“Fontaine told me,” Valichi said. “Though I find it hard to believe.”

“So do we all,” Arcolin said, pulling off his wet boots. Servants had put dry clothes to warm by the fire; he stripped off his wet ones and dressed as they talked.

“How’d the village mayors take it?” Cracolnya asked.

“Stunned. Confused. Glad we’re taking hungry mouths away, but worried about the future. Who the Crown will give the land to.”

“It could be you,” Valichi said. “You were here from the beginning.”

“I don’t think so.” But he could not help imagining it, seeing familiar things, familiar people, in a new way. He pushed that aside. “And anyway, I’ve got that contract to fulfill. I can’t start off by breaking one.”

“You need the Crown’s consent, remember—if you don’t get it, the merchants will understand.”

“That doesn’t produce gold or grain,” Arcolin said. He yawned. “Believe me, I will argue hard if they refuse; I will not toss away what Kieri worked so many years to build. How’s the preparation going, Sergeant?”

“On target, sir. All the farriery finished today. The smiths say they’ll have the last of the weapons and repairs done by supper tomorrow. We’ll be ready to march day after tomorrow, as far as the fighting troop’s concerned. And Sef says the road’s no worse than usual, this time of year.”

“We split the recruits already,” Cracolnya said. “Your cohort’s up to the usual start-of-season strength. I didn’t know what staff you’d want to take along for just one cohort—you’ll want a smith, I’m sure, but will you want a quartermaster? Clerk? Teamsters and wagons?”

“Teamsters and wagons, yes,” Arcolin said. “Most will come back here with replacement supplies. Kolya’s still in Vérella; she can supervise that. A smith for certain, and one of the surgeons. Stammel, who in the cohort might make a quartermaster?”

“Devlin, sir, if he weren’t my junior sergeant. Don’t see how he could do both.”

“Agreed,” Arcolin said. “Others?”

Stammel shook his head. “No, sir.”

“We need someone,” Arcolin said. “One of the quartermaster’s assistants, then; we need him here. Stammel, talk to the quartermaster—I’m inclined to think Maia, but leave it to him.” Arcolin yawned, then stretched. “It’s time we went to bed, captains. Tomorrow will be a full day.”

They rose; Arcolin gathered up his wet things and carried them to the kitchen, to be dried by the cooking hearth. Back upstairs, he went into Kieri’s office and looked around.

Kieri had asked for nothing from this office, from the stronghold. Things he had bought in Aarenis or Vérella: the striped rug Tammarion had chosen, a carved box with a running fox on its lid, a favorite whetstone always placed on the left of the great desk, a candleholder of translucent pink stone that glowed with light when the candle was lit, the chest in which—as Arcolin knew—Kieri’s dead wife’s armor and the children’s daggers were wrapped in Tammarion’s troth dress. Kieri had asked for none of these.