Dragonford

Chapter 2

6

The sun rose to find Wedger, Faeresta, and Kourin dirty, tired, and sneaking through a rundown slum at the northern end of Sophia. They had spent the darkest hours of the night finding a suitable place to dump the body of the assassin who Kourin had beheaded.

The final resting place had been a stand of scrawny trees growing in a defile some thirty feet below the main road out of town. Kourin said that there were bears in a nearby cave.

“How do you figure that?” Faeresta asked.

“The way the gravel is swept outward from the cave mouth,” Kourin said. “Bear tracks look the same where I am from.”

On the way back, they stopped when Wedger stumbled and nearly fell.

Faeresta helped her to a sitting position. She held up a hand, and as she focused, a soothing green light glowed softly at the tips of her fingers.

“Poor thing,” Faeresta said. “She’s exhausted.”

Wedger shook her head, as if to protest. Her lips moved, like she wanted to say something in protest, but she couldn’t make them form words.

“This used to be easier,” Faeresta said. “I could channel a lot more power when I had spirits helping me.”

“We could all use a rest,” Kourin said, “as it is. And then we should have breakfast.”

“Go get us breakfast now,” Faeresta said. “I’ll watch Wedger while you’re gone. Just find any bakery.”

Kourin nodded and left. It was some time before he came back, but when he did, Wedger’s condition had improved substantially.

He handed them meat pies, cooked fresh, just cooled enough to eat as he handed them out. They drank water from their own water skins. Finally, they both sat staring heavily at Kourin.

“Yes,” he said, his voice resigned. “My story. Alright. The man who we just disposed of was a ninja. That is a special order of assassins. They have a,” he paused, “technique, to sneak through the dark, to accentuate their speed and power. The effects of this technique are, in some ways, like the use of magic in these lands. Its power comes from a wholly different source, though, and its effects can not be countered.”

“On top of this,” he continued, “they are masters of poisons. They stalk their prey across the length of countries, plan ambushes, and attack when they are least suspected. They can be found, or rather, can not be found, in nearly every nation of the Cradle.”

“Why would one of these ninja want to kill a soldier of Sophia’s Watch?” Wedger asked.

“The ninja are hired by noble families in Nokun,” Kourin said, “to kill political rivals, threats to the great houses, or those who have lost their honor.”

“So they’re like the Assassins Guild in the Imperial Capital?” Wedger said.

Kourin nodded.

Faeresta’s eyes widened. “The ninja was after you,” she said.

Kourin closed his eyes. “I am disgraced from the royal court. I had hoped that by going into the Imperial service, by fighting in the Great War, I would no longer be of interest to them. It seems I was mistaken.”

“What did you do that would make them go to such great lengths to find you?” Faeresta said.

Kourin raised a hand, the palm held out flat. It signaled that he would not discuss the issue.

“Well,” Wedger said, “we have to tell the commander. With a unified front, we can prepare for them.”

Kourin shook his head emphatically. “If you tell anyone,” he said, “we will be enemies. You too, Faeresta. No one can know. My honor and your lives depend on it.”

“We know they will kill people who get in their way,” Wedger said. “Right? That’s why the watchman was killed, and why I was attacked, right? Just stumbling across these ninja at the wrong time?”

“The fact that this ninja was discovered,” Kourin said, “shows that he was not the best their order had. This one had made a mistake, being found. He was trying to correct his mistake. He would not have sent any report until he was assured he was above reproach. It will be some time before the rest of his clan realizes that he has failed. We will be far down the Highway, perhaps at its end, by then.”

“And how will we keep them from finding us?” Faeresta said. “A big, noisy group like us?”

“The ninja’s equipment,” Kourin said. “I’ll spend today making false trails. I will be able to escape the captain’s notice today if you, Faeresta, take Wedger back to the headquarters and tend to her. Take credit for her recovery yourself, and tell them that I am out in the mountain gathering flowers and fungi.”

