“Sir César Obregón de Lafayette,” Armand said, alarm in his tone. “You’re here to—”

“Ream him out, yes. Later.”

That, she thought as things cleared, really wasn’t fair of me. But I have a little grudge to work off on the very puissant Sir César Obregón de Lafayette.

She lifted her helm a bit to feel fresher air on her sweat-sopped hair; it helped her aching head, too, for an instant, but she put it back on. In spite of the heat, she was wearing full plate; if you didn’t have your arms on it, that was about the best disguise anyone had ever invented. You couldn’t even really tell someone’s gender easily. She’d left off the sabatons and gauntlets, but wore dark suede gloves; and was sweating copiously into them.

“My lady, you’re not well!” Armand said.

She started to laugh, and then stopped herself. That would really convince him that she was off her head.

I am, she thought, which threatened more laughter. I am definitely not well. The will commanded the body; she’d learned that early, and Sandra’s schools had ground it home.

The strong grow stronger. The weak die.

“I know I’m not well, Armand,” she said, her voice lucid. “I’m going to get something done about it. This has to be confidential. Believe me, it has to be. Now cover for me. I’ll be in contact later.”

He nodded unwillingly, and stepped back. She slid the visor down and made her legs move; the bright sunlight dimmed to a slit, which helped a little, but it made the smell of sickness-sweat worse. She focused into the town past the grossly slack gate-guards, down the block, on the next street sign.

Walk a careful path.

It was a little like being drunk, but without the fun part. People tended to avoid her, perhaps because of the blank menace of the visor overlapping the bevoir. There were plenty of hostile looks, and occasionally a swaggering cowboy would spit on her shadow after she’d passed.

Present alliances or no, plenty of festering grudges remained. Raiding parties from Castle Odell had reached nearly this far, in the old wars. She’d been on a few of those herself.

I’m alone, she thought. And it hurts too much to enjoy it.

Pages, squires, tirewomen, men-at-arms, retainers and servants, there was no escaping them once you were a noble; doubly so as Grand Constable. Walking alone down a busy street wasn’t on her agenda very often.

Armand really wanted to stop me. I wonder if he thought about knocking me over the head? In his position, I certainly would have. I didn’t train him to blind obedience.