The expedition returns on the nineteenth day after it left, all six mules delivered, all men and horses intact. Their weary ride through Banleria turns into a spontaneous triumphal procession once they pass Seven Mile Road, as citizens turn out to cheer their returning lord and his brave men. Rodrigo smiles, waves, catches a flower or two and smells it theatrically. They do not need to know that the seven of them experienced nothing worse than mild discomfort and poor food. It may be that mere willingness to suffer is enough to make a hero in Kingdom Year 385.

  Their first concern after stabling the horses is to shed their heavy and uncomfortable equipment, much of it now distinctly worse for three weeks in the field. Dieste will see that all of it is safely cleaned and returned to the armory, and account for every bullet spent and crumb eaten. Rodrigo dispenses final plaudits for deeds along the trail, then releases them. The three younger men disperse with the greatest haste courtesy will allow; he assumes at least one of them caught the eye of a girl in the crowd, and they have hazard pay due. Yossim lingers a few minutes making plans to meet with Arnu and Dieste later, then hurries off to reunite with his family. Arnu disappears to wherever it is Arnu goes for leisure.

  By the time Rodrigo and Fernande return to their own house, they have a second throng waiting for them by the door. Half of it is neighborhood children, who scamper into Fernande’s downstairs quarters ahead of him. Rodrigo kisses his brother’s forehead, then leaves him to their mercy; he is confident that they will remove and stow his harness as well as any groom, then spend the next several hours regaling Fernande with their recent adventures while he sprawls on the floor. He will be perfectly happy and comfortable.

  Rodrigo only wishes he could say the same for himself. The other half of their welcome consists of adult supplicants convinced that their business cannot wait until their lord has had a chance to eat, drink, rest, or take his first proper bath in the better part of a month. One has a complaint about a lawsuit, another an interest in becoming a supplier to the army, the third a report of vagabonds loitering about her fields after dark … Rodrigo answers their concerns with all the civility he can muster, only to retreat up the stairs to his front door in despair when he sees a fresh crowd of citizens coming down the street, arguing along the way.

  Inside, everything is in place as he left it. The photographs on and above the mantel have been recently dusted, as has the enormous map of Encelise on the opposing wall. His favorite chair beckons, but he has duties to the dead. First he takes down his parents’ wedding portrait, on the left. They had poor film then, and the print is more faded than ever, but he can still make out the outlines of both faces against the darkness. He kisses both, and returns it to its place. On the right, a much better and more recent picture: two young men, ages eighteen and twenty-two, and between them a dark-haired beauty in radiant white. This grief is much fresher—and the worst yet to come—so he lingers a moment longer before returning it to its hook. Then the prayer, a formality by comparison, and a parting bow to the silver urn on the mantel, which is engraved with the stylized figure of a running wolf.

  “I am home,” he tells them. Behind him, someone clears his throat. “Illesogni,” Rodrigo says, much louder. “I can see you have done a fine job in my absence.”

  “Did you expect any different, lord?”

  “No.” He turns, and his steward is standing at attention in his antique green tailcoat, grey-black hair slicked back in a coif like a steel helmet, dark mustache and imperial trimmed in fanatically strict lines. “I mean to say that I am not disappointed.”

  “We aim ever to please.” His voice is butter-soft, the words self-effacing, but as always there is that very faintest tinge of dry humor to it. He gestures to the door. “You have been missed.”

  “I noticed. Couldn’t you have handled any of it?”

  “I made the offer, to all of them, and was refused. The routine business of administration has not been neglected in your absence; perhaps you should be reassured, that you can’t absent yourself for more than a fortnight with no consequences at all?”

  Rodrigo glares at the door. “It’s a compliment I could do without. Have you drawn up a bath yet?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “You should.”

  “Is that wise, my lord?”

  “Illesogni?“

  “If past is precedent, Lord Delisarmo should arrive shortly.”

  “Damnation.” He can’t receive Timeo from his bathtub. “Dinner, then?”

