Gio’s fencing academy was packed. About eight hundred people were taking off their coats and settling down on the folding chairs. Some were seated on the floor; between them on the floorboards I saw white diagrams painted to teach fencing exercises.

A small stage directly below me was decorated with the coats of arms of Gio’s past pupils from the nobility. The walls were hung with charts and geometrical figures, the rear wall was covered with a mirror. Padded gloves and chain mail gauntlets hung on racks, with rapiers and their corresponding diamond-sectioned daggers, round leather target shields and lead-soled shoes-which Gio used for training lightness of foot. A pendulum clock with a large, clear ceramic dial had run down and stopped, showing the wrong time. Beside it in a polished glass case awards were displayed in tiers-engraved silver cups and plates, tiny posed figurines of swordsmen on black plinths, and hundreds and hundreds of satin rosettes.

Gio stood by the stage, looking at his audience. He was as relaxed and confident as always, perhaps more so now that the anger of being dropped from the Circle had caused him to lose his respect for people.

Veteran Awian soldiers grouped at the back of the hall, probably fresh from fighting Tornado. They carried their reflex longbows in waxed cotton bags on their shoulders, arrows in lidded quivers. The edges of their dark blue cloaks were cut to look like feathers, drawn across each man’s body and pinned at the shoulder with enameled or billon badges. The shell-edged armor on their legs was damp with condensation. Their worn, damp lorica had some chrome scales missing. Their expressions were as grim as the weather; they only spoke among themselves. I guessed they were men disbanded from the General Fyrd who, upon finding their homes and crops destroyed by the Insects, had a very valid reason to harbor grievance against the Castle.

The same was not true for the excited, fractious Hacilith kids, in tooled leather jackets, loose jeans and chain-link belts. Some seamen in oxblood check or orange shirts laced at the neck tucked their wet oilskins under the chairs. Unshaven highwaymen brushed down the arms of their greatcoats that were silvered with rain. They undid the spurs on their side-laced boots and let them hang loose. Gio had no coherent force. He had gathered deserters, poachers, outlaws, smugglers and fugitives.

Twenty fencing masters leaned against the walls, with wryly amused expressions at the defiant party taking place within their hall. They were Gio’s accomplices now, not potential Challengers. They had the swagger of swordsmen who knew the brilliance of their skill.

The cold Insect-wing window was steamed up inside and droplets ran down, channeled along by the black veins. No one could see me at this angle and the hubbub was so loud I was quite safe. I was so intrigued, I became unaware of the chill seeping into my body from the stone. I seized up, wedged into position in the corner of the window with my legs out along the ledge.

A limber young man wearing a beautiful rapier tiptoed to the stage and held up his hands for silence. He was shaking so hard he practically blurred. The crowd fell quiet in patches, and Gio picked out one or two individuals at the back to stare at until the hall was completely silent. I strained to hear the young man introduce his master: “Gio Ami, rightfully Serein.”

Gio nodded, stepped forward, and immediately a hundred voices vied with each other, shouting out questions. A frown line appeared between his eyebrows. He walked beneath my window, so I could no longer see his expression. He still wore the same coat, still open to a bare chest, but he wore the light purple Ghallain armiger ribbon in his buttonhole as if it was a manorship badge. His lank hair was pulled into a little ponytail.

Gio looked at the stage floor as if thinking the elevated position didn’t suit him. He sat down on the edge, with his legs dangling over. He began to talk to the crowd rather than at them. He was a teacher and he knew how to make his voice carry.

“Put up, put up,” he said loudly and then, “All right, I will answer one or two questions. What is it, Cinna?”

A very fat man seated at the front wallowed to his feet. I was astonished to see it was Cinna Bawtere. His cheeks wobbled as he shouted, “You never said we would attack the Castle! You said we would speak to the Emperor. Why is there fighting between the fencing masters and the Circle itself? It’s a simple matter for San to send Tornado to Crush Us All!”

Gio took a deep breath, “I have no argument with the Emperor. I think San knows that-”

“Or we’d be behind bars already!” Cinna’s riposte raised a susurration of agreement from the crowd. They seemed to be thinking in similar fashion-they had trusted Gio to air their grievances with the Emperor, and he had led them into conflict instead, with the Eszai who had always been their protectors. For an instant I thought that the crowd might turn on him.

“The problem lies not with Emperor San but with his deputies, the Eszai, who are corrupt and mislead him. You all know the Emperor doesn’t leave the Castle. To understand and rule the world fairly he needs his immortals, but their own interests are embroiled in what they tell him.”

The crowd fell silent; this was what they wanted to hear. A chill wind stuck my soaked clothes to my skin; the gale whined, high-pitched, through the eaves. I pressed my ear to the pane to hear Gio’s words.

“There is no present like time. San gives the immortals lifetime in return for their service, but few of them deserve such a priceless gift.

“We are lucky to be alive at this point in time. Times are hard for us all, I grant you, but the opportunities are better than any period I have lived through in the last four hundred years. I truly remember the past, and I know that the only cure for despair is action.

“Since I left the Circle I have realized how little the immoral immortals understand us Zascai. They’re all too slow and spoiled by luxury to see the advantage of this great opportunity we have: Tris. It’s up to us to make the most of it.

“None of you worthy people will be able to join the Circle. Cinna, although you’re a good sailor; Mauvein, although you’re an excellent jeweler, the Circle’s too corrupt for either of you to enter in an honest Challenge. And I, the greatest swordsman of all time, am forced to give way to a newcomer because I speak too much truth. The prospect of immortality they hold up is nothing but an illusion to lull you. The Circle would never accept a man who really recognizes the need for change.

“Awia can’t feed itself-they tell us-so they ask us to send our money to what is the richest country in the world. The shortage of workers is caused by bad management. Five hundred men are employed just to clean the Castle, to scrape lichen off its walls and polish its sumptuous treasure when every last drop’s squeezed out of the Plainslands to nurse Awia. Food is short all over the Fourlands except in the Castle because immortals must have their strength. Isn’t that so?”

He looked to the winged soldiers at the back of the hall. “Awians are angry because you feel you’re making the most effort against Insects. It’s your kingdom that disappears under the Paperlands each time they advance. You feel threatened. I can understand why you think that help from Morenzia is not forthcoming. You’re right, but for the wrong reasons.”

Gio glanced at Cinna and the city ruffians on the rows of chairs. “Morenzians and Plainslanders are angry because you’re overtaxed and fed up to the back teeth with money being sucked out of Hacilith. You’re right to feel discontented, but for the wrong reasons. Last time the Insects attacked, the Castle just followed the downright craven policy of the Awian king and it failed to control them. They fed so well on the plenty of Awia that they almost reached the banks of the Moren.