Toby stepped out into the narrow and labyrinthine halls of the mighty fortress of Arles. The emperor was in the northeast tower. Toby had no time to search the towers for Ser Michael. He had to go down to the hall before he found one of Duchess Clarissa’s officers.

He bowed.

The officer made a full reverence. The men who had saved Arles from the Odine were being treated to a level of worship and courtesy that they all enjoyed very much.

“My lord,” Toby said, pleased and embarrassed. He bowed deeply again. “I am the emperor’s body-squire. We’ve left all the emperor’s shaving gear in camp. I need to find Michael; that is, Ser Michael . . .”

The marshal sported a beard and mustache that were the envy of many younger men, despite the iron grey colour. He rubbed his grizzled cheeks absently. “I am Pierre La Porte, the marshal of this fortress. I will find you something, monsieur,” he said.

And he was as good as his word.

Toby climbed back to the tower, where he found Anne pressing a shirt of fine lawn, her iron as deft as her sword.

“Don’t do that yerself,” Toby said. “Get the new kid to do it. The Hillman.”

“He’s too useless to iron,” she said.

She had two more irons heating on the fire and the great man’s linen and hose laid over a towel rack. She was wearing her arming coat and hose, but had an apron wrapped around her hips and a linen towel on her head.

She had no idea how much Toby loved her. Which, Toby felt, was probably better for everyone.

He smiled, she raised her cider, and before he could take up some task, there was a knock at the outer door and a page in the duchess’s livery handed over a pair of razors with Umroth ivory handles and a leather box of shaving equipage.

Toby thanked the page, who blushed like Anne. “You saved us all,” he said. “Can I see the emperor? Just . . . see him?”

“Well,” Toby said, “not me personally. But thanks. And no. Sorry. You can’t see the emperor.” He tried to close the door. “Cully? Guard the door, for a friend?”

The master archer was up and dressed, neat and professional in his scarlet padded coat and matching scarlet hose, a heavy gold earring in his ear. He had on a heavy arming sword with a hilt in the Venike fashion. He looked far more like a noble knight than like an archer, until you looked into his eyes.

“Will the . . . emperor . . . take us with him? To fight the Necromancer?” the page asked.

Toby relented at the hero-worship and, feeling older than dirt, asked, “How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” said the wide-eyed page.

Cully smiled to Toby and used his hip to slam the door on the page. “I’ll hold the door,” he said.