“In the meantime,” Arcolin said, “let’s make sure the camp isn’t so happy to have Stammel back they get careless with the watch.”

But Stammel himself took care of that; they heard his voice from across the camp, the familiar bellow. “And while you lot are sitting here like spinsters gossiping, who’s keeping watch? Less talk and more work!”

A startled silence, then camp noises resumed, this time with a different timbre.

Over the next few days, Arcolin grew used to seeing Stammel with a hand on someone’s shoulder, his head cocked a little sideways. Neat in appearance as always, attentive, alert, quick to silence idle chatter, ready to respond to any orders Arcolin or Burek gave. They moved every few days, marking the trails they found on the map; Stammel marched as fast as the others, needing extra help only on the rougher ground. Everyone called Suli “Eyes” now, but many of the troops had a nickname; he thought nothing of it.

Arcolin suspected—but knew better than to ask—that Suli, Devlin, and others gave him special help. That didn’t matter. They had Stammel; Stammel had them. If some chores were quietly diverted from him, and others came to him because sight was not required, it was only common sense. A familiar voice, a familiar presence.

They were attacked again one night, an attack as carefully planned as the other, and this time killed only five; two of their own were wounded. Arcolin heard Devlin, voice harsh with effort, tell Stammel to get back, get down. He felt a stab of grief, but there was no time—they fought off the attack, and when he came back, Stammel was busy, talking to one of the wounded as he held the man’s shoulders down and Master Simmitt stitched the wound. He made no complaint.

But just before dawn, as Arcolin made the rounds, he found Stammel standing with one of the sentries. “I was wondering,” Stammel said. “About archery.”

“Archery?”

“I know I can’t use a sword without eyes. But I think I could shoot.”

Arcolin felt his brows rising. “But you need eyes even more—the targets are farther away.”

“I need someone to tell me where. I was thinking about Paks, and that trip she and the others made from Dwarfwatch. Canna was shot by someone who never saw her, Paks said. Someone just shooting blindly into a thicket. Now, if we were attacked, and I had someone to tell me where to aim—”

“Sergeant—” Arcolin shook his head, glad for once Stammel could not see. “I never heard of a blind archer,” he said finally.

“There’s a legend,” Stammel said. “And I’ve seen inns with that name—always thought it was a joke about the ale, to be honest. But still—if I could try with a crossbow …”

Arcolin looked at him. “You’ve spanned one already, haven’t you?”

Stammel nodded. “And the thing is, Captain, you know we usually have Cracolnya’s cohort. We need archers. If I can—they’ll never expect it. It’s like you said; they’re spying on us. They know I’m blind; they think I’m helpless.” His hands clenched and opened, clenched and opened. “If I can hit a target, then anyone could—we could train our own—maybe a half-file?”