And his loss would pain me so very much, Thraxton thought, and almost smiled again.

Ned nodded to him. “You just leave it to me, your Grace. I’ll give you something you can brag about. And then, when James’ men finally get here from Parthenia, I’ll help you make your big brag come true, even if you did aim it right at me. As long as it helps the kingdom, I don’t much care.” He nodded one last time, then turned and, without so much as a by-your-leave, strode out of the house Thraxton had taken for his own.

“Insolent churl,” Thraxton muttered. He rubbed his hands together. With any luck at all, the insolent churl would hurl himself headlong against the southrons and come to grief because of it.

But what if Ned’s luck ran out too abruptly? What if Guildenstern’s men smashed up the unicorn-riders and decided to press north with all their strength? That would without a doubt prove troublesome. Thraxton called for another runner.

“Your Grace?” the youngster said, drawing himself up straight as a spearshaft. “Command me, your Grace!”

He might have thought Count Thraxton was about to send him into the hottest part of a desperate fight, not simply to run an errand. Thraxton said, “Ask General Leonidas if he would do me the honor of attending me.” He summoned Leonidas far more courteously than he’d ordered Ned of the Forest hither.

“Yes, sir!” The runner hurried off as if King Geoffrey would be overthrown unless he reached Leonidas the Priest on the instant.

Leonidas, on the other hand, took his own sweet time about reporting to Thraxton’s headquarters. Ned had come far more promptly. When at last Leonidas did appear, resplendent in the crimson vestments of a votary of the Lion God, Thraxton snapped, “So good of you to join me.”

Leonidas gave him a wounded look, which he ignored. “How may I serve you, your Grace?” the hierophant asked.

“By coming sooner to find out what I require of you, for starters,” Thraxton snapped. He had heard that his underlings complained he was hard on them. With such fools for underlings, what else can I be but hard?

Stiffly, Leonidas said, “Your messenger found me offering sacrifice to the Lion God, that he might favor us and close his jaws upon the accursed armies of our opponents.”

“Let the Lion God do as he will,” Count Thraxton said. “I intend to close my jaws on the southrons, and to do that just as soon as Earl James’ men reach me.”

Leonidas the Priest looked shocked. “Without the support of the gods, your Grace, we are as nothing, and our plans as vapors. I shall pray to the Lord of the Great Mane that he put this wisdom in your heart.”

“Pray later,” Thraxton told him. “I require you to move your army down to the northern bank of the River of Death, and to stand in readiness to repel the southrons if by some mischance they overwhelm Ned of the Forest, whose riders will be harrying them south of the river.”

“Very well, sir,” Leonidas said, though his voice remained stiff with disapproval. “I shall of course do as you require. But I also suggest that you offer up your own prayers and sacrifices to the Lion God, lest he grow angry at you for flouting him. We would not want his might inclined toward the southrons, after all.”

“No, indeed not.” Thraxton could not imagine the Lion God-or, for that matter, any of the other Detinan gods-inclining toward King Avram and his misguided followers. The gods had led the Detinans to victory over the blond savages who’d once had this splendid kingdom all to themselves. If that wasn’t a sign the gods wanted the Detinans to go right on ruling the blonds, Thraxton couldn’t dream of what such a sign might be. He nodded to Leonidas the Priest. “Go now. Set your men in motion, as I have commanded.”

“Very well, sir,” the priest of the Lion God repeated. “Again, though, I urge on you suitable prayer and sacrifice.”

“Of course,” Count Thraxton said. Leonidas left, though he didn’t look as if he believed the general. And he was right to disbelieve, for Thraxton had no intention of sacrificing. Why should I? he thought. I am right, and the gods must know it.

As Lieutenant General George had known he would, General Guildenstern made his headquarters in the finest hotel Rising Rock boasted. As George had feared he would, Guildenstern grew less diligent about going after Thraxton the Braggart than he had been before Rising Rock fell. George suspected the army commander had found something lively in the female line here, but judged coming right out and asking would only make Guildenstern’s always uncertain temper worse.

At supper a couple of days after King Avram’s army paraded into Rising Rock, Doubting George did ask General Guildenstern when he intended going after Count Thraxton. “The sooner the better, sir,” George added, “if you care for what I think.”

By Guildenstern’s expression, he didn’t care a fig-not even a moldy fig-for what his second-in-command thought. But he did his best to make light of his feelings, waving his hand and speaking in airy tones: “I don’t think we need to worry about Thraxton for a while now. By the way he scuttled out of here with his tail between his legs, he’s skedaddled down to Stamboul, and that’s if he hasn’t gone all the way to Marthasville. We’ll settle him in due course, never you fear.” He lifted a glass of amber spirits to his lips and gulped down half of what it held.

“If he’s skedaddling, we ought to push him,” George said stubbornly.

“And we will.” General Guildenstern finished the spirits and waved for a refill. A blond maidservant-not a serf any more, Doubting George reminded himself-hurried up with a corked jug and poured more of the potent stuff into the glass. Guildenstern’s eyes followed her as she swayed away. Doubting George sighed. He’s more interested in what’s between her legs than in the tail he thinks Thraxton has between his. But Guildenstern did bring himself back to the matter at hand: “In a few days, we will.”

“Why wait, sir?” George asked. He’d already seen more than one victory count for less than it should have because the general in charge of Avram’s army failed to push hard after winning the initial battle. And he doubted his superior’s sincerity here. “If we’ve got the traitors in trouble, shouldn’t we do everything we can to keep them there?”

General Guildenstern looked down his long, pointed nose at George. “Eager, aren’t you?” By the way he said it, he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

But George didn’t care how he meant it. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “If we’ve got ’em down, we ought to kick ’em.”

Instead of answering right away, Guildenstern took another swig of spirits. “Ahh,” he said, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gray tunic. “That’s the real stuff.” George could only nod; Franklin was famous for the spirits it distilled. After yet another gulp, something kindled in Guildenstern’s eyes. It didn’t look like something pleasant. George hoped he was wrong, but-again-he doubted it. His superior said, “So you really want to go after Thraxton the Braggart, do you?”

“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant General George didn’t hesitate, no matter what the gleam in General Guildenstern’s eye meant. “If we chase him, we’ll catch him, and if we catch him, we’ll lick him.”

“Here’s what I’ll do, then,” Guildenstern said. George leaned forward. He was sure he wouldn’t get everything he wanted. For him to have got everything he wanted, General Guildenstern would have had to set the army in motion day before yesterday, or even the day before that. Guildenstern breathed spirituous fumes into his face, fumes potent enough to make him marvel that the commanding general’s breath didn’t catch fire when it passed over the flame of the rock-oil lamp on the table. “I’ll give you half the army, and you go after Thraxton with it the best way you know how. I’ll follow behind with the rest.”