“I’m sure those imbeciles have the wrong idea. The lay of the land over there,” he points with his tightly brown-gloved hand, “is far better. I say we go round to the sea. Check for more.”

I look.

“Blank.”

“Fine.—Where did you learn your languages?”

“The Narrator’s College, sir. In the mountains, near Qulo.”

He visibly registers this information.

“You’re a narrator?” he raps out sharply.

“Yes, sir.” Am I getting myself into trouble or out of it?

“Nikhinoch.”

Up comes Nikhinoch on his pony.

“Mm?”

“This one’s a narrator. Can you get him a horse, a pony?”

Nikhinoch shakes his head.

Makemin looks back at me.

“You’ll walk near to me in the ranks from now on. Right?”

“Can my friends walk with me?”

“Go on, go on, what do I care?” He waves us on and we begin again to march, on the heading he has chosen.

The path descends shallowly for a time, and the land opens out to our left in a high, flat-bottomed valley with pale new green and mild breezes. The men keep striking up loud atonal songs behind me. Now, not only do we have a faster, more even road before us, but we will have the solace of shade, too. The column is moving; we mark the earth with our perishable steps and make the heel song of our foot beats, an exhalation chorus layered on top.

Around sunset we make camp, and Makemin indicates he wants me near. He draws a long satchel from among his paraphenalia and brings out his rifle. He exposes it proudly; a Galvanophre Thunderbolt, a heavy double-barreled over-and-under bolt action rifle with two six round magazines, one per, that slot into a box on the receiver’s left side, two bolts which can be snapped together to throw both chambers at once, two barrels for the quick follow-up shot so crucial in sniping, or so he says. Trigger has four settings—only top barrel, only bottom barrel, half and half which means the trigger fires the top barrel on the first half of the pull and the bottom barrel on the second half, and alternating full pull. Makemin draws and chambers two long but not especially heavy rounds from a pouch inside his kidney belt. He lifts the rifle to his shoulder sights and fires instantly, and again. Two plumes of dust spurt from a stone clear across the valley. With a grim smile he lowers the weapon and pulls the bolts one at a time. The action seems extremely stiff, and Makemin impresses me with his strength pulling them back so smartly, expelling two spinning, spent shells. Each flashes once in the sun on its way to the ground.

“I was second in a thousand ranked in sharping,” he says mixedly, something souring his pride. “And was one of seventeen commenced directly to adjutant.”