The mansa’s nephew snorted. “How convenient! If it is difficult, then one can keep claiming it is true! Why would a fire mage not just burn all enemy soldiers alive, if they could do it?”

“I do not know if blood protects the living body, or if no fire mage dares unleash such a monstrous power. But regardless, all who with their own eyes witnessed the death of the mansa of Gold Cup House at Lemovis know of what I speak.” Vai looked directly at the mansa, his gaze not quite a challenge. “If the Coalition Army and the Romans do not recognize the threat of fire magic and change their tactics, they will lose.”

The mansa’s nephew drained the last of his wine, then laughed as I hastened to refill his cup before he could complain of my incompetence. “The wrath of fire mages is a story told by credulous villagers who know no better than to believe the pap they nurse from their mother’s breast. If, indeed, they even know who their mother really is.”

Vai looked up. “A man can bray like a jackass, but that doesn’t mean his noise means anything.”

Every man tensed. In a chamber full of cold mages, the temperature’s drop came as no surprise. Vai’s expression remained impassive, except for the stab of fury that twitched in his cheek.

The mansa’s nephew raised his newly filled wineglass in mocking salute. “Rumor has it you’re the only magister on campaign who sleeps alone every night. If you need some help to make a woman of the Phoenician girl, I would be happy to oblige. Most of the time they like it best when they claim they don’t want it. Just like you. I haven’t forgotten how I had to make a woman of you when you first came to Four Moons House because you stubbornly refused to acknowledge your betters. Someone had to put you in your place.”

I had a moment of stunning clarity as Vai rocked back as if he had been punched.

The gods do watch over us, even if we cannot always recognize the shape their hand takes. A serving man bearing a tureen of beet soup had halted in embarrassment an arm’s length from me. I snatched the tureen out of his hands and dumped its contents over the head of the mansa’s nephew.

He shouted, staggering up so off balance that I needed only to nudge his knee to send him tumbling ignominiously onto his backside.

“Noble Ba’al, forgive me, Magister!” I cried, slapping a hand to my chest in an exaggerated gesture worthy of Bee. “From the garbage that came out of your mouth, I mistook you for the slops bucket.”

The older men laughed appreciatively and the younger nervously, while the servants looked as if they wished they were anywhere except in the dining room.