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point to boast even one crystal, “the Kingdom of Algarve, in willful violation of the terms of the Treaty of Tortush, has sent armed invaders into the sovereign Duchy of Bari. The Algarvian minister to Valmiera has stated that King Mezentio has no intention of withdrawing his men from the said Duchy, and has positively rejected my demand that Algarve do so. When this latest outrage is added to the many others Algarve has committed in recent years, it leaves me no choice but to declare that, from this moment forth, the Kingdom of Valmiera considers itself to be at war with the Kingdom of Algarve.”
    Along with the other nobles King Gainibu had summoned to the palace, Krasta applauded. “Victory! Victory! Victory!” The shout filled the Grand Hall, with occasional cries of “On to Trapani!” thrown in for good measure.
    Gainibu held up his hand. Slowly, silence returned. Into it, he said, “Nor does Valmiera go to war alone. Our allies of old are our allies yet.” As if to prove as much, the minister from Jelgava came and stood beside the king. “We too are at war with Algarve,” he said. Krasta understood his words with no trouble, though to her ear they had an odd accent: Jelgavan and Valmieran were so closely related, some reckoned them dialects rather than two separate languages.
    The tunic the swarthy minister from Forthweg wore could not disguise his blocky build. Instead of Valmieran, he spoke in classical Kaunian: “Forthweg, free not least because of the courage of Valmiera and Jelgava, stands by her friends in bad times as well as good. We too war with Algarve.” Formality fell from him like a mask. He abandoned the ancient tongue for the modern to roar, “On to Trapani!” The cheers were deafening.
    “Bari in Algarvian hands is a dagger aimed at Sibiu’s heart,” the minister from the island nation said. “We shall also fight the common foe.”
    But the minister from Lagoas, which had been Valmiera’s ally in the Six Years’ War, stayed silent now. So did the slant-eyed envoy from Kuusamo, which ruled the eastern, and much larger, part of the island it shared with Lagoas. Lagoas was nervous about Kuusamo; Kuusamo was fighting a desultory naval war far to the east against Gyongyos—though not, strangely, in any real alliance with Unkerlant. The Unkerlanter minister also sat on his hands, as did the envoys from the minor powers between Unkerlant and Algarve.
    Krasta hardly noticed the omissions. With her allies, Valmiera would surely punish the wicked Algarvians. They had brought the war on themselves—now let them see how they liked it. “On to Trapani!” she yelled.
     
    Count Sabrino elbowed his way through the crowd in Trapani’s Royal Square, toward the balcony from which King Mezentio would address the people and nobles of Algarve. He wanted to hear Mezentio’s words with his own ears, not read them later on or, if he was lucky, catch them from a crystal some nearby sorcerer was holding.
    People gave way before him, men with nods that would have to make do in the crush for bows, women, some of them, with inviting smiles. Those had nothing to do with his noble rank. They had everything to do with his tan uniform, with the three silver pips of a colonel on each shoulder strap, and, most of all, with the prominent Dragon Corps badge just above his heart.
    Close by, a man with his mustache going from red to white spoke to a younger woman, perhaps a daughter, perhaps a mistress or new wife: “I was here, darling, right here, when King Dudone declared war on Unkerlant all those years ago.”
    “So was I,” Sabrino said. He’d been a youth then, too young to fight until the Six Years’ War had nearly run its course. “People were afraid then. Look now.” He waved, ending with a typically flamboyant Algarvian twist of the wrist. “This might be a festival!”
    “We’re taking back our own this time, and everybody knows it,” the older man said, and his female companion nodded vigorous