Neither of the women looked completely comfortable with this. Kourin did not try to plead. He just spoke with quiet insistence. At some point, he seemed to decide that they would do what he had asked. He got up and walked away.

Wedger and Faeresta looked at each other, conflicted.

Pekar was having breakfast with Tomas. It had been a long, tense night. The amount of energy needed to fully mend Faege had been more than Pekar could channel. He had to focus to keep from healing the top of the deep wounds, sealing the lacerated organs inside of new flesh.

Finally, when he was sure the internal bleeding had stopped, he had focused on the surface wounds, erasing signs of scarring. It was important to all of them that he pass for uninjured at their next muster. At around this time, his fellow mage, Tomas had arrived.

“Thank the dead gods for coffee,” Pekar said.

“As I remember the legend,” Tomas said, “the first coffee beans were the children of Xarth and Lesall. The Ravaging God seized the Daughter of Beauty, and ravished her, and she gave birth to the plant we call coffee. It is the essence of the Rampaging King, made manifest by the body of the goddess of life and love.”

“Please,” Pekar said, “stop. I’m drinking the stuff.”

Tomas was a better mage than Pekar, by far, except that he could not channel healing magic. He was a mage of mind and invention, a field of sorcery that was coming to be known as Engineering. Throughout the surgery, they had both wished that Uschi could have been there, even though her field of focus was in natural forces, not in healing. Her focus, at least, would likely make her a better surgeon than Pekar.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. It was bad enough that Pekar and Tomas had left the royal banquet. If Uschi had left, too, it would have been a disaster. As it was, Pekar had lost the opportunity to observe Black through a crucial window of time.

“I wonder what’s keeping them,” Tomas said. He scanned the inn’s front entrance with sleep-rimmed eyes.

Pekar was already shoveling eggs and sausage into his mouth. He couldn’t wait for Uschi and Alexov, he needed the energy. Tomas was content to sip his coffee.

“They say that all living things are the children of the gods,” Tomas said. “And they say all inanimate things are the products of the gods. I guess as long as the world exists, and we are in it, the gods will always be with us.”

“Why so philosophical, this morning, Tomas?” Pekar asked.

Tomas smiled, his eyes focusing on something distant. “I’m not used to seeing people so close to death,” he said. “That’s not my life. I use what talents I have to build. I am a creator. I don’t understand your world.”

“There are lots of people in the world,” Pekar said. “No one will ever understand the whole picture. That’s what the gods gave us. But they are dead, now.”

“I thought I could understand,” Tomas said. “I thought I did understand. Not grasping the meaning of death, and violence. I mean, that’s a big oversight for someone with my level of education.”

“Be glad you made it so long with that ignorance,” Pekar said. “I would wish it on all of us.”

The door opened and Uschi came in. Like them, she looked picked-at-the-seams. None of them had slept through the night. She was not wearing the formal dress that she had worn to the banquet, and it was apparent she had not attended to her hair or makeup. She was wearing trousers and a doublet, and her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. It was odd to see her dressed so plainly.

“Hail, Uschi,” Tomas said.

As she approached, it was apparent that something was wrong. She was not just tired, she was angry. She was on the verge of crying or screaming.

“Uschi,” Pekar said, “what’s wrong?”

“Simon,” she croaked. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Gloria was attacked last night. By Ebnar Black. It was shortly after the two of you left.”

“What?” Pekar said.

“I had just finished giving her directions,” Uschi said. “He struck as soon as I was out of sight. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not to blame,” Pekar said. “Black is my enemy. I am responsible for this. Where is she? We’ll see her right away.”

“There’s more,” Uschi said. “I went to see Alexov first. When I came to his house, I found the grounds in disarray. There was a crowd, and investigators from the City Watch, the Royal University, and the King’s Court. Simon, Tomas, our Alexov was murdered last night.”

