Fidelias arched an eyebrow and glanced up at him. “Is that an order?”

“No,” Tavi said. “It would be meaningless. What would I do if you refused? Put you to death?”

Fidelias’s eyes wrinkled at their corners. “Ah, true.”

“It is a request. You have more field experience than Magnus, and you may have some insight into the thinking behind the current leadership of the main Aleran forces. I would value your advice.”

Fidelias pursed his lips. “But would you trust it?”

Tavi smiled. “Naturally not.”

The older man let out a quick bark of a laugh. He shook his head, and said, “It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

* * *

Phrygius Cyricus, Seneschal of Phrygia and commander of its defending Legions, was sixteen years old. He was an almost painfully thin young man, dressed in the white-and-green livery of the House of Phrygius, and his dark hair was untidy enough to merit an assault from some kind of elite barbering strike force. His dark eyes peered out from behind his hair as he bowed to Tavi.

“Y-your Highness,” Cyricus said. “W-welcome to Phrygia.”

Tavi, accompanied by Maestro Magnus, Fidelias, and Kitai, stepped over the threshold of the High Lord’s citadel and into the cramped courtyard beyond. “Master Phrygius,” he replied, bowing slightly in return. “I’m sorry I couldn’t arrange to arrive at a more convenient hour.”

“Th-that’s all r-right,” Cyricus replied, and Tavi realized that the boy was not stammering in nervousness. He simply had a stammer. “If y-you would come w-with me, m-my lord father’s staff has prepared a r-report of the latest news from the f-front.”

Tavi lifted his eyebrows, impressed. “Straight to business, eh?”

“Th-there’s f-food and wine waiting for you and your...” Cyricus paused and swallowed, glancing past Tavi to the hulking form of Varg, who had entered the courtyard last. “G-guests.”

“That is well,” Varg said. “I am hungry.”

Cyricus swallowed again. Then the boy lifted his chin and marched over to face Varg, meeting his gaze. “Y-you are w-welcomed as a guest, sir. B-but if you hurt anyone under my lord f-father’s p-protection, I will kill you myself.”

Varg’s ears quivered. He bowed from the waist to the youth. “It will be as you say in your house, young Master.” Then he glanced at Tavi, and rumbled, in Canish, “Does the pup remind you of anyone, Tavar?”

Tavi answered him in kind. “As I recall, I had a knife to your throat at the time.”

“It did give you a certain credibility,” Varg admitted.

Tavi carefully kept himself from smiling, and said, “Master Cyricus, I assure you that Warmaster Varg has had extensive experience as a guest of Aleran Citizens and that he has always displayed admirable courtesy.”

Varg’s ears twitched in amusement.

Cyricus inclined his head to Tavi. “V-very well, Y-your Highness. This way please.”