  “Started an hour since. Braised pork with wine and wild mushrooms. A charcuterie is ready should you not care to wait.”

  “God bless you, Illesogni.”

  As threatened, Timeo knocks at the door before Rodrigo can do more than get himself properly situated: back end in chair, feet on bolster, glass of wine, mouth half-filled with sausage, crackers, and cheese. Rodrigo does not trouble to rise as Illesogni lets him in; if the man wanted courtesy, he might have waited for an invitation. But he never did, and never will. He values his own time too highly.

  Timeo storms into the house in his usual fashion, stuffing his coat, hat, and walking-stick into the steward’s arms and moving on without a word of thanks or greeting. “You picked a hell of a time to run for the hills, Rodrigo.”

  “If you recall, the timing wasn’t my decision.” The task itself was, technically—he volunteered—but certain things are expected of an orphan peer. “Would you like a drink?”

  “You have to ask? Make it dry and red.” Hat, coat, and cane have all found places on the wall next to Rodrigo’s soiled red velvet frock-coat; Illesogni plucks the latter from the rack and carries it with him. It will find its way to the laundry later. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “No worse than the expected discomfort. Not a sign of Vogh the whole time. Frankly, it was surprisingly boring. How is His Majesty?”

  “Anxious. Fussy. Bit of a nuisance. But well enough.” Timeo’s long brown muttonchops flutter as he crashes into the second chair before the hearth. The chair is old, but sturdy, and only groans under his substantial bulk.

  “And My Lord Murregamua?”

  “Old and cranky, same as you left him. It hasn’t been a month, Rodrigo. Were you planning to ask after the whole Convention?” A glass of red wine appears at his elbow on a tray; he nods his thanks this time, then empties half of it at a gulp. Rodrigo manages not to scowl, but imported wine is dear, and he doubts whether Timeo could taste it going down.

  “Fair enough. What brings you here, Timeo?”

  “Business. You should know why you didn’t meet any trouble up there, for one thing. It was all down here.”

  “What was?”

  “Trouble.” The rest of the glass goes down his throat. “The bitch-queen stole a train, sent fifty or a hundred men into Tefeia, tore the fort open and ran off with half the armory.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Perfectly. Violated the laws of nature along the way, apparently, just for a chuckle. It made quite an impression in Marransheel, I can tell you.” He raises his glass again, frowns to see it empty. Illesogni is already en route. “Leave the bottle, would you? Good man.”

  “I heard nothing of this.”

  “Hurrying home, weren’t you? It only happened three days ago, and they wrecked the telegraph. We didn’t get word at all till they were long gone. We still don’t have a clear picture, I suppose, but the story’s consistent enough, only insane. She can make turned men with magic now, it seems.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Turned men, or simple monsters. Scores of witnesses swear they saw it. The Beardogs were on the train too, and one of them—probably Dük himself—put blood in a jar to brew up monsters out of thin air.”

  “Timeo, that’s absurd.”

  Timeo shrugs. “Then he had a way to hide three-ton masses of living flesh up his sleeve. And wherever they came from, they disappeared back into the aether in less than two days. The old man sent me up there to look. It looked like turned work, all right—or else artillery—but no signs of any remains, bar the odd bloodstain. Supposedly, they decomposed completely in hours.”

  Rodrigo eyes the wine bottle, decides against it. “Gibberish. We know nothing, then.”

  “We know Eyanna Vogh has most of the parts she needs to make modern rifles and ammunition now. And we know we need to know how she got them. Not with two cars full of boys with muskets, I can tell you that.”

  “The Beardogs were involved, you say. Some trick? They found a brute that can make rapidly-decomposing flesh?” He doesn’t believe it even as he says it. That isn’t the sort of thing turned men do. It’s still more plausible than actual magic.

  Timeo shakes his head. “It’s all been talked over twenty times, and will be again, thrice over. Which reminds me—there’s to be an emergency session in three days. The whole peerage, or all who can make it. Hopefully including you?”

  He nods. That, at least, he expected, given the news. “And the agenda?”

