‘Ah,’ Bastorran said, ‘here’s our escort. Hold on. The ride’s about to get even rougher.’

Meakin looked out at the chaos on his master’s side, but could make no sense of it, let alone identify any kind of escort. Then a particular contrary movement caught his eye. A carriage not dissimilar to their own was edging towards them through the human deluge. As it weaved their way, Meakin could make out a royal crest on its side, and the palace guard uniform the driver wore.

‘They’re experts at negotiating this rabble,’ Bastorran explained. ‘I hope you’re fit, Meakin.’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘You’ll need to be. Ready yourself.’

The royal carriage drew alongside. Its driver and Bastorran’s exchanged shouts that were impossible to hear above the din. Then the door of the carriage opened. Inside, another uniformed man beckoned. Bastorran opened his own door, letting in a blast of cold air.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘And don’t linger if you value your neck.’

The paladin grasped the hand stretching from the other carriage and jumped.

Meakin eased himself across to the open door. He looked out, trying to ignore their speed and the bedlam all around. Bastorran was yelling at him from the second carriage and beckoning. A hand was extended. Meakin reached for it and leapt. A dizzying second later he was across and deposited on a seat by a grim faced Captain of the Guard.

‘Well done,’ Bastorran congratulated him coolly. ‘But don’t relax just yet. We still have the pleasure of getting on board the palace itself.’

They pulled away from the paladin carriage and soon lost sight of it in the galloping confusion. Their new carriage sliced into the crush, handled skilfully but totally without regard for the safety of others. Riders who got in the way were downed and trampled. Wagons swerving to avoid the carriage crashed into each other, shattering axels and shedding passengers. There were collisions and runaway horses.

‘I must say this does have a certain exhilarating quality to it, eh, Meakin?’ Bastorran enthused.

‘Um, yes, sir.’ He was trying to stop himself being hurled from his seat.

After what seemed an age they were in the shadow of the royal palace, its massive base sliding along above them at three or four times the height of their carriage.

‘What now, sir?’ Meakin asked.

‘Not too many more indignities to go,’ Bastorran replied caustically.

The officer who’d sat silently facing them went to open the door nearest the palace. The carriage began undertaking a series of complex manoeuvres. Within minutes they were beside a wooden platform suspended from the palace by a complex arrangement of stout ropes.

‘Over we go,’ Bastorran instructed.

They stepped onto the rocking platform, grabbing the handrail to steady themselves. Immediately the carriage moved away. The platform hung for a moment, swaying, then began to be hoisted up. Knuckles white on the rail, wind beating at his face, Meakin looked to the scene unfolding below, but even from his elevated position he couldn’t see an end to the camp followers.

Perhaps a hundred feet up the edifice they arrived at a wide terrace. Here they were met by a contingent of guards, escorted to an ornate entrance and into the palace proper. They were then lightly searched; a humiliation Bastorran endured in scowling silence. After that they were shepherded through a maze of eccentrically decorated passageways and made to climb a seemingly endless succession of staircases.

Walking yet more lengthy corridors lined with grotesque statues, and hanging back from their escort, Bastorran whispered, ‘What do you think? You can speak freely. But keep your voice down.’

‘It…it’s…’

‘Insane?’

‘I was going to say vast, sir.’

‘That’s part of the insanity.’

Going through a set of reinforced doors, they emerged onto broad battlements.

‘And we’re still only a quarter of the way,’ Bastorran said, pointing up at the looming pile above them. ‘You can see why I enquired after your fitness.’

‘I can, sir.’

Making their way across the ramparts to another section of the palace, they passed a dozen full-sized catapults, standing in line.

‘These are new,’ the paladin commented.

‘Their defences certainly seem comprehensive, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Bastorran replied thoughtfully. ‘But why catapults? They’re siege engines; hardly the most ideal of defensive weapons.’

‘Perhaps it’s another of His Highness’s…eccentricities,’ Meakin ventured in an undertone.

‘Probably. I should know better than to be surprised at anything he does.’

They were led back inside the building, through more passages and up further flights of stairs. At last they were shown into an anteroom and left to wait.

Bastorran seated himself, and motioned for his aide to do the same.

Meakin cleared his throat. ‘I wonder how-’

Bastorran nudged him in the ribs and indicated the ceiling. A brass coloured spy glamour hovered there.

‘-how long it’ll be before his gracious Highness consents to see us,’ Meakin finished lamely.

‘There’s no way of knowing.’

They were settling into an awkward silence when a lackey entered and guided them into the Prince’s reception suite.

It was a long, elegantly furnished room. At its far end, Melyobar occupied a throne mounted on a dais. He wore a red, ermine-lined cape, though the effect was somewhat diminished by a grubby shirt, dusty breeches and scuffed, mud-splattered boots.

Bastorran bowed. Meakin took his lead and bobbed low too. Raising a languid hand, the Prince waved them closer.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ Bastorran opened. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

The Prince managed a vacuous nod. His eyes flitted to the paladin’s companion. ‘Who?’

‘My aide-de-camp, Highness. Lahon Meakin.’

‘Lahon?’ Melyobar repeated, a look of confusion on his face. ‘Devlor, surely? And he’s your aide now, High Chief?’

‘Highness?’

‘I thought your nephew was your heir,’ the Prince explained with some exasperation. ‘Certainly something more than merely your aide.’

Realisation dawned on Bastorran. ‘I fear we’re at cross purposes, sire. My fault entirely. I am Devlor, Lord High Chief of the Paladins. You’re thinking of my late uncle, Ivak.’

Melyobar blinked at them, like a myopic trying to focus. ‘Late?’

‘Sadly, sire, yes. My uncle passed on some months ago, the victim of a notorious radical. You were informed at the time, Majesty.’

The Prince sighed. ‘Another triumph for him.’

‘With all due respect, Your Highness, I hardly think the assassin’s deed could be termed a triumph.’

‘Assassin? I suppose he is, in a way. The great slayer is a kind of ultimate assassin. Yes, I like that.’

Bastorran and Meakin exchanged glances; the former one of vexation, the latter puzzlement.

‘Apologies, sir,’ Bastorran said, ‘but I misconstrued your meaning. You’re speaking of Death, naturally.’

‘Of course I am. Who else? The grief over the loss of your uncle has obviously skewed your senses.’

‘Yes,’ the paladin replied as best he could between clenched teeth, ‘that must be it.’

‘What a pity your uncle couldn’t have modelled himself on my own dear father,’ Melyobar suggested, ‘the only person in history, so far, to defy the Reaper’s dominion. Truly a shining example to the rest of us.’

‘Indeed, sire.’

‘So, why are you here?’ the Prince asked brightly.

The change of topic and mood almost stumped Bastorran. ‘I’m here to be officially recognised as the new Clan leader, Majesty.’

‘To receive my blessing.’

‘Er, yes. In a way. It’s a formality, of course, but-’

‘And what kind of leader will you be?’

‘What kind, Your Majesty?’

‘As compared to your late uncle.’

‘I would hope to emulate all his best qualities, Highness. Though in some respects I’m departing from his style of leadership.’