Chastened, Morgon climbed down off the tower.

In the morning, the survivors of the imperial army were paraded and re-armed. They received a curious collection of weapons—trade swords and crossbows stripped from the two Etruscan warehouses in Albinkirk, every spare sword, shield, or dented cap in the arsenal in the citadel; hunting bows, and even some stone throws used for hunting squirrels, crossbows that threw a clay pellet instead of a bolt.

All the spare horses—including every destrier the company captured in the south—went to re-horse the white banda and to fill out a full squadron of Morean cavalry.

The captain came with his household, and then the Queen came with hers, and behind them were another fifteen hundred peasants with shovels. But they never came into the company camp—instead, they halted almost a mile to the rear and began building a second camp on the ridge with the old fort.

The captain addressed the Moreans in Archaic. They didn’t cheer, but neither did they grumble. Ser Christos stood on a barrel and told all the phylarchs that he had personally seen the Emperor’s body prepared, and that they would take it back to the city together—when they had been victorious.

Then Ser Christos took all the Moreans except a handful and marched them away to the new camp.

Sauce watched them go. “What’s he doing?” she asked Michael, who was already clerking in a tent—not his own.

Michael shook his head. “No idea. Except that he doesn’t think the battle will be here.”

Sauce groaned. “He said here! Now where?”

Michael was writing out orders—all in numbered sequences.

Sauce frowned at him. “This is too fucking complicated. Tom and I are gone and he’s off the leash and making up dangerous plans that won’t work.”

Michael paused. “I think this will work,” he said in a neutral tone.

“Why’s he so talkative and chipper?” Sauce asked.

Michael cleared his throat.

“Tell!” Sauce said. “Michael, how often have I stood by you?”

“He’s got a girl,” Michael said.

“Not Amicia?” Sauce asked.

“Word is Amicia told him to sod off. And he’s found someone a little more willing.” Michael raised his pen. “Sauce, this could all be nonsense.”

“The Queen?” Sauce barked. It was almost a screech.

“No,” Michael said. “It’s a long story. One of the Queen’s ladies. A laundress.”

That stopped Sauce in full anti-aristocratic spate. “A laundress?” she asked.

“Sauce, I don’t know. Now may I finish writing out his orders?” He met her eye. In the captain’s very voice he said, “Don’t you have something you ought to be doing?”

Sauce laughed.

In the streets of the camp, Wilful Murder sat with Tippit and Cuddy and Cully.

“Where’s No Head?” Long Paw asked. It was an old tradition, and even now that Long Paw was a knight he liked to see it done.