"His Majesty has given me a mission," Lothar said bluntly. "But my available strength is far too small. I need your help, Lord Godfrey."

He laid out in full detail the task Baldwin IV had entrusted to him.

Godfrey's expression grew serious. "I have a hundred cavalry under my command. Twelve knights. How many do you need?"

Lothar hid his surprise. Even most imperial counts—lords such as Werner, who held directly from the Emperor of Greater Germania rather than through a duke—could not maintain so large a standing force. Once Godfrey called up his peasant levies, he could field more than a thousand men by himself.

Lothar thought for a moment. "Twenty cavalry, at minimum. As for knights… I need someone who can read a situation and adapt, someone who knows the terrain and the factions of the Holy Land."

Godfrey studied him. "What do you intend to do?"

"Burn a few villages? Raid, slaughter a few hundred infidel peasants? Ten riders would do for that. They're all seasoned fighters."

Lothar frowned. "Burn villages? Slaughter peasants? I never planned anything of the sort."

War always dragged civilians into its wake; Lothar was not naive enough to deny that. But he would not deliberately turn his sword on the defenseless. That was a line he refused to cross.

"Justice and mercy. Punish the wicked, protect the weak, and never raise your sword against those who cannot fight back." Lothar met his gaze. "Those are a knight's vows."

Godfrey spoke with heavy patience. "His Holiness the Pope has declared that to kill an infidel is not murder. You must understand, Lothar: a man who clings to scruples cannot achieve great things. Not here. Not anywhere."

Lothar was silent a moment. Then he shook his head.

"You may be right, my lord. But a man cannot ignore his own conscience. I cannot lie to myself and say it is right."

Godfrey said nothing for a long while. When Lothar looked up, he saw something unexpected on the baron's face: approval, nostalgia, even a touch of relief.

He let out a long sigh. "Lothar, the truth is, you are nothing like your father. I say that from the heart. Apart from the intelligence and the courage, neither your face nor your temperament resembles him."

He paused. "You're far better-looking than Werner, for a start."

He clapped Lothar on the shoulder, and the two of them shared a quiet laugh.

"Your father was a devout man. He understood statecraft and strategy. But he did not possess your kindness."

"They called him the Headsman. The Cold-Blooded Butcher. He never showed mercy to his enemies, and he was utterly ruthless with Crusader lords who trafficked with the infidels. The nobles feared him. The infidels hated him and feared him in equal measure."

Seeing Lothar's expression shift, Godfrey smiled. "But don't worry. Even in the Queen's party and the Baron's party, many respected Werner for his honesty and his unshakeable principles. No one will hold his past against you: not openly, at least."

Lothar returned the smile. In truth, he wasn't afraid of becoming a target. Only the mediocre escaped resentment. He had benefited from his father's reputation; he could bear the debts that came with it.

Not that he'd mind avoiding them.

The smile faded from Godfrey's face, replaced by something more somber. "The real reason your father left the Holy Land was because of me. And the King. Too often, we not only failed to support him — we stood against him."

"He believed we had betrayed the high ideals we'd sworn to uphold. That we'd begged the infidels for peace instead of fighting to the end."

Bitterness crept into the baron's voice.

Lothar was quiet. Count Werner's conduct had always seemed that of a man of genuine faith. But he had never fully grasped just how unbending the man had been. Even after the Battle of Montgisard and Saladin's defeat, the Crusader states were still hopelessly outmatched by the Ayyubid Sultanate. The balance of power was simply too lopsided.

"Still, it seems he's come around, or he wouldn't have sent you to us." Godfrey looked at him. "Lothar, the King would not entrust such a mission to you unless he saw great promise."

"I will not disappoint him — or you."

"Don't put too much weight on it. Coming back alive is what matters. Even if you have to swallow your pride. As long as you live, you have a future."

"I understand."

Godfrey set his hand on Lothar's shoulder again. "I have a company of Kurdish cavalry. They once served the Zengid dynasty. After Saladin destroyed the Zengids, these men swore to avenge their lord, even if it meant serving infidels to do it."

He held Lothar's eye. This was one of his deepest secrets. In the Holy Land, every Crusader lord had dealings with the infidels to some degree. Even King Baldwin himself had exchanged letters with Saladin. But none of it could ever be spoken of openly.

"Perfect," Lothar said without hesitation. "I'll take the Kurdish riders. The problem, of course, is that Saladin will certainly blame this on the Zengid remnants."

The Zengid dynasty had once been the Ayyubids' overlord. Saladin had overthrown them and seized their lands only a few years prior. They were, in effect, remnants of the former regime. Their power had always been concentrated around Aleppo and Antioch, lands they knew intimately.

It was the Zengid armies, after all, that had defeated Count Reynald, the former Prince of Antioch, and Joscelin III of Edessa, stripping both of their territories. And Saladin was himself a Kurd. So a Kurdish warband operating under his banner would raise no eyebrows.

Godfrey smiled faintly. "The facts of the matter rarely decide anything."

Lothar caught on at once and nodded. "The Sassanid King needs a reason to act. We only have to give him one."

If Saladin reclaimed Jerusalem, he would become the savior of the entire Fire-Worship world. His prestige would instantly eclipse the Sassanid King of Kings. And the Sassanid Shah could not, openly, be seen to obstruct him: not without answering to every Fire-Worshipper who dreamed of the Holy City's liberation.

"Any loose threads," Godfrey added, "the Sassanid King will smooth over for us."

He noticed the sweat beading at Lothar's temples and smiled. "You ought to change into a silk robe. It's cooler, and better suited to your station."

"Don't worry, silk isn't so expensive here in Jerusalem. It only multiplies after it passes through the hands of those grasping merchants. If you can't afford it, I can give you one."

Lothar's response was immediate. "I won't refuse."

Godfrey blinked, then sighed. "I was only being polite."

Lothar spread his hands in a gesture of honest poverty. "The money really is spoken for. His Majesty granted me a thousand solidi, but I've decided to use it to equip fifty armored foot soldiers. Provisions, weapons, wages, training grounds: I'm trying to stretch every coin as though I could split it in two."

"Fifty armored infantry?"

Godfrey stared at him.

"Lothar, in the Holy Land, that same money — put into ten cavalrymen — would serve you far better than fifty foot."

Lothar shook his head, rueful. "As a knight, I can't recruit wandering knights and their retinues. The best I can do is hire mounted sergeants. Their fighting ability is nowhere near a knight's, and they're ruinously expensive."

He'd seen the difference firsthand against the Magyar horsemen. The gap between a knight and an ordinary steppe rider said everything. He knew full well that in this age, cavalry was king; and it would remain so until the rise of the great pike squares. Alexander's phalanx might have won the fame, but it was the Companion cavalry that had struck the decisive blow. The legions with their square shields and imperial eagles, undefeated as they were, had still needed auxiliary horsemen, barbarians, Nubians, to complete them.

And he now possessed the Winged Hussar's Swallowtail Banner, an artifact purpose-built for cavalry. The argument for horsemen was overwhelming.

Knowing the better choice and being able to afford it were different matters. Even before feed and upkeep, one warhorse cost as much as fully equipping several armored foot soldiers.

"Fair enough." Godfrey was persuaded. "You know your own circumstances best. My experience may not fit your reality."

"Rest in the city tonight. Tomorrow we leave for Ibelin. That's where the Kurdish company is stationed."

"By sea?"

"Yes. Ibelin is near the coast. I'll arrange a ship to take you north. You'll land at Haifa, cross through Galilee, and enter Ayyubid territory from there."