Chapter Nine

Deraine's capital, Rozen, had he been in another frame of mind, could have angered Hal Kailas. There were no buildings shattered by catapult stones, empty storefronts, shops with only one or two items for sale.

Deraine could almost have been a country at peace.

Almost.

But here was a column of uniformed recruits being chivvied along by a pair of shouting warrants; there another formation of trained soldiers, grim-faced under steel helms and laden with weaponry, and there were far fewer young men to be seen on the streets and in the cafes than in peacetime. Here were a knot of women wearing mourning bands, there other women and children scanning the posted list of those killed or wounded across the Straits.

Small patrols of warders, half civilian, half military, swept the streets.

Kailas paid them no mind, his orders secure in a belt pouch, his mind on other things, specifically the cup of iced custard he was wolfing.

He grinned. The hardened warrior, home at last, was supposed to head for the closest taproom and drink himself senseless on his favorite brew.

Kailas, who'd never thought himself much of a milk drinker, had developed a lust for the rich, cream-heavy Deraine liquid, despising the thin, frequently watered whey of Sagene. He'd had three big glasses, and was topping them off with this custard, flavored with cloves and cinnamon.

Kailas also thought of the other requirement of the homecoming soldier—a lovely girl under his arm, or at least a popsy.

He had no one.

Hal turned his mind away from loneliness, headed for the address he was supposed to report to.

Rozen was a city that had cheerfully "just grown" at the confluence of two rivers. The only coherency it had managed was the result of three fires four hundred years earlier. Then there'd been great architects, working under the king's close supervision, intending to build a city of splendor, the marvel of the world.

There were those great palaces and monuments, but two streets away might be a slum or a silversmith's street or even a knacker's yard.

Hal had been in Rozen twice, before he joined Athelny's circus, and hated it both times, feeling alone and forgotten—which he had been.

Now, an equally faceless figure in battered half-armor, sword-belt tied around his meager roll of belongings, he felt quite at home in the great city.

He felt as if he were watching a camera obscura, arranged for his solitary pleasure. Kailas felt outside this city's life, but it wasn't unpleasant at all.

He'd been offered leave after the destruction of his regiment, and had thought about it, but there was no one for him to go to. He had no desire to return to the tiny village he'd come from, nor any desire to visit his parents, and so he asked for orders to his next duty assignment.

He wondered if soldiering had changed his outlook from the other times he'd been in the capital. Perhaps he'd seen enough people die young and violently to not mind being an outsider. He decided to give the matter a bit more thought, perhaps over a pint, later, after he'd reported in.

His orders read for him to report to the Main Guildhall, which seemed odd, until he entered the huge building. It had been commandeered by the army, and now was a shouting bustle of recruiting booths.

It was near chaos: a warrant brayed about the virtues of the dragoons, a clerk talked quietly of the safety of the quartermaster corps, an archer chanted about his elite regiment. Other warrants shouted how smart Lord such-and-so's Light Infantry uniforms were, or how Sir whatever would not only outfit a recruit, but send money to his family. Every branch of the service was represented, from chiurgeons to an arrogant-looking pair of magicians to a brawny farrier to a pair of jolly teamsters. There were even a scattering of women, raising nursing, transport, support units.

Most of them had at least one, frequently more, recruits weighing the virtues and dangers of a corps.

Except for one, a stony-faced, leathery-looking serjeant, lean as death, wearing the coronet of a troop warrant over his two stripes.

Behind him, tacked to the wall, was a poster-size version of the leaflet Lord Canista had shown Hal a month ago, announcing the formation of dragon flights.

Civilians prospecting the various booths would look at the warrant, then at the poster, and hasten onward. Evidently dragon flying was thought an advanced form of suicide.

Hal walked up to the man, saluted.

"I'm one of yours, Serjeant." He passed the orders from his corps commander across.

"Fine," the man said, lowering the parchment. "M'name's Ivo Te. I was starting to think I've got plague."

Hal didn't answer. Te looked him over hard.

"You appear to have been rode hard and put away wet, young Serjeant."

"Polishing rags aren't easy to find in Sagene," Hal said.

"Don't I know it," Te said. "Until two months ago, I was top warrant with Eighth Heavy Cavalry."

"I was Third Light. We scouted for you a few times."

