Behind the baggage and the wagons and the food and the remounts came the army; led by the company, hundreds and hundreds of archers; Iris and Elaran, northern irks, and Urk of Mogon, and Cat Evil and Tippit, Jack Caves and Half Arse, sober and polished within a whisker of perfection. No Head grinned at Cully and he and Smoke saluted the emperor for their ranks and then arrayed the archers as Ser Danved led the men-at-arms onto the field. Ser Milus saluted with his lance and the Saint Catherine banner dipped, and Gabriel found that he had tears in his eyes.

“I feel as if I’m looking at my youth,” he said. He hugged Sauce.

Behind him, quite spontaneously, the casa was mounting their horses and forming ranks, as if, after four hours of ruthless drill, they wanted nothing more than to stand on parade.

Tom Lachlan rode forward. He, too, embraced Sauce.

She grinned.

“I hear you won,” Bad Tom said.

Her grin now split her face ear to ear. “That I did,” she said.

The company was in a long column, formed by sections of sixteen—four knights, four squires, four archers, four pages—four wide by four deep.

Sauce raised her baton. “Company will form line from column by wheeling to the right by sections!” she screeched. “March!”

The whole column flowed, every section wheeling as little doors all together, to the right, and the column became a solid line, hundreds of men long, faced in armour, tipped in steel.

“Halt!” Sauce roared.

Silence.

Sauce drew her sword, held it up before her eyes, and flashed it down by her side.

Conte Simone’s chivalry began to enter the field of Arles behind the company, riding to the left. Behind them came more troops, and more: crossbowmen, spearmen, Venikan marines.

But among the company, discipline was breaking down; men embraced their friends; wives threw themselves into the ranks; men and women from the company dismounted to embrace their comrades in the casa.

The emperor watched them, beaming, and when Sauce’s face grew stormy, he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let them have their day,” he said. And with Michael and Bad Tom and Sauce at his back, he rode down the field to congratulate Conte Simone, to shake his hand and inspect his knights before meeting all the other officers.

That night, a dent was made in the army’s supplies of wine and ale, as the two armies renewed their acquaintance and told their stories; tales of the Patriarch’s sorcery locked horns with stories of the Umroth; Long Paw regaled his old messmates with the story of the salamander, and had to tell it again for Gabriel, slightly worse for drink, and Morgon Mortirmir. The rear guard, under the Duchess of Venike, marched into a riot at twilight; they had marched all day to keep the timetable, and found not food but drink awaiting them.