“Walls… won’t protect us now, only unity!” By the dead, the hall was swimming. “Those who’ve enjoyed great privileges must make great sacrifices.” They needed some noble gesture. He bared his teeth. “So I give up the ‘dan’ in my name! I renounce it! I cut it out! We must all… be equal.”

No doubt it was clapping now, and lots of it. Folk were standing. Someone was shouting, “The Young Lion!” over and over. It took Leo an age to turn around, good leg quivering, aching hand sticky with sweat on his crutch. Isher, Heugen and the rest of the lords looked more than a bit queasy.

“I’m sure my comrades… who once sat on the Open Council… will all happily do the same. I for one…” He gathered himself for a final effort, roared it at the dome in a broken voice. “Cannot think of a title that makes me prouder than Citizen!”

Furious applause, and the thudding of boots from the public gallery seemed to merge with his thudding heartbeat, the pulsing pain in the stump of his leg. He could hardly make out Risinau’s words.

“The Assembly no doubt wishes to thank the Young Lion for his sacrifices on behalf of the Great Change! It is an inspiration to us all, that he has so soon overcome his wounds and returned to the service of the nation! Let the walls of the Agriont be demolished! There is no need for we in power to separate ourselves from the people.” Risinau thumped the table with his chubby fist. “We are the people!”

More cheering. One more hopping, lurching step and Leo collapsed onto the front bench. Isher caught him under the arm, clapped him on the back, waving to the public gallery.

Through his fixed smile he hissed furiously, “We did not agree to this!”

“You will.” Leo didn’t care a shit about that coward’s discomfort. He’d too much of his own to deal with. “When you’ve lost an arm and a leg,” he snarled, gripping at his throbbing stump, “a piece of your name doesn’t seem such a sacrifice.”

Broad stood there, where he swore he’d never be again—in uniform.

They called him Captain Broad now, if you could bloody believe it. He wondered what Liddy would’ve made of that. Asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, most likely. He wished he’d got an answer. He hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t even agreed to it. But he hadn’t stopped it, either.

“Symbols have power!” It was that bloody writer, Sworbreck, near foaming at the mouth with passion. “And the statues on the Kingsway are the most powerful symbols of all! Must the Representatives of the people pass every day below the very feet of such oppressors as Harod the Great or the Magus Bayaz? Why, I would sooner lay down my life! Lay it down on the gallows where so many martyrs were slain by the Inquisition, than see it continue for another day!”