“Can’t be him!”

“I saw him at his triumph!”

“Where’s his leg?”

“Lost it in the cause o’ freedom.”

“The Young Lion!”

“Please.” Leo struggled to hold them back with his one good arm. “Let me—”

“He’s a bloody hero!” A big man dropped down behind Brock, and before anyone could do a thing about it he’d stood, hoisting the Young Lion high into the air on his shoulders.

Someone struck up a martial tune on an old violin. One that Broad had marched to out in Styria. Folk danced, and saluted, and patted the stump of the Young Lion’s leg like he was some bloody mascot. Whether it made any real sense or not, seemed they’d got their own successful rebellion and Brock’s failed one mixed up into one thing.

“Still bowing to the nobles?” A fellow with heavy brows that met in the middle had come up with quite the scowl. “Where’s your fucking dignity?” he snarled at the man who had Brock on his shoulders. “Carried these bastards on our backs all our lives, haven’t we? Ain’t we all equal now?”

Broad could feel the mood shifting. There were doubting looks pointed his way, and Savine’s way, too. If they realised she was the daughter of the man who’d tortured thousands in the building right behind…

“Hold these.” Broad handed his lenses to Brint. Then he realised the ex-lord marshal couldn’t hold Savine and the lenses at once, so he tucked ’em in Brint’s jacket pocket and turned back to the crowd, which had become a mass of smeared colour.

“I was at Stoffenbeck!” the fellow with the brows was snarling. “And he didn’t fight for the fucking people, all he did—”

Broad’s fist smashed into his blurred face. Before he fell Broad caught his collar and punched him again.

“I was there, too, and I say you’re a liar.” And Broad punched him one more time. “The Young Lion’s a fucking hero!” It’d been a while since he believed in heroes, but plainly some folk still liked the notion. “Gave his leg and his arm for the people!” Broad flung the man against the wall of the House of Questions so he bounced off and rolled on the cobbles, hands clasped to his broken face.

“A cheer for the Young Lion!” bellowed Brint, stepping forwards with his one fist raised.

Like that, the mood was changed back and they were cheering again, Leo dan Brock jolting about on that dancing man’s shoulders with his stump in the air and his limp arm flopping.

“Wish I could get him down,” said Broad.

Savine shook her head. “I’ve a feeling it will be safer for us all if he stays up there.”

“That was… quick and decisive action,” murmured Brint, pressing the lenses back into Broad’s aching hand. “You were a Ladderman?”

Broad frowned down at his tattoo. He realised there was a little piece of tooth stuck between two of his scarred knuckles.

“I was,” he said, wincing as he picked it out and flicked it away.