“The Girls’ Own ought to have proper uniforms,” Cyte said, drawing Winter up from her thoughts.

“I put in a request to the Ministry,” Winter said, “but there are a lot of volunteer battalions. Somehow I think providing a bunch of women’s uniforms is not at the top of their list.”

“Plenty of tailors here in Desland,” Cyte said. “We ought to be able to get them made locally.”

“I don’t think I can afford it.” Winter sighed. They’d spent nearly all her back wages—all the money she had in the world, she thought ruefully—on providing better food and drink for the troops on the march.

Cyte shot her a crafty look. “You wouldn’t have to pay. The quartermasters have authorization to draw on the credit of the Crown.”

“Since when does the Vordanai Crown have any credit in Desland?”

“Since Janus marched in and pointed twelve-pounders at their fancy banks,” Cyte said bluntly. “They’ve been very good about extending loans.”

“That sounds more like robbery.”

Cyte shrugged. “It’s war. Read a little history, and you’ll find this is polite by any standard. We’re already taking all kinds of supplies, especially horses. A few hundred yards of cloth will hardly make a dent.”

“All right,” Winter said, watching the Girls’ Own maneuver. Their jackets, each a different shade of blue, flapped against whatever homespun or linen each recruit had brought with her. “Do it. If they’re going to risk their lives for Crown and Deputies, they deserve to look like soldiers.”

“Yes, sir.” Cyte grinned.

“And see what you can do about boots.” Too many of the women had come with footwear adequate only for city streets, which was falling to pieces after weeks of marching hard country roads. “As long as we’re looting, we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

“Now, there’s the right spirit for a conquering commander,” Cyte said. “We’ll make a proper tyrant of you yet. I’ll see what I can do in terms of slave girls for your bedroom.”

It was a joke, and Winter did her best to smile, but she must not have done a very good job of it. Cyte blanched.

“Sorry,” she said. “I . . . sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Winter said, ignoring the ache in her chest that matched the throb in her head. “Come on. We should get back to the citadel before the crowd breaks up.”