“They’ve strengthened the walls since last year,” muttered Benna. “I wouldn’t fancy trying to storm the place.”

“Don’t pretend you’d have the guts to climb the ladder.”

“I wouldn’t fancy telling someone else to storm the place.”

“Don’t pretend you’d have the guts to give the orders.”

“I wouldn’t fancy watching you tell someone else to storm the place.”

“No.” She leaned gingerly from her saddle and frowned down at the plummeting drop on her left. Then she peered up at the sheer wall on her right, battlements a jagged black edge against the brightening sky. “It’s almost as if Orso’s worried someone might try to kill him.”

“He’s got enemies?” breathed Benna, eyes round as saucers with mock amazement.

“Only half of Styria.”

“Then… we’ve got enemies?”

“More than half of Styria.”

“But I’ve tried so hard to be popular…” They trotted between two dour-faced soldiers, spears and steel caps polished to a murderous glint. Hoofbeats echoed in the darkness of the long tunnel, sloping gradually upwards. “You have that look, now.”

“What look?”

“No more fun today.”

“Huh.” She felt the familiar frown gripping her face. “You can afford to smile. You’re the good one.”

It was a different world beyond the gates, air heavy with lavender, shining green after the grey mountainside. A world of close-clipped lawns, of hedges tortured into wondrous shapes, of fountains throwing up glittering spray. Grim guardsmen, the black cross of Talins stitched into their white surcoats, spoiled the mood at every doorway.

“Monza…”

“Yes?”

“Let’s make this the last season on campaign,” Benna wheedled. “The last summer in the dust. Let’s find something more comfortable to do. Now, while we’re young.”