“Cannot or will not?” sneered the woman. “You are not yet a colonel in Shûme’s service, I believe, but just a mercenary braggart.”

Hereward sighed and looked around the common room.

Misolu had spoken truly that the inn was not a mercenary favourite. But there were several officers of Shûme’s regular service or militia, all of them looking on with great attention.

“Very well,” he snapped. “It is foolishness, for I intended no offence. When and where?”

“Immediately,” said the woman. “There is a garden a little way behind this inn. It is lit by lanterns in the trees, and has a lawn.”

“How pleasant,” said Hereward. “What is your name, madam?”

“I am Lieutenant Jessaye of the Temple Guard of Shûme. And you are?”

“I am Sir Hereward of the High Pale.”

“And your friends, Sir Hereward?”

“I have only this moment arrived in Shûme, Lieutenant, and so cannot yet name any friends. Perhaps someone in this room will stand by me, should you wish a second. My companion, whom I introduce to you now, is known as Mister Fitz. He is a surgeon—among other things—and I expect he will accompany us.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” said Mister Fitz. He doffed his hat and veil, sending a momentary frisson of small twitches among all in the room save Hereward.

Jessaye nodded back but did not answer Fitz. Instead she spoke to Hereward.

“I need no second. Should you wish to employ sabres, I must send for mine.”

“I have a sword in my gear,” said Hereward. “If you will allow me a few minutes to fetch it?”

“The garden lies behind the stables,” said Jessaye. “I will await you there. Pray do not be too long.”

Inclining her head but not doffing her hat, she stalked past and out the door.