  Timeo holds up his fingers, marking off items. “Preliminary report from Tefeia, if we know anything by then. Improved general security arrangements. Reconstructing Tefeia. Selecting a new site for an armory. And, of course, a punitive expedition, as soon as can be arranged.”

  Rodrigo winces. “Expensive.”

  “But necessary. And you’ll be wanted for the last part.”

  Again, as expected. He is younger than most of the Convention, and an orphan. “How soon, exactly?” He might have to take back some of the gifts they just left. Hopefully not, but war is war.

  “Maybe two weeks, maybe more. It will be symbolic as much as anything, you know that. She’d bleed us dry in the passes if we tried to invade in full force. We simply can’t allow her to strike us with impunity.”

  “If she’s strong enough to rob Tefeia now, we can’t allow her to exist. This calls for a complete strategic realignment—“

  “—and that is not for the likes of us to decide. The old man is against it, and said so just yesterday. The High Summer Union remains our chief military priority.”

  “Now you really must be joking. We haven’t had a significant fight with the Union in eight years.”

  “Ten, in fact. Everything after was skirmishes. Now Hausan controls the richest part of our coast, and strangles our overseas trade. This is not acceptable to our Speaker—or, more importantly, to His Majesty. Those dockyard mongrels are selling us to Rafada, at pennies to the acre. If Rafada invades to call in the debt, they’ll be a much worse threat than the Boghen whore and her tame vermin.”

  “If they invade.”

  “Oh, hell. If it makes it easier to bear, I agree with you, more or less. Vogh’s far stronger than we thought, we don’t know how, and she’s an active, current threat. All true. But the blasted boat is half-built already, and most of Marransheel is employed building her. Nobody wants to forsake the investment. Retaking the Union would double our income, while the High Kingdom of Syoshen Vukh would supply us with abundant cabbage and wool.”

  “Attacking the Union might also provoke a Rafadian invasion—“

  “Not. Our. Decision. And I wouldn’t try to force a vote, if I were you. There’s twenty other orphans who want their lands back, even if you don’t want yours. That’s ten votes for self-interest alone. The old man has at least another thirty secure. His Majesty, ten more from Crown holdings. That’s fifty. Shall I continue?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well.” Timeo leans forward in his chair, and lowers his voice. “What’s more, it would be a foolish time to poke the old dragon. You’ve spoken up just enough for him to respect your honesty and independence. Pushing any further would change his assessment to ‘stubborn’ or ‘contrary.’”

  “I am a peer,” Rodrigo says, “and I answer to God and King and Convention and my own conscience. I am not the Speaker’s personal retainer.”

  Timeo spreads his hands wide. “But Neppo Murregamua BeDunano is the Father of the Republic, sir. And he has the King’s entire confidence. If you want influence, you must first learn to serve. That is our entire philosophy of government.”

  “I have served, and I mean to continue.” The words are stiff and cold as a corpse.

  Timeo has the decency to let them lie in state for a merciful interval before moving on. “There is one other issue.”

  “Speak,” Rodrigo tells him, pouring himself another glass at last.

  Timeo studies his face. “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Twenty-six, and the last of the family—the last in human form,” he amends, before Rodrigo can. “And about to go off to war, again.”

  He stifles a groan. This again. “I need more time.”

  “How long? It’s been, what, three years already?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “An eternity! You weren’t even married yet, for God’s sake. And time isn’t as patient as it used to be. The claims of an orphan peer are tenuous enough without the line going extinct. How long do you plan to remain a bachelor here, with only an aging butler for company?”

  “Illesogni is my steward, and in fine health still. And I have Fernande.“

  “And I’m sure you have many fascinating conversations together, but the facts remain that neither of them is a woman, that you are the eldest unwed peer by more than twenty months, that we are underpopulated, and that you are expected to be an example.”

  Rodrigo nearly cracks his glass on the tray setting it down. “How much time will you give me to breed before you cut off my stipend?”

