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know that voice anywhere. Sarge, wake up. It’s all right, it’s us. It’s seventh shift, what’s left of us. You’re going to be all right. We dug you out after the camouflet went up. The war’s over. We won.’
    The strain of keeping his eyelids open was unbearable; he could feel the muscles tearing like cloth. ‘We won?’
    ‘That’s right. We brought down the bastion, the gate fell in, we stormed the city. We won.’
    ‘Oh.’ What war would that be? I don’t remember anything about any war. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
    ‘He hasn’t got the faintest idea what you’re talking about,’ a salamander said. ‘Come on, Malicho, let the poor bugger get some rest.’
     
    The legate could recognise cinnamon, and cloves, of course; a trace of ginger, oil of violets, the tiniest savour of jasmine. The one special ingredient eluded him, however. It was infuriating.
    ‘The family,’ the colonel was saying, ‘is quite well known, apparently. There was a sister who ran the bank on Scona—’
    ‘Scona.’ The legate carefully put down the tiny silver cup. ‘I think I’ve heard that name somewhere. Wasn’t there a war?’
    ‘Very small-scale,’ the colonel replied. ‘But it caused a brief flutter on the exchanges. There’s also a brother who’s some sort of minor warlord in a place called Mesoge. And of course, our man was in charge of the last defence of Perimadeia.’
    ‘Really.’ Honeysuckle? No, it was a different sort of sweetness; not as dry. ‘Quite an illustrious family, then.’
    ‘Actually, no,’ the colonel replied, smiling. ‘Their father was a tenant farmer somewhere. But that’s all by the by. A remarkable man, for an outsider. We should do something for him. The army would like it.’
    The legate inclined his head slightly. ‘I’ll have to think about that,’ he said. ‘The line between rewarding merit and fostering the cult of personality is painfully thin in these cases. As a matter of policy -’ (Honey; it was honey flavoured with something. No wonder it was so elusive.) ‘- as a matter of policy,’ he repeated, ‘nowadays we prefer to put the accent on team effort and group achievement; and from what I gather, that would be entirely appropriate in this case.’
    The colonel nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘To a certain extent, that’s precisely what we should be doing. But Sergeant Loredan has already become something of a legend in the army. If we don’t recognise him officially, it may prove counterproductive to recognise the unit as a whole. The soldiers are very loyal to their own; that’s what gives them their edge, of course.’
    ‘Indeed.’ The legate didn’t frown, but he didn’t much like what he was hearing. Nevertheless, it was a minor issue. ‘Well,’ he said, lifting the cup again, ‘I don’t suppose it’ll hurt if we give this man his moment of glory. A laurel crown, I suggest, and a prominent place in the triumph, if he’s going to be up to it. And then a promotion.’
    The colonel acknowledged the suitability of the suggestion. A promotion meant a transfer, a transfer would take him away from the soldiers who’d chosen him as their immediate object of loyalty. ‘Citizenship?’ he asked. ‘Or perhaps not. There are precedents, of course.’
    ‘I shall have to refer that back to the provincial office,’ the legate said. ‘A precedent isn’t the same thing as a rule, or even a custom of the service. Just because something’s acknowledged to have happened once doesn’t necessarily mean it has to happen again.’
    The colonel didn’t say anything, but he let the issue lie between them. The legate had his political masters, but he had an army to motivate. And after all, he had just taken Ap’ Escatoy.
    ‘Forgive me,’ said the legate suddenly, ‘but I really do have to know. Is it the honey?’
    The colonel smiled. ‘How extremely perceptive,’ he said. ‘Yes, indeed; it’s quite rare, a speciality of this