“Close enow,” Tom said. “You did. Or leastways, whur the solid gold stuff come from? Eh?” He looked out at the next combatants: Ser Danved and a knight Gabriel didn’t know in a very fine harness.

“Is that Lord Wimarc?” Gabriel asked.

“Tis. Danved is going to make his noble arse sweat.” Bad Tom turned. “Why? Why are ye pullin’ me?”

Gabriel had been carrying his flying helmet, and now he put it on his head and snapped the hinged cheeks down over his neck. “For a fight,” he said.

“Oh aye then,” Tom said, smiling. “I thought I’d cocked up.”

Long Paw was flexing a gauntlet. His squire, a handsome boy-man of fourteen or fifteen with bright gold hair and a new coat of maille, came over.

“I don’t know anyone,” Gabriel complained.

“Yon’s Hamish Comyne. One o’ the lads who joined us out of the Brogat. He’s got Hillman blood in him; he’ll grow.” Tom pointed out at the two Occitans. “Ser Oliver and Ser Matteos.” He watched the two currently in the lists exchange blows and then stagger apart. “Stop being sae polite, Wimarc! Gi’ him a blow!”

But Danved was utterly the slim aristocrat’s master, and in another moment, Wimarc was on his back in the grass, with Danved’s poleaxe at his throat.

“That’s enow! Out o’ the lists!” he called. And then, to Gabriel. “Why Sauce? She’s ne’er had a big command.”

“That’s why,” the captain said. “Listen, Tom. I have maybe twenty of you I trust. Who know the whole plan. When I go down . . . if I go down . . . it’s on you all. Sauce has to be able to command an army.”

There was a pause. “Aye,” Tom said. “She’s going to fight the Patriarch?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said.

“Damn it all,” Tom said. “I wanted that fight.”

“You come with me and Morgon to get the Necromancer,” Gabriel said.

A slow smile spread over Tom’s face. “Oh,” he said. “That’s grand. When?”

“As soon as Long Paw and I cross blades,” Gabriel said. “I can’t let the Necromancer combine with the Patriarch and the Duke of Mitla.” He leaned very close. “There’s a theory that there’s another one. Another . . . foe.”

“Christ on the cross. Tar’s tits.” Tom’s slightly mad eyes met his friend’s. “Another power?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said.

“Ye can’t let ’em combine.” Tom whistled. “And we have twenty days?”

“Or less,” Gabriel agreed. “Du Corse is marching east from Lucrece. Mortirmir has the Necromancer to within a dozen leagues. Payam rode back this morning; I hope he’ll be going north from the coast. We’re going to race west.”

“Wi’ what troops?” Tom asked.

“The Guild Levy and the imperial household and all the garrison of Arles,” Gabriel said. “The duchess and Sauce get all the company and the Venikans and the Beronese.”

Tom was pulling his beard. “It’s not much,” he said. “We didn’a ha’e much to start, and now we’ll have less.”