  “Stop talking like a child. We both know there is more to being a Teniveci and a peer than voting and getting yourself shot at. You’re one of the first gentlemen of the kingdom. You stand for all that a man is supposed to be, the vanguard of the whole Siocene nation. You send the message to the world that Siocaea is reborn, that we are not bound or constrained by the weight of old tragedies—“

  “Yes, yes, that’s enough, thank you.”

  “Damn it, man, you can’t throw parties as a bachelor! No lady to host, you’d look ridiculous.”

  When has he ever shown the slightest wish to host parties? “I understand you. Your reproof has been accepted. There is no need for you to address the subject any longer.”

  Timeo opens his mouth, looks at Rodrigo’s face, swallows, tries again: “We’re not unsympathetic to you, my boy. It was a terrible thing, what happened. And we understand that it will take time. Nobody is asking you to get married next week. But you stopped wearing black a year ago, didn’t you?”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Yes. I did.” He looks at the prints above the mantel again; how could he even start to explain Ermina to another woman? But that is none of Timeo’s concern. “I hope you realize that finding a bride might be difficult. Offhand, I can’t think of many suitable matches.”

  “Indeed. You’ve waited too long. Most of the other Teniveccia have wed or promised their girls already. Even the other orphans. There’s been a torrent of nuptials out there while you brooded in your garret.”

  Rodrigo is spared the need to reply by Illesogni, who announces at that moment that dinner will be ready shortly, and my lord might wish to bathe beforehand.

  Timeo is too seasoned a statesman to push his advantage too far. He stays for dinner—of course Illesogni had the foresight to cook for two—but keeps the conversation to less personal matters, mostly speculation about the events in Tefeia. A bottle and a half later, they agree that it was damned peculiar, whatever it was, and Timeo levers himself upright for the long stagger down the stairs to his waiting carriage. He will have another dinner meeting this evening, or even two; he earned his current physique in long service to the Republic.

  Rodrigo peers out the window after him; the little crowd of supplicants has given up waiting. No doubt he will see them in the morning, when he will be better equipped to listen. At present, he is full of food and dizzy from slightly more wine than he meant to drink. Naturally, his feet bear him back to Ermina’s urn on the mantel.

  He still doesn’t feel guilty, or even (he thinks it over) guilty for not feeling guilty, which he might have expected. But he is … troubled. Frightened, even. It is hard to say why, exactly. He doesn’t fear rejection, or the loss of his bachelor freedom—far from it. He was happy to leave this house, where the long hours passed stale and heavy, for an expedition. A good wife would give him more to look forward to at the journey’s end. What and why should he fear?

  This might not be the kind of question he can answer himself. He is not sleepy yet, and Illesogni has gone home, after cleaning the kitchen and stoking the fire. Rodrigo might pass an hour before bed reading something he has read before. Instead he chances the stairs in the dark, taking each step with dainty precision so the noble BeMeserra name of Encelise does not perish in a broken neck after dinner. Timeo would be very displeased.

  Fernande too is still awake, grooming himself after his own supper—tonight’s was chickens, to judge by the few remaining bones. They alternate deliveries, so his brother can enjoy a varied diet. But there are only so many different kinds of flesh to be procured in bulk hereabouts: mutton, goat, pork, beef, chicken, goose, over and over, always raw. Actually preparing the meat in proper meals, in such quantities, every day, would strain their budget. It may be that his brother is as bored as he is. “Did Illesogni remember your medicine?”

  The younger BeMeserra lifts his head from his lower leg just long enough to nod, then returns to his task. Fernande rarely feels sociable in the evenings, or after meals, and he has already had a good long visit with the children. Rodrigo tries not to be annoyed with his brother. “Good.” The lamp in the wall bracket is burning low; he adds enough oil to last another hour, then sits down on the stool beneath it. This bottom floor is mostly one large room, with bedding in one corner and vast, vivid amateur paintings along every available wall. Smaller works of art are pinned all over the wooden beams holding up the ceiling.

