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.

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.