The women of Abby’s company stopped what they were doing and ran back toward where the Royals were waiting. The Royals were supposed to open their formation slightly by turning sideways so the skirmishers could filter through it, then close up again. Twice already it hadn’t worked that way—somehow an extended arm or leg always found its way into a running woman’s path, sending a whole section of the line sprawling to the ground and throwing the whole formation into confusion. Some of the women were getting frustrated, too, and had taken to running full tilt, slamming bodily into whatever was in their way.

This time, Winter could see, was not going to be any different. A few of the fleetest-footed girls made it through before the main press arrived, but then a grinning, redheaded ranker in the center of the Royals’ line stuck a foot out in the path of a sprinting woman and sent her sprawling to the turf. Her companion, outraged, slammed into him shoulder first, carrying both of them into the man behind him. From that point it was half collision, half brawl.

And we really ought to be doing it with fixed bayonets, if we expect to stand off cavalry. Winter shook her head. In the center of the line, things had devolved into actual fisticuffs, with a heavyset woman in a loose blue jacket giving a gangly young ranker a pounding. Sergeants on both sides waded in to break it up while other rankers shouted encouragement.

“You little shit!” the woman shouted. “You want to grab my tit so badly, maybe try buying me dinner first!”

“Who’d want to?” the Royal spit back, wiping blood from under his nose. “The thing looks like a paper sack full of lard.”

“Be kind to the boy, Vena,” another woman said. “He hasn’t seen one since his mam tossed him out.”

“And you haven’t had a prick in so long you whittled yourself one!”

“I ought to. It’d stand up better than yours!”

“That’s enough!” Folsom roared. “Companies separate and form ranks, now!”

The sergeants set to pulling men and women apart and pushing them into some semblance of formation. Winter waited until they were approximately in line and had quieted down before she spoke.

“Lieutenants sur Gothin and Giforte, with me, please. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The two lieutenants followed Winter to the edge of the drill field, where Captain Sevran and Jane had been watching the carnage. The rest of the rankers dispersed, headed to their respective camps in opposite directions.

“That could have gone better,” Jane said. A curl at the corner of her lip told Winter she’d been laughing.

Sevran shot Jane a look, then shook his head. “I agree that the men need more practice, sir. It’s a difficult maneuver.”