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band.
    Not that anyone could get you in, for any of those offerings. The Captain made his own choices, often unexpected ones, with gap-toothed old Laín Nunez his only counsellor. Laín was manifestly uninterested in the alleged pleasures of boys, and the Captain . . . well, the very thought was near to sacrilege, besides which, Miranda Belmonte d’Alveda was the most beautiful woman in the world. So all the young men in Esteren agreed, though almost none of them had ever seen her.
    On the morning he stood pissing against a wagon wheel in a sidecourt of Esteren’s palace and overheard certain things he ought not to have heard, Alvar de Pellino was one of those who had never met the Captain’s wife. He hadn’t met anyone, really. He was less than a year in from a farm in the northwest. He still couldn’t believe they were going to let him ride with them this morning.
    He heard footsteps and voices approaching from the far side of the wagon; that was not of great concern. Some men might have to be alone to empty their bladder or bowels; they didn’t last long in an army. But then, on that very thought, Alvar’s groin muscles clenched in a spasm so hard they cut off the splashing flow of his water. He gasped, recognizing the Captain’s wry tones, and then realized that the second man’s voice—the one that sounded like slow honey being poured—belonged to Count Gonzalez.
    With a decision to be swiftly made, Alvar de Pellino made what turned out to be the wrong one. Panic-stricken, irrationally preoccupied with remaining unnoticed, Alvar almost injured himself holding in the last of his water and kept silent. He hoped, fervently, that the two men were only here to exchange parting pleasantries.
    â€œI could arrange to have your sons killed and your ranch burned,” Gonzalez de Rada said, pleasantly enough, “if you make any trouble about this.”
    Alvar decided that it was by far the wisest course not to breathe for a time.
    â€œTry it,” the Captain said briskly. “The boys could use some practice against assault, however incompetent. But before you leave, do explain how I would be the one making trouble and not your pig of a brother.”
    â€œIf a de Rada chooses to go raiding in Al-Rassan, what business is it of yours, Belmonte?”
    â€œAh. Well. If such is the case, why bother asking me to close my eyes and pretend not to see him?”
    â€œI am merely trying to save you an embarrassing—”
    â€œDon’t assume everyone else is a fool, de Rada. I’m collecting tribute from Fezana for the king. The only legitimacy to such a claim is that Ramiro has formally guaranteed the security of the city and its countryside. Not only from brigands, or his brother in Ruenda, or the other petty-kings in Al-Rassan, but from buffoons in his own country. If your brother wants to play at raiding games for the fun of it, he’d best not do it on my watch. If I see him anywhere in the country around Fezana, I’ll deal with him in the name of the king. You’ll be doing him a kindness if you make that clear.” There was nothing wry or ironic, no hint of anything but iron in the voice now.
    There was a silence. Alvar could hear Laín Nunez barking instructions over by the horses. He sounded angry. He often did. It became necessary, despite all his best efforts, to breathe. Alvar did so as quietly as he could.
    â€œDoesn’t it cause you some concern, ” Gonzalez de Rada said in a deceptively grave, an almost gentle tone, “to be riding off into infidel lands after speaking so rashly to the constable of Valledo, leaving your poor wife alone on a ranch with children and ranch hands?”
    â€œIn a word,” said the Captain, “no. For one thing, you value your own life too much to make a real enemy of me. I will not be subtle about this: if any man I can trace to your authority is found within half a