Count Sabrino elbowed his way through the crowd in Trapani's Royal Square, toward the balcony from which King Mezentio would address the people and nobles of Algarve. He wanted to hear Mezentio's words with his own ears, not read them later on or, if he was lucky, catch them from a crystal some nearby sorcerer was holding.

People gave way before him, men with nods that would have to make do in the crush for bows, women, some of them, with inviting similes.

Those had nothing to do with his noble rank. They had everything to do with his tan uniform, with the three silver pips of a colonel on each shoulder strap, and, most of all, with the prorminent Dragon Corps badge just above his heart.

Close by, a man with his mustache going from red to white spoke to a younger woman, perhaps a daughter, perhaps a mistress or new wife: I was here, darling, night here, when King Dudone declared war on Unkerlant all those years ago."

"So was I," Sabrino said. He'd been a youth then, too young to fight until the Six Years' War had nearly run its course. "People were afraid then. Look now." He waved, ending with a typically flamboyant Algarvian twist of the wrist. "This might be a festival!"

"We're taking back our own this time, and everybody knows it," the older man said, and his female companion nodded vigorous agreement.

Noticing the silver dragon coiled on Sabrino's chest, the man added, "And the greatest good luck to you in the air, sir. Powers above keep you safe."

"For which you have my thanks, poor though they be." Crush or no crush, Sabrino bowed to both the man and his lady before pressing on.

He brought a chunk of melon wrapped in a parchment - thin slice of ham from a vendor with an eye for the main chance, and advanced with only one elbow to clear his path while he ate. He hadn't come quite so far as he wanted when King Mezentio appeared on the balcony: a tan, lean man, his golden crown glearming even more brightly in the noonday sun than his bald scalp would have.