Then he saw the sunlight glimmer from between the heavy drapes, the faint glint on the gilded wallpaper, and it came back in a pleasurable rush whose bed he was in. The smile spread across his face and he stretched, rolled, thinking he might politely offer Rikke the chance to make use of his morning wood, the way she had so enthusiastically made use of the midnight variety—

But the bed was empty.

Someone had left fresh clothes on a chair and he slipped from the covers and pulled the trousers on. He crept to the window, nudged the curtains back with a cautious finger to peer across gardens glistening with last night’s rain towards the Middleway.

He caught a glimpse of flags through the budding branches. The crossed hammers of Angland, maybe. He heard the familiar tramp of armoured feet and let the curtains fall. No doubt they were still searching for him. Plainly, he was far from free. But with Rikke on his side he had a chance. In Adua, self-styled zenith of civilisation, they liked to think of anything beyond the Circle Sea as primitive. But they could have learned a lot from the Northmen. About courage, about endurance, about loyalty. About the enthusiastic use of wood, for that matter. He found he was smiling again.

He had no idea what would happen now. But for the first time in a long time, he was eager to find out.

He padded down the stairs into the empty hallway. Far from the first time he had stolen from a lady’s bed, but the stakes had rarely been so high. He heard soft voices, talking in Northern, and slipped across to the open door of the dining room.

Rikke sat at the head of a table set for breakfast. Isern-i-Phail had one hand on the back of her chair, leaning down to mutter in her ear. Orso had the impression he had interrupted a difficult conversation, and more than likely he had been its subject. By the frown on Isern’s face, his way with the ladies did not extend to hillwomen. But then, since he lost the crown, his way with the ladies probably did not extend very far at all. It was something of a surprise that it still reached Rikke. Looking at her troubled expression now, he wondered whether, in the cold light of morning, it might not fall short of her, too.

But Orso’s father had insisted the best way to brighten the mood was to act as if it was already incandescent. An approach he had applied to Orso’s mother for thirty years with a total lack of success. So Orso plastered on a smile, strutted into the room and called out, “Morning!” with almost offensive enthusiasm.

“Barely,” said Isern as she stalked past him to the door, endlessly chewing. From the short patch of sunlight in front of the windows it could not have been far short of midday.

“My mother would have counted it quite the victory to get me up at this hour.” Orso licked his lips as he pulled out a chair. Last night’s exertions had left him with an appetite. Well, that and barely eating for a few days. “Do you mind if I…?”