Danvers stood over Wedger. It was hard to believe how much she had recovered. The last time he had seen her, she had been on the edge of death. “You have done very well,” he said.

Wedger smiled. Her lips were blue and her skin was pale, but she was conscious and lucid.

“You have done well, too,” he said, turning to Faeresta, who was tending her with a bowl full of warm broth. “And Kourin, too, is to be commended when he returns. Listen, there is a lot going on right now. I have to decide who will take over your squad, Wedger. And I will order our platoon to extend its furlough. We won’t leave until you are well enough to travel.”

“You can’t keep me in bed,” Wedger said. Her voice rasped. “I’m not that kind of woman.”

Her mild vulgarity brought a smile to his face. There was something very charming about this coarse, world-wise warrior woman. “You spend as much time in that bed as you need,” he said. “That is an order. And take whatever Faeresta tells you to take. She’s gotten you this far.”

“You are too generous, my Lord,” Faeresta said. “I just mix the potions. Kourin knew the ingredients, and Wedger did the fighting.”

“It’s what Marines do,” Wedger said.

Danvers patted her head. A strange feeling accompanied the action. He had comforted men in this manner, a hand on the top of their head, men much younger than himself. His cavaliers had all been older men, by army standards. Mostly nobles, they were at least in their twenties, but they fought alongside common infantry. By the time he had entered the war, boys as young as fourteen, and girls as young as eighteen, were found on the battlefield.

It was a crime that he had become inured to, after time. The first time he had seen it, though, had been at the battle of Midreach. His company had been victorious, but the Legion itself had been routed in three different places. They placed their casualties in a line, leaning against the sides of the baggage train. Three hundred yards of bodies, mostly with their heads facing down. Some of them were moving, still dying but beyond help.

He stopped, and got off his horse, and walked over to one of these dying bodies. He found a boy with straw-colored hair. His face was so flawless and unformed that he seemed out of place. There was a smear of blood across one cheek. Danvers took out his handkerchief and wiped the smear away, as if he was the child’s mother.

“Is it going to be alright, sir?” the boy asked.

Danvers put his hand on the youth’s head. He was going to say something, a soothing, heroic platitude. He couldn’t find the words. He was smiling. He wanted the boy to feel at ease. The boy smiled back, and then his face froze. No dramatic grimace. No pain. He just gave one last exhalation, and he was dead. But he had died with a small, comfortable smile on his lips.

The moment passed before his eyes, gone now, a memory. Here was Wedger, still alive, not yet gone. She was going to get stronger, and return to service, and perhaps die in a battle yet to come. Perhaps she would be a mother, first. In their new community, they would need children.

“Rest well,” Danvers said.

Pekar stood over Gloria. She was a petite, pretty girl, and she had not deserved what had been done to her. Not that anyone could, but seeing her made him feel more sick and indignant than he could remember.

“I can’t apologize enough,” he said.

Gloria smirked. She waved away the sentiment as if it were the ravings of an idiot. “I was attacked,” she said, “tortured, and raped. It happens every day in this sick world. It just happened to me.”

“I wish I could bring you justice,” Pekar said.

“There is always some reason why we can’t,” Gloria said. “Valadast is dead, so there is no such thing as Justice. Only the justice we make. We have to kill our enemies ourselves, and that’s messy. But the Paladins still serve Valadast’s ghost, so maybe you can send them a missive, eh?”

It was hard to read her reaction. Pekar had expected crying, shame, and blame. He knew how to respond to those things. Instead, he found rage, but not directed. She was not channeling her rage at him, at Black, or at anyone in particular. She was making her anger a philosophy, cold and consistent, and he was finding it distressing.

She held up her wounded hand. “They wanted to seal the wound,” she said. “I told them not to. I want it to scar over. I want to be able to look at it, as a reminder. I want to feel it, tugging at me. I don’t want to forget.”

“You’ll stay angry,” Pekar said, “your whole life.”

