His most valuable talent was the ability to remain calm and bland of expression in the face of fear or provocation. He used that talent frequently. Greyfells was an ambitious beast blessed with cunning and a complete lack of scruples-typical of his line. He was neither the worst nor the best duke that Babeltausque had known. He was mediocre in most ways. He stood out because of his rages.

Those assured Dane’s early demise, probably as soon as someone believed he had a chance to get away with it.

Babeltausque’s most important chore was to protect the Duke from his own family, which was not that difficult out here.

The tradition of elevating oneself over the corpse of one’s father, brother, or uncle had not been much honored of late. Only outsiders had laid the Greyfells Dukes low with any verve the past three decades. But the possibility survived in Dane’s imagination.

If this Duke met an early end the House of Greyfells might collapse. There were no relatives suited to replace him.

Enemies in Itaskia must be busy as worker ants trying to make that happen while Greyfells was away. Returning deserters would tell encouraging tales of Dane’s incompetence, which explained why he grew ever more testy. Every day of triumph delayed out here was a day when the family lost ground at home.

Colonel Gales entered. He wore clean clothing that did not fit. His hair was stringy wet from an unwanted bath. His face was red from a rough shave. His right arm was in a sling. He limped.

Greyfells, of course, first noted that he needed a haircut.

The Colonel bowed.

The Duke said, “I hear you had some trouble.”

“We got ambushed by Marena Dimura. They knew who we were and had our itinerary.”

“But you fought through.” Stating the obvious.

“They didn’t press the matter. They hit us, hurt us, failed to kill me in the first rush, started getting hurt themselves, so they faded away. I didn’t chase them. We were all hurt and they would’ve led us into a secondary ambush.”