Ariosto landed neatly inside the castle courtyard. A dozen very thin men were re-laying flagstone in the yard and as many more were repointing the damaged stonework from the siege, and there was scaffolding running all the way up the great tower that dominated the ancient fortress and the hill on which it stood and the plain of Arles below it.

Gabriel had kept his eyes on the scaffolding during Ariosto’s descent. He no longer spent every takeoff and landing in a state of mortal terror, but the spiraling, leaf-fluttering drop into the courtyard had been especially insane.

Show off, Gabriel thought.

There she is! Ariosto sent. And sure enough, Blanche emerged from the doorway of the tower in a dark blue gown with ermine at the tips of the sleeves and the collar. She looked at him, and he had eyes for no one else; not Kaitlin coming behind her, not Michael.

He dismounted as gracefully as he could manage, and bowed, and she curtsied, her head held perfectly, a very model of good manners. He made himself walk slowly across the newly laid flags and across a trench; he looked away from her to smile at two workmen who were staring in awe at Ariosto, and then he jumped the trench and he was standing with her.

“My lord,” she said with another curtsy.

“My lady,” he managed. “My God, how I missed you.”

She smiled. “I summoned the council as soon as Ariosto was sighted.”

“What if I tell you,” he said softly, “that I came only to see you?”

Her smile told him a great deal; it flirted with him, it hid from him, and it hung evocatively from the left corner of her mouth. “The saddest thing,” she said, “is that even if you mean that, the council will prove more important.”

“I doubt it,” he said, with some fire.

Far above the plain and the newly flagged yard, the Emperor of Man sat in his sweat-damp flying clothes and drank a cup of Etruscan red wine.

“The gonnes worked,” he said to Ser Michael, who had his legs stretched out before him, and a cup of wine, and was rubbing Kaitlin’s feet. Kaitlin sat in an ancient oak settee, its wood almost black with age, carved with saints who had once been painted, and her feet were in his lap.

Michael nodded. “I knew they’d work,” he said with satisfaction. “I wish I’d been there.”

Gabriel scratched his beard. They all made him feel dirty; their clothes were clean, their bodies were clean, and there was food. He hadn’t eaten his fill in eight days.

Blanche entered with the Queen of Arles and her ladies, and Gabriel rose, feeling less than elegant, and returned their bows and compliments.

“Comnena is taking our starvlings back to Etrusca,” Michael said. “Ser Milus has brought the main army back over the pass. He’s a day’s march away. Sauce is . . .”