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through the slit. “His grace again asked to see
his
general alone. He has promised to tend any business with the other general afterward.” He addressed Santagithi directly. “Or before, if you prefer, sir.”
    “With all due respect . . .” At the moment, Colbey estimated the amount due as a spoonful. “. . . you know Santagithi has no business with the heir. He came with me. Verrall can see me with my retinue or not at all.”
    Apparently briefed for this contingency, the Pudarian did not bother to consult the prince again. He sighed in resignation. “Very well, then. Both of you come inside.” He exited, holding aside the flap.
    Santagithi and Colbey entered together. The spacious area enclosed by the canvas surprised Colbey. Prince Verrall sat in a crude, wooden chair in the center. Behind him, straw and blankets lay neatly spread as bedding. To his left stood a pile of supply crates. To his right, a series of crates surrounded a huge stump that served as a table. A dozen Pudarian soldiers armed with swords were positioned around the prince, and two boys in peasant garb waited behind the chair.
    Colbey lowered his head respectfully. Santagithi bowed, and the prince answered with the same courtesy. “I didn’t expect the pleasure of your company, too, Santagithi. Please, accept my hospitality. My business is with my general.” He waved toward the table and crates. The boys scurried in the indicated direction to tend to Santagithi even before he arrived.
    Colbey opened his mouth to protest again, but Santagithi squeezed his arm in warning. “Let it lie, friend,” he hissed, barely audibly. “There’s something to be said for compromise.” He spoke aloud, “Thank you, Verrall.” Without further comment, he took the seat closest to the prince and facing Colbey.
    The peasant boys talked softly with Santagithi, then trotted off to attend some request. The prince turned his attention fully on Colbey. “First, General, I and all of Pudar would like to thank you for your leadership and your dedication to our effort in the war.”
    Colbey glanced toward Santagithi, seeking clues to the proper formalities. But the town leader slouched with his head resting on a hand propped on the table. Legs crossed, he watched the proceedings with mild curiosity. As Colbey’s delay stretched past politeness, Santagithi raised his brows.
    You bastard.
Colbey knew Santagithi was gleaningsome amusement from the situation. “You’re welcome.” Colbey could think of nothing better to say, but the ensuing hush encouraged him to continue. “Your uncle, King Gasir, was a good man and a decent soldier. He died bravely. It was my pleasure to honor his only request to me, that, in the event of his death, I lead his army in the war.” Colbey stopped, hoping he had said enough.
    “Sire,” the nearest Pudarian hissed at Colbey.
    Surprised by the address, Colbey glanced at his escort.
    Prince Verrall continued, apparently unaware of the exchange. “As you know, King Gasir had four nephews. Though I am the second in age, my father was the king’s next eldest brother, while my cousin was born of Gasir’s youngest brother. I am, by law, the heir.” He studied Colbey with an intensity that seemed to bear no relation to his words.
    Colbey nodded, rapidly losing interest.
    “I am concerned my cousin may try to claim the Pudarian throne.”
    Again Colbey nodded. He watched one of the peasant boys thread through the prince’s entourage with a mug of wine for Santagithi.
    “Do you understand the situation, General?”
    Colbey’s brows knit in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. The situation seemed obvious enough for a senile street beggar to grasp, and he wondered if he should take offense at the question. “It seems terribly clear, yes.”
    “Sire,” the Pudarian guard whispered more forcefully.
    “What?” Colbey hissed back.
    The soldier emphasized his point with an abrupt gesture with both open hands. “Sire. Call the