“I know the rules,” he says irritably. “There’s a toddling babe and one small fry, that’s all. We fed them sleep-mane tea to shut them up because they wouldn’t stop crying. We put them in the atoners’ pen. They should sleep until morning.”

“Very good. The adults will be burned tomorrow, after the court moves on. The lady and lord shan’t have their evening sullied by the stench.”

“Nay, nay, of course not, Honored Chatelaine. But there’s talk that the men want more sluts. There aren’t enough to go around, and there ought to be. We of his lordship’s troop don’t like to be treated like we don’t deserve what you fancy Southerners take for granted. We made a good haul today, all six young and healthy enough. We tested them all. More than once. Haha!”

“It’s not my decision to make.” The look in the chatelaine’s eyes makes her seem disapproving but also wary.

The sergeant’s gaze settles on El, standing behind the chatelaine. He grins in a way that lets El know he is a man who likes to hurt people. He says, “Isn’t this the nose-smart atoner we’ve heard so much about? Tell you what, Honored Chatelaine, why don’t you let this witch-sprout decide. Half to the pyre and half to the bed. Wouldn’t you like that, dearie? It’s a rare wine to drink, to hold the knife of life or death over a man’s throat. What do you say?”

She raises her gaze to the soldier. She isn’t afraid of him, not with the chatelaine beside her, and she won’t be cowed. “If you force someone weaker than you into the jaws of a wolf, then you have become the wolf. Anyway, it’s just a game for you.”

He lunges forward and slaps her. She sees the blow coming and rocks back, so it doesn’t land with the full force he put behind it, but he’s grinning in delight and doesn’t notice, not as long as she looks like she’s hurt. She rubs her eyes, so he’ll think she’s crying.

The chatelaine gasps in anger and yanks El back out of his reach. “The lady’s protection rests on this atoner’s head. So does the protection of the white-haired god. Do that again, and I’ll see you whipped.”

“You Southerners,” he mutters contemptuously to the chatelaine, then slams a look at El and says, “I hear that sister of yours is up for auction. I’ve been saving up my pay; say what the lady’s sergeant will, he doesn’t just get to grab first poke because his daddy was sergeant before him. I’m a sergeant, too. We have our rights, Lord Thelan’s rights.”

He goes back inside.

The chatelaine mutters, “They say only bastards serve bastards.”