These feuds go on for years, for generations, for centuries. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them go back to the days before the ancient Aeneans brought the Dalmatians to heel. Conquerors come and conquerors go, but feuds drag on forever.

“I should do something about that,” I said.

Essad Pasha laughed out loud. I glowered at him. Max coughed and touched the hilt of his sword. Essad Pasha stopped laughing more abruptly than he’d started. “I crave your pardon, your Highness,” he said. “And I wish you good luck.”

The blood feud flourishes in Shqiperi to this day. But then, I-alas!-am king there no more. Who knows what a golden age the Land of the Eagle lost in me!

After a couple of hours in the saddle-long enough for me to begin to feel how little riding I’d done lately-Essad Pasha waved again. Blinking against the refulgent glitter of those gemstones, I needed a moment to realize the castle toward which he pointed wasn’t one of the many the Shqipetari had built to protect themselves from themselves. This one was of rather better design, and had evidently gone up to protect foreigners from them.

“My shooting box,” Essad Pasha said with becoming immodesty. I raised an eyebrow. I waited. Max didn’t even have to cough. Essad Pasha made haste to correct himself: “Your shooting box, your Highness.”

“Thank you,” I replied, as if I’d expected nothing less. “I look forward to shooting dragons.” Max coughed then. Looking back on it, I suppose he had just a bit of reason for coughing, too. Yes, just a bit.

As those things go, the shooting box was comfortable enough. Despite the Albionese name, it did not have an Albionese cook, for which I thanked the Two Prophets and the Quadrate God impartially. Any kingdom that will boil bacon doesn’t deserve to be allowed anywhere near a fire.

Instead of an Albionese, the cook was an elderly Shqipetari woman with, I regret to report, a mustache not much smaller than mine. Her methods had peculiarities of their own. The salad she gave us, with olives and crumbled white cheese, was not much different from what we might have got in Lokris, though the dressing, with pungent wine vinegar and a strong infusion of mint, had a tang I’d never met anywhere else.

After that…Well, how do I explain it? Where an Albionese will throw anything this side of his mother into boiling water, a Shqipetar will fling it into bubbling oil. Maybe this has to do with how the two folk fought off besiegers in years gone by. Or maybe the Shqipetari try to imitate the wild dragons of their mountains. I don’t know why they do it. No one can doubt that they do it.

It’s not all bad. Fried capon, such as we had that night, can be quite tasty. (It can also come dripping enough grease to keep a carriage from squeaking for a year.) Fried beefsteak, on the other hand, is the first step toward making leather, and the less said of fried mutton, the better.

No one will complain of fried potatoes with plenty of salt. The Shqipetari prefer bread made from coarsely ground maize flour to the usual sort made of wheat. They fry that, too, after baking it. The result would ballast a three-masted ship of the line. It stays with a mere mortal for days, if not for weeks.

They fry okra. Having said that, I draw a merciful veil of silence.

Our supper came with a bottle of brandy made from mountain plums and, by the potency, a good helping of mountain lightning, too. Essad Pasha ceremoniously poured glasses of the stuff for himself, Max, and me. I waited to see if he would take care of that the usual way. Followers of the Quadrate God may have as many women as they please, but they aren’t supposed to drink. To my mind, this demonstrates the fundamental falsity of their faith. Name me a man with as many women as he thinks he wants who doesn’t need to drink now and again.

Of course, some who reverence the Quadrate God are no better than they have to be. (I might say the same of some who reverence the Two Prophets. I might, but I won’t.) Essad Pasha handled things with catlike aplomb. He crooked the little finger of his right hand like an Albionese taking hold of a teacup. Then he dipped the crooked finger into his glass. He brought up one sparkling drop of brandy on the end of his finger and ceremoniously flicked it away: no, he wouldn’t drink that drop. The rest? Well, the rest was between him and the Quadrate God.

You don’t always see that ritual. In the lower ranks of the Hassocki army, as in the lower ranks of any army, soldiers drink first and worry-or, more likely, don’t worry-about it later. My own pinkie, and Max’s, also bent, also dipped. We flicked. We drank.

After the first sip, my eyes crossed. Lightning in a bottle indeed. I eyed the glass respectfully, wondering why the brandy hadn’t charred through it.

Max, however, sent Essad Pasha a reproachful stare. “You ought to fire your cellarer,” he remarked in his usual sepulchral tones.

“Oh? For what reason, Captain?” Essad Pasha sounded wary.

“Why, for watering the spirits, of course.” Max drained his glass without so much as a blink. It was not a small glass. No, not at all. He wasn’t pretending here, the way he had with Tasos.

Essad Pasha goggled. Then he tried to do the same thing. He choked. He spluttered. He sprayed brandy down the front of his uniform tunic. Max took it all in stride. Why not? He pours swords down his throat, by the Prophets’ curly whiskers. Pretending not to notice Essad Pasha’s problem, he poured himself another glass and drank that down, too.

I love Max. Whenever I can stand him, I love him.

I also know better than to get into a one-downsmanship contest with him. Aside from his scarred gullet, there’s more of him to soak up the spirits than there is of me. There’s more of Max than there is of almost anyone. A glance will tell you this. A glance should have told Essad Pasha. But no. Something-perverse pride, I suppose-made him try to drink along.

He did stop spraying spirits down his front. In short order, though, he started spilling them down his front instead. I hoped he would change his tunic before we went hunting the next morning. Any dragonfire within miles would send him up like a torch if he didn’t. For that matter, I was glad he didn’t choose to smoke.

He tried to tell me something. He raised his right hand, index finger extended as if to make a point. But his eyes glazed over and he started to snore. I wondered what to do with him. He wouldn’t be happy if he woke up in the dining room. Then again, after what he’d poured down, he wouldn’t be happy no matter where he woke up.

While I was still wondering, three stalwart Shqipetari silently slipped into the room. One took each booted foot; the third dealt with Essad Pasha’s forward end. They lugged him away with an ease that bespoke considerable practice. Maybe he didn’t need Max for an excuse to drink himself into a stupor.

One of the Shqipetari returned. “If the noble lords will please come with me…?” he said in oddly accented Hassocki.

I had no trouble getting up and walking: I’d been at least moderately moderate. Max ambled down the corridor without eight or twelve Shqipetari hauling him along, too. We shared a bedchamber. As he was my aide-de-camp and, presumably, bodyguard, I wasn’t surprised that the servants at the hunting box had arranged things so. I was surprised they’d found him a bed without a footboard. That saved him the trouble of sleeping curled up or diagonally, which he usually has to do.

“Well, between us, we’ve put Essad Pasha in his place,” I remarked as we undressed for the night.

“Ah, but will he remember in the morning?” Max replied.

“He won’t remember anything in the morning,” I said. “And what he does remember, he’ll want to forget.” Max scratched his head at that. After a moment, I scratched my head, too. Not even the (still uncrowned) King of Shqiperi could make meaning appear out of nothingness. I could make sleep appear, though. I lay down-and there it was.