Such politeness was unnerving. The apartment Petronio entered was spartan but comfortable. A camp bed, apparently unused, lay in the far corner. On the other side, underneath a map of the whole island of Arborium, was a desk covered in papers. The gas fire was turned down, murmuring in the background. In the center, there was a daybed and several seats around a sturdy wooden table.

“Come, you must be thirsty and hungry.”

Before Petronio could object, a dark red wine was poured into a thin-stemmed glass and handed to him. He drank gratefully and eagerly munched on the sweet pickled walnuts that Flint slid across the table as they sat down.

“It is so difficult to find these first-growth nuts. But they are tenderest when picked early.”

Petronio found this conversation harder than all previous threats. Flint’s charm was disarming, though underneath it lay steel.

“I could wake the cook and have something hot ordered up?” inquired Flint.

“No, no. You are too kind.” Petronio had seen his father in action. Two could play at diplomacy. “I have had sufficient.”

“Perhaps you would like to rest? We could talk in the morning?”

And allow his pack to be searched? Who knows what could happen to him in the dead hours. “Thank you for your offer, but sleep can wait.”

Flint sat back. The boy was precocious, that was for sure. He waited. If there was a message, it could now be delivered.

“Have you heard of Maw?”

“Ha! Very good!” Flint roared with laughter. “Our little island surrounded by a whole world of glass and steel, and you ask if I have heard of their empire? I am not entirely ignorant!”

“And I didn’t mean to imply that, sir.” Petronio was careful to keep the respect in his voice. This was Commander Flint, not a boy called Flinty. “Is your aim to defend the sovereignty of our kingdom against such usurpers?” He felt like he was talking out of a book. But somehow the language, carefully guarded like the fortress he was now in, suited the scene.

“Naturally. My duty is to the King. Even if he treats his beloved troops almost as exiles by stationing us up here. In his unchanging reign, there seems little required of us anymore. However, I swore on this sword, long ago.” Flint patted the scab-barded blade as if it were a beloved pet, not a killing machine.

Petronio had one card to play. He laid it on the table, in the shape of a purse that spilled its contents across the smooth surface. The rectangular objects caught the gaslight, glinting yellow as they chinked against each other.