They rounded the walls of the west wing-still standing in the morning light, although the roof of the Queen's Ballroom had fallen in behind it-and passed a small huddle of Life Guards bearing imported repeating pistols at their belts. A white campaign pavilion squatted like a puffball on the lawn next to the wreckage of the west wing kitchens, and more soldiers marched around it in small groups or worked feverishly on a timber frame that was going up beside it. "Please, I beg you, wait here a while."

Innsford paused, leaning on his cane as if tired: Neuhalle moved closer to him, continuing the pretense that their escorts were as transparent as air while the hetman hurried towards the big tent, his progress punctuated interminably as he was passed from sentry to sentry. The guards were clearly taking no chances with their new monarch's life. "A bad night for the kingdom," he remarked quietly. "Long live the king."

"Indeed." Innsford looked almost amused. "And may his reign be long and peaceful." It was the right thing to say under the circumstances, indeed the only thing to say- their escort looked remarkably twitchy, in the shadow of the ruined palace-but Neuhalle had to force himself not to wince. The chances that King Egon's reign would be peaceful were slim, at best.

They didn't have long to reflect on the new order in peace. The guards hetman came loping back across the turf: "His grace the duke of Niejwein awaits you and bids me say that his majesty is in conference right now, but will see you presently," he managed, a long speech by his standards. "Come this way."

The big pavilion was set up for the prince's guests: royal companions and master of hounds at one side, and smaller rooms for the royal functions at the other. The middle was given over to an open space. The duke of Niejwein sat on a plain camp stool in the middle of the open area, surrounded by an ever-changing swarm of attendants: a thin-faced man of early middle years, he was, as Innsford might have remarked, one of us -a scion of the old nobility, the first fifty families whose longships had cleaved the Atlantic waves four centuries ago to stake their claims to the wild forested hills of the western lands.