"You did," Te said. "I heard about your disaster. But it's nice to have someone else along who knows which end of a sword gets sharpened."

"There are others?"

"There are others," Te said grimly. "And, with one or two exceptions, a bigger lot of shitepokes, crap merchants, layabouts and deeks I've never met before."

Hal grinned. "That good?"

Te sighed. "It's going to be a long war, lad. A long war indeed."

The recruits for dragon school were housed in an inn not far from Guildhall. Hal had little time to assess them before a dozen wagons arrived and, under a steady storm of cursing by Serjeant Te, the forty prospective fliers and their dunnage were loaded aboard and the wagons creaked away for the secret training grounds, somewhere beyond the capital.

The base sat close to a forbiddingly high cliff, on Deraine's west coast.

Below, gray surf boomed uninvitingly.

"Be a good place for a morning bath after a good, healthy run," Serjeant Te said briskly, and was glowered at all around.

Before the war, the base had been a religious retreat, gray-stone main buildings and cottages scattered about the huge estate. Hal saw at once why the retreat had been taken over—the religious types must have worshipped a horse god, or else their benefactors were of the galloping set.

There were huge barns and corrals, and what must have been a race course at one time, now being leveled by teams of oxen towing rollers back and forth.

"Where are our dragons?" a very young, very redheaded, very confident woman asked.

"Not here yet, and that'll be Serjeant to you," Te growled.

"Then wot the 'ells will we do, waitin'? Play wi' ourselves?" a man who could have been the young brother of Hal's cocky second, Jarth Ordinay, asked, cheekily.

"The Lord Spense will find work for you," Te said. "For all of us."

Hal noted, with a sinking feeling, the Serjeant's face didn't look pleased.

Te had good reason.

This was only the second dragon flying class held here at Seabreak—three more schools around Deraine, were also training dragon flights.

Hal asked how the first class had managed, if the school didn't have any dragons, and was told they'd taken their monsters with them to Sagene, just as his class would… when the dragons materialized.

The trainees were detailed off to the four-person huts by shouting warrants. One, a Serjeant Patrice, saw Hal's evident status as a combat veteran, but, unlike Te, didn't appear to like it, and chose Kailas for special attention, which meant more close-range shouting than for others.

Hal had learned, trying to sleep in the rain, to put his mind elsewhere, generally soaring with dragons, so it was easy to ignore Patrice.

The huts spread out in four rows, each in a different compass heading, meeting at a common assembly area.

Hal managed to get one as far from the assembly field as possible, knowing which huts would likely be chosen for details by the warrants.

He did manage a minute with Serjeant Te, and requested the diminutive Farren Mariah, and "anybody else you think livable" for hutmates.

The other two were Ev Larnell, a haunted-looking, thin man a couple of years younger than Kailas; and Rai Garadice, a cheerful, muscled youth the same age as Hal, whose name sounded familiar to Hal.

The thirteen women on the course had their own huts, interspersed with the men's. No one, at least so far, slept anywhere but in the hut assigned him or her. There hadn't been any regulations read out about sex, but everyone automatically sensed it was against the rules. It had to be, since it felt good.

The huts were single open rooms, twenty feet on a side, and there was a wooden bunk and a large open hanging closet for each student. In the center of the room was a stove, which would be welcome as fall became winter, and a wash basin near the door.

Studded amid the huts were privies, with a long door at the rear, and half-barrels to catch the waste. Patrice had told them his favorite detail was telling someone to jockey a wagon down the rows, collecting the barrel's contents. All this was said with Patrice's usual expression, an utterly humorless tight smile the trainees found strangely annoying.

They were allowed half an hour to unpack their gear, then fallen back out. Hal had a few moments to consider a few of the other trainees: the confident, redheaded woman, Saslic Dinapur; a stocky loud man named Vad Feccia; and an arrogant man named Brant Calabar, Sir Brant Calabar he was careful to let everyone know. He reminded Hal of his old enemy as a boy, Nanpean Tregony.

Then they were pushed into formation, the experienced soldiers already knowing the drill, the civilians becoming quick studies of the others, for an address by the school's commanding officer.

"This is not my first school command," Lord Pers Spense said. "I've taught at His Majesty's Horse Guards, and was chosen to be Master of the Ring; and half a dozen crack regiments had me as their guest instructor before the war.

