Storm looked where her uncle was pointing and saw three bright figures waiting at the end of a great pier, surrounded by a sturdy thicket of drab-coloured soldiers, like a herd of dung beetles guarding rainbow moths. The leaders of Bellum Town, the richest and most powerful people in the world, had come to witness the arrival of Yanlin’s new Weather-witch.

She sat at the back of the long rowing boat, behind her uncle, watching Bellum Town grow closer with each heave of the oarsmen. The sun’s heat was already scorching, and she welcomed the spray that splashed over the bow. The Pact leaders, waiting on the pier, looked like brightly painted dolls.

Storm clambered out of the rowing boat as soon as it was made fast and followed Lake’s broad back up the steep steps carved into the stone pier. As soon as she stepped on to solid ground, the earth seemed to sway beneath her. Storm grabbed the metal handrail until the pier settled into a slightly nauseating roll. So this was what it felt like to lose your land legs!

“Mistress Storm of Yanlin!”

Storm peered around her uncle to blink at the speaker, a tall round-bellied man with long, curling moustaches. He wore an ornate silk robe of gold and green; his feet were encased in narrow leather shoes of brightest carmine, with pointed toes so long they were tied to his ankles with ribbon to keep them from dragging in the dirt. Instead of a topknot, his hair tumbled in ringlets to his shoulders, and the top of his head was submerged beneath a triangular hat made of orange silk. It was wider than his shoulders, and the pink ribbon attached to its crown curled and uncurled in the breeze.

Either side of him stood a woman and a man dressed just as strangely. Lake tugged her forward. Storm’s mouth went dry and she bowed deeply.

She noticed, with amazement, that the three Pact grandees were wearing a sort of coloured paste on their faces. They had painted their cheeks pink, and drawn dark lines on their eyelids, and darkened their plucked and arched brows with kohl.

“Mistress Storm!” The man – who must be the dangerous Talon – rolled the words on his tongue as though they were wine. “Welcome to Bellum Town. We are honoured to greet the greatest witch of our generation.”

Storm could not help noticing that all three strangers watched her with a greed that even the thick layers of paint could not conceal. “The honour is mine.” She fixed a formal smile on her face. “But I am called simply Storm, not Mistress. I am a non-sex.”

“As you wish, Honoured Storm. Let me present you to my colleagues. This is Waffa, who keeps the tally books for the whole of the Pact.”

The woman stepped forward. Narrow eyes stabbed at Storm.