“Did you learn the rotation of the border patrols?’ said Laurent.

‘Yes, our scouts found—’

Laurent was standing in the doorway wearing a chiton of unadorned white cotton.

Damen dropped the pitcher.

It shattered, shards flying outward as it slipped from his fingers and hit the stone floor.

Laurent’s arms were bare. His throat was bare. His collarbone was bare, and most of his thighs, his long legs, and all of his left shoulder. Damen stared at him.

‘You’re wearing Akielon clothing,’ said Damen.

‘Everyone’s wearing Akielon clothing,’ said Laurent.

Damen thought that the pitcher had shattered and he could not now take a deep draught of the wine. Laurent came forward, navigating the broken ceramic in his short cotton and sandalled feet, until he reached the seat beside Damen, where the map was laid out on the wooden table.

‘Once we know the rotation of the patrols, we’ll know when to approach,’ said Laurent.

Laurent sat down.

‘We need to approach at the beginning of their rotation in order to give us the most time before they report back to the fort.’

It was even shorter sitting down.

‘Damen.’

‘Yes. Sorry,’ said Damen. And then: ‘What were you saying?”