sat opposite him now as he stood behind the ladder-back chair, fingers running over its rungs as if they were a harp on which a melody could be played. ‘So you’ll ask for his head.’ Not a question. Those mild eyes fatherly now. A father and friend. Though lord knows, not my father: he always seemed embarrassed by the whole business of father and son. Yes. Sageous was right. I started to say the words. ‘I’ll ask for his—’ The point of a sword emerged from Sageous’s
