Mathilda nodded agreement. “And the CUT’s going to be a long-term problem even if we manage to decapitate them. Right now he’s getting down to the bottom of the House Liu matter. Incidentally I’m going to swear Huon Liu as one of my squires tomorrow and take his sister Yseult into the household as a lady-in-waiting later; if she’s got the smarts, and I think she does, I’ll have work for her.”

Tiphaine frowned into her glass. “Are you sure that’s wise? Speaking of decapitation I did do in several of their relatives, one way or another . . . chopped their mother into dog-meat scraps personally and with my own hands, for starters. Had a nasty turn with the rabid bitch infecting me somehow, like a bite from a mad dog.”

Mathilda sighed. “Those were necessary measures. I think their personal experiences will make them know, not just know but really understand, that it was necessary. That’s also why I’m having Dmwoski brief them fully, not just pump them for their perspective. They’re smart kids, and besides I owe a rather large debt in that direction for what Odard did. Right now I want you to give me your own impression of what happened with Guelf Mortimer and that agent right after the Battle of Pendleton.” She quirked one corner of her mouth up. “Or the Cluster-Fuck of Pendleton, as I understand you christened it.”

Tiphaine shrugged. “I’m actually rather proud of how I handled that. A fighting retreat may not get the bards and troubadours excited, but it’s technically the most difficult battlefield maneuver, especially with an army made up of contingents from all over, none of whom love each other that much . . . good practice for the opening phases of this campaign, in fact. Oddly enough, Guelf Mortimer helped a good deal while we were breaking contact, him and Sir Constantine ‘Raging Bull’ Stavarov. Stavarov’s just an obnoxious idiot, of course.”

“But a good Anvil,” Mathilda said with a chuckle, pouring herself a glass of the wine.

It was a local vintage from the Columbia gorge, a red Malbec with a taste of plums and herbs in its inky purple depths.

Anvil was a phrase Tiphaine had taught her, originally coined by Conrad Renfrew back when he was Grand Constable; someone solid iron from ear to ear whether he had a helmet on or not, useful primarily for dropping on or throwing at the enemy like a large hard heavy weight. And if the anvil broke . . . you got another anvil.

“If you can imagine an Anvil with a really bad temper and testosterone poisoning,” Tiphaine said. “Guelf, besides being a traitor had delusions of intelligence . . . and if he’d been twice as smart as he thought he was, he’d have been a half-wit. I did submit a full report on the business, though.”