“I need to speak to Duke Rogont,” she said.

“Of course.”

“I’m Mon… what?” She’d been expecting to explain herself. Probably to be laughed at. Possibly to be strung up from one of the pillars. Certainly not to be invited in.

“You’re General Murcatto.” The man had a twist to his grey mouth that came somewhere near a smile. “And you’re expected. I’ll need the sword, though.” She frowned as she handed it over, liking the feel of this less than if they’d kicked her down the street.

There was a great pool in the marble hall beyond, surrounded by tall columns, murky water smelling strongly of rot. Her old enemy Grand Duke Rogont was poring over a map on a folding table, in a sober grey uniform, lips thoughtfully pursed. A dozen officers clustered about him, enough gold braid between them to rig a carrack. A couple looked up as she made her way around the fetid pond towards them.

“It’s her,” she heard one say, his lip well curled.

“Mur… cat… to,” another, as if the very name was poison. No doubt it was to them. She’d been making fools of these very men for the past few years and the more of a fool a man is, the less he cares to look like one. Still, the general with the smallest numbers should remain always on the offensive, Stolicus wrote. So she walked up unhurried, the thumb of her bandaged left hand hooked carelessly in her belt, as if this was her bath and she was the one with all the swords.

“If it isn’t the Prince of Prudence, Duke Rogont. Well met, your Cautiousness. A proud-looking set of comrades you’ve got here, for men who’ve spent seven years retreating. Still, at least you’re not retreating today.” She let it sink in for a moment. “Oh, wait. You are.”

That forced a few chins to haughtily rise, a nostril or two to flare. But the dark eyes of Rogont himself shifted up from the map without any rush, a little tired, perhaps, but still irritatingly handsome and at ease. “General Murcatto, what a pleasure! I wish we could have met after a great battle, preferably with you as a crestfallen prisoner, but my victories have been rather thin on the ground.”

“Rare as summer snows.”

“And you, so cloaked in glories. I feel quite naked under your victorious glare.” He peered towards the back of the hall. “But wherever are your all-conquering Thousand Swords now?”

Monza sucked her teeth. “Faithful Carpi’s borrowed them from me.”

“Without asking? How… rude. I fear you are too much soldier and not enough politician. I fear I am the opposite. Words may hold more power than swords, as Juvens said, but I have discovered to my cost that there are times when there is no substitute for pointy metal.”

“These are the Years of Blood.”

“Indeed they are. We are all the prisoners of circumstance, and circumstances have left me once again with no other choice but bitter retreat. The noble Lirozio, Duke of Puranti and owner of this wonderful bath, was as staunch and warlike an ally as could be imagined when Duke Orso’s power was long leagues away on the other side of the great walls of Musselia. You should have heard him gnash his teeth, his sword never so eager to spring forth and spill hot blood.”