The first Count had also died in the early stages of this war, during the battle of Pendleton nearly two years ago. She had known his son slightly for years on a social basis, since the Association’s higher nobility wasn’t all that large, and dealt with him fairly often since in her professional capacity. Tiphaine’s private judgment was that he was quite good as a knight, and at least competent as a commander. But a bit of a worrywart and inclined to dither while trying to cover every possible contingency, when the weight of overall responsibility came crashing down on his shoulders. Which was unfortunate, since even a bad decision was usually better than no decision at all.

So don’t put him in situations where he has to make strategic decisions at the quickstep, she thought. He’s fine at tactics and has plenty of experienced advisers on his staff. Just point him in the right direction and tell him what to do and he’ll keep trying his best until the ax hits where the chicken gets it. And his vassals respect him, which is the important thing.

Count Felipe swung down from his courser, a fine sixteen-hand black. He was in civilian dress but the daywear version of it, what a nobleman wore when he was out hunting or traveling in warm weather; turned-down thigh boots with the golden spurs of knighthood on the heels, tight doeskin riding breeches, baggy-sleeved linen shirt beneath long T-tunic with his arms on an embroidered shield, cinched by a broad sword belt of studded and tooled leather and a round chaperon hat. A little taller than Tiphaine, and with something of the same leopard build, male version. His square face was clean-shaven but with pale olive skin and the blue jowl of a man who needed the razor often, his eyes dark brown with green flecks, his thick bowl-cut hair a black so complete it had blue highlights.

“My lady Grand Constable,” he said, sweeping off his hat and making a bow.

That was tactful. As a Count, he greatly outranked her status as a mere baron, albeit she was a tenant-in-chief like him rather than the vassal of some higher nobleman; but as Grand Constable she had the pull on him, particularly since the arrière-ban had been called and martial law declared.

“My lord Count,” she said, matching the gesture with a microscopically lesser bow, which was tactful but firm; then they shook hands.

“And my lord de Stafford,” de Aguirre said.

This time the bows exchanged matched; a Marchwarden and the Count Palatine of the Eastermark were precisely equivalent, though one title was hereditary and the other wasn’t.

“It’s extremely good to see you here, my lady . . . and the army you brought, frankly. If you and my lord the Marchwarden could accompany me to the City Palace, we’ve arranged a dinner.”