I like food, even if I can’t eat it. For another, I’m a good host, eager for the comfort of my guests, and it’s easy to heat. Behold this noble stove and laden woodbox. I’m happily immune to drafts, but you aren’t. I’m determined to make you comfortable. Those other rooms offer the chilly attractions of a society beauty. This will provide warmth and tea, even soup.” He giggled. “All the solid virtues of an old nurse. Besides, there are a great many sharp knives, and I’m always encouraged by the presence of sharp knives.”

“You can’t be here alone,” Maytera Mint said.

Potto grinned. “Do you propose to attack me if I am?”

“Certainly not.”

“You have an azoth, the famous one given you by Silk. I won’t search you for it now.”

“I left it with Colonel Bison. If I had come armed after calling for a truce, you’d be entitled to kill me.”

“I am anyhow,” Potto told her. He picked up a stick of firewood and snapped it between his hands. “The rules of war protect armies and their auxiliaries. Yours is a rebellion, not a war, and rebels get no such protection. Patera there knows that’s the truth. Look at his face.”

“I — ah — assert the privilege of my cloth.”

“You can. You haven’t fought, so you’re entitled to it. The General has and isn’t. It’s all very simple.”

When neither replied, Potto added, “Speaking of cloth, I forgot to say that the rules apply only to soldiers and those auxiliaries who wear their city’s uniform, as General Saba does. You, my dear General, don’t. The upshot is that though I can’t offer violence to your armies as long as the truce holds, I’m entitled to break both your leggies if I want to, and even to wring your necky. Sit down, there’s a cozy little table right over there. I’ll build a fire and put the kettle on.”

They sat, Remora tucking the rich overrobe he wore around his legs, Maytera Mint as she might have in the cenoby, her delicate hands folded in her lap, and her head bowed.