"I know little of this dragon flying you men—and women," he added hastily, "are about to attempt, but doubt me that it can be that different from riding any beast, except that you will be high in the skies."

Spense was red-faced, probably balding under the dress helm he wore over a very flashy uniform Hal couldn't identify, but knew it wouldn't last beyond the first archer on the battleground. He was most stocky, hardly appearing to be anyone who was the first to push back from the dinner table.

Spense slapped a riding crop against his highly polished thigh boots.

"Therefore, we shall begin training all of you in what I call the School of the Soldier.

"Serjeant Teh," he went on, mispronouncing the name, "has informed me that some of you have already seen bully fighting against the barbarians, those savages who call themselves the Roche, with barely a hundred years or so since they crawled from the swamp.

"For you, it shall be good to refresh your memory of the most important part of soldiering: drill. For only with the confidence that drill inspires can you go forth into battle, knowing the man on your left will do just what you are doing, and so bring the savages to their knees."

The speech went on, and on. Hal didn't bother listening to more.

He knew why Serjeant Te had winced.

"You will run everywhere," Serjeant Patrice bayed, and so the column of trainees ran through the estate grounds, twice around the cookhall, and stopped, some panting hard, in a long line.

Hal, not by accident, found himself behind the redhead, Saslic Dinapur.

They introduced themselves, wondered about the food.

"And why'd you join?" she asked.

"I was already in the army," Hal said. "Things… changed at my old posting." He didn't elaborate about the massacre. "And I was a oddjob boy for a dragon flier named Athelny, back before the war."

Saslic grinned.

"I met that old rascal once, when he came to the Menagerie, to ask something of my father. Even as a little girl, I thought he was a definite rogue."

"He was that," Hal agreed.

"Do you have any idea what he's doing now? I hope wealthy, perhaps married to some rich dowager, and raising dragons somewhere in the north."

"He's dead," Hal said. "Killed by a bastard… Sorry—"

"Don't apologize," Saslic interrupted. "I've heard—used—worse myself.

And we are in the army, aren't we?"

"I guess so," Hal said. "But after Lord Spense's uh, enlightening talk, I'm not sure what century's."

Saslic laughed, a very pleasant sound Hal decided he could get used to.

"Anyway, about poor Athelny?"

"Killed by an archer of a Sagene nobleman who'd euchred Athelny out of his dragon," Hal said. "He flew off, north, toward Deraine, I guess, and we never found his body."

Saslic was quiet for a few moments, then said, softly, "A bad way to die… but a better funeral than most of us'll see."

"True," Hal agreed.

"Move up, there," a voice behind him grated. "Some of us want our dinner."

Hal turned, looked at the bluff Vad Feccia, thought of saying something, didn't, deciding to fit into this new world as easily as he could, turned back.

Feccia laughed, a grating noise, and Hal realized he'd made a mistake.

The man probably thought Kailas was afraid of him. Oh well. Bullies could be sorted out at a later time.

"You said something about the Menagerie?" Hal asked Saslic.

Saslic nodded. "My father is one of the keepers at the King's Own Menagerie, and I helped. I really liked working around the dragons, wanted to learn how to fly them, and when this came up, well, I guess my father'll speak to me sooner or later for running off."

They entered the long building, which was divided into thirds, one the kitchen, the second a dining room for students, the third, closed off with a screen for the cadre. They got tin plates from a pile, had a glop of what looked like stew, some tired vegetables, a pat of butter and bread dumped on the plate as they passed down the line of bored-looking serving women.

"Oh dear," Saslic said.

Hal thought it looked quite a bit better than most of the rations the army fed its troops in Sagene, but he didn't tell Saslic that.

The two looked around the small hall for a seat at one of the benched tables, just as Sir Brant Calabar crashed to his feet.

"This is a damned outrage! Eating with commoners!"

Farren Mariah, evidently the man he objected to, looked up.

"'At's fine, mate. Yer can wait outside, an' I'll save yer the indignity, an'

polish off yer plate as a pers'nal favor."

Calabar clashed his plate down.

"Where I come from, a bastard like you'd warrant a whipping!"

A man at the table behind Calabar stood. He was slender, long-faced, with a large, beaked nose.

"Now, sir," he said, in a nasal tone Hal had heard lords in the army use,

"best you show some manners here. We're all learners together, and there's surely no call to behave like a pig."