  “We’ve another battle coming.” Fernande confines his reply to an inquisitive hum, still grooming. “Vogh tore Tefeia apart while we were gone. Our counterstroke is due inside a month. We’ll be in the van again, I’m sure of it.” Every man serves as he can, in the Republic; the Femerrini branch of the BeMeserra line receives a larger stipend than usual for orphan houses only because a turned man has proven value on the field of battle. They have, for the most part, made peace with this.

  Certainly it does not trouble Fernande now. He looks Rodrigo in the eye and gives a bright trill. Another variant on the neverending riddle: is he genuinely unconcerned, seeking to reassure his elder brother with a show, or is the Blemish making him lust for battle? Impossible to say. Rodrigo presses on.

  “There’s more. He wants me to marry.” Fernande tilts his head. “Should I?” Fernande takes a few steps forward and rests his chin on his brother’s shoulder, very gently so as not to knock him off the stool. Rodrigo reaches up to scratch the back of his head. “I know she is gone. I don’t believe she would want me to mourn her forever. But still … Fernande, I am afraid. I don’t know why, but I am.” An encouraging hum. “Am I a happy man? I’m not unhappy. We live well, we are respected, we have a good life. I think I am lonely, but I don’t want to change, I don’t want to not be lonely. What does that mean?”

  Fernande retreats a few steps, spreads his wings, and bows. “I know. You want to help. You wish you could. I know all that.” His brother turns his face to the closest drawing, a rooster crowing from a rooftop. It is quite a good likeness; one of the older children must have done it. “And we are loved. At least, you are.” A quick glance his way. “No, I am too. You are right again. But I am harder to love, maybe. I make it that way—though not on purpose, I promise you.”

  He examines a few loose tufts of down on the floor. “What I wish is beside the point, really. We are servants of the Convention. Timeo tells me it must be done, he tells me I have no good reason for delay. And I don’t. What is it going to be, Fernande? How are we going to live? Am I living now, or only waiting, and what am I waiting for?” He gets up again, too quickly, and has to lean against a post for a moment. Then he starts to pace, his hands on his hips, scuffing his feet now and again on a rough patch in the floor. “I am a man of meaningless habit. No, I have become such a man. I get up, I dress myself, and I move around for the amusement of others, like a clockwork toy. I am courteous and refined and I look good in a coat with my hair done. Like a well-bred horse, I go through my paces, that men may approve me. You may be turned, but I am a horse. What of it?” He waves an arm, nearly striking another post. “What does it mean? What is it for? Why am I alive?”

  Fernande’s eyes are somber. Rodrigo turns away. “And now I am drunk, and making myself a ridiculous spectacle, and upsetting you. I am sorry. Your burdens are heavy enough, without adding mine.” He knows Fernande’s snout—and it is a hateful thing striking him afresh now, that his little brother should have a snout, but he does—that it will come up under his arm to comfort him, before it happens. They embrace, or rather he holds his brother’s head, and he thinks. “I will let you be. I am sorry. Good night, and thank you for indulging me, my brother.” He kisses Fernande between the eyes and leaves.

  Then he goes upstairs, and finishes the bottle. Some unknown amount of time is lost in actual argument with Ermina’s urn, though he always keeps his voice low for Fernande’s sake. Presently he finds himself spread flat on the floor in mortifying prayer, mumbling to every aspect of the Deity in turn while staring at the joists of the ceiling. He is dismayed to realize most of it is nonsense—barely even words—and rather than blaspheme further he goes to bed.

  He regrets his excess in the morning, when the first of yesterday’s petitioners returns with the rising sun to knock on his door. Illesogni is already there to delay the man while his lord makes himself decent, but he has no time to soothe his headache into submission. It is troubling to think how much money he has just wasted on making himself uncomfortable.

  Fortunately, the typical supplicant is not after any particularly ingenious solution; he only wishes to be heard by a man of sufficient importance. Faithful Illesogni is at his lord’s elbow the entire time, taking notes; later he will go over them, between his other duties, and suggest solutions. Thus Rodrigo’s only obligation for these doorstep audiences is to appear solicitous and polite, giving obvious replies when appropriate. It remains an ordeal. Once he bids farewell to the last of them, sometime around eleven in the morning, the steward reminds him that, were he not an orphan peer, he would have the much larger territory of Encelise to administer.

