who will save us from Bayaz?” More laughter, and more anger, and Risinau flashed that prim little smile. “General Brint, could you see our visitor out? The age of wizards is over, Master Sulfur. An age of reason has dawned!”

“Reason?” Sulfur glanced about the benches and gave a hiss of disgust. “I’d like to see it.” And he stalked off up the aisle, staff tapping against the steps.

Before he’d even reached the doors, someone else was bellowing to be heard. “I demand we reopen the question of whether we should be called the Assembly of Representatives. I would like to propose Colloquium—”

A chorus of groans. “Again?”

Miracles

Savine’s throat was raw from screaming.

Dark outside. No chink of light between the shutters. It had been hours, then. It felt like for ever. That same question chased itself around and around her mind.

How many women had she known who died giving birth?

“My lady—” began the surgeon.

“Don’t fucking… call me that,” she snarled over her shoulder between whooping breaths, nearly swallowing her own tongue with fury. “No one… calls anyone that… any more.”

“Of course not, I apologise. The times take some adjusting to.” He spoke in the blandest of drones. As if they were discussing the weather and he by no means had his fingers in her quim. “You can push if you feel the need—”

“Oh, fucking can I?” she screamed at him. The idea that she might be able to stop herself was absurd. The one thing she wanted in the world was to push.

The ridiculous shift they’d given her was tangled around her neck, choking her, and she dragged it up, got it stuck, tore at it, spitting, stitches popping, finally ripped it off and it dropped on the bed around her wrists. It was spotted red. Zuri’s hand slipped in and whisked it away, folding it so the blood did not show.

How many women had she known who died giving birth?

She grunted, and the pain tightened in her belly, and the grunt became a groan, and the groan a moan, and the moan a wail, and the wail a howl, and the howl a grinding scream. She clutched up fistfuls of the sheets, tried to climb the headboard, but that was worse, and she flopped back, and that was worse, and she twisted desperately this way and that on her hands and knees, but it was all worse.

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Shit. Cunt.” She wished she knew worse words. Wished Zuri had taught her Kantic. They had some savage-sounding curses in the South. The room was so bloody hot. Sweat tickled her scalp. But her arms were so locked and trembling she couldn’t lift a hand to scratch.

People came and went. Barged in with water, with cloths, with muttered messages. Naked on her hands and knees with her arse in the air, honking like a sow, she barely even cared. If anything she was grateful for the waft of breeze when the door opened.