that would customarily house the Knights of a camp. Lights still glowed inside, and she heard a piper and laughter from within. "This one?"
"Yes, Lady," the centurion said.
"Fine. Get to your men. Make sure they watch the signal towers. And ready any other available defense of the walls."
The centurion drew in a breath and nodded. "All right. Do you think you'll convince him, Lady?"
"The only question is whether or not he survives it," Amara said, and her voice sounded cool to her, very certain. "One way or another, those Knights will be ready to fight, by the Crown."
Harger came panting up to them out of the dark, blowing like an old but spirited horse. He held the sword Amara had claimed from the Princeps Memorium in his hand and offered her the hilt. "There you go," the healer panted. "Hope you work quick, girlie. One of the guards thought he saw a light from the furthest tower, but it went out. Bernard took a horse out to see what's going on."
Amara's heart skipped a beat. Bernard alone in that country. The Marat that close. "How far is the tower from here?"
"Seven, eight miles," Harger said.
"Centurion. How long to move troops that far?"
"Without furycrafting? At night? That's rough country, Lady. Maybe they could be here in three hours or a little more, as a body. Light troops could do it a lot faster."
"Crows," Amara breathed. "All right. Get the rest of the troops out of bed, centurion. Assemble them and tell them that the Knight Commander will address them in a few moments."
"Uh, Lady? If he won't come-"
"Leave that to me." She slipped the sword's scabbard through her belt, holding it at her hip with her left hand and stalked toward the Knight's barracks, her heart pounding in her throat. She stopped outside the doors and
took a breath to stabilize herself and clear her mind. Then she put her hand on the door and shoved it open, hard, letting it rattle against its frame.
The inside of the barracks was thick with the smell of wood smoke and wine. Furylamps burned in shades of gold and scarlet. Men played at draughts at one table, stacks of coins riding on the game, while groups threw dice at two others. Women, most of them of an age to speak of their status as camp women, draped on a man's arm here and there, carried wine, or sprawled on a sofa or in a chair, drinking or kissing. One girl, a lithe young thing in a slave's collar and little more, danced to the music of the piper before the fire, casting a slender, dark shadow there like some kind of exotic ornament.
Amara took a breath and walked to the nearest table. "Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice cool, businesslike. "I'm looking for Commander Pirellus."
One of the men at the table looked up at her with a leer. "He's already had his girls for tonight, lass. Though I'd be happy to fill your..." His eyes wandered suggestively. "... time."
Amara faced the man and said, cooly, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Where is Commander Pirellus?"
The man's face darkened with drunken anger, and he straightened, picking up a knife in his fist. "What? You saying I'm not good enough for you? You some kind of snob whore that only goes for rich boy Citizens?"
Amara reached for Cirrus and borrowed of her fury's swiftness. Her arm blurred, drawing the short guardsman's blade from its scabbard at her hip. The sword leapt across the space between them before the startled soldier could react, and Amara leaned forward enough to let it dimple his throat. The room abruptly went dead silent, but for the crackle of the fire. "I am a Cursor of the First Lord himself. I'm here on business. And I have no tolerance for drunken fools. Drop the knife."
The soldier made a strangled sound, holding up one hand to her, palm out. The other, he lowered to the table and set the knife down. Amara could feel the ugly stares of the men around him focusing on her like the tips of a dozen spears about to be driven home. Her throat grew tight with fear, but she allowed none of it to be seen on her face, leaving her expression cool, calm, and merciless as an icy sea.
"Thank you," Amara said. "Now. Where is Pirellus?"
Amara heard a door open behind her, and a calm, almost languid voice