“Derry, are you all right?” Morgan asked, anxiously shifting his grip from reins to the younger man’s shoulder.

They had stopped in the middle of the street, and Derry slowly sat up, a pained expression etched across what little of his face was visible beneath the crested helmet. Carefully cradling a bandaged left wrist in his right hand, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and nodded weakly.

“I’ll be all right, m’lord,” he whispered. He eased the injured arm back into a black silk sling and steadied himself with his good hand. “I just banged it against the saddle.”

Morgan was clearly skeptical. He was starting to reach across to check the injured wrist for himself when his action was interrupted by a strident bellowing almost in his ear.

“Make way for the Supreme of Howicce! Way for His Loftiness!” And then, in a lower tone, “Can’t you find some other place to hold hands, soldier?”

The comment was punctuated by a sharp smack of leather against Morgan’s horse’s flank. The animal jumped sideways with more energy than Morgan had dreamed possible, crowding Derry’s mount into half a dozen shrieking pedestrians.

Derry’s eyes flashed angrily as Morgan turned to look, and he was on the verge of a smoking retort when the general kicked him to silence. Morgan arranged his features in what he hoped was a suitably abject expression and signalled Derry to do the same.

For the bellower had been a seven-foot giant of a man, mailed in bronze and garbed in the garish greens and violets of the United Kingdoms of Howicce and Llannedd. While this alone would have been no deterrent under normal circumstances, the man was accompanied by six more just like him—and Derry was wounded. It did alter the odds somewhat. Besides, Morgan had no overwhelming desire to get himself arrested and jailed for brawling just now. Too much was at stake.

Nonetheless, he watched with unconcealed interest as the giants rode past. He took careful note of the shaggy black beards and hair; the winged bronze helmets that marked the wearers as Connaiti mercenaries; the barbarically patterned violet and green livery, signed with the badge of Howicce; the longswords at belts and writhing blacksnake whips in hands.

There was no hint as to who or what the Supreme of Howicce might be, though Morgan had his suspicions. The giants were escorting an ornately carved horse-litter carried by four matched grays, and the tapestried curtains shrouding the litter were embroidered in a headache-inducing design of green, violet, orange, and brilliant rose. Six more of the swarthy giants followed behind the litter. All things considered, Morgan doubted they would approve of him approaching for a closer look.

No matter. Morgan had already made up his mind about anyone with the audacity to style himself “His Loftiness.” He would not soon forget the Supreme of Howicce or his retainers.