“Why visit the armories? Ya are an armory! Boys shouldn’t be tooled up like that!” The battle-hardened veteran shook his head, though part of him was wishing his cadets were this hard.

Petronio ignored his comments. As far as he could work out, what he carried was about average for Moss-side. “My horse?” he questioned.

“Yeah. He’ll be taken care of.” The sergeant hadn’t signed up to play the dogsbody, but that’s what he was now as he led the boy across the planked-out parade ground.

Petronio struggled to keep up as the sergeant strode straight into the fog. A minute later, a smooth trunk reared above them out of the gray blankness. A primitive set of stairs led up to a door in the bark. It was the only way in or out. There weren’t even any windows. Every step creaked. It was Flint’s warning system. The man was obviously paranoid, and probably with good reason.

Before they even reached the top, the door flew open. Petronio gasped. Standing before him was a legend come to life.

Commander Flint, leader of the northern armories, filled the doorway. His bronze breastplate glinted under the door’s gas lamp, covering a broad chest. His large surcote was gray velvet with embroidered lapels and his knee-high boots were of soft black leather. The face was smooth-shaven and almost handsome, apart from the kinked nose. The stories said it was broken in the street brawls as the young Flint rose up through the gang ranks. By the time he joined the military, he was already well versed in the art of war. The Commander’s hair was curly, the cut almost feminine. And the eyes, intense, darker than most Dendrans’, took in the sight of a young apprentice with no surprise.

“Sir. Visitor to see you, sir,” announced the sergeant. “Boy, sir. Says he has a message, sir. Told him where to go, sir. But he insisted!”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” The voice was cultivated, all hint of its northern roots flattened and smoothed out like a branchway. “You can now go back to your very important card game, hmmm?”

“Yes, sir. No cards at all, sir. On lookout, of course!”

“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second!”

The sergeant hesitated, wanting to see what would happen to the loathsome youth.

Flint merely stared until the sergeant retreated reluctantly down the stairs.

The commander turned to Petronio. “I am so sorry for this rude welcome to our barracks. Please do come in.” His graciousness was startling as he motioned the boy forward with a sweep of his hand.