“So you were.” Arcolin realized he had already gone past the warped face, the missing eye, to liking the man, wanting him to qualify. “Your company was mostly swordsmen, like ours—did you ever command polearms?”

“Only in training—we trained with them, but rarely used them.”

“Same as us, and mostly so our swords can practice against them. Tell me, do you consider yourself fit enough for duty? M’dierra said you were sick a long time. Are you healthy now?”

“Yes, sir. I know my missing eye is a problem, but I’m otherwise whole of body and limb. If you wish to test my sword skills, I’m afraid I must ask for the loan of a sword.”

“You wouldn’t have lasted nine fighting seasons with the Blues if you weren’t a good swordsman. I think you’d better have lunch with me, Captain, because if you’re willing, you’re hired.”

The relief showed through the scar. “I—thank you, sir.”

“Come on in, meet the sergeants. They’re staying south with me, but they can fill you in—”

“Sir, I’d—I’d rather not—the way I am—”

Arcolin nodded. “You haven’t asked about your pay—you’re due a signing bonus. We have to get you on the rolls for that—come in for that, and then meet me for supper.”

Despite his ragged clothes—he’d probably sold his good ones for food or lodging—Arneson already moved more confidently. Arcolin ordered hot bread and sib. “We have to share bread and salt,” he said. “It’s our custom.”

Arneson smiled as best he could. “I grew up with that. Thank you—I have a pinch of salt.”

Arcolin sent Stammel, who had been waiting for him in the common room, to fetch the cohort rolls. As they waited, Arneson sat straight, almost rigid, carefully not looking at the bread. Arcolin knew better than to offer. Stammel brought in the rolls, a quill, and an ink stick and bowl, then withdrew. Arcolin mixed the ink, tested the quill, and turned to Arneson.

“Your full name and your home, where you were born?”

“Talvis Keri Arneson, of Sorellin, but my parents came from the north, from southern Fintha. They were dyers by trade.”

Arcolin wrote that in, and had Arneson repeat the familiar oath, changing Kieri’s name to his own. Then Arcolin broke the loaf; Arneson shook the meager contents of a paper twist of salt onto it, and Arcolin pushed the pieces together. Joining heart-hands, they turned it over three times and then broke off pieces, each offering one to the other. Arneson signed the book, and they were done.

“You might as well help me eat this,” Arcolin said.

His new captain shook his head, but drank a mug of sib and ate half the loaf anyway.

Three glasses later, when Captain Talvis Arneson reappeared, the door ward did not hesitate to let him in. Arcolin, fetched by Sergeant Devlin, recognized only the scar. Clean, shaved, his hair neatly clubbed at the neck, an eye patch rather than a rag covering his ruined eye, in clean clothes only slightly worn, boots oiled, a plain but serviceable sword at his side, he looked nothing like the ragged beggar he’d seemed before. He must have spent the entire advance, Arcolin thought, to look that good that fast.