The silence had been excruciating, the gold ingots that lay on the table stamped with the insignia of Maw unarguable evidence of treachery. Petronio’s eyes had flicked around the room, trying to make out the man by his surroundings. The wall of books suggested that he read as well as he spoke. As he waited, Petronio noticed for the first time that the other walls were lined with swords and hauberks of every size, knives, crossbows, beautifully polished brass knuckle-dusters, whips, and bats studded with sharpened spikes. This was no display of antiques. The art of injury was Flint’s business.

The Commander could have summoned his sergeant and had the boy marched off to the dungeons for a spot of light torture followed by a nice public hanging to literally kick-start the day. Instead, he spread his hands as if to say, So?

The tension in the room deflated. Petronio realized he’d been holding his breath. Now he saw that Fenestra’s reading of politics was sharp. Though the King was good at talking about loyalty, the rewards were not so easy to determine. Without the army, the peace of many years would not have been achieved. Quercus seemed to have forgotten those who had given him their allegiance, maybe not deliberately, but the results were the same: Pay was atrocious, and the food for the rank and file not worthy of being turned into compost. Also, it was clear that the Commander had a weakness for the luxuries of life. Treachery was less of a risk and more of a done deal.

Now Petronio was invited to speak, to fill in the gaps around the edges of all that shimmering gold. Petronio’s words had been committed to memory. Paper messages would have been a danger. Fenestra had told him the basics of the plan only. She’d said that too much information was dangerous. To whom? Didn’t she trust him? All Petronio knew was that Flint was to assemble a band of his best men ready for the night of the Harvest Festival, five days hence. As long as they followed the Commander and not the King, all would be well. The details could then be worked out when Flint next came south.

“It’s not long,” said Flint.

“Long enough,” Petronio answered.

“I have to work out which of my men I can trust. Some will stay loyal to their country, though low wages and even lower morale can play havoc with a sense of duty. My old friend Quercus has forgotten to whom he owes the years of self-satisfied peace.”

Petronio could see where this was leading.

“And so,” Flint continued, “I shall need further funds to facilitate proceedings.”

“Of course. Lady Fenestra has instructed me to do all I can to help.” With a flourish, a second purse was produced and tossed toward Flint, who caught it deftly with one hand.