“Not if you think in the aethereal.” He didn’t see a solution. If there was one at all, it was going to involve some miracles of marching, and every hour counted, starting a day ago.

But he had the glimmer of a plan. It was not his former plan at all. That galled him—that a plan had completely failed.

So much subtlety, gone with the arrow that killed the King.

“Right,” he said. “I assume Ser Gerald Random is in Lorica?”

“No, he and most of the men who came with him are camped between us and the beeves. The Hillmen.” Alcaeus waved.

“I need Ser Gerald, Sukey, Tom, Ranald and—” He looked around. “That’s a start.”

“First light?” Toby said hopefully.

“Now,” Gabriel said.

He was never going to get to kiss Blanche again. He tried not to let that influence his decisions, but he reckoned that if he could end the meetings and find her…

Too late for all of that. By tomorrow, the moment would be gone.

He shrugged. His shrug was a dismissal of all that. Let love go hang, he thought bitterly.

Toby murmured in his ear, “Ser Thomas is—er—with Sukey.”

“Good, you can get them both at once,” Gabriel said.

Let love go hang. “Get Sister Amicia, too.”

The map was still pinned to the ground with daggers and eating implements.

The captain’s bearing made it plain that this was business. There was almost no grumbling. Toby and Nell built up the fire and began to serve roast pork and dumplings left over from a dinner most of them had never received.

“You bid fair to ruin a beautiful night,” Tom grumbled.

The captain shook his head. “The world,” he said, “is going to shit all around us. This is for everything, friends. So drink some wine, stretch your wits and get with me.”

Alcaeus and Gelfred reviewed the intelligence reports while the rest chewed pork, spat gristle, and wolfed down the dumplings.

When Gelfred was done explaining the archbishop’s position and what he had in his army, the captain nodded sharply.

“Tom, will you sell me all your beef?” he asked.

Tom shrugged. “Market price?” he asked.

“On the nail,” the captain said.

Tom nodded, and spat in his hand.

The captain turned to Ser Gerald. “Loan me the cost of the beeves?” he asked.

“Against what?” Gerald asked cautiously.

“Against that I’m now the Earl of Westwall, or Gavin is, and the Duke of Thrake, too. I own the whole northern trade from one end of the wall to the other, and if we win this war, we’ll make money as if we are transmuting water into gold.” He turned to his brother. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m not as crass as I sound, but…”

Gavin grunted. “I get it,” he said. “They’re dead, and we need money.”

Random eyed Tom Lachlan. “Yes,” he said.