“Where’s the old man?” one redheaded footsoldier asked another.

“Colonel Spinello?” the other soldier returned. The first man nodded. Ealstan pricked up his ears. The second Algarvian said, “He went over to one of the officers’ brothels by the palace, the lucky bastard. Said he had a meeting somewhere later on, so he might as well have some fun first. If it’s anything important, you could hunt him up, I bet.”

“Nah.” The first redhead made a dismissive gesture. “He asked me to let him know how my sister was doing--she got hurt when those stinking Kuusamans dropped eggs on Trapani. My father writes that she’ll pull through. I’ll tell him when I see him, that’s all.”

“That’s good,” the second soldier said. “Glad to hear it.”

Ealstan turned away in frustration. He wouldn’t get Spinello today. Braving an Algarvian officers’ brothel was beyond him, even if murder wasn’t. He also found himself surprised to learn Spinello cared about his men and their families. But then he thought, Well, why shouldn’t he? It’s not as if they were Kaunians.

For four years and more, the west wing of the mansion on the outskirts of Priekule had housed the Algarvians who administered the capital of Valmiera for the redheaded conquerors. No more. Occupying it these days were Marquis Skarnu; his fiancée, Merkela; and Gedominu, their son, who was just starting to pull himself upright.

Skarnu’s sister, Marchioness Krasta, still lived in the east wing, as she had all through the occupation. She’d had an Algarvian colonel warming her bed all through the occupation, too, but she loudly insisted the baby she was carrying belonged to Viscount Valnu, who’d been an underground leader. Valnu didn’t disagree with her, either, worse luck. That kept Skarnu from throwing Krasta out of the mansion on her shapely backside.