“Good morning, Colonel Florizel,” he called, tipping his hat as the regimental commander limped by.

“And a good day to you as well, Captain.” Florizel, though a belted earl, did treat Gremio as if he were of noble blood himself. Gremio couldn’t find fault with the regimental commander over that, and Gremio was a man who, before the war began, had made his living by finding fault.

“How’s your leg, your Excellency?” he asked now.

“Well, it’ll never be what it was,” Earl Florizel replied. He’d been wounded in the battle by the River of Death the autumn before, and hadn’t been able to get about for some time afterwards. Even now, he looked as if he would be more comfortable leaning on a stick. But he went on, “If Lieutenant General Bell can lead a wing without a leg, I suppose I can try to lead a regiment with a sore one.”

“Bell’s courage is an example to us all,” Gremio agreed. He had a lower opinion of Lieutenant General Bell’s brains, but kept that to himself. It didn’t change the point Colonel Florizel was trying to make.

Florizel snapped his fingers. “Speaking of wing commanders, that reminds me. You’ll be pleased to hear that Leonidas the Priest has returned to command a wing of the Army of Franklin.”

“I will?” Captain Gremio said in real surprise. “Why?”

Colonel Florizel had big bushy eyebrows. They fluttered now, like moths trying to escape from his forehead. “Why? I’ll tell you why, Captain. Because having a hierophant of the Lion God leading our soldiers will surely lead the god to support us with claws and fangs.”

“Surely,” Gremio said. Being a barrister, he had practice disguising his tone, and Florizel would think he had agreement, not sarcasm, in mind. “Indeed, sir, Leonidas the Priest is a very holy and pious man.”