’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. I won’t even ask. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely.
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