Calabar whirled.

"And who the blazes are you?"

"Sir Loren Damian," the man said. "Former equerry to His Most Royal Majesty, detached on special duty to this school, also Lord Dulmin of the Northern Reaches, Quinton of Middlewich, and other equally ponderous titles I shan't bore anyone with, but ones I suspect have precedent in the Royal List over yours."

"Oh," Calabar said in a very quiet voice, out-titled to the hilt.

"Now, be a good sort, and sit down, and eat your meal," Sir Loren said.

Calabar started to obey, then crashed out of the hall.

"Tsk," Damian said. "But I suppose he'll come around, when his belly calls, which it appears to do on a rather regular basis."

There was a bit of laughter. Sir Loren picked up his plate, and pointedly walked to the table Calabar'd stormed away from.

"May I join you, sir?"

"Uh… surely, I mean, yes m'lord," Mariah managed.

"My title here is Loren," Damian said. "Most likely something resembling scumbucket to our warrants, I'd imagine."

He started eating.

Hal and Saslic found seats. Kailas saw Serjeant Te leaning against the entrance to the cadre's section, a bit of a smile on his face, wondered what it portended for Calabar or Damian, decided that was none of his concern, started eating.

The food was actually fairly awful.

"Forrard… harch!" Serjeant Patrice bellowed. "Hep, twoop, threep, fourp… hep, twoop, threep, fourp… godsdammit, Kailas, get in step!"

Hal almost stumbled over his own feet getting them in the proper military order.

The forty trainees, in a column of fours, marched away from the assembly area, down one of the curving brick paths into an open area.

"Right flank… harch!"

Hal turned left, and almost knocked a heavy-set woman, Mynta Gart, spinning.

"Lords of below, Kailas, can't you do anything right?"

The class was in military ranks, and the warrant teaching it had trouble reading the handbook he was holding.

Hal was half-listening, looking at another trainee two rows away. The man kept looking back at him as if he knew him.

As the class was dismissed for a break, Hal recognized him and went up.

"You're Asser, aren't you?"

"I am that… and where do I know you from?"

"Hal Kailas. I was Athelny's dogsbody when you were barkering for him.

You and… Hils, that was his name."

"Right!" Asser smiled delightedly. "I heard Athelny's dead. What're you doing here? Did that old fart ever give you a chance to ride a dragon like you wanted?"

Hal explained, considering Asser as he spoke. Once, a long time ago, he'd thought the young man most dapper, a city slick. But he saw him through different eyes now, no more than another one of those who doesn't sow, but has every hustle in the world for reaping.

"Hils," Asser said sadly. "He's dead, too. I guess he thought he could outrun the warders, and anyway didn't believe one of 'em would cut him down from behind. A pity. He was just about the smoothest bilker I ever knew, and him and me had a great partnership… for awhile."

"So what made you join up?" Hal asked.

"It was like you said… made's the word. The magistrate didn't believe I had no idea who Hils was, and told me I was either gonna volunteer or be headed for the poogie for five years or so.

"I heard about this dragon thing we're in, figured that'd be a good place to lay low."

"I've seen Roche's dragons," Hal said. "If I weren't a fool, I'd think maybe five years in prison might be a little safer."

"Haw," Asser snorted. "You don't think a smart lad like me'll ever go across the water, now do you?"

Hal didn't reply, excused himself, seeing an angry-looking Saslic motioning to him.

"What's the problem?"

"That frigging Feccia's a lying sod!"

"I'm not surprised," Hal said mildly. "In what category?"

"Probably all of them. But start with his claims to be a dragon rider, back as a civilian, although he's pretty damned vague about the details.

But I caught him. Asked him some questions, which he didn't answer quite right. Then I asked him when he thought was the best time to separate a dragon pup from the doe."

"What?"

"And he went and gave me a vague answer, saying it varied, depending on circumstances." Dinapur shook her head. "What a jack! A pup my left nipple!"

"Not to mention a dragon doe," Hal said, starting to laugh. "You know, a man who's so damn dumb he doesn't even know a kit and a cow probably won't get very far around here."

"Who's going to call him? A trainee? I'm not going to peach on someone, and for sure the cadre don't know the difference."

"You're right," Hal said. "I wouldn't nark the idiot off either. I guess we'll just have to wait for his mouth to take care of himself."

