Marcus’ position, amid the chaos of running, shouting men, was a somewhat ambiguous one. Technically, he was the senior officer on the scene, and therefore in command of this whole mess. But he was smart enough to know that Giforte and his subordinates had obviously spent time preparing for this circumstance, while he himself knew nothing about their plans or even the layout of the house. Any order he gave was only going to increase the confusion and slow things down. Instead of interfering, he took charge of Raesinia, shepherding her to a second-story window with a good view of the front lawn. Feor had disappeared back into her basement.

The chaotic state of the Mierantai garrison was at least partly an illusion. For secrecy, none of the riflemen were wearing their neat red uniforms, instead being dressed up for a variety of civilian roles: gardener, servant, laborer, and so on, with quite a few who were apparently on the night shift and wore little more than long linen nightshirts. This did nothing to impede their efficiency, however, as they stationed themselves at the windows, pushed furniture in front of the doors, and distributed boxes of ammunition. The general effect was that of a country estate threatened by bandits, where servants and bedraggled guests had taken up arms to defend it with slightly alarming efficiency.

Giforte stood down in the main hall, invisible from where Marcus had stationed himself but clearly audible as he shouted orders. He’d lost none of the assertiveness that had kept him as the effective leader of the Armsmen for so many years.

“Movement along the back fence!” one of the Mierantai shouted. “Hard to see how many. Muskets for certain.”

“More on the left!”

“Moving on the right!”

“Patriot Guard coming up the drive!” another man shouted. Marcus looked out the window, with Raesinia beside him, and saw that it was true. A big four-wheeled carriage had parked at the bottom of the drive, and at least a dozen men were waiting behind it while a party of four made their way up toward the house. All wore the sashes of Patriot Guards, and one had shoulder decorations suggesting he was an officer.

From the outside, Marcus imagined, the house must look quiet. The riflemen had drawn most of the curtains to slits, and the cart they’d arrived on stood with its traces empty just in front of the side door. The Patriot Guard officer held up a hand to his men, then came up to the front door alone and slammed on the knocker.

“Open the door!” he said in a voice that betrayed only a little bit of fear. “In the name of the Directory for the National Defense!”

“What does the Directory want here?” a muffled voice answered. It was Giforte, Marcus thought.

“We’ve received information suggesting there may be contraband on the premises. We’ll need to search the house. Cooperate, and no one will be harmed.”