The archbishop nodded. He had a soft plump face—a rarity these days—but his hazel eyes were extremely shrewd.

“Our exorcists have been busy. The compulsions their devils lay on the CUT’s followers are foul, but we have detected many, and even cured some,” he said.

“As important, no more castles have fallen . . . mysteriously,” Tiphaine said; the thought of such things still offended her tidy soul and bleakly practical mind. “That doesn’t mean they can’t be stormed or undermined or battered down by trebuchets. The High King directs me to tell you that the defense of this city, and of the strongholds of the Eastermark more generally, are absolutely essential to his larger strategy for victory in this war. You must hold and the whole Kingdom will do its best to see that you do.”

“Artos!” someone shouted. “Artos and Montival!”

The others took it up; Tiphaine waited it out. High morale was important, and besides she agreed.

“The High King is mustering the whole strength of the Kingdom farther down the Columbia, and I’ve brought out a considerable force. I’ll consult with your good Count as to the disposition of our field army here. What I’d like to talk to you about is your role in defending your own homes.”

“We’ll fight, my lady Grand Constable,” one of the Guildmasters said in a growl. “We’re not noble Associates, but by God and the Virgin and St. Amand our patron, we’ll fight for our homes and our children and our city.”

He bowed in his seat to de Aguirre and the archbishop. “And for the good lord who leads us, as his father did before him, and for Holy Church.”

“Stoutly spoken!” she said. “I’ve brought out considerable equipment for you all, including fortress model catapults and flame-throwers stripped from the western castles, and their crews and ammunition.”

Happy surprise showed at that; she winced slightly at the struggle it had taken. One or two instances had required walking the lord of the keep through the gates with a steel point held encouragingly close to his kidneys to remind him of his obligations as a vassal.

“And we’ve unloaded four thousand extra crossbows from the Portland armories.”

That brought a puzzled silence. “My lady . . . that’s more than our militias can use,” one baron pointed out. “Considerably more.”

Tiphaine nodded. “My thought exactly, but the High King showed me different. Now, we all know it takes a long time to train a soldier. Years for a man-at-arms, or a horse-archer, or for that matter a Mackenzie longbowman. However, you can learn to shoot a crossbow in a couple of weeks. Less, if it’s at a big target. A couple of days, if it’s just a matter of blazing away into the brown.”

“That doesn’t make a soldier!” came a protest from the scar-faced baron. “Not a real crossbowman.”