Ser Gabriel took his offered hand. “Today, barracks. Tomorrow…” His eyes flickered aside. “Tomorrow, a priest you like and a church. We have a dozen dead.” His eyes held grief—actual grief.

Welcome to growing up, laddie, Ser John thought. But he had kindness in him, too, and in fifty heartbeats his squire was riding for the bishop while his valet led the outriders to the barracks. The castle was still half-empty. With the company at a little over a third of its strength, he could put every man and woman in a bed, or at least on a straw pallet.

Ser John got the tale of the ambush from Kit Foliak, who he knew from his younger days, as the tired squires and pages began to sort the packs and the leather bags and the wagons and the horses in the citadel’s courtyard, paved with uneven stones five centuries old.

When he’d seen to the company’s basic comforts, he went with Ser Ricar Fitzalan—a thinner and fitter version of the King’s captain—into his hall and sent a boy for the Red Knight. The man came with his famous brother, and sat in a tall chair piled with cushions while his valet raised one of his legs, elevated it, and put it on a stool. The slip of a girl was quick, efficient, and apparently unconcerned by her master’s vague nastiness.

“Stop that—fuck, you’re hurting me,” the captain spat. “Damn it, girl. Stop fussing. No, I do not want water. Get your hands off me.”

Nell ignored him resolutely, following Mag’s orders.

Ser Gabriel was out of his harness, and his fine velvet arming coat was filthy.

The man seemed to come to himself. He sighed and looked at Ser John.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m not myself.”

Ser Gavin shrugged and accepted a cup of wine. “You seem exactly like yourself to me,” he said. “I’m not sure we’ve been introduced. I’m Ser Gavin Muriens. This is my brother, Ser Gabriel.”

Ser John rose and bowed. “Ser John Crayford. I know your brother, from the siege and all that followed.” He looked at the surly captain. “And for lifting my two best men-at-arms when he went past last time.”

Ser Ricar laughed aloud. “Well, I don’t know either of you, but I’m Ser Ricar Fitzalan. The old king’s bastard. And captain of the bodyguard.”

Ser Gavin bowed. “I saw you after Lissen Carak. Indeed, we were within a few beds in the dispensary of the sisters.”

Ser Ricar bowed from his seat. “Of course. My apologies.”

“Hah! One linen-wrapped body looks much like the rest,” Gavin said. “But Sister Amicia pointed you out.”

Ser John leaned forward. “Kit Foliak says you were ambushed—beat the ambush—and that a certain former king’s sorcerer tried to clinch the bargain.”