Ettenbeck realised they were dragging him up next to the body. “Wait!” he squealed, and he caught the stone basin, spray splashing in his face, thrashing desperately, but there were hands all around him, one of his legs was lifted, the other shoe falling off as it scuffed on the ground. Someone caught the back of his head.

“One last drink at the people’s expense, Councillor!”

And they shoved his face into the water. Through the gurgle of the fountain he heard shouting. Singing. Laughing. He fought his way up, just for a moment, gasped in a breath, saw the mad crowd surging on towards the House of Questions. They shook swords and spears in the air. One had a severed head spiked on it, bobbing obscenely over the mob. Absurd. Like a cheap prop in a badly produced play. Except it was real.

He was shoved down again, into the fountain, bubbles rushing.

No More Trouble

Broad did what he’d been doing ever since they locked him in this cell. He paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It was only five steps from one side to the other and those were small ones, but he paced anyway, and while he paced he chewed over and over all the stupid things he’d done to land himself here. Sometimes he kicked the wall, or dug his aching fist into his sore hand, or slapped himself hard enough to hurt. Seemed he couldn’t help hurting people. With no one else to hand, he hurt himself.

He’d promised no more trouble, then let himself get sucked in yet again. High Treason would be the charge, he was guilty as hell and there was only one punishment. Savine wouldn’t be saving him this time. She was locked up, too, somewhere in this buried warren of a place. She couldn’t even save herself.

He made a promise, then. If, by some undeserved twist of fate, he wriggled free of this, he’d live for Liddy and May. “No more trouble,” he whispered, and he ground his forehead against the rough stone wall. “No more.” He swore it. One more time.

Then he heard footsteps beyond the heavy door. They were coming. To ask their questions? Or just drag him straight to the scaffold? He clenched his fists, but he knew fighting would do no good. It was fighting landed him here in the first place. The key scraped in the lock, his breath coming fast through his clenched teeth as he watched the door creak open.

A face showed at the gap. Not the black-masked Practical he’d expected. A small woman, cheeks full of broken veins. She looked nervous, like she hadn’t known what to expect, then when she saw him standing there, she broke into a beaming smile. “Brother! You’re free!”

Broad couldn’t do much but stare. “I’m what?”

“Free!” She shook a ring of keys at him. “We all are!” And she vanished, leaving the door wide open.

He heard laughter out there now. Cheering and singing. Was that a high little flute playing somewhere? Like a rowdy market day in the village when he was a boy. He nudged his lenses up his nose, scraped his courage together and went to the door.