And to West's profound amazement, Burr was standing in the entrance to his tent. Even in the half-light, it seemed obvious that he was terribly ill. His face was ashen pale and there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead. His eyes were sunken and ringed with black. His lip quivered, his legs were unsteady, he clutched at the tent-pole beside him for support. West could see a dark stain down the front of his uniform that looked very much like blood.

'I am afraid I have been… somewhat unwell during the battle,' he croaked. 'Something I ate, perhaps.' His hand trembled on the pole and Jalenhorm lurked near his shoulder, ready to catch him if he fell, but by some superhuman effort of will the Lord Marshal stayed on his feet. West glanced nervously at the angry gathering, wondering what they might make of this walking corpse. But the two Generals were far too caught up in their own feud to pay any attention to that.

'Lord Marshal, I must protest about General Poulder—'

'Sir, I demand that General Kroy apologise—' The best form of defence seemed to West to be an immediate attack. 'It would be traditional!' he cut in at the top of his voice, 'for us first to congratulate our commanding officer on his victory!' He began to clap, slowly and deliberately. Pike and Jalenhorm joined him without delay. Poulder and Kroy exchanged an icy glance, then they too raised their hands.

'May I be the first to—'

'The very first to congratulate you, Lord Marshal!'

Their staffs joined in, and others around the tent, and then more further away, and soon a rousing cheer was going up.

'A cheer for Lord Marshal Burr!'

'The Lord Marshal!'

'Victory!'

Burr himself twitched and quivered, one hand clutched to his stomach, his face a mask of anguish. West slunk backwards, away from the attention, away from the glory. He had not the slightest interest in it. That had been close, he knew, impossibly close. His hands were trembling, his mouth tasted sour, his vision was swimming. He could still hear Poulder and Kroy, already arguing again, like a pair of furious ducks quacking.

'We must move on Dunbrec immediately, a swift assault while they are unwary and—'

'Pah! Foolishness! The defences are too strong. We must surround the walls and prepare for a lengthy—'

'Nonsense! My division could carry the place tomorrow!'

'Rubbish! We must dig in! Siegecraft is my particular area of expertise!'