“It sounds good,” the ruffian said, “but how do we go about it?The post is slow, and the whoresons read it. Where are we going to get enoughcrystals? And how do we keep their mages from listening in on them? Emanations willleak, and we can’t afford it, not if we want to keep breathing we can’t.”

“Those are good questions,” the man with the silver spectaclessaid, nodding. “But we can’t go on as we have been, either. A good blow likethe one at Count Simanu went half wasted because we didn’t make those peoplesweat all over the place at the same time. And we could have. But we didn’t,because we didn’t know it would happen till after it did.”

Nobody talked about Algarvians or redheads, or named King Mezentio.That, Skarnu judged, was also wise: no telling who might be trying to listen atsome of the nearby tables. Skarnu said, “Only trouble is, if you’d known aheadof time, they might have known ahead of time, too.”

“Aye.” That was the tough again, his voice gone savage. “We’vespawned enough traitors and to spare, that’s certain. And it’s not just thenobles who go riding with . . . those people, or the noblewomen who let thosepeople go riding on them, either.” Skarnu thought of his sister, the MarchionessKrasta--an Algarvian colonel’s lover these days--but not for long, for thefellow was continuing, “There’s traitors all the way down. When our timecomes round again, we’ll have some fancy killing to do.” He sounded as if helooked forward to every bit of it.

“We must be ruthless, but we must be fair,” the bespectacled mansaid. “This isn’t Unkerlant, after all.”

The tough tossed his head. “No, it sure isn’t, is it? Unkerlant isstill in the fight. Don’t you wish we could say the same?”