  “Very true. Might I trouble you for another large glass of water, Illesogni? Breakfast can wait until it is lunch, at this rate. I don’t have a strong appetite this morning.” He glances out the window to see Fernande sauntering down the road on his morning constitutional, nodding and bowing to everyone he passes. “Is it as absurd as it feels right now, that my Blemished brother who cannot talk makes a better statesman than I do?”

  “It is somewhat strange, my lord.” The water is still wonderfully cold from the pipe—only a handful of Banleria’s most remote houses lack indoor plumbing now—and accompanied by a rosemary-honey roll from his favored bakery. “But it is better to take this as a spur to self-improvement than a mark of shame. And Fernande has always been a vivacious young man.”

  “He simply has more presence than I do. It’s hardly fair, but I can’t begrudge him the advantage, at the price he paid for it.” He takes refuge in his armchair, away from the window, and gets to work on the unsolicited roll. It is cold, but was split and spread with butter while warm. “Thank you very much. You heard Timeo’s request last night, I take it?”

  “It did not seem to me to be a request, my lord. It might be better understood as a command.”

  “He has no authority to command me in that,” Rodrigo corrects, more sharply than he intended. “It would require a full vote.”

  “Yes, my lord,” is Illesogni’s calm reply.

  “And you knew that. My apologies.” He presses the cold glass to his temple. “God, I feel like a rat in a trap. A marriage. Can you imagine that? Pfah! After Ermina, who would even want to marry me?” He looks to his steward with a smile, and sees a frown. “What? It’d be a damnable inconvenience to everyone. I have Fernande to take care of, and my own comfortable routine. And it’s not as if I’m any sort of prospect in the first place. My Teniet is a single town of no importance, and the Union will still own that whole island long after I’m dead.” The frown is still there. “Say something, would you?”

  “It is unclear what you wish me to say, my lord. If you need assistance in insulting yourself, I might make the attempt, but it seems to me you are performing the job very well alone.”

  “So you think I ought to marry?”

  “I did not say so, but yes. You should.”

  “Ridiculous.” He looks to the pictures above the fireplace, and shakes his head. “I’ve given the whole subject more thought than it deserves already. He can’t compel me to it. Besides, I have no business fretting over something this trivial when High Queen Eyanna Vogh just ravaged the fifth-largest town in the Republic. Your thoughts on that?”

  “I am a steward, my lord. I have never served in arms and have no expertise on military matters.”

  “Enough of that. This is a political question as much as anything else. You heard Timeo. The old man must be near senile, still wanting to waste money on his toy boat after this. Vogh needs something much stronger than whatever performative punishment they have planned. Most likely we’ll burn some poor devils like the ones we just visited off their four-acre farms. It’s all so perfectly senseless. There must be some way to talk him out of it.”

  “It is no small task to dissuade Lord Murregamua, as you have noted yourself, many times.”

  “No. You’re right. But he’s harder still to outmaneuver, and the good of the Republic is at stake.” He finishes the glass, and sets it down. “It’s true that I have no hope of beating him in a vote. But I’m not totally powerless. There are plenty of others in the Convention who feel as I do—not a majority, but surely enough to matter. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  He stands up. If he is not particularly vigorous, he at least feels very slightly less like a corpse. “Meanwhile, I had best prepare myself, the emergency session’s in two days. I think we can manage most of the trip tomorrow. Fernande will appreciate a proper bit of exercise, where he’s not constrained to a mule’s pace.”

  “Shall I arrange an escort, lord?”

  “No, we’ll ride faster alone, and there’s little danger this close to the capital. If you would, send Arnu, Dieste and Yossim after me. I might want assistance after.”

  “As you wish, lord.” There is a slight chill in his voice.

