“And I’m the price, I suppose.” Orso glanced from Glaward, to Brock, to Jurand, to Isern, to Shivers, and back to Rikke. “You promised to fight with him against me. Then you broke your word. I’m what it costs you to get back in his good graces. If he even has any, these days.”

“Constant pain can wear down your patience,” said Brock.

“In Adua, we like to think of anything beyond the Circle Sea as primitive.” Orso gave a sigh and placed his knife and fork neatly together with a final sounding clink. He was finished. And not just with breakfast. “But it turns out you Northmen can teach us a thing or two about treachery.”

Isern might have given the tiniest careless shrug. Shivers did not move even that much. Rikke had, at least, the good grace to wince. “A leader needs to be hard,” she said, frowning down at the table, “so others needn’t be. She must make of her heart a stone.”

“Or get rid of it altogether,” said Brock.

“Finally we agree.” Isern-i-Phail scratched at the hollow above her collarbone and winked. “Ruthlessness is a quality much loved o’ the moon.”

Orso was tempted to scream and rage, but it would have ruined an otherwise charming morning. He had acted for so many years, in the full and glaring view of the public, with an utter lack of dignity. Now, in private, he insisted on keeping hold of every shred.

He slid his chair back, stood and gave Rikke his best formal bow. “Please allow me to say that I do not blame you for this in the least. Terrible manners to just drop in. Entirely my own fault. I’m actually…” He gave a disbelieving grin as he realised it was true. “I’m actually rather glad we had this time together.”

Rikke winced again, even harder, as Glaward walked over with a set of heavy manacles. “Believe it or not, so am I.”

“An unlikely romance, this,” sneered Brock, pale lip curled with evident disgust. Or was it jealousy?

Rikke’s glance towards him was satisfyingly furious. “We’re even,” she forced through gritted teeth.

Brock’s nostrils flared. The Young Lion might have had fewer limbs than in his glory days, but he yet possessed a full set of heroic nostrils. “Take him somewhere he won’t bloody escape from,” he snapped at Jurand. “And the Lady Regent won’t find out about. Not until it’s time.” He looked back to Rikke. “We’re even. But we’ll be keeping our swords well sharpened, just in case.”

“The Master Maker forged mine,” said Caul Shivers, in that broken whisper of his. “It never gets blunt.” He made no effort to be threatening. The one advantage of a giant scar and a metal eye, perhaps, is that being threatening takes no effort whatsoever.

“Huh.” And Brock’s mechanical leg squeaked faintly as he limped for the door.

The bracelets snapped shut around Orso’s wrists. One could almost hear the discomfort in Glaward’s voice. “Hope that’s not too tight, Your…”