They staggered to one side, wrestling over an axe, leaving Savine and Judge to stare at each other across the flat roof of the Tower of Chains.

Cold calculation had been the root of Savine’s many victories. But there are times only blind fury will do.

She threw herself screaming from the platform. If her hands had been free she’d have flailed away with both fists. Since they were tied she clenched them together to make one.

She didn’t think of her children, or the Union, or herself. She didn’t think of anything but smashing Judge’s head with her hands.

“Die, you mad cunt!” she snarled, and clubbed Judge right across the face, sending her stumbling towards the lift. Savine caught her around the rashy throat, rammed her back into the railing and started choking her, making the platform jerk and wobble, chains thrashing, the whole scaffold trembling.

Judge bared bloody teeth, almost a smile, shot out a hand. Nails sank into Savine’s neck, ripping at her. She gave a shriek, cut off in a gulp as Judge kneed her in the gut, shoved her staggering off the lift and back across the tower’s roof.

Someone careered into her and knocked her flying. Orso, still reeling around in his ungainly dance with one of the Burners. Savine’s head hit stone, ears ringing. Her hands were in a pool of blood. She wasn’t sure whose.

“You fucking die!” growled Judge. A foot thudded into Savine’s ribs and rolled her over, the back of her skull cracking on the steps up to the platform. Judge came at her, swinging her bare foot back for another kick.

This time Savine caught it, hugged it to her chest, twisting up, dragging Judge hopping off balance then flinging her back, rusty breastplate scraping as she sprawled across the roof.

The man with the bloody face had caught Broad from behind. Sarlby lifted an axe, ready to chop into the back of Broad’s skull. Savine grabbed it below the head and ripped it from his fist.

She spun about, axe held clumsily in her tied hands, just as Judge rammed her into the parapet with a shoulder, driving her breath out in an agonised rasp. They wrestled, tangled, clawed, elbowed. Savine got the axe in the way, snarling as she pressed it into the side of Judge’s face, but there wasn’t enough force behind it to stop her, only to slowly peel a flap of flesh from her cheek.

Judge punched Savine in the stomach. And again. And again. Punched the breath out of her. Punched the strength out of her. Puke scalded the back of her throat. The axe wrenched from her tied hands, tumbled past her shoulder and was gone off the tower. Savine struggled, twisted, snapped with her teeth but Judge had her, bending her back over the parapet. Blood ran from the ragged wound on her cheek in crooked streaks, dripped from her chin, pit-pattered in Savine’s face.

“You’re tougher’n you look,” she said, showing a red smile. And she caught Savine around the throat, pushing, pushing. “But you’re still taking the long drop.”