"Eh?" said the voice. It appeared to come from somewhere beneath the great table the young man sat beside.

"What aristocratic connections have you ever had, you drunken old bum?" The young man rubbed his eyes with clenched fists, then, with his hands open, massaged the rest of his face.

There was a lengthy pause.

"Well, I was once bitten by a princess."

The young man looked up at the hammer-beamed ceiling and snorted. "Insufficient evidence."

He got up and went out onto the balcony again. He took a pair of binoculars from the balustrade and looked through them. He tutted, swaying, then retreated to the windows, bracing himself against the frame so that the view steadied. He fiddled with the focus, then shook his head and put the binoculars back on the stonework and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall and gazing out over the city.

Baked; brown roofs and rough gable ends, like crusts and ends of bread; dust like flour.

Then, in an instant, under the impact of remembrance, the shimmering view before him turned grey and then dark, and he recalled other citadels (the doomed tent city in the parade-ground below, as the glass in the windows shook; the young girl — dead now — curled up in a chair, in a tower in the Winter Palace). He shivered, despite the heat, and shoved the memories away.

"What about you?"

The young man looked back into the hall. "What?"

"You ever had any, umm, connections, with our, ah… betters?"

The young man looked suddenly serious. "I once…" he began, then hesitated. "I once knew some-one who was… nearly a princess. And I carried part of her inside me, for a time."

"Say again? You carried…"

"Part of her inside me, for a time."

Pause. Then, politely: "Wasn't that rather the wrong way round?"

The young man shrugged. "It was an odd sort of relationship."