Cattle were slaughtered and new fires built, and men and women went from fire to fire, talking and listening. Long Paw found himself standing with one arm around Cully and another around No Head, listening to Duke talk about loading a cannon in the face of a charging not-dead mastadon; Conte Simone sat on an armour basket with a horn cup of wine and listened to Philip de Beause talk about jousting. Sauce spent time with Count Zac, but then found that she wanted to wander and enjoy the moment of triumph, and he wanted to drink with Nordikaans, so she left him to it and walked about, wearing her old arming coat.

She was fairly drunk when she found Tom Lachlan standing alone, looking at the stars.

She thought of walking by, but by then he’d noticed her, and he turned, stumbled, and grinned.

They looked at each other like wary predators.

“I hear you killed an Umroth with a lance,” she said.

“A’weel.” Tom’s grin widened. “Ya’ ken, he was already dead.”

Somehow, that seemed really funny, and the two of them roared together.

“An’ ye warred down yon Patriarch,” Tom said.

“He was eashy.” Sauce made a face. “Easy.” She frowned. “That’sh bullshit, really.”

Tom nodded. “Oh aye,” he admitted. “It’s never easy, is it?”

“They just fuckin’ die,” Sauce said. “People die.” She looked at people around a fire. “I didn’t even like Kronmir. And he’sh dead.”

Tom nodded.

“Don’t fuckin’ die, Tom,” Sauce said.

“Nor you, lass,” Tom Lachlan said. He kissed her, and she stumbled off. The evening was warm, and she shed her arming coat and headed back to one of the fires where wine was being served.

Sukey emerged from her wagon and put her arm through Tom’s. “Somehow I always think you two will end together and I’ll be left at the post,” she said.

Tom looked after Sauce, and then down at Sukey. “Na,” he said. “I don’t e’en think o’ her that way.”

“Not e’en drunk?” Sukey asked.

Tom was just discovering that Sukey was wearing a kirtle with nothing under it.

“I’m nae that drunk,” he said. He ran a hand up her bare leg to her bare thigh. He growled.

“I hoped not,” Sukey purred.

Ser Michael spent the next day passing orders. He had meeting after meeting, most of them in the open on the vast parade field, while a dozen other officers conducted inspections, while armourers tinkered and arrowsmiths passed out sheaves of arrows and horses were fed and shoes repaired and every magister in the host put in a share of time magicking arrows. Michael drew up lists, and passed them: orders of march, subordinate appointments.