“Some help here!” he called out.

Broad was propped against the rail, breathing hard through gritted teeth, his sleeve soaked with blood and the knife still stuck deep in his shoulder. Orso had not dared to try to pull it out. Two men in those wonderfully familiar red uniforms of the King’s Own rushed to help him.

“He saved our lives,” said Orso. “Both our lives.”

“We’ll see he’s well taken care of, Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty. It was said earnestly, without sneering sarcasm, without being made into a joke or an insult. It had been a very long time since Orso last heard it said that way.

He helped Savine down from the platform, his arm around her. He could not let go of her. As if there was some irresistible force pulling them together. There were faces here he knew. Faces he wanted to cry even more at the sight of. Old friends and loyal comrades. Lord Marshal Forest—battle-worn and reliable. Corporal Tunny—looking as if he’d won big at the gaming table. Hildi—who had stolen a new soldier’s cap from somewhere, her face smeared with soot. Victarine dan Teufel—even though her nose was bloated and bloody and surrounded by a spectacular blooming of bruises. Even Bremer dan Gorst—with steels still in his hands and a most unfamiliar grin. Finally, there was one face Orso had to confess he was less than delighted to see—Leo dan Brock, smiling somewhat queasily at Savine.

“Thank the Fates you’re safe,” he said as she disentangled herself from Orso, bruised and bleeding but very much unbowed.

They did not kiss, or fall into each others’ arms, but then Savine had never been one for displays of affection. “Where are the children?” she asked.

“They’re safe,” said Brock. “They’re guarded. Everything’s taken care of.”

Teufel’s weary eyes rolled towards the giant torch that had once been the Lords’ Round, smoke pouring up from it more thickly than from all the city’s chimneys combined. “You sure?”

“We’ve got men trying to contain the blaze,” said Forest. “Say what you like about the Burners, they knew how to set a fire.”

The consequences of recent events were only now starting to dawn on Orso. “So… am I king again?”

Hildi watched the last Burners being dragged away. “Looks like it,” she said.

“Whoever would have thought?” When Orso denounced himself, he had meant every word of it. Against all the odds, thanks to the loyalty of old friends and the self-interest of more than one old enemy, it looked as if he had been given another chance. He gazed across the corpse-strewn Square of Marshals. More and more people were gathering, staring, blinking in surprise. As if they were emerging into the sunlight after a long time in the dark. Veterans of his Crown Prince’s Division, in worn-out uniforms. Men of Angland, in sombre black. Ex-lords of the Open Council, armed with flatbows.

“Things will be different this time, Hildi,” he said. “I promise.”

“You’ve never been much at keeping those.”