“Good,” she said. “I have to stay angry that long. Because you can’t bring me justice.”

Pekar looked at Uschi, helplessly. She shrugged in response. Maybe he couldn’t make Gloria feel better, but he did want her to know that he cared. Still, he had done what he could. To actually take revenge on Black, at this stage, was out of the question. He didn’t like the feeling that left in the pit of his stomach.

He only nodded before walking away. Gloria watched him with a bland, unimpressed expression from the bed where she was convalescing. He waited in the hallway until Uschi joined him.

“Take precautions,” he said. “I don’t think Black will be so brazen a second time. Still, he might take advantage of this talk of a vampire, assuming that the Watch will blame any murders on the mysterious night stalker. He killed one of theirs, so they’ll be apt to blame the vampire for anything else that happens in the city.”

“We can go to the court,” Uschi said. “Take our case to them. They’ll act.”

“That would be sentencing the men under Black’s wardenship, and their families, to slavery,” Pekar said.

“Fuck them,” Uschi said. “This Black is a threat to all of us. And he has to pay for what he’s done. Gloria. Alexov. These crimes can’t go unanswered.”

“He has friends,” Pekar said. “I know it. Not just back in the capital, but here, too. He has friends in court. We cannot afford to expose ourselves to them. It will only get worse for all of you.”

“I don’t believe that,” Uschi said. “Surely Alexov Danglars had more friends than Ebnar Black. They will want to see him avenged.”

“We’ll have to see,” Pekar said.

“That attitude,” Uschi said, “is why Gloria can’t stand to look at you, Simon.”

Pekar said nothing.

Rester met Gerhan’s eyes without blinking. The Handler was hard to intimidate. He was trained to stare down angry Granth for a living. Still, he winced from the intensity of the Granth’s gaze.

“Tell me again what you saw,” Rester growled.

“He killed the Unfurn with his jaws,” Gerhan said. “He chewed through his chest, and it looked like he ate something.”

“His heart?” Rester pressed.

Gerhan shrugged. He looked around, as if to find a way out of answering the question. “It could be,” he murmured.

“Unacceptable,” Rester said.

“The taboo against eating human flesh,” Gerhan said.

Rester interrupted. “No,” he snapped. “It is not a taboo. We Granth have powerful hungers. We have an acute sense of smell. We can smell you humans from a mile away. We can smell you through locked doors. When we associate the smell with food we become monsters. You never should have let him get into that position.”

“We were in a tough spot,” Jaik said, “or, believe me, we wouldn’t have been there. We did what we could to keep Faege out of danger. He wanted that fight.”

“He’s a fool,” Rester said. “A foolish, bloodthirsty, half-animal Granth! A Handler worth the title would guard such a Granth from his own wants. I will see him, now.”

“I don’t think that the lieutenant will like that,” Gerhan said. Typically, a Granth would accede to an appeal to authority. Rester was not in the mood.

“The lieutenant can feel how he likes,” Rester growled.

Perhaps if Castor had been there, he would have backed down. The sergeant had been recalled to headquarters. Rester was faced with Gerhan, Horben, and Jaik, and he considered none of those men superior to himself. Between the three of them, they were not committed to denying him.

Rester pushed past them. His frame, unimpressive by Granth standards, was substantial compared to those three. He came into the room where Faege was resting on a straw mattress. He wouldn’t have fit into one of the beds in the inn, so the mattress had been made from scratch and placed out on the floor.

Faege looked up as Rester entered. He growled, demanding respect. Rester’s hackles rose. He asserted a dominant status.

“You ate his heart,” Rester said.

“He was a barbarian,” Faege said. “Not properly a human.”

“You are mistaken,” Rester said.

“They don’t taste the same,” Faege said. “I haven’t tasted Imperial, Ellohi, or Nokun flesh. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Do not embarrass me,” Rester said. “Do not make me despise you.”