"To the rear… harch! In the name of any god you want, Kailas, can't you learn how to drill? I thought you were some kind of combat hero!"

Hal thought of telling him killing someone, or keeping from being killed yourself, didn't have a lot to do with square-bashing, and no, he'd never had any instruction whatsoever on what foot you were supposed to start marching with. The army across the water was a little too busy to concern itself with left-right, left-right.

But he kept his mouth shut. So far, he'd stayed off the emptying shitter detail. So far.

The day finally came when they turned in their civilian gear, and Hal his threadbare uniform, which they'd been washing when they could, as they could, and were issued new uniforms.

They were fairly spectacular, which Hal guessed meant higher ranks were particularly interested in dragon flights: black thigh boots, into which tight-fitting white breeches were bloused, a red tunic with white shoulderbelts and gold shoulderboards, and a smart-looking forage cap, also red, which Hal thought would blow away twenty feet off the ground.

With the gaudy uniform went very practical, and completely unromantic, undergarments, both in padded winter issue and plain summer wear.

Someone, probably down the line from the uniform's designers, had a bit of practicality, thinking what it would be like, flying in winter, and gauntleted catskin gloves and a heavy thigh-length jacket that must have required an entire sheep to produce were issued.

Another practical item was a set of greenish-brown coveralls, perfect, as Serjeant Patrice said, "for cleaning the shitter."

Hal was starting to think the man had a problem with his bowels.

They were also issued weapons—long spears and swords. Hal couldn't see either having much use aboard a dragon, figured that Sir Spense had called for the issue so the class would look like his idea of proper soldiery.

The only practical weapon was a long, single-edged dagger, which looked as if it had been designed and forged by an experienced bar brawler.

He was a bit surprised Spense hadn't given out spurs.

* * *

" Lord, they let some raggedy-asses into uniform these days," Patrice said, grinning his risus sardonicus. "Now, the reason you're in these ten-deep ranks is we're practicing parade maneuvers, and there aren't enough of you idiots to form a proper parade.

"Forrard… harch!"

Hal stepped out correctly, determined for once he wasn't going to make a mistake.

"By the right… wheel!"

The way the maneuver should've been done was the right flanker performed a right turn, began marking time, the soldier next to him took one more step, and so forth until the entire ten-man rank had turned right. In the meantime, the second row was doing the same, one step behind.

It didn't work out that way as soldiers slammed into each other, got confused and started marking time when they should've been moving, and everything became absolute chaos.

"Halt, halt, godsdammit, halt," Patrice screamed, and chaos became motionless chaos. He considered the mess.

"I'm starting to think this whole son of a bitching class has got a case of the Kailases."

Hal, who for once had done exactly what he should've, felt injured.

Somewhere in the mess Calabar laughed.

"I heard laughter," Patrice said. "Is there something funny I've missed?"

Silence.

"Who laughed?"

More silence.

"I don't like being lied to," Patrice said. "And nobody confessing is lying, now isn't it?"

Still more silence.

"I asked for an answer."

The class got it, and raggedly boomed, "YES, SERJEANT."

"I have a good ear, I've been told," Patrice said. "Don't you think so, Sir Brant?"

An instant later, he shouted, "Not fast enough, Sir Brant. Front and center!"

Calabar trundled out of the ranks.

"Was that you who laughed?" Patrice cooed.

"Uh… uh… yessir."

"Don't call me sir! I know who my parents were! You get your young ass to your hut, secure your clothes bucket, and run on down to the ocean and bring me back a bucket of water.

"Move out!"

Patrice watched Calabar run off, then turned back to his victims.

"Now, shall we try it again, children?"

Serjeant Te took Hal aside.

"How're you holding up, Serjeant?"

"I didn't think we had any rank here, Serjeant Te."

"That appears to be one of the good Sir Spense's ideas. You've noticed that no one's been returned to his or her unit yet for failure, either."

"That's right."

Te nodded sagely. "Just a word, or mayhap a suggestion. It could be the good Sir Spense is truly in the dark, and afraid to throw anyone out until he has some idea of what might be required.

"As for Serjeant Patrice—"

"I don't mean to interrupt," Hal said. "But he's water to a duck's back."

Te grinned.

"Good. I didn't figure he'd get under your skin."

