“The closest thing the Savage Legion has to generals, I suppose,” Spud-Bar informs her. “We call them the Elder Company. That’s three of ’em sittin’ there, anyway. There are others scattered along the front with other Skrain companies and their Legionnaires. Every one of the Elders has seen twenty battles or more.”

At first Evie isn’t convinced she heard the number spoken by Spud-Bar, but she also has no reason to doubt the armorist.

“And they survived? Twenty battles under these conditions?”

“Some more than others, and by their own means. The woman, Mother Manai, celebrated her twentieth by having that hand chopped off. Though you might argue it’s just made her nastier and more dangerous. The quiet one is called Bam. He may seem like a little child could shove ’im from his stool, but on the field he’s like a one-warrior battery.

“Now, the one with the mustache you could sweep out temple steps with… that is Lariat. He’s not much with a sword, but his fists can break down bamboo walls. He was a skin-on-skin fighter before he came to us, brawling in alleys for prize and the like. Tomorrow’ll be his thirty-second battle as a Savage.”

Evie’s stare sharpens on him as she tries to imagine such a feat.

“So then, just sixty-eight more battles and Lariat can go home to his family, yes?”

Spud-Bar’s lips tighten against the rim of the wine cup, but the reaction is brief and quickly suppressed.

“That’s the decree” is all they say.

“And what about you, Spud-Bar? When do you get to go home?”

“My sentence was commuted from one hundred battles to serving as the Savages’ armorist for ten years.”

“And how many years have you been here?”

“Fifteen,” Spud-Bar says without the slightest hesitation or trace of rancor.

Evie nearly chokes on her wine.

“Don’t you think you should inform someone about the oversight?”

Spud-Bar shakes their head. “It’s no oversight.”

“Then… no one leaves. Not really.”

“We all leave. Eventually. Just not the way we’d hope.”

Evie suddenly doesn’t feel like drinking, let alone partaking in the mirthful madness exploding all around her.

She’s not the only Savage attending the Revel who isn’t here to party. Evie spots several of the older people alongside whom she was indoctrinated. They’ve joined a larger group of the elderly and infirm at one of the other feasting tables. They all sit in silence, morose, eating little of what’s in front of them. Several look like they’ve been weeping.