“Oh, yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair, and added reflectively, “When I was a boy, I used to just love all those heroic ballads. I memorized dozens. I wonder if all those other old battle songs would have seemed as obscene to their survivors?”

Yet he claims not to sing. Unable to answer this, Fawn offered, “At least it helps people remember.”

“Yes. Alas.”

“It wasn’t a bad song. In fact, I thought it was awfully good. As a song, I mean.”

“I don’t deny it. Not the fault of the song-maker—whoever it was did a fine job. If it were less effective, it wouldn’t make me want to weep or rage so bad, I suppose. Which was why I left the room. My groundsense was a little open, in aid of the music-making. I didn’t want to blight the mood. Pack thirty-eight tired, battle-nervy patrollers into one building for a week, and moods start to get around fast.”

“Do you often make music, when you’re out on patrol?” She tried to picture patroller song and dance around a campfire; the weather likely didn’t always cooperate.

“Only sometimes. Camps can be pretty busy in the evenings. Curing hides and meat, preserving medicinal plants we pick up while patrolling, keeping logs and maps up to date. If it’s a mounted patrol, a lot of horse care. Weapons training for the youngsters and practice for everyone. Mending, of clothes and boots and gear. Cooking, washing. All simple tasks, but they do go on.”

His voice slowed in reminiscence. “Patrols vary in size—in the north they send out companies of a hundred and fifty or two hundred for the great seasonal wilderness sweeps—but south of the lake, patrols are usually smaller and shorter. Even so, you’re like to be in each other’s hair for weeks on end with no entertainment but each other. After a while, everyone knows all the songs. So there’s gossip. And factions. And jokes. And practical jokes. And revenge for practical jokes. And fistfights over revenge for practical jokes. And knife fights over—well, you get the idea. Although if the emotions are allowed to melt down into that sour a soup, you can bet the patrol leader will be having a very memorable talk with Fairbolt Crow about it, later.”

“Have you ever?”

“Not about that. Although all talks with Fairbolt tend to be memorable.” In the shadows, he scratched his nose and smiled, then leaned his head back and let his eyes rest on the mellow windows across the yard. The singing had stopped, and dance tunes had begun again; feet thumping on the floor made the whole building pulse like a drum.

“Let’s see, what else? On warm summer nights, gathering firewood is always a popular activity.”

Fawn considered this, and the amusement underlying his voice. “Should think that would be wanted on cold nights, more.”