They had eight convoys out there; some entirely of cattle on the hoof. Four was the largest convoy of wagons and its arrival was another tiny victory. Gabriel did some mental arithmetic and realized that Sauce would have the main body back to Arles either eight or nine days before the gates opened—a day behind his own column. Clarissa was concentrating on the Arelat grain harvest; everyone needed that grain.

Ash’s surrogates had assaulted the major Gallish seaport, which meant that Ash was expending masses of effort on sea monsters.

As soon as he read Blanche’s words, Gabriel saw the implications of repatriating the thousands of northern Etruscan peasants and former soldiers who had been taken by the Necromancer. He all but winced that he hadn’t thought of sending them back to where they could feed themselves.

He kissed the message.

Then Jon Gang appeared with a stool and pushed it behind his legs until he sat; Monteverdi, his trumpeter, produced hot water. Gang brought another stool for Atcourt, who was over forty and happy to have it.

Before the sun had fully risen, Gabriel was shaved and had his rancid arming clothes back on over a clean shirt, and so did Atcourt and Tom Lachlan. The camp, such as it was, was being packed on a couple of horses. Toby was still coaching Anne, whether she needed it or not, and Gabriel was tempted to intervene, but instead he and Atcourt put on their gloves and traded blows; sharp arming swords against bucklers until their breath steamed in the mountain air. Tom Lachlan took a tour of the flying column’s horse lines and then rode up and dismounted, already in full harness; but he picked up a buckler and took a turn.

Father François appeared in his nut-brown habit and bare feet, and said mass for the command staff while Gabriel dispatched three birds and a pair of human messengers, one eye on the celebration of the eucharist, the other on his messenger birds. Du Corse was one ridge to the north with a thousand Gallish knights; Pavalo Payam was two ridges to the south with almost two thousand Royal Mamluks and their servants, all mounted. In the last hours, as reports rolled in, their various armies’ roles had transformed from a race to Arles to save the gate, the former mission, to a slow ride across the southern Gallish plains, making use of available forage, fattening his horses for the next fights and resting his men and women. Arles was his depot, and any time he spent there would deplete his reserves.

“We have a week in hand,” he said to Tom Lachlan after they had swaggered swords and swashed bucklers.

“Lads and lasses need to take a breath,” Tom said. “Where’s Sukey?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “At Arles as of last night,” he said.