Jeryd left two of his men by the door they’d come through, and eight of them now progressed through the crowd of refugees to investigate what lay ahead. The air seemed oppressive. Occasionally a woman would scream, and a man would groan.

They finally reached another makeshift door, metal and firmly closed. He knew a sentry would be posted beyond it, so they eased it opened a fraction, then kicked it wide. Fulcrom’s crossbow bolt caught the single soldier who was already rising from his chair, then they rolled his body into darkness.

The further they progressed, the colder it became, and despite there being no light, Jeryd sensed they were close to the exit. Eventually they were making headway by touch alone along a narrow passageway, yet as long as they were in darkness, nobody could see them.

Then finally it came, freedom.

A burst of light and cold air, followed by the adjoining wastes of a refugee camp – a battered tent-city, dying fires, black silhouettes of trees on the horizon, wind wailing in across the tundra. And if you looked back you could see the outer wall of Villjamur looming, which these unfortunate people had been staring at optimistically for months.

‘Go and lead them through,’ Jeryd ordered to one of his men. ‘Force them, if necessary, if they seem unwilling to leave shelter.’

It took them an hour to get everyone out. The refugees came shambling out into the open, with obvious reluctance. They stared at the snow as if they had never seen it before.

Their joyous liberation was something of an anti-climax.

Jeryd, for his part, felt more depressed and exhausted than he had ever done in his life.

When the last child had trotted free, Jeryd dispersed his anonymous band, their Inquisition medallions being enough to see them safely past the soldiers at the gates.

Fulcrom now faced Jeryd, a look of misery upon both their faces, and they were searching each other to find the right thing to say.

‘It doesn’t feel as good as it should do.’

‘No,’ Jeryd agreed.

‘They could die even sooner out here, in this ice,’ Fulcrom observed.

The younger rumel was right. The Freeze itself would most likely kill them sooner or later. Now they were merely refugees once again outside the gates of Villjamur, and what could they do now?

‘Do you want to get back to your house?’ Fulcrom suggested.

‘I should.’ Jeryd shuddered. ‘There’s a danger that Tryst might have been telling the truth for once in his miserable life.’

‘I’ll go with you, in case I’m needed.’

What a strange feeling it was to have a colleague thinking after his safety.

As the street wound its way upwards in a gentle arc, they trudged the cobbles doggedly feeling their thighs ache. Jeryd contemplated how old he was getting.

Fulcrom suddenly pointed out a black trail of smoke wafting across the wind-tossed sky.

Jeryd began to run up the hill, leaving Fulcrom pointing behind him, fearing the worst.

Towards the smoke.

Towards his house.

Passers-by in the street stared at him because so few people ever ran these days, what with the constant snow on the streets. Even a dog barked in surprise. Then he fell on the ice, struck his knee on a cobble. Cursing, he pushed himself up and limped on.

Fulcrom arrived a moment later to find the old rumel on his knees in the snow, in front of the debris of his home. Fragments of wood were strewn across the entire street in countless splinters, broken bits of furniture were smouldering, roof tiles and shattered glass lay everywhere, and where Jeryd’s house once stood, there was now merely a ragged hole.

Fulcrom walked over and placed his hand on Jeryd’s shoulder. The old rumel was gently pawing at some fleshy remains.

Fulcrom cringed. It could once have been a foot.

A young investigator approached, a grey-skinned rumel not long signed up.

Jeryd tilted his head towards him as if he could offer him his life back.

‘Were you first on the scene?’ Fulcrom enquired.

‘Yes, sir. My name’s Taldon, and I’ve been here a quarter of an hour. We’ve searched the remains and we’ve found one body so far, but no one could have survived this. The damage is immense.’

Jeryd began to shake violently. Fulcrom released his shoulder, gestured for Taldon to go.

‘I’m… I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.’

The old rumel merely sobbed, clutching at the snow like a child. Fulcrom couldn’t believe this. After all Jeryd had done for the city over the years, to receive such recompense. Because of Tryst. Or Urtica?

‘If the chancellor wanted you dead, Jeryd,’ Fulcrom advised, ‘it’s probably not too safe to hang around here long. He might still be out to get you.’

‘A moment,’ Jeryd sobbed. ‘Just give me a moment.’

‘I’ll take you home with me. Then I’ll look after it all, OK.’

A scream, a female voice calling. Marysa came running through the snow.

Jeryd looked up as she ran towards him, her hair bouncing.

The two of them hugged each other so tight they might have become one entity, and still Jeryd would not let her go.

At last, through his tears, he asked her, ‘How did you… survive?’

‘It was those kids with the snowballs. They smashed a window and I went out to chase them away down the street.’ She began to cry too, perhaps imagining for the first time what could have happened to her. And Fulcrom loved this irony, that Jeryd’s tormentors, the Gamall Gata kids, were responsible for saving his Marysa.

There were about eight of the same kids now hovering nearby, though empty-handed now. And Jeryd smiled at them, waved, then he laughed through his tears.

The kids shrugged, a little confused, and a blond one shouted, ‘Sorry about your window, Jeryd. We didn’t do the rest though, we swear.’

‘I know,’ Jeryd said, a peaceful smile on his face. He began to chuckle, tears in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I know.’

Fulcrom wondered about the woman, Tuya, who was presumably dead – no one could have survived an explosion like this. From what Jeryd had told him, she’d led a lonely life, and he felt sorry that there was no one to mourn her, no one to even know she’d been killed. How many faces must she have seen in the night? There were hundreds of thousands of people in Villjamur, and hardly any of them would have meant a thing to her. He felt a pang for her exit from the world, despite having never known who she was.

People moved on, and the Gamall Gata kids trotted off, all apart from the blond and redhead, who stayed for a little while longer, looking on as the snow fell in thick, heavy streaks whilst Jeryd and Marysa remained in the cold, clutching each other as tightly as they could.

Kneeling in the wreckage of their lives.

Interview with Chancellor Urtica, to be nailed to the door of every tavern and Jorsalir church by order of the Council.

HISTORIAN: Thank you for seeing me, chancellor. Can you just confirm, for posterity’s sake, why you’ve organized for an interview to be issued across Villjamur?

URTICA: Certainly. We’re about to organize the executions of the Empress Rika and her sister tomorrow, and we will be starting the Empire afresh. I have been selected as the only candidate to go forwards and construct the new era – an era of more open politics, with nothing to hide. What more suitable a manner to do this than with interviews? With pamphlets circulated around bistros, taverns and whatnot, I can communicate with the people. I am, after all, a man of the people. So it is a new kind of leadership, and it is time the people had honesty from their leaders – not as before with a madman and then a murderess!