He nodded to No Head, who stood with a bogglin. Both had bows strung, arrows on string, ready to loose at distant butts.

Gabriel paused. “You must be the only bogglin in the whole of the Antica Terra,” he said.

Long Paw put a hand on the thing’s wing cases. “Urk of Mogon. He tied with Cully in the long bowls at the Dragon’s Deed.”

Gabriel, who, despite being emperor, was not immune to guardroom gossip, took the creature’s hand. “I’ve heard about it from Cully,” he said. “So they recruited you?”

The four mandibles cracked open, but almost no sound emerged.

“He’s quite shy,” Long Paw said. Or Ser Roberto Caffelo, as men sometimes called him.

“And this is Heron,” No Head said.

Gabriel had to think for a moment. It annoyed him that there were men in his company whom he’d never met. That men might die in his service and be unknown to him. That was not what he had wanted at all when he started this.

“I . . . am . . . honoured . . .” Urk said.

“We’re lucky to have you,” Gabriel said. “Do we have armour to fit?”

Long Paw nodded as if he’d hit exactly the right question.

No Head grinned. “Sukey has two girls and Gropf sewing and has had since Venike. He’s goin’ to have the nicest arming cote in the company.”

“Fer a bug with six arms, that is,” Tippit said. “How do ye, Cap’n?”

Gabriel grinned. He couldn’t help it. This was the life he craved. His family, of his own making. “The better for seeing you, Tippit,” he said. “Heron? Outwaller?”

“Huran,” the young man said proudly. He had a company surcoat over a good padded arming coat, but instead of hose he had deerskin leggings and a breechclout, and he had a small axe in his belt instead of a knife or sword.

Gabriel nodded. “How are you fixed for tobacco?” he asked.

The Huran shrugged. “I have none,” he admitted.

“I might be able to fix that,” the Emperor of Man said. This was how he commanded—by knowing them all, by being part of their lives. Not by being bowed to. It was good to remember.

Heron grinned and slapped his back. “That is good!” he said with enthusiasm.

Archers turned away to smile. Outwallers had very few outward signs of respect; they believed in an equality that the ancients would have envied.

Gabriel laughed, put a hand on the Huran’s shoulder, and was introduced to other newcomers: Iris, a tall irk with bright yellow hair, and her war brothers, Elaran and Sidenhir. He watched them shoot, and smiled at their overly perfect High Archaic.

“They fart flowers,” No Head said. “Or leastways, Iris does.”

Long Paw nodded in agreement. “Good archers, though,” he said.

Gabriel looked back at the three irks. “How are the Venikan marines about the irks?” he asked.

“Fine,” Long Paw said, suggesting that the issue was complicated and a good captain would not ask again.