She did not take it altogether as a compliment. “I’ve changed, that’s true. I’ve had to grow… harder.”

“As an expert in disappointing their parents… I’m sure your father would be very proud.”

He had meant that to be kind, but she winced as if the words hurt. “I wish I thought so. I had a vision. Just a year or two past, though it feels an age ago. It’s all come true, one way or another.” She looked out of the windows, their bright squares reflected in her eye. “I saw a wolf eat the sun.”

Orso pondered that. “Well, I’m no magus, learned in the interpretation of visions… but I’d say that was Stour Nightfall making war on the Union.”

“I saw a lion eat the wolf.”

He sat back, rather enjoying the game. “The Young Lion, beating the Great Wolf in the Circle.”

“I saw a lamb eat the lion.”

Orso could not help but grin. “That was me, giving Brock a richly deserved kick up the arse at Stoffenbeck.”

“I saw an owl eat the lamb.”

Orso’s grin faded. “Who’s the owl?”

“No idea.” Now she looked at him, and with the strangest, saddest expression. “Till now.”

He was starting to feel worried. “What is it?”

“I’m the owl,” she said.

The doors of the dining room swung open. Caul Shivers was the first in, metal eye glinting. Next came those two Anglanders Orso had often seen on the front benches of the Court of the People, the big one and the lean one, Glaward and Jurand. The final guest was announced before his appearance by the squeaking of the bearings in his artificial leg, accompanied by that familiar sinking sensation of dashed hopes.

“Leo dan Brock.” Orso forked up another piece of sausage but it seemed to have lost all its taste. “Do you never tire of killing my mood?”

Brock looked even more gaunt, pale and furious than the last time Orso saw him, the day the Lords Round burned and he stabbed Lord Marshal Forest in the chest. All those high qualities everyone had once so envied—the honesty, the bravery, the blunt good nature—seemed to have been crushed out of him like the pulp out of a lemon, leaving just the bitter seeds of pride, anger and an insatiable need to conquer. That and a truly unforgivable lack of any sense of humour.

“You’ve led me quite a dance the last couple of weeks,” he growled, as if Orso’s desperate attempts to stay alive were a personal affront.

“Hardly my fault that you have such poor footwork,” said Orso.

Leaning back against the doorway, Isern-i-Phail managed a titter. Perhaps unsurprisingly, no one else was in the mood. Orso glanced about the room, wondering if it would have been the done thing to try to make a break for it, but he very much doubted he could fight off Caul Shivers with a fork.

Rikke spoke slowly, softly. As if she was trying to convince herself. “The North has been through the fire, Orso. I put it through the fire. If it was just about me…” She grimaced, then snapped the words angrily. “But I’ve all those people to think about now! They need peace.”