“He is.”

“If I was half a man, I’d-”

“You’re not. So leave it be.”

General Ganmark’s face was strangely soft, his moustaches limp, his pale grey eyes always watery, lending him a look of perpetual sadness. The rumour was he’d been thrown out of the Union army for a sexual indiscretion involving another officer, and crossed the sea to find a more broad-minded master. The breadth of Duke Orso’s mind was infinite where his servants were concerned, provided they were effective. She and Benna were proof enough of that.

Ganmark nodded stiffly to Monza. “General Murcatto.” He nodded stiffly to Benna. “General Murcatto. Count Foscar, you are keeping to your exercises, I hope?”

“Sparring every day.”

“Then we will make a swordsman of you yet.”

Benna snorted. “That, or a bore.”

“Either one would be something,” droned Ganmark in his clipped Union accent. “A man without discipline is no better than a dog. A soldier without discipline is no better than a corpse. Worse, in fact. A corpse is no threat to his comrades.”

Benna opened his mouth but Monza talked over him. He could make an arse of himself later, if he pleased. “How was your season?”

“I played my part, keeping your flanks free of Rogont and his Osprians.”

“Stalling the Duke of Delay?” Benna smirked. “Quite the challenge.”

“No more than a supporting role. A comic turn in a great tragedy, but one appreciated by the audience, I hope.”

The echoes of their footsteps swelled as they passed through another archway and into the towering rotunda at the heart of the palace. The curving walls were vast panels of sculpture showing scenes from antiquity. Wars between demons and magi, and other such rubbish. High above, the great dome was frescoed with seven winged women against a stormy sky-armed, armoured and angry-looking. The Fates, bringing destinies to earth. Aropella’s greatest work. She’d heard it had taken him eight years to finish. Monza never got over how tiny, weak, utterly insignificant this space made her feel. That was the point of it.