He did murmur, “Surely the chieftain for whom you’re named would have some remarks on that subject.” Hesmucet’s ears grew hot; Hesmucet the blond had been as fierce a warrior as any ever born, whether of his kind or among the swarthy Detinans. George added, “These northern blonds, you must recall, have been raised as serfs. If you untie a man who’s been tightly bound, do you not expect to see the marks of the rope on his flesh for a time?”

“Well, well,” Hesmucet said. “I didn’t think you were a blond-lover, sir.”

He wondered if he’d gone too far. In a different tone of voice, that could have been a deadly insult. As things were, George only shrugged and remarked, “Some of them, I assure you, are quite lovable.” He took his hands from the reins for a moment to shape an hourglass in the air.

Hesmucet laughed. “Well, maybe so. I have heard stories along those lines. I suspect you would know better than I, though.” How had Doubting George amused himself on his estate in Parthenia? Did he use the labor of any young serfs who looked like him?

George didn’t answer any of that. Instead, he counterattacked: “You had your chances, too, sir, didn’t you? Don’t I remember that you were teaching in a military collegium near Old Capet when Grand Duke Geoffrey took the northern provinces out of Detina?”

“I was indeed,” Hesmucet replied. “But what you also need to remember is that I had my wife along with me while I was there.”

“I see,” George said. “Yes, that could matter. It would make more difference to some than to others, I suppose.”

Which sort are you? lingered behind his words. “I’m not General Guildenstern, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Hesmucet said.

“Few men are,” Doubting George replied. “I know of at least one pretty little blond girl in Rising Rock whom Marshal Bart-he was only General Bart then, of course-turned down flat. Not that she was so flat herself, you understand, and not that Guildenstern had turned her down before, either.”