A man-at-arms of the Protector’s Guard came trotting and clanking up the stairs, thumped his fist to his breastplate and bowed as the staff set out a collation and left.

“Grand Constable d’Ath, Your Highness.”

“Admit her, thank you,” Mathilda said.

Good old Tiph, she thought warmly, as the familiar light quick steps sounded on the stone risers.

Then: And there are probably tens of thousands of people who wouldn’t believe that anyone could think of Lady Death that way.

They hadn’t had her around all their lives, of course; hadn’t been her pupil in matters warlike. And those were also people who hadn’t realized at about the age of eleven that quite a lot of people wanted to kill everyone named Arminger, and that a major reason they couldn’t was that Tiphaine d’Ath induced extremely well-merited soiled-breeches fear in the enemies of her family and House.

In theory I don’t really approve of Tiph, Mathilda thought, as she smiled in greeting. She’s an unrepentant sinner in a lot of ways. In practice I’m extremely glad to have her around and besides that I like her and Delia. I hope my children will have the chance to be glad of it as well; a dynasty can’t have too many loyal, able supporters. Or friends. Swords about a throne.

“Your Majesty,” Tiphaine said, making a leg-bow and sweeping off her hat.

“My lady Grand Constable,” Mathilda said. “Or as some dare call you . . . Tiph.”

That startled a rare snort of laughter out of her. Mathilda went on: “Sit down and have a drink, Tiph. You look as if you could use one.”

Tiphaine was in boots and trews and padded arming doublet with mail grommets under the arms. All were black; that was part of her image, and also better for not showing stains. She looked dubiously at the furniture—one of Mother’s salvage teams had furnished the domestic parts of this castle from a raid on a Gustav Stickley exhibit in a Seattle museum—and then decided her war-gear wasn’t going to do any harm to the Craftsmanschool solidity. She poured herself a glass of wine from the delicate Venetian-style glass decanter turned out recently in a Portland workshop and sat back, easy as a cat—though a tired cat pushing forty now.

“And no formality in private, Tiph. We don’t have time.”

“I’ve been jumping around like a Tinerant tambourine dancer,” the Grand Constable admitted. “You look a bit frazzled too, Matti. Are the local nobility and burghers adequately soothed and stroked about having armies assembling in their fields? Better you than me for that, frankly.”

“You could do it.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to do it. What sort of reaction did you get?”