“Despise me, if you like,” Faege said. “I do not answer to you. You are not stronger than me, and you can not best me in a fight.”

“I am smarter than you,” Rester snarled. “I have bested a king in a contest of wits, and a thousand people saw it. I am the better Granth.”

“And you’ve slept with a human woman,” Faege laughed. “That smell lingers. You ask me, she has you trained. You’re a house pet. So don’t talk down to me about how Granth are supposed to behave. Now, leave me to rest.”

Rester lingered a moment, but he left defeated.

Amaroy met with Pekar for dinner. It had been a strange day, hectic, but with nothing in particular happening. Faege and Wedger were both recovering. Zerbos had been relieved of his rank, and Danvers was considering who would replace him. They had nearly lost everything, but they had barely managed to make it out with a small fortune.

“Let’s keep things more simple, from now on,” she said.

Pekar laughed bitterly. He was drinking his wine freely. “I didn’t think I could still feel this much tension.”

“Well,” Amaroy said, “we still won. The indomitable soldier’s spirit triumphed once again.”

“Pure guile,” Pekar said. “That is what triumphed. So, here is the soldiers’ split. You can pay back everyone what they paid in. The rest is being put into a trust fund. The Royal University is backing the investment. This is a really good thing. The trust fund will cover anything we may need in the future far more effectively than our Imperial charter.”

“Well, that’s good for us,” Amaroy said. “What about our other matter?”

“You’re referring to the warden?” Pekar said.

Amaroy nodded. She had to walk a fine line. Warden Black had not been popular in the platoon for weeks, before they were even in sight of Rimarov’s mountains. Since coming to the city, Pekar and Black had been feuding over something. It was plain in the tension between the two of them at the banquet the previous night.

“The warden is corrupt,” Pekar said. “He uses his charges for his own purposes, profiting from their legal status. From their vulnerability.”

His voice hinted at something behind his words. Black was corrupt, of course, but there was something else in Pekar’s voice. There was some other crime he had committed, something close to Simon Pekar’s heart.

“That is his right,” Amaroy said, letting her voice trail off.

“I disapprove of how he exercises his rights,” Pekar said. “Our commander might believe in the privilege of rank, but I do not. I am not a noble. I disapprove of his actions now as much as I disapprove of how he conducted himself during the war. He is thoroughly odious and reprehensible, and the sooner we are clear of him, the better all of us will be.”

“Well,” Amaroy said, toying with a thought, “I suppose we can petition a Magistrate to transfer wardenship to a suitable noble, officer, or noncommissioned officer.”

“It may come to that,” Pekar said, “but that will take time. We won’t have the chance to petition the court here, and it will be years before we have a court set up at our settlement.”

“There is another option, though,” Amaroy said. She could see where he was going to drive this train of thought.

“Danvers is a noble and a cavalry officer,” Pekar said. “He is a perfect candidate to be knighted. As a knight, he can make court decisions himself.”

“And since the Kingdom of Rimarov has been joined under the Imperial Charter,” Amaroy said.

“Exactly,” Pekar said. He smiled triumphantly. “We can get Danvers knighted here in Rimarov, and he can cancel Black’s wardenship as soon as we are outside the borders of the kingdom.”

“And we can get him knighted?” Amaroy said.

Pekar refilled his glass, and then stood to top off hers. “I think we can,” Pekar said. “Since we are going to have a few days to kill, anyway. How about the Marquis Vladimir Endrogan Radovich Ragulin introduces the idea to His Majesty, King Romarov?”

There was an idea. She had to admit it was an intriguing proposition. It would give their commander a greater ability to dictate policy in the settlement years down the road. It could end up being a very good thing for them.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll have a good pretense for getting back in touch with the Marquis tomorrow. He is a very big fan of the Marine squad’s new NCO. After the ceremony tomorrow, I think the two of us can go see the Marquis for lunch.”

Pekar held up his glass. She joined him in a toast.

