decided to leave, two of the group weren’t ready to come and stayed behind—“just to finish the jug,” they said.
“Don’t come back too late,” teased Vik, “and expect us to take your slot on guard, because I’m going to get my beauty sleep.”
“Beauty sleep, or sleep with a beauty?” asked a townsman at the next table, emboldened by his flask of wine as he eyed Paks.
“Sleep,” replied Vik cheerfully. “She’s on guard before I am.” Which was not true, but made a good exit. Paks had already turned away, trusting Vik to find a good answer. He always did, with everyone. They got back to camp shortly before the watch change; Stammel was not pleased to find that two had stayed behind.
“Do you think they’ll be back on time, or had I better go roust ’em out?”
“Sif’s not on until late watch,” said Paks. “He’s got a strong head, and I don’t think he’ll be late. I don’t know Tarn that well—he’s Dorrin’s—but surely Sif will keep an eye on him.”
“I hope. It seems a clean enough place, but it is on the far side of town. If they’re not back by midwatch, let me know; I’ll want to find ’em.”
The guard assignment had Paks partnered with Jenits; they had a short stretch on the east side of camp, from the horse lines to the entrance. It was nearly midwatch when she heard a wavering song from the lane that led to Ifoss. As the noise came closer, she could hear two voices. The guards at the camp entrance snickered. Paks hoped it was Sif and Tarn, but they did sound drunk.
“Like the bee-e-e, so swift to anger… but her honey’s… rich and swee-eet—” one of the two stopped to cough, then picked up the song again. “I don’t fe-ear her painful stinger… but the honey-y… I will—”
“Quiet, there!” Dorrin, the watch captain, had heard the noise. Paks heard a hiccup and indistinct mutters from the pair. “Come up to the light,” said Dorrin, “and give the password.” Paks saw two shadowy figures approach the torches at the camp entrance, and heard them stumble over the password.
“You’re a disgrace,” snapped Dorrin. “Veterans who don’t know their limit—why do you think we didn’t let the others into town, eh? This is no campaign for getting drunk and blabbing in taverns. And what happened to your cloak, Tarn?” Paks could not hear the answer, if he made any. Dorrin cleared her throat and spat. “Your sergeants will see to you,” she said. “Wait here.” She strode off.
“Is it that bad to get drunk?” asked Jenits softly. “I used to—”
“It depends,” said Paks. They turned back toward the horse lines. “Anything you say in a tavern will travel—if you get drunk and talk about the Company, where we’re marching, or when—that’s bad.”
“I see,” said Jenits.
“And then if you’re drunk,” said Paks, “you’re more likely to be taken by slavers, or attacked by thieves. Or if it makes you mean, you might brawl, and that makes trouble for the Company. Of course if it’s a cohort or Company banquet, that’s different.”
Next day Paks saw Sif grooming mules under the sarcastic guidance of the muleskinner. She was sure that Dorrin’s sergeant had found something equally unpleasant for Tarn.
When they left Ifoss, they angled across pastures toward the Middle Marches. By nightfall they were camped under the ridge. Sheep trails led up it. The next day they spent climbing, winding back and forth along the face of the slope. To the north their view broadened: they could see Ifoss with its wall, and downstream another wall and tower that Stammel said was Foss Fort. A cold wind scoured the height. They passed outcrops of gray stone splashed with orange and brown lichens. The outcrops grew rougher, formed into long lines like low walls. They passed through a gap in one, shoulder high on either side; it ran along the slope as far as Paks could see. Above it, the rocks disappeared once more under thick turf, still winter-tawny. The slope eased. They camped that night near that natural stone wall.
They reached the broad top of the ridge in less than an hour of marching the next morning. Paks looked at the vast and empty land to the south. The great ridge seemed to fall slightly to the southwest, cleft here and there by steep watercourses furred with trees. The sky arched blue and nearly cloudless; they could see for miles—could see, for instance, a galloping horseman far ahead. None of the officers seemed concerned, so Paks thought it must be one of their own messengers.
