‘Suffice to say,’ Fyir squirmed in his chair, ‘that my soldiering days are over, Jamur Eir.’

‘Girls’ talk,’ Apium snorted. Then, to Eir, he murmured, ‘No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘He’ll be up and about in no time,’ Apium continued. ‘We’ll strap a decent bit of wood on that leg and he’ll be back on horseback ready for training-’

Brynd gestured Apium to be silent.

There was a disturbance outside.

He hurried over to the window. Shit!

A scene was developing down below in the drizzle.

Emperor Jamur Johynn could be seen retreating to the outer edge of the balcony below, almost as if he was being backed into a corner. In his own mind he had probably reached such a position long ago.

Several guardsmen edged tentatively towards him, uncertain of how to act. A move forwards suggested a threat to him. A move back might mean they would be too late.

Brynd fled the room to go and help.

‘Stand back,’ he shouted, pushing his way through the growing crowd. From this stone platform you could view the whole front section of the city, the spires, the bridges, the sweeping dark hills in the distance, even the sea in the other direction. Only a knee-high granite wall separated you from a vertiginous drop. Servants and administrative staff were here to witness the drama unfolding, and even some councillors had come to watch, too. The Emperor was still positioned as before, but he now faced the sky as if experiencing a purely religious moment. And maybe he was – in these moments you could never tell what was really going on. Brynd knew he had to stop him doing something stupid, had to bring the Emperor back safely into the hall. With the ice age setting in, Johynn would be needed as a national figurehead. People required his guidance, support, because in times of crisis you wanted someone to reassure you it would be OK, even when it wouldn’t be.

They needed someone to lie to them clearly and loudly.

‘My Emperor, what’re you doing?’ Brynd called out, icy sleet gusting against his cheeks.

‘It’s easier this way,’ Johynn said. ‘As I said before, it’s over.’

His motions were awkward, like those of someone who had been drinking heavily. He regained his footing, shuffled further along the low parapets.

‘I have no great words, commander,’ Johynn said. ‘Nothing profound to say, at the end.’

‘Please, I think you should step back a bit,’ Brynd argued. ‘Think about what you’re doing.’

‘Think is all I damn well do, Commander Lathraea. All I do is think about things. All the time thinking.’

‘But the people of Villjamur need you,’ Brynd said desperately. ‘That’s what you said earlier. That they need you!’

‘Father!’ Eir appeared, running onto the scene.

Whether it was because he lost his footing, or he genuinely intended to step off the edge, Brynd would never know, but just then the Emperor collapsed ungracefully off the wall, a flurry of his robes the last thing to be seen.

Everyone gasped…

Surged forwards in disbelief.

Eir had to be held back, launching muffled screams into Brynd’s chest.

A moment later they were greeted by the keening of the banshee.

FIVE

‘I’d like a room – just for the night, please,’ Randur said.

‘A room?’

‘Yes, a room. For the night.’ He fluttered his long eyelashes at the landlady, pushed a lock of glossy hair back in order to gaze at her more intensely, but she kept on peering down at the register.

‘One night.’ She was old enough to be his mother – old enough, but not actually, so it was all right by him. You could tell she had once been a beautiful girl – her eyes showed you that, not so much a spark within them, but definitely something to provoke wild rumination. Short brown hair, good skin, a decent figure: not too much, not too little. Not that he really cared – he could enjoy any shape of woman. Most ages, too. Her white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal cleavage like a bad cliché, she made the most of what she had. Randur made the most of it too. Made sure she saw him looking. He gave her a smile, all teeth and soft eyes, trying to suggest there were things she needed to know about herself.

‘Well, we’re pretty busy at the moment… but I’ll see what I can do.’ She turned with something he took and hoped to be a grin, walked away from the bar.

It was a crowded but clean bistro-tavern located on the second level of Villjamur. The furnishing was wooden throughout, tables were shiny from polishing, and it was crammed with equine decor: horse shoes, parers, rasps, farrier tools, riding boots on the higher shelves. Randur guessed the landlady was an admirer of horses, or a fan of horse riders. He noticed the whips.

Now there’s a thought.

As Randur sipped his apple juice, he glanced about. He wanted to listen in on conversations, to discover what people talked about in Villjamur, to maybe capture the mood of the city. If you wanted to charm your way up the social ladders, you had to know what the main concerns of the local people were. You could perhaps learn something that way, because whatever image a city presented in the history books, it was the ordinary people who delineated the depth and character of a place, ended up moulding the outsider’s judgement and experiences.

‘… It’s possible we won’t see our Ged ever again,’ a middle-aged woman confided to her friend. ‘And Dendu’s going to have to quit his work just to stay in the city. I’m not sure what we’ll do…’

‘… Well, we’re very lucky. I haven’t seen my own child for ten years. But, I’m nearest family, so she can come to the city to stay with me, you see. And her partner, too…’

A smartly dressed man at a nearby table glanced up as a lady of around the same age approached him and asked, ‘Is anyone using this chair?’ He shook his head, stood up as she sat down at the same table, then commented something about the weather as he lowered himself again slowly. Randur wondered how many people of his own age he’d ever seen make that polite gesture. Too few in this city, at least: maybe younger people felt threatened in some way. Or, perhaps, when people reached ‘a certain age’, they felt themselves to be a dying breed, and considered it best if they stuck together. Either way, it was sweet to still see such courtesy enacted.

There was ubiquitous conversation about the Freeze, how the temperature was falling further. Always talk of the weather, but he also heard gossip regarding some of the outer islands of the Empire. And chatter about cultists acting strangely…

He focused immediately on the latter conversation.

‘… You shouldn’t hang ’round there, you know. Cultists is bad news.’

‘But there were purple flames sparking from whatever he was holding, I’m telling ya,’ a swarthy lad explained to someone Randur took to be his father. There was something vaguely bird-like about their appearance, something similar about the nose.

‘Anyway, this wasn’t near any of those temples of theirs.’

‘Just steer clear,’ the older man said. ‘I’ve never trusted them, or their damn relics. All stupid magic if you ask me.’

The landlady returned. ‘You’re in luck. We’ve got a room. It’s right next to mine, so try not to keep me awake.’

Randur leaned closer and whispered, ‘If you promise not to keep me awake.’

‘You outer-island boys,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively, repressing a grin. ‘You’re all the same. Come on then, bring your bags, and I’ll show you the way. What’s your name?’

‘Randur Estevu.’ He scrambled after her. ‘So, I take it you like riding?’

A simple room – just a bed and a table and a chair. Some shoddy reproductions of island art on the walls. The window looked out at the rear of the building, which he actually preferred, as he didn’t like the idea of being woken early by morning traders heading for irens.