darling o’ the Slums!” came a woman’s voice. “You saved my—” Cut off in a squeal.

“Freedom! Freedom!” Though for who and from what was not explained.

A kind of fever had broken out. A madness of hope, fear and fury. Like the one on the day the Breakers first took the city, maybe. People scrambled for the doors. Ran for safety, for their families. Others fought their way to the railings of the gallery to bellow their disgust or their encouragement.