"Not a chance, Serjeant. Matter of fact, he's given me an idea on handling a problem of my own."

"I don't suppose," Rai Garadice asked Farren Mariah, "you'd be willing to tell us how you happened into dragon flying, since we've got a whole hour to waste before dear Serjeant Patrice takes us for a nice morning run."

The class was in a stable, looking out at the drizzle beyond.

Farren pursed his lips, then shrugged.

"I don't guess there's a'matter. The on'y dragons I've ever been around was oncet, when a show come to Rozen, I got a job cleanin' up the hippodrome a'ter 'em."

"Nice start for a career," Saslic said.

"You name the tisket, I've held it," Farren said. "Crier, runner, butcher's boy, greengrocer's assistant, glazier, changer's messenger, a ferryboat oarsman for a bit, maybe a couple things I don't think I oughta be jawin'

about."

"None of this answers Rai's question," Hal said.

"Well… I went an' made a bet wi' a friend, don't matter wot, an' lost, an'

the wager was the loser hadda take the king's coin."

"Hell of a bet," Saslic said.

"Yeh, well there weren't much goin' on around, so it din't matter,"

Farren said. "An' then, oncet I was in barracks, there was a certain misunderstanding, an' somebody'd told me about these flights, an' I thought maybe it'd be best to skip outa the line of fire."

"Misunderstanding?"

"Uh… the men around me thought I was a witch."

There was a jolt of silence.

"Are you?" Saslic asked gently.

"Course not. I just got a bit of the gift, not like my ma, or my uncle, or his family. And my gran'sire was's'posedly a great wizard, good enough for nobility to consult."

"Oh," Garadice said, forcing himself not to move away. Most people without the gift were quite leery of magicians.

"A wizard," Saslic said in a thoughtful tone. "Maybe we could have you rouse a spell that'd, say, cause Patrice to fall over yon cliff, or make his dick fall off."

"I couldn't do someat like that!" Mariah said, sounding shocked.

"Then what earthly good are you?" Saslic asked.

* * *

"Broadly speaking," the warrant droned, "if two cavalries of approximately equal mobility maneuver against each other in open country, neither side can afford the loss of time that dismounting to fight on foot entails. Hence, the same fundamental rules apply to all cavalry combats…"

Saslic looked at Hal, made a face, mouthed the plaintive words, "When are we gonna learn about dragons?"

Hal shrugged. Maybe some time before they reembarked for the wars.

Somehow Patrice made a mistake on the schedule, and the trainees had a whole two hours after eating before the mandatory late class, this one on Proper Horsemanship.

Not that anyone actually had time for relaxation, busy with boot-blackening, cleaning their weapons—"all this stab-bin' and wot really rusts a blade out, eh?" was Farren Mariah's comment—or trying to remember what it was like to be around a dragon.

Since it was an unseasonably warm fall evening, most of them were gathered outside their huts, talking while they polished.

Mynta Gart saw Brant Calabar staggering away from the steps down to the rocky beach with yet another full bucket, said, "Guess our Serjeant Patrice is havin' himself a salt water bath."

"Good for his complexion, I'd bet," Saslic said.

"A better wash'd be to trail him overside for a league or so," Gart said.

"And then cut loose the hawser."

"You sound like a sailor," Saslic said.

"That I am," Gart said proudly. "Will be again, once the fighting stops.

Once had my own coaster, then got bit by that patriotic fever, and got made a mate on one of the king's patrol boats.

"Which was damn stupid of me, since what navy Roche has looks to be hiding in port until the war's over."

"So why'd you volunteer for dragon flying?" Hal asked.

"Why not? Used to be, when I was up on the north coast, I'd see wild dragons overhead, some heading, no doubt, for Black Island.

"Looked romantic and free to me." She looked around at the trainees.

" Damn, but I love this freedom."

"What about you, Kailas?" Feccia asked, when the rueful laughter died.

"You have a personal invite from the king to bless us with your company?"

"Where I'm from," Hal said, "that's not a question civil men ask."

"Prob'ly wise," Feccia said. "I've heard villains are careful about things like that."

Something snapped inside Hal. He'd made a bit of a joke about solving his problem, and now was suddenly the time. Crossbelts and white polish sailing, he was on his feet and blurred across the ten feet to the bigger man.

