Gabriel played with his untrimmed beard. “Master Foliak is very free with his information. But yes.”

Ser John shook his head. “I mean no harm and, by God, sirs, I believe we are of the same metal. If there need be factions, surely we are all King’s men? And all of us foes of Plangere and his ilk.”

Gabriel’s smile was not friendly. But he sighed—a long exhalation. He looked at his brother, who twitched an eyebrow.

“Ser John, I’m a churl today. I’m not at my best, and I beg your pardon.” He bowed slightly in his chair.

Ser John reflected the bow exactly.

Ser Gabriel looked out the window at the spring rain. They’d lost a day crossing the last stream before Albinkirk, the north branch of the West Kanatha. It was flooded to a roaring torrent by the spring melt. It had taken too long for tired men to get the wagons across.

The captain’s tongue had been too active and too biting.

He regretted it. He stared out the window and no one spoke. Finally he said, “I lost too many men. And a—a friend.”

Ser John thought ahhh.

Less intuitive, or simply blunter, Ser Ricar held out his cup for more wine and asked, “What hit you?”

Ser Gavin’s voice was not much less strained than his brother’s. “Four wyverns,” he said. “Twenty daemons and a shaman. Something we’ve never seen before.” Gavin gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “We brought two corpses to show you. We call them imps.” He looked away. “We lost three men to them.”

Ser John shook his head. “I am sorry for your losses, Captain. And sorry you were attacked; I try to patrol my lands. Where were you?”

“The Hole,” Ser Gabriel said. “Not in any way your fault.”

Ser Ricar and Ser John exchanged a look. “So far south and east!” Ser Ricar said.

“Thorn’s coming,” Gabriel said, and the name was like a curse. “You know, until now, I have not taken him seriously. Like a fool. Like a fool. I gave him a year to recover, and now look.” Gabriel’s face wore the same anger that the goodwife had worn. “He’s back.”

“Brother—” Gavin said with a cautioning hand.

Gabriel shook it off. “You have called a council,” he said to Ser John. “I’d like to attend with my brother. With Tom Lachlan, who is now the Drover.”

Ser John nodded. “We’d be proud to have you, sir knight. The Abbess will be here, and most of our northern gentry will be here or be represented.”

“I can represent the Emperor,” Gabriel said.

Ser John’s eyebrows shot up, but he had heard the rumours.

“And as Duke of Thrake, I think I deserve a seat at the table,” he added.

“Or the whole table,” Ser Gavin muttered.