  Rodrigo turns to study his face. “You don’t approve?”

  “It is not my place to pass judgment on my betters.”

  “But you can think it? Out with it, man. What’s got you peevish?”

  Illesogni purses his lips. “I believe you are correct, as concerns your brother. Extended exercise will likely do him good. I might wish that you took similar thought for your own well-being. You are still human, and you need to do more than run to flourish. Pardon me if I have overstepped—but you did ask, my lord.”

  “Yes, I did. Hmph. You mean I need a woman, is that it?” Silence. “It is. Hell and damnation. If it will make you happy, you can mull over my prospects while I’m gone. Make a list, even.”

  “A list,” the steward repeats, his tone flat.

  “Yes. You have a much better head for this sort of thing than I do. Get me some names, and I’ll consider which would be the least of a bother.”

  “I see.” Something about the two words manages to suggest that wives, unlike wines, are not fit to be selected off of lists. “I don’t believe Lord Delisarmo specified as to rank?”

  “Hmm? No, not that I recall. What, you think I ought to marry down?”

  “It would provide you with many more options.”

  “I doubt it. The Tenirozzia will have been marrying off with the same speed as we have.” He laughs. “Dieste has a younger sister. I don’t think she’s promised herself yet.”

  Illesogni leaves the joke to hang the air like a dead leaf in a bitter autumn wind.

  “It’s worth considering a Teniroz,” Rodrigo amends. “There’s precedent for it, isn’t there?”

  “Within the Convention? It is, lord. No sitting peer has yet married a lady of Teniroz standing, but five heirs have done so, including two from orphan seats. Of those five, two have since inherited without controversy.”

  Rodrigo stares at him suspiciously. “You knew that offhand?”

  “I have done some research.”

  “Overnight?”

  “No, my lord. Some months since.”

  “An enemy agent in the ranks,” Rodrigo mutters. “As you please, then.” Timeo might very well prefer that he hold out for an equal match, specifically to avoid lowering the perceived status of orphans, but if he didn’t think to specify that would be his own damned fault. Certainly the thought of stealing a march on him that way is perversely appealing at the moment. It might ease the sting of matrimony, if it can’t be avoided—but he hasn’t promised anything to anyone yet. “Meanwhile, I suppose I had better speak with my brother first.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He looks to the rack. “My red coat will be clean and dry by tomorrow morning?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “Good.” It can’t be too cold out there, and Fernande should be back inside by now. He can go in shirtsleeves. “It’s silence that makes embarrassment intolerable, isn’t it? If you’ve made an ass of yourself, and all the world knows it, a formal apology is beside the point, so long as everyone can keep talking. Bury your shame alive under a mountain of prattle, by unspoken and mutual consent. It’s a fine thing. Sadly, that hasn’t been an option with Fernande for at least eight months now.”

  Illesogni only looks at him.

  “Never mind.” Further delay will only make him feel a coward as well as a fool. He sets off down the stairs to make amends for the previous night. He is sure his brother will be magnanimous about it, which will only make it harder to bear.

  The following dawn is cool, breezy, and overcast, fine weather for a hundred-mile run. Rodrigo gives his brother another dose before they set out, lest the long road strain him, and notes that the jar is running low. Arnu will see to it. He has a small reserve in his pack, should they need it.

  They leave Banleria at the speed of a gale, pursued by whoops and cheers. It will do his people good, to see him moving with purpose. Timeo was not wrong; their role is as much to be seen leading as to actually lead, and word of the disaster at Tefeia has been spreading. After the first two miles Fernande settles down to a more sustainable pace, one a horse might keep up with for a time. Inside an hour they are on the main highway from Furo to Marransheel.

  They meet a few people along the way, mostly vagabonds but with a scattering of pilgrims and peddlers and once, coming the other way, a little wagon-train of Dundanite mountebanks. All but two pilgrims and the Dundanites scamper off the road at the first sight of Fernande. The Lord of Encelise and his brother are well-enough known, but old habits are hard to break.

