Several hours later the tents were going up much nearer Sutterdown. They were standard US (of Boise) issue; so was the hoop armor and curved oval shields with the thunderbolt and eagle, the short swords and daggers, the heavy throwing spears stacked while the men worked. It had all been captured with them, and there was more than enough. They’d even been able to match individuals to their own gear for the most part, though Boise soldiers were taught how to modify equipment to fit. Fred smiled as one of them patted the worn, sweat-stained bone hilt of a short stabbing sword in passing, like someone greeting a favorite hound. They hadn’t looked beatendown in the POW camp, but they were walking noticeably taller now, with no fence around them and weapons to hand.

“One thing,” he said to Rudi.

The High King of Montival was busy; a messenger handed him sheaves of papers, and he flipped through them in a way that looked casual but wasn’t. Every so often he’d drop his hand to the Sword and close his eyes for an instant.

“Fred?” Rudi said without looking up.

“You said you couldn’t make them believe anything . . . but you could, couldn’t you?”

“Ah,” Rudi said, handing over the sheaf of reports.

His right hand went to the crystal pommel of the Sword, moving his palm on it with a caressing motion. The blue-gray eyes went blank for a moment, as if he was looking at something within and taking the weight and heft of it.

“Now that, my friend, is an interesting question. Perhaps not, with so many. Perhaps yes, because what you said is the truth, and the Sword of the Lady reveals truth as surely as it cuts bone. But I will not use the Sword so. That is my choice, and let that be my responsibility, for good or ill.”

Fred was conscious of a feeling of relief; when Virginia blew out her cheeks it was an audible mark of the same emotion.

Rudi laughed. “It’s exactly that way I feel about the matter, do you see? For it shows that I am still . . . myself.”

“I doubt you’re as reassured as the rest of us, Rudi. Oh, and I think it would be a good idea, once I get the men in order, to let them go back and talk to their friends in the POW camp, individually or in small groups. Walking ambassadors, right?”

“And to be sure, you’re more than a pretty face, Fred.”

Fred frowned. “It’s not enough, though. I need something to convince the waverers, the ones in the middle who’re of two minds and who just don’t want to believe something so skanky could have put Martin in charge. And more officers would help. We need a lot of defections to even the odds.”