Count Sabrino snorted again. I wish I could leave me for a younger man. He was nearer sixty than fifty; he’d fought as a footsoldier in the Six Years’ War more than a generation before. He’d started flying dragons because he didn’t want to get caught up once more in the great slaughters on the ground, of which he’d seen entirely too many in the last war. And so, in this war, he’d seen plenty of slaughters from the air. It was less of an improvement than he’d hoped.

Smoky or not, the fire was warm. Little by little, the chill began to leach out of Sabrino’s bones. Heading into the fourth winter of the war against Unkerlant. He shook his head in slow wonder. Who would have imagined that, back in the days when Mezentio of Algarve hurtled his army west against Swemmel? One kick and the whole rotten structure of Unkerlant would come crashing down. That was what the Algarvians had thought then. They’d learned some hard lessons since.

Joints clicking, Sabrino got to his feet. I had a flask somewhere. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. I really am getting old if I can’t remember where. He snapped his fingers. “In the bedding--that’s right,” he said aloud, as if talking to himself weren’t another sign of too many years.

When he found the flask, it felt lighter than it should have. Of that he had no doubt whatever. If that dragon-handler gives me wood, I don’t suppose I can begrudge him a knock of spirits. He yanked out the stopper and poured down a knock himself. The spirits were Yaninan: anise-flavored and strong as a demon.

“Ah,” Sabrino said. Fire spread outward from his belly. He nodded, slowly and deliberately. I’m going to live. I may even decide I want to.