“Oh aye,” admitted No Head, who was already worried about an engineering problem that the captain had given him.

“No Head, how long will it take for fifty thousand men to file off to the right and left and march back to camp?” Tippit asked.

No Head stared at the cloudless afternoon sky a moment. “Four hours, give or take,” he said.

Smoke looked back at them from his exalted place as master archer of the whites. “Hey, No Head, if you have your thinkin’ cap on . . . you know those stakes we’ve been practicing at?”

“The gates,” No Head said wearily.

Smoke nodded. “So how long will it take fifty thousand o’ us, wi’out animals an’ wagons, to pass the gates?”

No Head nodded. He looked after the distant emperor, as if the man might hear him from almost a mile away.

“Call it twenty hours,” No Head said.

“Fuck,” Tippit said. “Gates open when?”

Smoke looked around. No one was supposed to know.

Long Sam shrugged. “Sometime after five, I hear.”

“Aye, just when they ring matins, or so I hear,” agreed Simkin.

“Ave Maria. Does every one of ye know the timetable?” No Head looked disgusted.

Tippit looked at the sun. “Let me measure this for ye, then, lads. The gates, if they open at all, will spread their wings for us at matins. That means Cap’n will call it an early night. An’ we won’t get off this parade for another hour, at best.”

“Fuck,” Smoke muttered, seeing where this was going.

“We’re goin’ ta’ get fed a big meal, ’cause the company always gets steak before we fight . . .” Tippit continued.

“Fuck,” Smoke ventured again.

“And then the cap’n, or Bad Tom or Sauce, will stroll by an’ order us to our blankets, fer our own good,” Tippit said with relish. “’Cause if’n the gates open at matins, Tom Lachlan will want us booted and spurred before the cathedral strikes three.”

“Fuck,” said Smoke. “Right y’are. Dammit.”

“No pay parade,” Tippit said with disgust. “We’ll have to fight our way through somethin’ ’orrible, just to get paid.”

Mark my words. Smoke started. They all looked around.

“Damn him,” Long Sam muttered.

“Jesu, Sam, ye had to know that Wilful was too fuckin’ mean to stay dead.” Robin Hasty shrugged. “No disrespect intended,” he added, crossing himself.

Snot raised a hand in his tentative manner. “No Head?” he asked.

No Head rolled his eyes. “I ain’t a bleedin’ oracle,” he muttered.

“I got a question about loot, No Head.” Snot’s voice was a little whiny at the best of times.

“Loot?” No Head asked.

Men and women who’d ignored the rest of the exchange glanced at them. Oak Pew paused and stepped out of her spot. “Loot?” she asked.

“How much loot d’ye think a whole world might ha’, No Head?” Snot asked.