“Ingenious.” Risinau nodded sagely, as though at a demonstration of a machine to peel fruit. He might not have been much of an administrator, but he knew the power of a good show. “You should be immensely proud.”

“A happy combination of my flare for theatre and Citizen Curnsbick’s technical know-how.” And Sworbreck put an arm around the Great Machinist and gave him a friendly squeeze. Curnsbick, who had abandoned his spectacular waistcoats and was now modelling the inconspicuous tones of mud, looked more than a little nauseous.

“Ain’t it a bit bloodless?” said Judge, with her usual deadly sneer.

Risinau rolled his eyes. “I do declare, Citizeness Judge, you would see the condemned torn apart by wild dogs if you thought it could be managed.”

She sat back, rubbing thoughtfully at her rashy throat, as if weighing up the benefits of public execution by canines. “Let’s see how this works first. Bring out the prisoners!”

“Oh no,” muttered Orso.

Lord Chamberlain Hoff came first. Orso remembered him ushering portraits of potential brides into his mother’s salon in tedious procession. What happy times those seemed, now. Lord Chancellor Gorodets was next. Then High Consul Matstringer. Then the surveyor general—by the Fates, he’d been kept away from the Closed Council by his bladder so often that Orso couldn’t remember the man’s name. Lord Marshal Rucksted brought up the rear, walking with a pronounced limp. It looked as if half his moustache had been torn out. Chains clanked as they were led up onto the platform, into the shadows of those five tall beams. The great lords of the Closed Council. The men who had ruled the Union in Orso’s name. They made a sorry sight now, in sackcloth rather than fur and braid, in fetters rather than chains of office, their grey hair and beards in greasy tangles.

“Fellow Citizens!” Risinau never missed a chance to address a crowd. “We are gathered to see five enemies of the people receive their just deserts. To see righteous retribution on behalf of the Union’s oppressed. To wave farewell to the age of tyranny.” He spread his arms wide. “And to welcome the age of equality with open arms!”

Cheers. Boos. Laughter. A few bits of rubbish flung at the scaffold as nooses were tightened around necks. The Great Change had made little difference to the behaviour of the mob at an execution. A rotten orange spattered against the side of Gorodets’ head.

“We’ve danced for their benefit the last few centuries!” screeched Judge, twisting to face the crowd. “Now they can dance for ours!”

Orso had never harboured much affection for his Closed Council. He had thought of its members as a man thinks of his creditors, his landlords, his jailers. But seeing them like this, he had to hold back tears.

Hoff shuffled forwards as far as the cable would allow, which was not far. “Your Majesty!” he cried over the noise. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s me who should be sorry!” Orso rounded on Judge, Risinau and Pike. “Please! What crime are they accused of?”