'Yes,' said Ladisla, talking over him precisely as if he had not spoken, 'good and fit! Chomping at the bit! Must be the fire in their bellies keeps 'em warm, eh, West? Can't wait to get at the enemy! Damn shame we have to wait here, kicking our heels behind this damn river!'

West bit his lip. Prince Ladisla's incredible powers of self-deception were becoming more frustrating with every passing day. His Highness had fixed upon the idea of being a great and famous general, with a matchless force of fighting men under his command. Of winning a famous victory, and being celebrated as a hero back in Adua. Rather than exerting a single particle of effort to make it happen, however, he behaved as if it already had, utterly regardless of the truth. Nothing which was distasteful, or displeasing, or at odds with his cock-eyed notions could be permitted to be noticed. Meanwhile, the dandies on his staff, without a month's military experience between them, congratulated him on his fine judgement, slapped each other on the back, and agreed with his every utterance, no matter how ludicrous.

Never to want for anything, or work for anything, or show the tiniest grain of self-discipline in a whole life must give a man a strange outlook on the world, West supposed, and here was the proof, riding along beside him, smiling away as though the care of ten thousand men was a light responsibility. The Crown Prince and the real world, as Lord Marshal Burr had observed, were entire strangers to one another.

'Cold,' Ladisla murmured. 'Not much like the deserts of Gurkhul now, eh, Colonel West?'

'No, your Highness.'

'But some things are the same, eh? I'm speaking of war, West! War in general! The same everywhere! The courage! The honour! The glory! You fought with Colonel Glokta, didn't you?'

'Yes, your Highness, I did.'

'I used to love to hear stories of that man's exploits! One of my heroes, when I was young. Riding round the enemy, harassing his lines of communication, falling on the baggage train and whatnot.' The Prince's riding crop rode around, harassed, and fell on imaginary baggage in the air before him. 'Capital! And I suppose you saw it all?'

'Some of it, your Highness, yes.' He had seen a great deal of saddle-soreness, sunburn, looting, drunkenness, and vainglorious showing-off.

'Colonel Glokta, I swear! We could do with some of that dash here, eh, West? Some of that vim! That vigour! Shame that he's dead.'

West looked up. 'He isn't dead, your Highness.'

'He isn't?'

'He was captured by the Gurkish, and then returned to the Union when the war ended. He… er… he joined the Inquisition.'

'The Inquisition?' The Prince looked horrified. 'Why on earth would a man give up the soldiering life for that?'