rank on your right, and don’t crowd the man ahead.” Bosk walked around and through the group, shifting one or another an inch this way or that. Paksenarrion watched him curiously until he bawled suddenly, “Eyes front, recruits!” At last he was through fussing (as she thought to herself) and stepped back.
“Good enough, Bosk,” said Stammel. “March ‘em out.”
For the first time in her life, Paksenarrion heard that most evocative of military commands as Bosk drew in a lungful of air and shouted: “Recruits. Forward . . . MARCH!”
The afternoon’s march was only four hours, with two short rest-breaks, but when they halted, Paksenarrion was more tired than she had ever been. Besides the recruits, there were six regulars (Stammel, Bosk, and four privates) and four mules that carried the booth and supplies. In the course of the afternoon, they reviewed (and Paks learned) the correct way to form up, begin marching, and turn in column. She now knew her file number and who her file leader was, and had learned to keep an even distance behind the man in front. Tired as she was, she was in better shape than one of the puffy-faced men. He groaned and complained all afternoon, and finally fell in a faint at the last rest-break. When cold water failed to rouse him, two privates hoisted him over one mule’s pack and lashed him there, face down. When he came to, he begged to walk, but Stammel left him there, groaning piteously, until they made camp.
Paksenarrion and the next newest recruit were set to dig the jacks trench at the camp. This was the tall yellow-haired boy; he told her his name was Saben. He had dug the night before, too, and knew how long to make the trench. As they walked back into camp, the tattooed man sneered, “Here come the ditchdiggers—look like a real pair, don’t they?”
The man who’d fainted snickered appreciatively. “It took ‘em long enough. I’d say they weren’t just digging ditches.”
Paksenarrion felt her ears steam, but before she got her mouth open, she saw Stammel, behind the others, shake his head at her. Then her file leader, a chunky dark youth named Coben, spoke up.
“At least neither of them sneaked ale and collapsed like a town bravo, Jens. And as for being ditchdiggers, Korryn, it’s better than graverobbing—”
The black-bearded man jumped up and his hand reached for the sword he no longer wore. “Just what d’you mean by that, Coben?”
Coben shrugged. “Take it as it fits. Digging jacks is something any of us might be assigned—I was, and you will be. It’s nothing to sneer about.”
“Young puppy,” muttered Korryn.
“Enough chatter,” said Bosk. “Fall in for rations.”
Paksenarrion was glad to find that after supper they were each issued a blanket and expected to sleep. She had no problem. She woke early and stiff, and had made her way to the jacks and to the river to bathe before a bellow from Corporal Bosk brought the others out of their blankets. The regulars, she noticed, were already in uniform: did they sleep that way? She folded her blanket as the others did, and turned it in to the privates to load on a mule. This morning she stirred porridge in one of the cookpots; three others were supervised by Saben, Jens, and the red-haired boy in velvet.
A bowl of porridge, hunk of brown bread, and slab of dried beef made an ample breakfast, and Paksenarrion felt no ill effects from the previous day’s journey. She was, in fact, happier than she’d been for years: she was a soldier at last, and safe from her father’s plans. When she found that Jens and Korryn had been told to fill in the trench, her mood soared even higher.
“I don’t mind digging them, if they’ll fill them,” she whispered to Saben.
“Nor I. That Korryn’s nasty, isn’t he? Jens is just a drunk, but Korryn could be trouble.”
“Recruits. Fall in!” yelled Bosk, and the day’s work really began.
In the next few weeks, as they traveled toward the
“Good enough, Bosk,” said Stammel. “March ‘em out.”
For the first time in her life, Paksenarrion heard that most evocative of military commands as Bosk drew in a lungful of air and shouted: “Recruits. Forward . . . MARCH!”
The afternoon’s march was only four hours, with two short rest-breaks, but when they halted, Paksenarrion was more tired than she had ever been. Besides the recruits, there were six regulars (Stammel, Bosk, and four privates) and four mules that carried the booth and supplies. In the course of the afternoon, they reviewed (and Paks learned) the correct way to form up, begin marching, and turn in column. She now knew her file number and who her file leader was, and had learned to keep an even distance behind the man in front. Tired as she was, she was in better shape than one of the puffy-faced men. He groaned and complained all afternoon, and finally fell in a faint at the last rest-break. When cold water failed to rouse him, two privates hoisted him over one mule’s pack and lashed him there, face down. When he came to, he begged to walk, but Stammel left him there, groaning piteously, until they made camp.
Paksenarrion and the next newest recruit were set to dig the jacks trench at the camp. This was the tall yellow-haired boy; he told her his name was Saben. He had dug the night before, too, and knew how long to make the trench. As they walked back into camp, the tattooed man sneered, “Here come the ditchdiggers—look like a real pair, don’t they?”
The man who’d fainted snickered appreciatively. “It took ‘em long enough. I’d say they weren’t just digging ditches.”
Paksenarrion felt her ears steam, but before she got her mouth open, she saw Stammel, behind the others, shake his head at her. Then her file leader, a chunky dark youth named Coben, spoke up.
“At least neither of them sneaked ale and collapsed like a town bravo, Jens. And as for being ditchdiggers, Korryn, it’s better than graverobbing—”
The black-bearded man jumped up and his hand reached for the sword he no longer wore. “Just what d’you mean by that, Coben?”
Coben shrugged. “Take it as it fits. Digging jacks is something any of us might be assigned—I was, and you will be. It’s nothing to sneer about.”
“Young puppy,” muttered Korryn.
“Enough chatter,” said Bosk. “Fall in for rations.”
Paksenarrion was glad to find that after supper they were each issued a blanket and expected to sleep. She had no problem. She woke early and stiff, and had made her way to the jacks and to the river to bathe before a bellow from Corporal Bosk brought the others out of their blankets. The regulars, she noticed, were already in uniform: did they sleep that way? She folded her blanket as the others did, and turned it in to the privates to load on a mule. This morning she stirred porridge in one of the cookpots; three others were supervised by Saben, Jens, and the red-haired boy in velvet.
A bowl of porridge, hunk of brown bread, and slab of dried beef made an ample breakfast, and Paksenarrion felt no ill effects from the previous day’s journey. She was, in fact, happier than she’d been for years: she was a soldier at last, and safe from her father’s plans. When she found that Jens and Korryn had been told to fill in the trench, her mood soared even higher.
“I don’t mind digging them, if they’ll fill them,” she whispered to Saben.
“Nor I. That Korryn’s nasty, isn’t he? Jens is just a drunk, but Korryn could be trouble.”
“Recruits. Fall in!” yelled Bosk, and the day’s work really began.
In the next few weeks, as they traveled toward the
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