A gentle breeze washed through the yard, hardly any smoke on the air, and it tasted sweet. Perhaps your last breaths always do. Orso wasn’t afraid. Not even watching the noose gently swing. But then he’d always had a habit of being brave at the least appropriate times. He had blundered blindly from one mistake to another, buffeted by forces he had barely perceived, let alone understood, like a blind man in a prizefight. There was so much he had failed at. So often he had disappointed. This, at least, he was determined to do well.

“No point hanging around, is there?” he said, and he left the guards behind him and trotted jauntily up the steps.

He had tried to do the right thing, he thought, in his own rather ineffectual way, but it was strange how circumstances would rarely let one be the hero, however much one might want to be. However much one might deserve to be. Still, no doubt everyone thinks they are entitled to the prizes. The Young Lion had no doubts about it, that was clear.

He still looked somewhat leonine, if you squinted, but young had become a hell of a stretch. There was a premature greying to that golden hair and beard. A leaching out of all his colour. He had an expression of well-earned satisfaction as he watched Orso climb the scaffold. One might have liked to blame it on a total lack of empathy or imagination, but the truth, as everyone knew, was that Leo dan Brock knew exactly how it felt to face the noose.

Some people, Orso supposed, can never forgive being forgiven.

The Lord Regent glanced sideways at his wife, like a winning squares player at their beaten opponent.

But Savine did not meet his eye. Most observers might have thought she was relaxed, a wealthy patron in her box at the theatre. But Orso knew her better than that. Better than anyone, maybe. He saw the muscles of her jaw clenching. Her knuckles white with pressure on the rail. He knew at a glance this was as much of a shock to her as to anyone.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. A small smile, at the corner of her mouth, but he saw it. He knew what it meant. Perhaps every person is alone, in the end. But in that moment, it seemed they understood each other. Forgave each other. Loved each other still, perhaps, even now. He did not think he had ever let her down. Not in any of the ways that really mattered. That was something. Then she swallowed, and looked to the ground, and the moment was gone.

Orso doubted he would share a profound last glance with any of the other attendees. Lords Isher and Heugen looked smug, but if you let other people’s smugness make you angry you’ll be angry all the time. Brock’s men Jurand and Glaward looked sombre. Decent enough people, probably, if they’d had a different master. You find decent people on every side, after all, as Orso’s father had been fond of saying. It was a surprise to see Selest dan Heugen, more soberly dressed than had been her habit, but some people seem always to float to the top. Then there was a bony man Orso only vaguely recognised wearing Arch Lector’s white. And there was Curnsbick looking slightly ill, and that fellow with the big jowls, and that fellow with the pointy nose who had once been in the King’s Own, what the hell were their names?