The walls of the Great Chamber were lined with bears, huge stuffed creatures that stood on their hind legs, snarling ferociously. There were idle-cat heads too, and moth-eaten wolves, and slommerkins with their tusks blackened by centuries of smoke.

But the noble-born men and women who turned to stare at the prisoners were far more dangerous than dead slommerkins. Their faces and arms were scarred, and their eyes were merciless. Cursed to spend their whole lives inside the Strong-hold, they lived on plots and intrigues. Violence was their sport, and beheadings were their entertainment.

One of these people, thought Duckling, raised the Harshman from the dead and set him on Otte’s trail. Who was it? How can we find out? And how can I slip into a crowd like this without being noticed?

When they saw Arms-mistress Krieg, with Otte on her back, the eyes of the grafs widened, then narrowed. The grafines murmured to each other, and the sound lapped at the walls of the Great Chamber like the rustling of scorpions. The lean dogs that wound around their legs snarled.

No one bothered snarling at Duckling, though they growled at Pummel, and hissed at Grandpa, both of whom had been in trouble here before. But when Sooli was shoved into the chamber, looking as proud as the recently assassinated Margravine, they leaped forward with their swords drawn and their eyes slitted with fury.

‘An assassin!’ they howled. ‘A Saffy assassin!’

‘Kill her before she gets to the new Margrave!’

‘Take her to the chopping block!’

‘Lop her head off now!’

A man with a scar running right down his bare arm tried to seize hold of Sooli, but the soldiers barred his way. ‘Stand back,’ they shouted. ‘Let the Margrave see the prisoners.’

Duckling and her friends were prodded the length of the chamber, past the growling dogs, past the grafs and grafines, past the chickens that scratched and pecked at the rushes.

When they reached the Faithful Throne they were forced to their knees. And there was the new Margrave, sitting on that great black chair, with a much-too-big sword by his side and a scowl on his face.

No one would have guessed, from Arms-mistress Krieg’s blank expression, that the new Margrave was actually her son, and that she and the late Margravine had swapped their children at birth, to keep Otte safe. Krieg had held the secret for ten years, and she was not yet ready to give it up.

But Otte slid down from her back, crying, ‘Brun, you are alive! I was afraid that the Harshman might have killed you.’ He managed a couple of steps forward before a heavy hand on his shoulder forced him to kneel.

Brun was the same age as Otte, but much more finely dressed, with silver buckles on his belt and silver embroidery on his tunic. His fair hair was cut to just below his chin, and a scar stood out red and angry against the paleness of his cheek.

For the briefest moment, his eyes widened at the sight of Otte. For the briefest moment, he looked as if he might leap down from the Faithful Throne, throw his arms around his friend and demand to know where he had been and what he had been doing.

But a second later, that moment was gone as if it had never existed. Brun’s finger tapped ominously on the arm of the throne, and he said to Krieg, ‘Why have you brought one of our greatest enemies here, into the heart of Neuhalt?’

At the words ‘one of our greatest enemies’, the nobles pressed forward with a growl that made Duckling shiver. But Arms-mistress Krieg turned and glared at them, and it seemed she still had some power in this place, because they shuffled back a little.

Krieg glared at the soldiers then, until they stepped back too, and let her climb to her feet. She made a bow to her son Brun, who was pretending to be Margrave. ‘Your Grace,’ she said.

Then she nodded at the woman who sat on a sturdy chair beside him. ‘Grafine von Eisen. You are Regent?’

The Grafine had a long pale face and a scar that cut across the corner of her mouth, so that anyone who didn’t know her would think she was smiling. ‘Answer the Margrave’s question,’ she said in a hard voice.

Krieg turned back to Brun. ‘Your Grace, we bring news of great danger. It would be best if we spoke to you in private audience.’

Brun opened his mouth to reply, but Grafine von Eisen beat him to it. She leaned forward, her eyes as cold as her name. ‘You do not tell His Grace the Margrave what is best, ex-Arms-mistress. You do not ally yourself with his enemies. You do not commit treachery against the Faithful Throne and expect to keep your head on your shoulders.’

Duckling glanced at the soldier who still held her wrists, wondering how she could get away from him.

‘I have committed no treachery,’ said Krieg. ‘We are here to prevent treachery. Someone has created a monster from the bones of a long-dead margrave; he has iron teeth and burning eyes, just like the legend from the Old Country—’

A roar of laughter drowned out the rest of her words. The grafs rocked on their heels, bellowing, ‘Iron teeth? Burning eyes? Ho ho ho! Krieg has lost her mind.’

‘And soon she will lose her head,’ sneered the grafines. The dogs at their feet panted with open mouths, waiting for orders.

Otte’s clear voice rang out over the tumult. ‘He is not just a legend. He is real. Brun – I mean, Your Grace. You remember the Harshman! You must. You fought him with a leg bone taken from the vergessen.’

‘You did indeed, Your Grace,’ said Grandpa, who was still on his knees and clutching his cane so no one would take it away. ‘This is no legend, but a real creature. A monstrous creature, who followed us south when we escaped from the Strong-hold, and who will shortly follow us north again. You fought him bravely, but a single brave boy will not be enough when this creature returns. We must stand together, all of us. We must turn and face the true danger.’

He clambered to his feet, waving a hand at Sooli. ‘This child is no threat. She may be Saaf but she is on our side. And when the Harshman comes with his iron teeth and his burning eyes—’

His voice soared in those same compelling tones that had talked him and Duckling out of trouble so many times. ‘When the Harshman comes, believing that we will be easy prey, we must stand shoulder to shoulder against him—’

Duckling was watching Brun so closely that she saw his eyes change. He does remember, she thought. The curse is trying to make him forget, because there was witchery involved. But he remembers, and so do some of the others.

Bit by bit, as Grandpa spoke, the temper of the Great Chamber began to change. Instead of bellowing with laughter, the men tugged at their moustaches and raised their eyebrows. The women sidled up to each other with questioning looks, and rapped their dogs over the nose when they snarled too loudly.

Arms-mistress Krieg crossed her arms. ‘I have always served the Faithful Throne honourably, Your Grace. I was Heir’s Friend to the late Margravine, and arms-mistress in her service. If I had committed treachery, I would put my own head on the block. Your Grace, the Harshman is coming and we must prepare for battle.’

Duckling held her breath. According to Grandpa, there was a moment in every argument when things start to slide one way or the other. That moment was now.

The immediate danger was almost over. The soldier wasn’t holding her so tightly, but Duckling no longer needed to slip away. They had Brun on their side, and most of the nobles, too. They could set about hunting down whoever had raised the Harshma—

At the far end of the Great Chamber, the heavy doors crashed open, and a man came running towards the Faithful Throne, slipping and sliding over the rushes that covered the floor.

The dogs dived out of his way. The grafs and grafines drew back like a neap tide. The glassy eyes of the bears flashed, as if they knew disaster was approaching.

Because it was disaster; Duckling could smell it. So could the soldier who held her. His grip on her wrists tightened again. The running man fell to his knees, panting, in front of the throne.

‘Your Grace,’ he croaked, gazing up at Brun. ‘Your Grace, the food carts – they have turned back. They have turned away without making their deliveries!’