At the same moment Orso felt himself gripped from behind, a blade pressed into his throat.

Brock’s man Jurand. “Still!” he hissed in Orso’s ear. “Everybody still!”

Suddenly, there were raised flatbows everywhere, the points of the loaded bolts gleaming. Lord Isher had one, and several of his friends who had once sat on the Open Council, and some of the Anglanders, too. Forest took a wobbling step and dropped to his knees, blood spreading through his jacket in a dark circle.

“What are you doing?” Savine nearly shrieked, staring at the drawn swords and levelled spears.

“I am putting an end to the Great Change,” said her husband, “and taking back the Agriont in the name of the king.” Anglanders were already disarming the stunned members of the King’s Own, forcing them onto their knees along with the Burners.

“You fucking bathtard,” breathed Vick, but with an air of wounded resignation. Orso could only watch with a familiar sinking feeling. He should have known, the moment things started looking up, that something like this would happen.

“Actually, my wife’s the bastard,” said Brock. “Which makes my son Harod the oldest child of King Jezal’s oldest child. A strong claim to the throne.”

“That’s not how succession works,” snarled Tunny as he was shoved onto his knees.

“Are you sure?” asked Brock. “I have three-score flatbows with a different opinion.”

Gorst still had his steels in his hands, bloody metal glinting, eyes narrowed. Now he shifted his weight a fraction.

“No!” shouted Orso, Jurand’s knife pressing hard into his neck. Best swordsman in the world or not, he would be dead before he could reach Brock, and the rest of them soon after. “Lay down your weapons. That’s a royal decree!” His first in some time and, by the look of things, his last.

Gorst breathed in hard, then gave a bull’s snort and tossed his steels clattering down. Two Anglanders stepped forward to bind his wrists. They were already doing the same to Teufel, to Hildi, to anyone who might still have been loyal.

“What have you done?” whispered Savine, back of one hand to her mouth. “Let them go, Leo, please, let them go!”

“You have been through quite the ordeal,” droned Brock. “Someone take my wife to our children. They need their mother.”

The blood was spreading out around Forest’s body. “He was a good man,” whispered Orso numbly. “A loyal man.”

“Too loyal.” Brock snapped his fingers. “Secure the gates of the Agriont.”

“Already done,” said Isher, smartly. A coward on the battlefield but as proficient a traitor as ever.

“There’ll be a price for this!” said Orso as his wrists were tied for the third time that day. He felt the need to register some resistance, however pointless.

Brock regarded him without the slightest trace of guilt or shame. “I’ve already paid. See all members of the King’s Own taken prisoner until we can make sure of each man’s obedience. Conduct Citizen Orso and his servants to locked quarters in the House of Questions. Glaward should already have every gate and bridge in the city under guard. I want proclamations printed and pasted at every corner. The Great Change is over.”