Ritva shivered. There was a mad splendor to Astrid Loring-Larsson at that moment, as wisps of her pale hair floated around her blood-spattered face and her moon-shot eyes looked at something beyond the world of common day. Something that frightened you and made you long for it at the same time. It was the feeling you got when the sun went down and for a moment the clouds turned into a golden unknown archipelago of islands in the sky, along a glittering sea road to the infinite.

“How do you intend to keep them, then?” Martin asked.

“By our swords, our courage, and our luck,” Astrid said. “Artos and Montival!”

The General-President handed the trumpet back to his retainer, turned on his heel and walked towards the building. Men followed him, and then Ritva couldn’t see them at all.

Martin looked around the sidewalk, shattered glass crunching under his boots, then walked into the room. Someone had put up a couple of bright lanterns, and the light flickered over bodies and blood and jewels; the air was rank with the coppery stink that happened when men bled out. The darker dung heap stinks weren’t as strong; when armored men fought you didn’t often get cut-open bellies. The killing wounds were usually to the head and neck and limbs, or deep narrow stabs. He looked at the arrows scattered around or standing in the dead; men were loading the fallen and a few living wounded onto stretchers.

“About sixty of the enemy, give or take half a dozen,” he said, an intent look on his brown face. “And they’re down about a quarter of that, counting the badly wounded they’ll have.”

The Natpol on the scene shot him a glance of respect for the quick analysis.

“Yes, Mr. President, that’s my estimate. We caught one of the staff—the others are scattered, we’re contacting them as we can—and she said dozens and dozens. You know how civilians are, I thought she might be exaggerating.”

He nodded his head to a sobbing older woman who was sitting in a chair, talking and wiping at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief while two of the police took notes.

Martin went on absently: “Sixty or so from the wagons, and the size of the escort of fake infantry that others mentioned, and the way they overran eighty men of the Sixth so quickly, even with the advantage of surprise. Having surprise is a force multiplier but there are limits.”

“I’ve got the men who tried to rush the staircase, sir. It, ah, didn’t turn out well.”