Kip burst from the cover of the bushes and bull-rushed the men. Perched above the valley floor where the Color Prince’s army was camped, the two men were wrapped in blankets against the cold wind, seated, each carrying a musket and a mirror to signal the army below.

The last two years of relentless training had cut Kip’s form to a fraction of its former fulminence of fat: nine-tenths being, after all, still a fraction, so the run up onto the promontory was faster than Kip had ever moved in his life.

But the men saw him almost immediately. They jumped to their feet, scrambling for weapons, throwing off the encumbrance of the blankets. Kip reached a full sprint, broad shoulders and bulk belied by surprising speed.

One of the sentries folded, leg cramping in the cold. The other was hoisting his matchlock musket, pulling the trigger even before the weapon reached his shoulder — counting on the tiny delay between the matchcord hitting the flashpan and its heat igniting the black powder.