‘It can’t be him,’ she hissed. ‘Keep calm.’

‘Then why did you say that name? Why did you say that, Claudia!’ He sounded furious. She had no real answer.

‘I was … it was just the shock. He has to be a pretender.’

‘Does he?’ Finn’s glare was hard. Then he had turned and was striding swiftly through the crowd, one hand on his sword.

The room was in uproar. Claudia felt Jared grab her sleeve.

‘Come on,’ he hissed.

They hurried to the door of the Privy Chamber, pushing through the perfumed and bewigged mass of bodies, Claudia gasping breathlessly, ‘Who is he? Has the Queen set this up?’

‘If so she’s an excellent actress.’

‘Caspar hasn’t got the brains’

‘Certain metal animals then?’ She stared at him for a second, wide-eyed. Then the spears of the door-guards clashed in front of her.

Astonished, she said, ‘Let me through.’ A flustered footman murmured, ‘I’m sorry, my lady.

Sapienti and Privy Council only.’ He glanced at Jared. ‘You can enter, Master.’ Claudia drew herself up. For a moment Jared almost felt sorry for the man.

‘I am the Warden of Incarceron’s daughter: she said, in a voice that dripped ice. ‘You will stand aside now, before I ensure your transfer to the most rat-ridden keep in this Realm.’ The footman was young. He swallowed. ‘Madam …’

‘Not a word.’ She stared at him, impassive. ‘Just move.’ For a moment Jared wondered if it would work. And then an amused murmur came from behind them. ‘Oh let her in.

What harm can it do? I wouldn’t want you to miss all the fun, Claudia.’ Faced with a grinning Caspar the footman shrank. The guards stood back.

Instantly Claudia swept past them and through the door.

Jared waited, and bowed, and the Prince hurried after her, his bodyguard close as a shadow. Walking behind, the Sapient felt the door click shut at his back.

The Privy Chamber was small, and smelt musty. The seats were of ancient red leather, arranged in a horseshoe, the Queen’s in the centre with her coat of arms suspended over it. The Councillors sat, the Sapienti gathered behind them.

Not knowing where to go, Finn stood near the Queen, trying to ignore Caspar’s grin, the way he leant over and said something in his mother’s ear, the way she tinkled a laugh.

Claudia came and stood next to him, her arms folded. They said nothing to each other.

‘Well?’ The Queen leant forward graciously. ‘You may approach.’ The boy in the yellow coat came and stood within the horseshoe. Every eye was on him, but he seemed completely at his ease. Finn looked him over with instinctive dislike. The same height as himself. Brown, wavy hair. Brown eyes.

Smiling. Confident.

He scowled.

The stranger said, ‘Your Majesty. My lords. I have made a serious claim, and I understand the gravity of it. But I intend to prove to you that what I say is true. I am indeed Giles Alexander Ferdinand of the Havaarna, Lord of the Southern Isles, Count of Marly, Crown Prince of this Realm.’ He was talking to all of them, but his eyes were on the Queen. And just for a bright second, on Claudia.

‘Liar,’ Finn hissed.

The Queen said, ’I will have silence.’ The Pretender smiled. ‘I was brought up among you until my fifteenth year. Many of you will remember me. You, Lord Burgogne. You will remember the times I borrowed your fine horses, the time I lost your goshawk in the Great Forest.’ The Councillor, an elderly man in a black furred robe, looked startled.

‘My lady Amelia will remember the day when her son and I fell out of a tree dressed as pirates and nearly landed on top of her.’ His smile was warm. One of the Queen’s ladies of the Chamber nodded. Her face was white. ‘It was so,’ she whispered. ‘How we laughed!’

‘Indeed we did. I have many such memories.’ He folded his arms. ‘My lords, I know all of you. I can tell you where you live, the names of your ladies. I have played with your children. I can answer any question you ask me about my tutors, my dear bodyservant, Bartlett, my father, the late King, and my mother, Queen Argente.’ For a moment then, a shadow crossed his face. But he smiled, and shook his head.

‘Which is more than this Prisoner, with his oh-so- convenient memory loss, can do.’ Beside her, Claudia felt Finn’s stillness like a threat.

‘So where have I been all this time, you will be asking. Why was my death faked? Or perhaps you will already have heard from my gracious stepmother the Queen, how my supposed fall from my horse at the age of fifteen was … arranged, as a protection for my own safety.’ Claudia bit her lip. He was using the truth and twisting it.

He was very clever. Or had been well taught.

‘It was a time of great danger. There is a secret and sinister organization, gentlemen, of which you may have heard. It is known as the Clan of the Steel Wolves. Their plans have only recently been foiled, with the failure of their attempt on Queen Sia’s life, and the exposure of their leader, the disgraced Warden of Incarceron.’ Now he was not looking at Claudia. He was playing the audience like an expert, his voice clear and steady. ‘Our spies have been aware of them for years, and it was known that they planned my death. My death, and the revoking of the Edict. The end of Protocol. They would return us to the terrors and chaos of the Years of Rage. And so I disappeared.

Not even the Queen knew of my plans. I realized that the only way to be safe was to make them think I was already dead. And to await my time He smiled. ‘Now, my lords, that time has come.’ He beckoned, his gesture regal, and natural, and a footman brought a package of paper to him.

Claudia chewed her lip anxiously.

‘I have here documentary evidence of what I say. My royal line, my birth deeds, many letters I have received, invitations — many of you wrote them. You will recognize them. I have the portrait of my fiancée as a child, given by her to me at our engagement.’ Claudia drew in a sharp breath. She glanced up at him, and he looked steadily back.

‘Above all, Lords and Masters, I have the evidence of my own flesh.’ He held up his hand, drew back the lacy ruffle of his sleeve, turned slowly so that the whole room could see.

On his wrist, tatooed deep into the skin, was the crowned Eagle of the Havaarnas. 

10

It had heard them.

‘Move!’ Keiro yelled.

Attia grabbed the reins and saddle, but the horse was terrified; it circled and whickered, and before she could scramble up Keiro had jumped back, swearing. She turned.

The Chain-gang waited. It was male, twelve-headed, helmeted, the bodies fused at hand and wrist and hip, linked with umbilical skin-chains from shoulder to shoulder or waist to waist. Beams of light shone from some of its hands; in others were weapons; blades, cleavers, a rusted firelock.

Keiro had his own firelock out. He levelled it at the centre of the huddled thing. ‘No nearer. Keep well away.’ Torch-beams focused on him. Attia clung to the horse, its sweaty flank hot and trembling under her hand.

The Chain-gang opened and its bodies moved apart; it became a line of shadows, the movement making her think stupidly of paper chains she had made as a child, cutting a man and then pulling wide a line of them.

‘I said keep back!’ Keiro swivelled the weapon along the line. His hand was steady, but he could only fire at one part of it, and then surely the rest would attack. Or would they?’ The Chain-gang spoke.

‘We want food.’ Its voice was a ripple of repetitions, one over another.

‘We’ve nothing to give you.’

‘Liar. We smell bread. We smell flesh.’ Was it one, or many? Did it have one brain, controlling its bodies like limbs, or was each of them a man, eternally and horribly joined? Attia stared at it, fascinated.