That his homecoming triumph had degenerated from anticlimax into bloodbath, for instance.

“They hate me,” he muttered. He was used to being despised, of course. Scurrilous pamphlets, slanderous rumours, sneers in the Open Council. But for a king to be politely loathed behind his back was the normal state of society. For a king to be physically manhandled by a crowd was a short step from outright revolt. The second in a month. Adua—the centre of the world, the zenith of civilisation, that beacon of progress and prosperity—was plunged into lawless chaos.

It was quite the shocking disappointment. Like popping some delightful sweetmeat into one’s mouth and, upon chewing, discovering it was actually a piece of shit. But that was the experience of being a monarch. One shocking mouthful of shit after another.

Lord Hoff was wheezing away as he struggled to keep up. “There are always… complaints—”

“They fucking hate me! Did you hear them cheering for the Young Lion? When did that entitled bastard become some man of the people?” Before Orso’s victory, everyone had considered him a contemptible coward and Brock a magnificent hero. By rights, surely, their positions should have been reversed. Yet now he was considered a contemptible tyrant, while they cheered the Young Lion as a pitiable underdog. If Brock had wanked in the street it would have been to thunderous approval from the public.

“Bloody traitors!” snarled Rucksted, grinding gloved fist into gloved palm. “We should hang the bloody lot of them!”

“You can’t hang everyone,” said Orso.

“With your permission, I’ll head back into the city and make a damn good start at it.”

“I fear our mistake has been too many hangings rather than too few—”

“Your Majesty!” A knight herald of horrifying height was waiting on the Kingsway beneath the statue of Harod the Great, winged helmet under one arm. “Your Closed Council has urgently requested your attendance in the White Chamber.” He fell in step beside Orso, having to shorten his stride considerably. “Might I congratulate you on your famous victory at Stoffenbeck?”

“That feels a very long time ago,” said Orso, stalking on. He was concerned that if he did not keep moving, he might collapse like a child’s tower of bricks. “I have already received the congratulations of a considerable crowd of rioters on the Kingsway.” And he frowned up at the looming statue of Casamir the Steadfast, wondering whether he had ever been obliged to flee from his own people through the streets of his own capital. The history books made no mention of it.

“Things have been… unsettled in your absence, Your Majesty.” Orso did not care for the way he said unsettled. It felt like a euphemism for something much worse. “There was a disturbance shortly after you left. Over the rising price of bread. With the rebellion, and the poor weather, not enough flour has been getting into the city. A crowd of women forced their way into some bakers’ shops. They beat the owners. One they declared a speculator, and… murdered.”