Meskaron sat on the edge of the porch, watching the sink behind the westward ridge of mountains. A single musician was plucking away mournfully at a lute inside. He had a pipe, and a glass of whiskey. He considered the moment to be close to perfect.

He saw movement, and he glanced over to find Ebnar Black coming down the street. The warden was sauntering, a confident, happy spring in his step. Meskaron disliked the warden intensely. He had no time for cowardly, opportunistic, corrupt policemen. The two of them had had so little to do with each other that he doubted the odious man had the slightest idea how thoroughly Meskaron despised him.

“Evening, Meskaron,” Black said.

Meskaron raised his glass. “What brings you to this corner of Sophia?”

Black came to the foot of the stairs. He put a single booted foot on the top step, and pretended to admire the sunset. Meskaron stayed silent, all but ignoring his presence.

“Well, Meskaron,” Black said. “Have you heard any of the news? It seems we will be delayed in the city for a few more days.”

“Fancy that,” Meskaron said.

“Well, I have been trying to set up some business ventures, while we are here,” Black said. “I was wondering if you could deliver some messages for me. I have the means to pay you quite well for your time.”

“I don’t work on my holidays,” Meskaron said.

“Well, if you are already engaged, I can understand,” Black said, “but I am prepared to pay you very well. I need someone I can rely on.”

Meskaron took a pull from his glass. The whiskey burned, a tingling, tasty experience that he savored. He pursed his lips, inhaling a stream of air that felt like a chill morning wind. Then he turned his head, and he looked Ebnar Black in the face.

“Warden,” he said. “What is my rank?”

Black stiffened. “As far as I know,” he said, “you are the platoon’s ranger. I have never heard you addressed by any rank.”

“Quite right,” Meskaron said. “I am not ranked in the military. I fought in the war because it was my pleasure to. I travel with this platoon because it is my pleasure to. And while we are in this city, it is my pleasure to sit on this porch, smoking, drinking whiskey, and watching the sun go down.”

“You have been somewhat more busy than that,” Black said.

Meskaron chuckled. “Dance with me if you want, boy,” he said. “I do favors for my friends.”

“And I will pay you,” Black said.

“Pay your own kind,” Meskaron said. “I’m retired. I have useful skills. I can feed and clothe myself without having to seek aid from any other person. I don’t work for money.”

“If that is your answer, then,” Black said. He let his voice trail off.

“It is,” Meskaron said. He kept his eyes focused on the sunset, catching the last shining rays as the sun was finally eclipsed by the diagonal slash of the granite peaks. He tried to picture the second sunset beyond those peaks, as the sun lowered to meet the far horizon, now hidden behind the mountains.

When the moment passed, he found that Black had left. He brought his pipe to his lips and struck a match. He smoked leisurely, without any rush.

In the morning, the platoon assembled in the same square where they had last gathered. The three squads, Marines, legionnaires, and convicts, formed in lines, while the irregulars grouped at the end of the square. The Drumsky brothers, the new teamsters, were sitting on a ledge nearby, peeling apples for their breakfast.

The Marine squad was absent one member. Wedger was watching the ceremony from inside, where she was still in bed. Faege stood with Rester, looking as healthy as he ever had.

They all looked forward, already tense. Everyone standing in formation was tamping down the primal terror of guilt. The convicts had broken their curfew while the warden was away. The Marines and the legionnaires had staged gambling schemes using their two Granth as bait. The legionnaires had seen one of their Granth nearly torn to pieces.

No one said a word when Danvers entered the courtyard. The formation came to attention, in sync, without an order. Amaroy posted her orders, and Pekar marched up to relay accountability to Danvers. They traded crisp salutes.

Pekar turned on a heel, an about face. When he came to a stop, he announced, in a slow, clear voice. “Sergeant Zerbos, come forward.”

