“Here, Captain; I’ll take those.” One of his troops—Bran, he thought—took his boots and clothes, and patted him on the shoulder as if he were a tired horse. He felt like a tired horse. He turned back to the side passage, found the jacks and used it, found water and drank a little, found a half loaf of bread and managed to haggle off a piece because he’d left his dagger, with his belt and all, out in the main room.

His imagination revived, horribly, with the water and food; he saw himself having to tell the troops that Stammel was dead, and by whose hand … having to tell Burek … having to find another sergeant, only no one, no one in the world, could replace Stammel, not really.

No one can replace anyone.

He jerked upright, eyes open, only then aware he’d slumped over the little wooden table in the Marshal’s tiny kitchen. How long had he slept? Was Stammel—? He tried to get up but could not.

Rest. You are not the only one.

Rest? He had no time to rest. And only one what? But even as he tried to rise, darkness came over him again.

When he woke, it was to hear voices nearby, voices he should know, but could not understand at first. Gradually sense came back to him. He was no longer at a table, but stretched on a bed; daylight came through a window, morning light by its color, by the feel of the air. He opened his eyes. Overhead was a plain plastered ceiling; the bed wasn’t his—wasn’t in a tent, but in a room, in—in the grange? He looked around.

“Sir.” That was Devlin, by the door, red-eyed. Arcolin felt his heart sinking; he wanted to close his eyes and be somewhere else.

“Yes,” he said instead. “I’m sorry—I fell asleep—”

“He’s still alive,” Devlin said. “Still fighting. But Captain Burek wants to know if he should start the cohort on the road today.” He cleared his throat. “I—we brought you clean clothes. There, sir.”

“Right,” Arcolin said. He pushed himself up. The clothes were on a chair; his boots were clean and polished; his sword—no doubt clean—in its scabbard on the hanger on the belt. Sleep had done its work; he was awake; he was not as tired. He ached, nonetheless, in ways he had not known he could ache. He went to the bathing room, stripped, poured another half bucket of water over himself, dried, and dressed again in uniform. Went to the jacks, came back.

“Sir, are you going to stay—?”

Arcolin shook his head. “I cannot. We have a contract; I cannot neglect the rest of you—you are all my people, not just Stammel. Gods know what Stammel is to this cohort—to the whole Company—but you know what he’d say—”

Devlin said it, in a mock-Stammel tone.

“Right,” Arcolin said. “And Dev, I can’t let you stay either. You’re the only active sergeant now; I need you. We’ll leave some here, to help out. One corporal—which?”