They all looked so happy. Faces Rikke was used to seeing stamped with fear or sadness. One old bird who’d lost two sons in the last war had tears on her cheeks. Even Caul Shivers was smiling.

“The North’s united,” he whispered, like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “From the Crinna to the Whiteflow. By the dead, your father would be proud.”

Rikke thought of her father, then, sitting on his bench, rubbing his grizzled jaw. Making the hard choices so his people wouldn’t have the trouble of ’em. Bent under a load of other folk’s fears so they wouldn’t have to carry their weight.

Isern-i-Phail was showing her missing tooth in a girlish grin. “Always knew we’d get great things from you, Rikke. But I’ll confess I never expected half o’ this. Not a quarter. Now then.” And she offered out a chagga pellet. “What was this vision o’ yours?”

Rikke blinked at her, and at the happy room. Then she took the pellet, and stuck it up behind her lip. She forced a queasy smile onto her face.

“Nothing,” she said. “All good.”

Acknowledgments

As always, four people without whom:

Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.

Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.

Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.

Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.

Then, my heartfelt thanks:

To all the lovely and talented people in British publishing who have helped bring the First Law books to readers down the years, including but by no means limited to Simon Spanton, Jon Weir, Jen McMenemy, Mark Stay, Jon Wood, Malcolm Edwards, David Shelley, Katie Espiner and Sarah Benton. Then, of course, all those who’ve helped make, publish, publicise, translate and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world.

To the artists responsible for somehow continuing to make me look classy: Didier Graffet, Dave Senior, Laura Brett, Lauren Panepinto, Raymond Swanland, Tomás Almeida, Sam Weber.

To editors across the Pond: Lou Anders, Devi Pillai, Bradley Englert, Bill Schafer.

To champions in the Circle: Tim and Jen Miller.

To the man with a thousand voices: Steven Pacey.

For keeping the wolf on the right side of the door: Robert Kirby.

To all the writers whose paths have crossed mine on the Internet, at the bar or in the writers’ room, and who’ve provided help, support, laughs and plenty of ideas worth the stealing. You know who you are.

And lastly, yet firstly:

The great machinist, Gillian Redfearn. Because every Jezal knows, deep down, he ain’t shit without Bayaz.

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