  They ride on an hour after sunset to reach the Cornflower Inn, where they are always welcome. A quick ride the next morning will bring them to Marransheel. Their host fetches up a few hams from his cellar while Rodrigo unloads his brother in the usual place in the courtyard. It is little more than a covered stall with bedding, but still more dignified than trying to fit a peer’s brother in a common stable, or suffering him to sleep out in the weather.

  “Though I fancy you’d sleep well in a hailstorm, after that,” he reflects as he brushes the plume of Fernande’s tail. “We don’t do this enough, do we?” Fernande does a sort of shrug with his wings, which he takes to mean ‘perhaps, but not so as to be worrisome.’ “Really, we don’t. Those legs were not made for idle pacing about the streets of Banleria. Your happiness is important to me, you know that.” A meek nod.

  “How am I supposed to take proper care of you, I wonder, if they saddle me with a wife?” Now his brother looks vexed. “Enough of that. You’re no burden to me. You’re all the family I have, and your needs come first. I won’t hear it any other way.” Fernande jerks his head and turns to face the other way, sulking. Rodrigo elects to ignore it.

  “We should take another, longer trip sometime. Just the two of us. You haven’t had a proper hard ride since last summer.” Already he is musing over the possibilities. “I don’t imagine they would give me any kind of extended leave—especially if the strategic situation worsens—so we shall need some kind of official color for it … ha! I have it. How does Hell’s Park strike you?”

  The enormous head swings back around to grin at him, moonlight shining on a long row of wicked teeth. “I thought so. As Timeo wants us to play our part, he cannot object if we help to pacify our southern border. Only … hm. The two of us might not be enough. I gather it has gotten worse there, of late. Even with our boys, there might be more than we can manage.”

  Fernande emits a long, rumbling groan. “Hush, now. I need to think. This might be important. I almost have it.” He is pacing again, but now he is sober, and beginning to feel excited. “Yes. It could be done. Our lord Delisarmo says there are twenty orphans hungry to win back their holdings in the South. None of them have you, but most will have larger retinues than ours. You know how it is with those hellions, they spend half their money hiring bravos. They might as well put them to work.”

  Now Fernande cocks his head, and makes a quizzical noise. Rodrigo leans in closer so he can murmur in his brother’s ear: “No, I don’t plan to clean out the entire forest. There’s no need for that. But how many years has it been since we made any serious effort to probe those woods? Even for the Reclamation, we treated it as a minor front to secure while the bulk of the infantry tried to force a way across the river. Ten years later, it is only a dumping ground for their Blemished. I doubt there’s a healthy man in it.”

  Fernande’s eyes light up; it may be he is beginning to see where his brother is headed. “We hunt, we purge, yes, but we keep quiet, and keep our eyes open the whole time. Is there a clear path to the south bank? If there is, and we can map it, our Speaker will have no need to match his tin-plated tugboat against the armada of the High Summer Union. We’re their masters on land. A good charge could roll up their flank all the way to Antantur, and lay the path to Hausan bare.”

  Now his brother’s eyes are skeptical. “There might not be a way. But it is worth looking, is it not?” A nod. “We are agreed, then.” He claps the side of Fernande’s neck. “Of course, my lord Murregamua might not care for the idea. He has a great deal invested in vying for naval supremacy. I have no intention of bringing this up before the Convention. But I can speak to some of the other young peers while we are there. It may be we are not the only ones who would care for a jaunt through the forest.” The smile returns, larger than ever. “And so I bid you good night, brother. That looks like your first two hams coming now.”

  They bow, and part laughing. Rodrigo muses over his new plan all the way back to his room. It would not do to hope for too much too soon; as like as not the old man will catch wind of the plan and put an end to it. And it would be best of all if the morrow’s session led to a decision to put down Vogh with proper force. Still, if he must marry—and it seems probable he will be forced to, sooner or later—he would sooner woo a lady as a victorious hero of the Republic than as the orphan peer of a cursed line, sustained on sufferance to maintain a claim to land he will never own.