“Of course he’s not all right,” the gruff voice said. “He’s been battling a demon for days. Let the man rest … we’ll get him to a bed now …”

Stammel felt himself being turned, lifted, carried somewhere … he didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t flames. He slid into sleep without realizing it.

When he woke again, he could hear someone breathing in the room with him. He felt clean, rested—a sheet lay over him; he moved his legs, and whoever it was stirred. “Sergeant? Can I get you something?”

It must be night, it was so dark, and they had left someone with him—and it had been dark before. He must have slept the day around. But fear ran a cold finger down his spine.

“A light, first,” he said, rejoicing in the sound of his voice—his own voice, sounding like himself, and ignored the fear.

The hiss of indrawn breath told him a truth worse than fire. He felt himself trembling, tried to sit up and could not. “It’s not … dark …” he said.

“No, sir,” the girl said. “It’s broad day outside, and—and I must tell the Marshal you’re awake.” Her feet scraped on the floor—a stone floor, by the sound.

“Wait,” he said. He was not ready to face anyone else. “Is there water?”

“Yes, sir. Just a moment.” He heard the small sound as she picked up a jug, then the water falling from the jug to a mug—clay by the sound—and then her footsteps coming to the bed. It had to be a bed; her footsteps were below him, and the surface felt like a bed. “I—I don’t know—”

“Take my hand and put it on the mug,” he said. This close he could smell the familiar uniform; she was one of theirs, a soldier. Probably a first-year, from her nervousness. Her hand on his was firm, callused—definitely one of theirs—and she pulled it up, set the mug firmly in his palm and waited until his fingers gripped before she loosened her grip, but only to guide his hand toward his face.

“Should I lift your head?” she asked. He could hear the tension in her voice.

“Probably,” Stammel said, trying for a lightness he did not feel. “Or I may spill it.” His arm was trembling with the effort—he hoped that was the reason.

She lifted his head and guided the mug to his lips. He drank, a cautious swallow first, and then drained the mug. “That was good,” he said. “Now tell me—what happened? Where are we?”

“The Marshal said I shouldn’t tell you things,” she said.

He remembered Paks saying something about her time in Kolobia, how annoying it was when people wouldn’t explain. “Perhaps you should find the Marshal, then,” he said. She eased her hand out from under his head, set the mug back on something—a table?—with a little clunk, and went out. The door was on his right … her receding footsteps told him of a passage.