Political situation here v. bad, he wrote. Streets afraid and ready to turn on anyone suspect. Mass Patriot Guard presence keeping basic order for now, but maybe not for long. M. getting harsher by the day. He paused for thought, and rewet his pen. Military officers esp. under suspicion after defections. Watch for traps.

He laid the pen aside and left the note to dry, just as there was a knock at his study door. Marcus had learned by now how to distinguish Raesinia’s excited rapping from the polite taps of the Mierantai servants, and this was the latter.

“Come in.”

“Sir,” said Lieutenant Uhlan, commander of the half dozen Mierantai riflemen Janus had left behind. “There’s a couple of soldiers at the door. They claim they were sent here by a Captain Vahkerson at your request.”

Marcus stared blankly for a moment, then remembered the note he’d sent to the Preacher asking for extra men to hold down the fort. Reliable as always. “Yes, of course. Send them in and have someone see to their things if they have any.”

“Sir.” Uhlan saluted and slipped out. Marcus listened to his boots clomp down the hallway, and went back to scanning the panicky headlines. Before long there was another knock, softer and more hesitant.

“Come in,” Marcus said again.

Two soldiers, in the homespun and approximately blue jackets of the volunteers, came in and stood stiffly at attention in front of his desk. They saluted, and the young man on the left said, “Sir! Rankers Feiss and Dracht, reporting as ordered.”

Ranker Feiss was a boy of seventeen or so, tall and lanky, with sandy hair and a face that was just emerging from childlike plumpness, badly savaged by acne. He stood at attention with such concentration that his back was as taut as a bowstring, his eyes firmly fixed somewhere above Marcus’ left shoulder.

Ranker Dracht, in contrast, met his gaze levelly. Marcus guessed she was the same age as Feiss, but she was a head shorter, with unkempt brown hair tied back in a short queue.

“Ah,” Marcus said, somewhat taken aback. “Welcome. Feiss and . . . Dracht, was it?”

“Ranker Andria Dracht, sir,” the girl said. “But you can call me Andy. Everyone does.”

Feiss nudged her with his elbow, which she ignored.

“How much did the Preacher—that is, how much did Captain Vahkerson tell you?”

“That you were in need of assistance on a matter of the utmost secrecy, sir,” Feiss said, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. “And that he was sending us because he was certain of our discretion.”

“Where were you before this?”

“In the hospital, sir. Soldiers who are rated fit for duty again are sent to Captain Vahkerson for reassignment.”

“You’re recovered now, I take it?” Marcus said.

“Sir, yes, sir!” the boy barked. “Broken leg, sir, but it’s all healed now. I ran laps around the University.”