In strode Patrick the Cleaver. “Top o’ the day to you, General,” he said, saluting. The young brigadier’s voice held the lilt of the Sapphire Isle, where he’d been born. After a career as a soldier of fortune, he’d crossed the Western Ocean to fight for King Geoffrey. He’d risen swiftly. Bell reckoned him among the finest wing commanders in northern service.

“What can I do for you now, Brigadier?” Bell asked, returning the salute. Yes, Patrick the Cleaver was one of the finest wing commanders in northern service. Bell doubted he would ever rise above the rank of brigadier, though. Even by Detinan standards, Patrick was devastatingly frank. Earlier in the year, he’d suggested that Geoffrey arm blond serfs and use them against King Avram’s armies. Geoffrey had not been amused. No one else had had the nerve to make that suggestion since.

“What can your honor do for me?” Patrick repeated. “Why, sir, you can be after telling me when we set ourselves in motion against the gods-damned southrons.”

“Soon,” Bell said soothingly. “Very soon.”

“And when exactly might ‘soon’ be?” Brigadier Patrick inquired. “Sure and we shouldn’t be letting ’em set themselves to meet us, now should we?”

“I don’t intend to do anything of the sort,” Lieutenant General Bell said. He also didn’t intend to order the Army of Franklin into motion right this minute. Laudanum filled him with a pleasant lassitude, almost as if he’d just bedded a woman. Since the drug made it harder for him actually to bed a woman, that was just as well.

“Well, if you won’t let those southron spalpeens set themselves, when are we to move?” Patrick the Cleaver demanded. “For would it not be a fine thing to be having the Army of Franklin in the province of Franklin once more? Better that nor hanging about down here in Dothan, I’m thinking.”