“That’s good,” the surgeon said, as if to himself. “Now I can try more …”

Arcolin realized that the surgeon had done this before, but he had scarcely noticed. Now he met the surgeon’s eyes.

“If I can get water into him, it will help with the fever,” the man said. “And you, Captain—you look like half a demon yourself. When did you last drink something or move?”

Arcolin shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Oh, gods take the lot of you,” the surgeon said crossly. “If Gird and Tir can’t save him, you kneeling there turning into a lump of stone won’t do it. You need to move, and you need to eat and drink something.”

The Marshal and Captain had turned to look at the surgeon when he spoke; they now looked at Arcolin, at each other, and nodded.

“You must,” the Marshal said first. “You have the cohort to look after. Let someone else take your place, and refresh yourself.”

How could anyone take his place? But he saw Vik, sober-faced, and Tam, and others who knew Stammel as well, if not for as long as he had. He nodded, realizing then his neck was so stiff he could scarcely nod, and motioned to Vik, as the nearest. Vik helped him up, and then knelt in his place; Arcolin staggered, coming off the platform, and his people caught him, held him, thumped his shoulder.

“Bathing room and spare clothes back there—” the Marshal said. “Water, bread …”

Arcolin made it back to the bathing room, where a butt of water sat on its stand, the spigot over a shallow tub with a plug in the bottom. He stripped off his filthy blood-stiffened clothes, and dipped a half bucket of water over himself. The cold water woke him up; he took the lump of soap on a ledge and washed carefully—blood contained tiny demons, the surgeons always insisted, that brought disease. Then a rinse, then out to pad wet-footed across to the Marshal’s own rooms—the small office, the simple bedchamber with its clothes-press. Coarse gray trousers, too short for his long legs. A blue shirt that looked too big for the Marshal—perhaps it had been inherited. It was long enough for his arms, but twice as wide as he needed. A soft lump that turned out to be gray woollen socks with a hole in one heel, rolled into a bundle. He sat on the Marshal’s bed to pull on his boots, and realized he had not cleaned them. He walked out to the main room carrying his boots and his filthy clothes, sock-footed, feeling the chill of the stone through the hole in that left sock.

The surgeon turned to look at him. “Did you eat? Did you drink something? Did you visit the jacks?”

He’d forgotten that. He started to drop his clothes and realized he had no idea where the jacks was.

“Back corner,” the Marshal said, anticipating his confusion. “And your surgeon’s right. Eat. Drink.”