The next morning, she called the militia group to her, took a report from Vossik and Selfer on their behavior the previous day and night, and the inspection of their weapons. Their behavior had been satisfactory, but their weapons—“I found rust on four blades,” Vossik said, “and one is already cracked from a nick no one bothered to file out. Scabbards oiled, but not really clean. Two belts are old dry leather, ready to give way. The crossbows need to be taken down and reassembled by an arbalest; the bindings on five are rotting. Two, the prod’s loose of the stock. I don’t know who their armsmaster is, but he’s not doing his job. If these were our people, they’d have their pay docked for the damage to weapons.”

Dorrin looked at the militia; the leader had flushed. “I’m disappointed,” she said. “I demand better of my people. Rusty, nicked swords are good for scaring unarmed peasants, but not for real fighting. Crossbows with bad bindings are out of alignment and don’t shoot straight. We haven’t time to test your skills and see if they’re as rusty as your blades, but I can’t depend on you for my protection as you are.”

They all looked downcast. Good. Whatever Haron had done to them—and she suspected he had ensured their weapons and training were inferior, using them mostly for show—they needed pride in their work and their tools. “Mikel, what do you think of the swords the mercenaries carry?”

“My lord Duke, they’re—they’re beautiful.”

Dorrin felt her brows rising. They weren’t beautiful; they were ordinary, workmanlike swords that had seen proper care.

“If you had such swords, would you be willing to learn to care for them and keep them … beautiful?”

“Yes, my lord!” The others nodded.

Dorrin looked over at Selfer. “Captain, I wish to purchase eight of your spare swords, with scabbards, for these men. And—how many belts were bad?”

“Two, my lord Duke.”

“And two belts. You have no crossbows, I think?” She knew perfectly well they did not, but this was too much fun. She could see by the twinkle in Selfer’s eye that he recognized the game.

“No. We carry them only for certain campaigns.”

“Swords, then, and belts. If your people can find any use in their weaponry, fine; otherwise, retain it for the metal. See that these men receive instruction in the proper care of their weapons.”

She saw amazement in the men’s eyes and turned away before she had to laugh. Soon enough they had mounted again, this time with Phelani-designed swords, and they were holding themselves with more confidence. Dorrin continued a slow march; she did not want to miss any traps her relatives might have set.

Midmorning of the third day saw them close enough to Verrakai House that Dorrin could easily feel the magery employed to screen it. She remembered the maze of trails and tracks; the glamours that would have led them astray had no effect on her. When they came out of the trees, there before her was the same stretch of fields, snow striping the furrows of the ploughland. Near the little river thin green showed where magery warmed the soil to ensure an early start to the year’s crops, just as magery kept the stream from freezing over. In blocks of orchard, the buds of fruit trees showed varying shades of red, rose, and gold with the coming of spring.