Garland sat on the stool beside Karis and piled a little mound of cold ham onto a small, slim square of black bread, dabbed it with mustard, and decorated it with transparent sweet pickles. This he rather summarily slipped into Karis’s mouth. Leeba found the operation hilarious and demanded that she be allowed to help. Karis ate passively and obediently from her daughter’s hand. For the first time, Garland could see the lingering ghost of Karis the smoke addict, who had gotten in the habit of cooperating with the people who worked to make her survive a drug that eventually killed everyone who used it. It was a terrible insight.

Garland felt Norina’s discomforting gaze on him, as he piled up more ham for Leeba to feed to Karis. “Careful–don’t let it fall apart,” he said, as the little girl snatched it from him.

“Karis doesn’t likepickles,” Leeba announced when a pickle slice fell to the floor.

“She does so. You’re the one who doesn’t like pickles.”

“The ravensdon’t even like pickles,” Leeba persisted, as Emil came in with another raven. “Open up!” she said severely to her mother, and jammed the food into her mouth.

Garland glanced at Norina finally. The Truthken had done something to Karis–had grabbed hold of her somehow and pulled her back from a cliff she was about to fall over. Now the danger was past, and Norina looked cool and distant as ever, and the hand she rested on Karis’s shoulder was merely reminding her that she was there.

“Emil, that pot on the table should be ready to pour,” Garland said.

Emil had put his raven on the back of a chair. “Bless you,” he said sincerely and began pouring tea. “Do you want some, Karis?”

“No tea,” J’han said. “By Shaftal, she’s going to sleep.”

Karis wiped mustard from her lip. “I am? How?”

“Feet first.” J’han had one of Karis’s big, callused feet in his hands. He reached for the oil that he had set on the hearth to melt and proceeded with a demonstration.

Karis sank visibly into her chair. “The Sainnites–” she began.

Mabin, who had just come in, said, “Karis, give some credit to your people. If Sainnites start tearing things apart, we’ll take care of it. You don’t actually have to solve every single problem with your own hands.”

As Emil gave Mabin a confused look, Norina uttered a sharp laugh. “Are you supplanting me as Karis’s scold? I doubt she can endure two of us, but I’d be glad to find a new occupation.”

“No, thank you. It seems a pointless job.”

Emil went to lean wearily by the fireplace. “Karis, I’m told the Sainnites managed to get two parties of soldiers over the wall, but that the soldiers seem very skittish and are only going through the motions of hunting for us. Every person in Watfield is keeping an eye on them. Believe me, it is safe for you to sleep.”

Karis had shut her eyes. Whatever J’han was doing to her foot seemed irresistible. “I suppose,” she said. “Since they’re got no weapons.”

Emil straightened sharply, and had to steady his teacup in its saucer. “None at all?”

Karis murmured, “J’han, I concede. Your power is greater than mine.”

J’han said, “Leeba, let Karis lie down on the floor. You can help her take a nap, if you want to.”

“Even the edged weapons?” said Emil, as Leeba crawled off Karis’s lap.

“Dull beyond repair,” said Karis. “Even the kitchen knives.”

Garland stood up. “I’ll get some blankets and a pillow.”

But he paused at the door, distressed suddenly by the memory of that tired and hungry soldier, the lieutenant‑general, reeling back from the general’s vicious blow. “Emil?”

Emil was sipping spilled tea out of his saucer. He gave Garland a glance of a sort that had never been directed at him before: not merely inquiring, but respectful. It was unnerving.

“Do you wantto make the Sainnites completely desperate?” Garland asked.

“No, no, not at all. I want them reasonable.”

“Without kitchen knives, they’ll have nothing to eat but porridge. That’s going to make them desperate.”

Emil gazed at him thoughtfully, obviously waiting for a suggestion.

“Let’s feed them a decent meal,” Garland said.

Mabin uttered a snort of disbelief. “Five hundred soldiers?”

Emil, leaning on the wall again, crossed one booted foot over the other. “Oh, Garland can do it,” he said.

A tap at the door awoke Clement, and she was surprised to find that the room had grown dark, the fire had burned to coals, and her infant son slept in her arms, in the tangled mess the girl‑nurse had made of the blankets on the bed. The medic had come by to set her broken nose. The pain had been awful, but somehow she had fallen into a doze despite it.

The door opened. “Clem? Can I come in?” It was Gilly.

“Has the garrison fallen apart yet?” Clement asked indifferently. She got up, and helped her old friend to a chair, and put the baby in his arms. The baby squinted at Gilly, yawned, and uttered a mild complaint.

Gilly blinked down at the infant, and smiled reluctantly. “This G’deon exercises a cruel generosity, eh? She gives you your heart’s desire so you can destroy yourself with it. But you’re so glad you don’t even care that you’re dead.”

“She apologized,” Clement said wryly. She lit a lamp, looked around rather hopelessly for something to eat, and was briefly distracted by the sight of her face in the little mirror tacked to the wall.

“You’re even uglier than me at the moment,” Gilly said.

“I see that.”

“I always feared Cadmar would smash your face in someday.”

“It was inevitable, really.”

“Have you heard? The postern gates and the water gate can’t be opened. The weapons can’t be repaired. Not a blade in the garrison will hold an edge. We’ve got nothing to defend ourselves with but our bare hands.”

Clement couldn’t bring herself to be concerned. She sat heavily beside him, her face throbbing. “So what will Cadmar do? Surrender, or let us be massacred?”

“Hell, I don’t know. The man’s been in a temper all afternoon. Maybe he’s trying to shout the G’deon to death. Do you think she’s actually his daughter? She seems too astute, frankly.”

The baby yelped. “Are you hungry again, Gabian?” Clement picked up the bottle that she had left to keep warm on the hearth. Gilly handed her the baby.

“A good name,” he commented. “Your mother’s, I believe.”

Gabian sucked the bottle energetically, gazing into Clement’s face, apparently indifferent to her swollen nose and black eye.

“Has Cadmar had you write my demotion orders yet?” Clement asked.

“Not yet. But you don’t actually care, do you?”

Clement looked at her bent, worried, desperately unhappy friend, and felt a wrenching helplessness. “Gilly, I’ve reached the end.”

Gilly gazed determinedly at his hands, which rested on his sturdy, battered cane. “You’re going to desert. I knew that when I heard you had sent the girl away. You’ve got to get out now, or your son will starve. But where can you hope to find shelter? I know you, Clem: maybe you imagine that cow farmer would be glad to see you again, but you’ll never impose such a risk on her. The local Paladins might find a use for you, but not a use you could accept. The G’deon, though, she’s gone out of her way to put you in this position. What do you think? If she shelters you, will she allow you to advocate for your people without actually betraying them? That’s a very difficult balance to keep–I should know.”

Gilly continued to gaze at his folded hands, as though this simply was not a conversation that could have been conducted eye‑to‑eye. Thinking of Gilly’s uneasy life of betrayal made the choice Clement was contemplating even more discomforting. Every day she would walk into this G’deon’s circle of advisors, negotiate the strange Shaftali customs, and be subjected to their seething hostilities. And she would be friendless for the rest of her life.