Sir Maurizio motioned us toward places on the floor beside a large map covered in little figurines. The morning sun shone through tiny holes in the canvas ceiling. “You’ll forgive an old man taking the only chair, Prince, Seraphina,” said Sir Cuthberte, rubbing his knees as if they ached. Besides his long white mustache, what hair he still possessed stuck out behind each ear like a pale, tufty bird’s nest. “It’s hardly courteous, but I am not as spry as I once was.” “Liar,” said Sir Maurizio. “We know you’re saving it up for the dragons, going to kill them with courtesy.” Sir Cuthberte cough-laughed. My eyes adjusted, and I noticed that the markers on the map weren’t figurines as such, but stones, clumps of sod, and a handful of broad beans. The map was a charcoal sketch on a blanket. “The Old Ard are rocks. Our side—Goreddi and Loyalist, and the Ninysh, if they ever get here—are clods, which I thought apropos,” explained Maurizio, noticing where I gazed.
