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of the commanders who fought under the Duke of Arlington had done more to keep Avram’s larger host from rampaging through the province of Parthenia and laying siege to Nonesuch, the town in which Grand Duke Geoffrey—no, King Geoffrey—had established his capital.
    With a little more luck , James thought, just a little more, mind you, we would have been laying siege to Georgetown, and hanging Avram from the flagpole in front of the Black Palace. We came close . Sighing, he stroked his beard, which spilled in curly dark ringlets halfway down his broad chest. Close counted even less in war than any other time.
    Now the struggle in Parthenia seemed stalemated. However much mead the southron commander swilled, he’d beaten back Edward of Arlington’s invasion of the south and followed him into Geoffrey’s territory when he had to retreat. Neither army, at the moment, was up to doing much.
    Which meant . . . Earl James studied the map pinned down to the folding table in his silk pavilion. He rumbled something down deep in his chest. His beard and soup-strainer mustache so muffled it, even he couldn’t make out the words. That might have been just as well.
    He shook his head. He knew better. And what he knew had to be said, however unpalatable it might prove when it came out in the open.
    Muttering still, he left the tent and stepped out into the full muggy heat of late summer in Parthenia. He’d known worse—he’d been born farther north, in Palmetto Province—but that didn’t mean he enjoyed this. No one of his build could possibly enjoy summer in Parthenia.
    The sentries in front of Duke Edward’s pavilion (rather plainer than James’; Edward cared little about comfort, while the Earl of Broadpath relished it) stiffened into upright immobility when they saw James drawing near. Returning their salutes, he asked, “Is the duke in?”
    “Yes, your Excellency,” they chorused. One ducked into the pavilion. He returned a moment later, followed by Duke Edward.
    James came to attention and tried to make his chest stick out farther than his belly—a losing effort. Saluting, he said, “Good evening, sir.”
    “And a good evening to you as well, your Excellency,” Edward of Arlington replied. In his youth, he was said to have been the handsomest man in Detina. These days, his neat white beard proved him nearer sixty than fifty, but he remained a striking figure: tall and straight and, unlike Earl James of Broadpath, slim. “What can I do for you today?”
    “Your Grace, I’ve been looking at the map,” James said.
    Duke Edward nodded. “Always a commendable exercise.” Back in the days before war broke Detina in two, he’d headed the officers’ collegium at Annasville for a time. Even before then, he’d been known as a soldier who fought with his head as well as his heart. Now he went on, “Perhaps you’ll come in with me and show me what you’ve seen.”
    “Thank you, sir. I was hoping to do just that,” James said. Duke Edward held the tentflap wide for him with his own hands—till one of the sentries, scandalized that he should do such menial service, took the cloth from him. Grunting a little, James bent at what had been his waist and ducked his way into the pavilion.
    A couple of rock-oil lamps burned within, one by Edward’s table, the other next to his iron-framed camp bed. The stink of the oil made James’ nostrils twitch. The sight of the camp bed made him wince. He wouldn’t have cared to try to sleep in anything so . . . uncompromising. Not for the first time, Duke Edward put him in mind of a military saint: not a common breed in Detinan history. James, never modest about his own achievements, reckoned himself a pretty fair soldier, but he was willing to admit sainthood beyond him.
    Putting on a pair of gold-framed spectacles, Edward said, “And what have you seen, your Excellency? I presume it pertains to our army?”
    “Well, no, sir, or not directly,” Earl James answered,