As Stammel became more able to navigate in the grange on his own—as long as he kept one hand on a wall—he was aware of discussions carried on just beyond what his people thought he could hear … but now, concentrating on hearing, he could hear all too clearly sometimes.

Arñe, doing her job as corporal, made sure they kept the grange clean and fetched whatever anyone needed—“We must not be a burden on the grange,” she said, perhaps more often than necessary. In truth, they weren’t busy enough, and soldiers needed to be kept busy. They polished everything that could be polished, to the point where Stammel heard the yeoman-marshal complain that he had nothing to do. Arñe arranged what drill she could but lacked space, since this city grange had no barton, and the street outside was busy dawn to dusk, noisy with the sound of smiths at work. Stammel could distinguish the solid whang-whang of the ironsmiths from the lighter tink-tink-tink of whitesmiths.

Some hands of days after he’d wakened, Stammel laid a hand on Bald Seli’s shoulder and came into the grange on a drill night for the first time. The big room was full of strangers, all talking, it seemed; it smelled of sweaty people and stale breath. Seli eased him onto a stool near the entrance.

“Go on,” Stammel said, when his people came to greet him. “All of you—go drill with them.”

Marshal Harak opened the drill with a prayer, then set his yeoman to doing basic exercises. He didn’t introduce the Phelani; by that Stammel knew they had been there long enough to become familiar to the locals. By the grunts and groans, Stammel could guess which exercises Harak assigned, though the names were different; his muscles twitched a little as he imagined doing those stretches and bends. After a few minutes, Harak told them to fetch hauks. Someone dropped one; it rattled on the floor. Someone else laughed; Harak growled at them in the same tone Stammel himself used.

Then came the tap-tap of the simple beginning exercises, with Arñe—Harak must have asked her—counting the time. In his mind he could see it; his body remembered every move. Someone—there, across the room, fourth row, near the front—was off-beat, constantly late. Arñe said nothing; she must be waiting for Harak to comment.

As she speeded the count, the slow one continued to lag, off the beat. Stammel opened his mouth and shut it again. It was not his place to correct another man’s unit. He hoped it wasn’t one of his people. Finally Harak said, “Gan, you’re behind. Pick it up.”

“Sorry,” a man said. Right location, Stammel thought, pleased with the accuracy of his hearing. “My arm’s sore, Marshal.”

“You think an enemy will slow down because it’s sore?” Harak asked.

“No, but … I’ll do better.”

But once more the tap of this man’s hauk was slower than the others, and slowing down. Stammel itched to correct him and before he quite realized it, he stood. The count stopped.