While the Commander spoke, Klamath glanced around at the riflemen, servants, and volunteers who had gathered in this kitchen; but he did not spot Father Skurn. After a moment, he realized that he had lost track of Magister Pillion.

Well, there were other kitchens, and the bunkhouses all had stoves. The priest was probably in one of them. He would not have been allowed to descend to the terraces and guns.

As for Magister Pillion, he had undoubtedly gone looking for Skurn. Klamath felt a moment of anxiety for the earthquake-wielder, then shrugged it off. Even if the priest was dangerous, he could not do any harm without revealing his secret—if he had one. General Klamath concentrated on his larger concerns.

The defense of the bay.

His company of Magisters.

While the General explained his intentions to Flisk and Forguile, his Magisters left the stoves and seated themselves at one of the kitchen’s long tables. They stayed together, perhaps avoiding contact with lesser men and women.

Cannoneers and riflemen went forward to fill their bowls and plates at the steaming pots and platters the cooks had prepared. The Magisters did not. Clearly, they expected to be served where they sat. Fortunately, the servants required no prompting. Forguile or—more likely—Flisk must have spoken to them earlier. When they brought food to the Magisters, the kitchen was spared a display of sarcastic superiority.

General Klamath joined the Magisters without saying anything. He had not brought them here to correct their manners. Like Father Skurn’s fate, that was King Bifalt’s responsibility. Klamath only needed them to do what he asked. He did not need them to do it politely.

When they had all finished eating, the General rose from his seat. “Magisters,” he announced abruptly, “it is time to show me what you can do.”

Magister Lambent jerked up his head. “To what purpose?” he demanded. “I assumed that you were hoping for a break in the snowfall. Our sorcery is wasted in this weather. Even lightning is useless here. We should remain in shelter until the weather shifts. Any half-wit would say the same.”

Magister Trench responded with a laugh like a grenade exploding in his chest. Several of the other theurgists chuckled. Inadvertently, Lambent had suggested that he himself was a half-wit.

But the General was not amused. He would have enjoyed losing his temper. He was in that mood. However, he restrained himself. “You make a good point, Magister,” he replied, “where the Decimate of drought is concerned. We will not need it until we return to the Open Hand.

“Magister Whimper, you and your comrades should rest while you can.” He called them comrades deliberately, knowing that in fact they disliked each other. Theurgists who shared a Decimate tended to resent the reminder that they were not unique. “The rest of you will come with me.