Although they crossed many winding sheep trails, they saw neither sheep nor shepherds. Paks realized that they were more visible than a flock of stone-gray sheep—of course any shepherd would move out of their path. That afternoon they camped where a pool had formed below several springs; a small clear stream ran away from the low end of the pool and dropped into a narrow cleft in the rock.
It was just after lunch on the next day when Paks heard horns blowing in the south; the sound trembled in the still air. She peered south, trying to see something. Far down the slope was a knot of horsemen, but the horn calls had come from farther away than that. The thunder of hooves began to shake the ground. Stammel called them into fighting formation; other sergeants were yelling. They unslung shields, and drew their swords. Paks watched her recruits. Volya looked pale, but eager. Keri was frowning, and waggling his blade a little as if reminding himself of the drill. The back of Jenits’s neck had reddened. She eased her own shoulders and took a deep breath as the riders neared. They wore brown and gray tunics, oddly loose and flapping, and carried lances with no decoration.
The leading horses slowed, and the foremost rider hailed the Duke. Arcolin rode forward with him. Once more, Paks could not hear what was said. She looked at her recruits again; they were too stiff.
“Easy,” she said. “Breathe slowly.” Keri’s eyes slid toward hers, and he drew a shaky breath. Arcolin turned to the column and signalled the sergeants.
“Sheathe your blades,” said Stammel; Paks eased her sword back in place. Some of the recruits were so tense it took them two tries. They waited. Paks glanced down and saw a fresh green blade poking up through the mat of frost-burned turf. Ahead, almost under Jenits’s left foot, was a flat rosette of leaves with two tiny white flowers on top. Almost spring, thought Paks. She looked around for other flowers, but saw none. The riders were turning their horses away. The captains came back to their commands, but the Duke and his squires moved up beside the leading rider.
“We’ve a fast march to make,” said Arcolin, “with a fight at the end of it. Take a drink now, and re-sling your shields but be ready to shift position at any time.” No one had much to say as they started south again at a faster pace. An arc of riders went before them, and others rode on their flanks. Paks looked hard at the drab tunics; when one rider bent to untwist a rein, she caught a glimpse of rose through the loose sleeve. So. They were Clarts after all.
As they went they heard horns again: deep and high, long note and sharp staccato signals. It was hard to keep the pace even; the horns and the steepening downhill slope pulled them forward, ever faster. Paks could see, now, that they were coming to a broad saddle between the high ground behind them and a similar rise ahead. To left and right the land fell steeply into deep gorges. Beyond the saddle, shining in the late afternoon sun, rose a tower; around it writhed a dark mass that Paks realized must be an army. They marched on; Paks wondered if they would make that distance by dark. And whose side were they on?
As they started across the saddle, more drab-clad riders came up from the broken ground to either side. The slope rose under their feet toward the tower. Paks could not see, now, for the riders ahead, but the crash and roar of battle came clearly. Rising excitement swamped the fatigue of the day’s march. The riders pulled their baggy tunics over their heads, and Clart Cavalry rose and white glowed in the slanting sun.
Arcolin leaned to speak to Stammel. He nodded, turning to the cohort. “Shields,” he said; Paks took her own shield, and made sure her recruits had theirs secure. They drew swords. As they advanced, shifting from marching column to battle order, Cracolnya’s cohort moved off to their right flank.
“Slow advance—keep in line, there!” yelled Stammel. Paks heard the Clarts yipping as they spurred to the attack. Dust rose in clouds. A great yell from before them; more horn signals. The Duke appeared out of the dust to ride beside them. His squires clustered around him; Paks wondered if they could see any better from the saddle.
The Duke pointed ahead; one of the squires took off at a gallop. Arcolin jogged up from the rear of the cohort, and rode beside the Duke. Paks could hear nothing but battle sounds. Arcolin dropped back, and in a few moments Dorrin’s cohort came alongside on their left. Paks saw the Duke’s head turn. She looked ahead. Through
