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The usual nonsense followed after that: mumbling, questions, assurances from the major domo, promises of free evenings and ‘special offers’. The various nobles and their companions left, maybe not quite as satisfied by my explanation as they would have been by further bloodshed, but close enough given they were getting cold standing out in the narrow hallway with little in the way of clothing.

My attention, however, was focused on the other wonderists.

Corrigan gave me a wink as if he’d known all along I’d work things out so that he could get back to bedding his charming new friend. Galass closed the door to her cabin with the girl already in her arms, shooting me a look that dared me to express disapproval of her actions. And Aradeus gave a subtle gesture towards the prince’s wonderists, who had apparently decided the occasion didn’t call for their intervention, then to the major domo.

Apparently the mission was still on.

‘Major Domo,’ I said, before the man could slink off to his other duties.

‘Yes, Silord Ombra?’

I gave him a sheepish grin. ‘I find myself. . . tense. . . from these events. I wonder if I might impose on your generosity.’

He smiled with relief; it was a shame it would soon disappear from his features. ‘Why, of course. There are still several lads and lasses available for your—’

‘Alas, my personal tastes are highly specific. Some might say. . .singular.’

All brothels have that one special girl or boy– the one meant only for the most venerated of guests, those whose rank or wealth is such that not only must they be pleased at all costs, but they expect something precious that will be denied to all others.

The major domo paled, apparently having a much clearer picture of what I was asking for than I had. ‘Sheis only for the prince.’

I didn’t know who‘she’was, but I’ve had two professions in my life and both have taught me something of the ways of powerful men. I didn’t even bother contradicting the major domo. All it took was arching an eyebrow.

‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘Sometimes hismosthonoured guests are permitted to. . . sample her wares.’

I kept the curl from my lip, forced down the bile and conjured up a smile. ‘Surely he wouldn’t mind– under these circumstances?’ I leaned closer and whispered, ‘I can make her forget.’

The major domo tried to look offended, but relief was written in every grateful wrinkle on his forehead. ‘I could never condone such a thing.’ It was his turn to lean closer. ‘But for perhaps an hour, discreetly passed, soon forgotten. . .’

We shook hands, our craven bargain struck. He handed me a key which tingled even as it touched my hand, vibrating so much I had to close my fingers over it for fear it would fly away. That and a gesture sent me through the passage and down a set of very narrow stairs to the bottom-most deck of the vessel. A single red door waited for me. A keyhole was set beneath an ornately carved silver knob shaped like a hand extended in greeting. I could feel the thrumming in the key in my palm as if it longed to open the lock for me. The problem was, I didn’t think the key could do much about the two Glorian Justiciars standing in front of that door.

They were both smiling at me.

Chapter 19

I Hate Reunions

The most discomforting thing about Glorian Justiciars is the way they look at you. Magic aside– and they have plenty– there’s nothing quite so horrifying as staring into the eyes of someone who is absolutely, incontrovertibly convinced of their own righteousness. The silencing glare I’d used on Galass upstairs and the interrogatory gaze to which I had subjected the young prostitute were nothing compared to the sheer spiritualanguishthat comes from staring into the eyes of true justiciars in the performance of their duties. It’s like. . . discovering there really is an Auroral Sovereign, that he is all-powerful, and that he loves every living creature.

Except you.

Should you ever have the misfortune of crossing paths with a pair of Glorian Justiciars when your soul is not in perfect harmony with the teachings of the Lords Celestine, I advise you look away, even if the justiciars in question are about to chop your head off with their swords. Trust me, it’ll be easier that way.

‘Esteemed brethren,’ I said, locking eyes with the two of them.

‘Renegade,’ Dignity said, his deep baritone so pure it was all I could do not to drop to my knees, kiss his hand and beg his forgiveness.

‘Apostate,’ Fidelity corrected. She always had been a stickler for linguistic precision.

You might be wondering how I knew their names, and if I did, why I hadn’t recognised them when they first appeared on the deck. The first is simple: at any time there are only one hundred and twenty-one Glorian Justiciars. That’s enough for eleven courts, which is all the Auroral rulers deem necessary to enact their laws upon the Mortal realm. Personally, I always figured it was because the Lords Celestine insist on naming their representatives after moral virtues and they’d got bored after coming up with eleven times eleven of them.

In case you’re wondering, my name was—

Well, let’s not worry about that.

Anyway, I hadn’t recognised Dignity and Fidelity right away because of the muddy brown dye jobs and the fact that they’d been hanging back behind the prince’s other wonderists. Also, I’d never been on a court with them, and honestly, it gets hard to tell apart a bunch of people who all have square jaws, piercing eyes and magnificent cheekbones. The Lords Celestine grant their servants many gifts, and they aren’t so blind to political concerns that they haven’t figured out over the millennia that really good-looking people are perceived as holier than the rest of us.

No kidding: the day I was exiled, my skin lost its lustre and my nose was no longer straight. Mostly that was from the beatings they’d given me on the way out, but still. . .