“It’s Ambassador ca’Pallo’s death, yes,” Sergei answered, holding up the paper again as he approached the Capitaine. “Certainly. But it’s also this. Have you seen it?”

Ce’Denis peered myopically at the paper. “I noticed some of these posted around the Avi on my way in this morning, yes. But I’m afraid I’m a plain man of battle, Ambassador. I don’t have the skills of letters, as you undoubtedly remember.”

“Ah.” Sergei scowled. He had forgotten-ce’Denis’ illiteracy had been one of the reasons that he was only the Capitaine of the Bastida and not an a’offizier in the Garde Kralji or Garde Civile; it was also the reason he wasn’t a chevaritt and why his rank was only ce’. Sergei’s hand fisted around the parchment, crumpling it with a sound like brief fire, and tossing it on the ground. Deliberately, he stepped on it. “It’s a repulsive piece of trash, Capitaine. Vile. A proclamation from that damned Nico Morel, railing against the Numetodo and insulting the memory of Ambassador ca’Pallo. Gloating at my good friend’s death…”

Sergei grimaced. Memories of Nico Morel came back unbidden even as he railed. The boy he’d known a decade and a half ago during the great battle for Nessantico had little resemblance to the charismatic, raving firebrand who had surfaced recently. Still, those had been awful times, and Nico had been lost during them-who knew what the boy had experienced? Who knew how life might have twisted him?

Life twisted you, didn’t it? Sergei’s headache pounded at his temples. “Nico Morel believes he’s the incarnation of Cenzi himself,” he said, rubbing his brow with one hand. “I swear, Capitaine, I will have Morel here in the Bastida one day, and I will take great delight in his interrogation.”

Ce’Denis pressed his thin lips together. He looked up at the skull of the dragon, mounted on the wall and glaring down at the courtyard in which they stood. “I’m sure you will, Ambassador ca’Rudka.”