The next day dawned clear and—to Winter’s eyes—uncomfortably bright. She shaded her forehead with one hand and gulped water from her canteen. Her head still throbbed, although this morning it was perhaps for different reasons.

The racetrack—it was called the Campus—was at least a square mile of open land in the midst of one of the wealthier parts of Desland. The houses that looked on to it were some of the biggest and most expensive in the city, equaled only by the mansions lining the river cliffs. Horses, their breeding, racing, and trading, had always been the center of the Deslandai economy, and all of the city’s oldest and most noble families had equine interests. The Campus was the site of the Golden Laurel, arguably the most prestigious set of horse races in the world, and afterward played host to the most exclusive and expensive of the city’s many horse markets.

Racing and trading horses was a summer affair, however, and this late in the year the Campus was just a square of browning grass and dirt, scattered with scraps of wood and bits of canvas left over from the great fairs. It was easily large enough to accommodate the entire Third Regiment, along with the crowds of curious Deslandai who had come to see the show.

The spectators kept a respectful distance from the troops, and here and there a blue Vordanai flag waved in a show of goodwill. In the center of the rough ring of onlookers, the Girls’ Own and the Royals went through a set of evolutions that Abby and Sevran had worked out between them the night before. The two battalions deployed from columns into line and ployed back again, companies marching and countermarching to the beat of the assembled regimental drums. They formed two squares, bayonets gleaming dangerously, and at a drumbeat of command melted back into column and marched proudly around the square.

Some of the maneuvers, to Winter’s eye, were a bit ragged, especially on the part of the Girls’ Own. Tight formation drill had never been a priority in a battalion where most of the soldiers had barely handled a musket before. But they’d made a lot of progress, and it was evidently enough to impress the Deslandai, who shouted and applauded with each barked command. There were a fair number of whistles and catcalls mixed in, of course. The women in the front of the formation responded to lewd suggestions from the crowd with equally foul hand gestures, provoking roars of laughter.

Winter sat astride Edgar, with Cyte mounted beside her, and tried to enjoy the show. Every time she saw Abby, walking at the head of the Girls’ Own and shouting orders to the drummers, it made her think about Jane. She and the older Leatherbacks hadn’t returned last night, and according to reports had moved from the Loose Cannon to the Golden Goose for another round of revels.