The sounds of fighting were louder yet. The people trapped in the square even more desperate. The rest of the Burners made a crescent about the base of the tower, weapons pointing outwards.

Judge jerked her thumb towards the heavens. “Take us up!” There was a squeal of gears and the hoist lurched, then began to rattle upwards.

“At least we don’t have to climb the damn steps,” said Orso, tipping his head back to follow the chains straight up the well of scaffolding to the square of sky at its top. “Thanks to Master Curnsbick’s excellent lift.”

“There’s progress,” whispered Savine.

“Save the king!” squealed Gorst, ploughing through the panicking crowds. The badly carved virtues of the Great Change squinted down on havoc, people running, wailing, cringing, blundering into each other. Hard to say what side anyone was on, if there was such a thing as sides any more. Most were just trying to live through it.

“Save the king!” Gorst hacked someone down with his long steel, sent them bouncing from a pedestal, smearing blood across the stained marble. He kicked, shoved, screeched his way through the mob and Vick limped after him, her face one enormous throb, a watchful eye on his steels in case he took her head off with a backswing, wondering what her chances were of finding someone out here who could set a broken nose.

They burst onto the Square of Martyrs and she hobbled to a stop, nearly slipping over backwards, her free hand up to shield her battered face. The Court of the People was on fire. A giant torch, angry flames roaring. One of its great windows shattered, sparks showering, throwing garish light across the chaos.

Something hit Vick on the back of the head and she stumbled. Didn’t even know what it was. Where it had come from. Touched fingers to her hair and they came away bloody. But then she was covered in blood already. Her nose was blocked with it, her chin crusted with it, her mouth salty with it.

“Save the king!” Gorst pounded on, people scattering in front of him. Horsemen spilled from the slogan-daubed buildings on the right, clattering across the square, chopping people down, indiscriminate. A horse fell right in front of Vick, rolled, crushed its rider. She nearly fell herself as she staggered around it, barged into a woman clutching an armful of candlesticks.

“Save the king!” shrieked Gorst, pounding on towards the Tower of Chains. Through the tears the smoke had stung from her eyes, Vick thought she could see Curnsbick’s lift crawling up the scaffold on its side.

There were Burners there. A curved line of them, weapons ready, sharpened steel gleaming with the colours of fire. A last line of defence around their place of execution.

Horsemen crashed into them. Anglanders maybe, in dark uniforms. Spears darted. Swords rose and fell. The noise was appalling. Tortured metal, tortured beasts, tortured men. Something crunched into Vick’s side and sent her rolling over and over, into a fallen wagon with one wheel squeaking around in the air. She squirmed onto her back, clutching at her jacket. Just dirt. She wasn’t hurt. No worse than she’d been before, anyway. Mace still flapping around her wrist on its thong and she caught it by the handle and scrambled up.