Zerbos stepped out from his position. He marched to the front of the formation, where Amaroy stepped next to him. They marched forward, shoulder to shoulder, until Zerbos was standing directly in front of Danvers. They traded salutes.

“Sergeant Zerbos,” Danvers announced. “You have been found guilty by court martial of the following charges. Dereliction of duty in the supervision of personnel assigned to your command. Said dereliction, having led to the direct harm and potential loss of life of your subordinate, is found to be reckless in nature. You have accepted the findings of this court.”

“I have,” Zerbos answered.

“And you are aware of the penalties imposed,” Danvers said.

“I am, sir,” Zerbos said hollowly.

“Master Sergeant,” Danvers ordered, “prepare this man for his lashes. Sergeant-at-arms, step forward.”

Callidor approached. He carried a heavy-gauge bullwhip. He stood at the edge of the building’s front porch, where he would be giving Zerbos his penalty.

Zerbos was now stripped to his waist. Master Sergeant Amaroy held his shirt in one hand. Pekar went to the edge of the porch, where he had left a set of leather restraints.

“You are hereby relieved of your rank, and its responsibilities,” Danvers announced. “I return you to the rank of private, with its subsequent reduction in pay and authority. Private Zerbos, proceed for your corrective action.”

Amaroy led Zerbos to his spot, where Callidor was waiting with his whip. Pekar secured his hands to the railing. Amaroy and Pekar stepped back, and posted at attention. Everyone was expectant, waiting for the sickening sound of the whip in motion.

Callidor knew his duty, and he was not gentle. The whip was almost foolproof for its task, cracking loudly with any serious flick of the wrist. The whip was an elastic mechanism, transferring all the power of the stroke into the tip, which opened a thin red strip in Zerbos’s flesh with the very first strike.

By the fourth strike, Zerbos cried out. By the ninth, he was shaking, panting heavily, and retching. By the time the final blow was struck, he was crying, shedding tears openly. When it was finished, Pekar and Amaroy unfastened his restraints and dragged him to the side, where Saerabos and Faeresta came forward to take him aside and tend to him.

“Private Derdan,” Danvers announced. His voice cut through the tension like a knife.

The Marine marched to the front, his stance straight and his turns precise. He stood in front of the commander, saluting. Only two Marines were left standing at attention with the platoon.

“You are hereby promoted to the rank of sergeant,” Danvers said, “with all the rights and responsibilities that accompany this change in grade. Do you feel prepared to accept the authority of a Non-Commissioned Officer in the Expeditionary Legion?”

“I do, sir,” Derdan responded.

“Then let us bear witness,” Danvers said.

Amaroy came forward, fixing a set of sergeant stripes to one sleeve. Pekar fixed a set to the other sleeve. Metal pins on the devices faced inward, pressing into the skin of his arms.

“By order of this proceeding,” Danvers said, “by my title as Captain, Expeditionary Legion, First Division, 9th Platoon, you are hereby promoted to the rank of sergeant. Serve in this position faithfully, in the name of the Emperor.”

Pekar and Amaroy swung their fists, striking the rank chevron on each sleeve, driving the pin into his arm.

The formation clapped, warmly, but with a bit of hesitation. They had been reminded how brutal discipline in the ranks was. The proceeding was less a declaration of confidence in the system of promotion, and far more a lesson that they were to behave.

“Now,” Danvers said, cutting off the applause. “We are on extended furlough. Every morning at 0600, we will meet here, in uniform, for muster. At muster, I will announce whether we are leaving or staying, and if there are any duties for the day. Today, convicts have details at headquarters. All others are dismissed.”

The formation broke, but most of them stayed on for a while. Ebnar Black, Meskaron, and Callidor left, each on their own business. The convicts were escorted to their duty. The rest of the platoon gathered around the porch. Kourin stood there with a pot of coffee, freshly brewed and strong-smelling. Since setting out for their settlement in the Western Wilderland, they had all become at least a little addicted to the foreign bean.