His mouth was gaping, and Hal, anger giving him strength, yanked Feccia to his feet. He slapped him hard across the mouth twice, and blood erupted.

Hal let him stumble back, kicked him hard in the stomach, was about to hammer him, double-fisted, across the back of the neck when Ev Larnell pulled him back. Kailas spun, was about to go after Larnell when the red rage faded.

He dropped his hands.

"Sorry."

Hal turned back to Feccia, gagging, bent over, and jerked him erect.

"Now, listen, for I'll only say this once," he said, his voice barely above a whisper even as his fury died. "You'll not talk to me, nor about me to anyone else, unless you're ordered."

Feccia stared up at him, his expression that of a cow staring at the butcher's hammer. Hal backhanded him twice again, grated, "Did you understand?"

The man nodded dumbly, and Hal shoved him away. Feccia stumbled off, toward the jakes, stopped, vomited, then staggered on.

The anger was now cold, gone in Kailas.

The other trainees were looking at him, quite strangely.

Saslic suddenly grinned.

"Did anyone ever tell you you're lovely when you're angry, soldier?"

The tension broke, and there was a nervous laugh, and the trainees went back to their cleaning.

"You look like you've been in a fight, Feccia," Serjeant Patrice said through his grin. "You know fighting's forbidden here."

"Nossir," Feccia muttered, breathing coming painfully past cracked ribs. His face was puffed, swollen and bruised. "Not fighting, Serjeant.

Walked into a doorjamb, Serjeant."

"You sure?"

"Sure, Serjeant."

Patrice stepped back. "Damned surprise, this. Maybe you might end up making a soldier."

That night, in their hut, Hal decided to break his own rule, and asked Rai Garadice if his father happened to be a dragon flier.

"He is," Garadice said. "Trained me, even if he thought I was still too young to go on the circuit with him."

"I thought so," Hal said, and said he'd tried to find a job with Garadice just before the war started, and that he'd said he was going to go find a place in the country and let the world go past until it was tired of war.

"That was his intent," Rai said. "Then, after Paestum was besieged, he—what was it Gart said this afternoon?—got bit by patriotic fever, and tried to enlist.

"They told him he was too old, and go home.

"He moped around for awhile, and I thought he'd given up, then he started writing letters to everybody when the war started dragging on.

Including, I think, to Saslic's father at the King's Menagerie, saying he knew a lot about dragons, and they could be the key to victory.

"I guess everybody thought he was a little bit mad, since nobody's yet figured out what good dragons are for, other than playing spy in the sky, or so I'm told.

"Anyway, they came to him, made him a lieutenant officer, put him out with twenty others, and now he's a dragon requisition officer, responsible for buying dragons from their owners, or taking young ones from their nests and taming them to be flown.

"I hope he might be with our dragons when they finally arrive."

"Be a damn relief," Farren put in from his corner, "if the king'd give him orders to boot this eejit Spense back into a horse ring, and get some bodies in wot know which end of a dragon poops and which end bites."

"So then we've got three dragon riders in one hut," Ev Larnell put in.

"You've got experience?" Garadice said.

"Course I do," Larnell said. "In my district, we had fairs, and we'd always have dragon riders to top the day."

"And you were one of them?"

"Sure," Larnell said.

"How'd you rig your harness?" Garadice asked.

There was a long silence from Larnell's end of the room, then, "Why, just like everybody, we used ropes as reins, to a heavy metal bit and a chain headstall."

"What about saddles?"

"Just like on a horse," Larnell said, and his voice was thin. "Except with long straps, under the front legs and coming forward from just in front of the back ones."

"Oh," Garadice said flatly.

Hal realized there was more than one phony in the class besides Feccia.

* * *

The next day, after the forenoon drill, Ev Larnell came to Hal. He licked his lips, and said, tentatively, "I need a favor."

"If I can."

"Last night… Well, I guess you and Garadice figured out that I've never really been on a dragon in my life."

Hal made a noncommittal noise.

"You're right," Larnell said, his voice getting desperate. "All I've done is seen 'em fly overhead, and I went to a show once, before I joined up."

"So why'd you lie?"

"Because… because I was scared."

"Of what?"

"I joined up when Paestum was surrounded by the Roche, and went to Sagene with the King's Own Borderers.

"We've fought in every battle so far, and generally in the vanguard.

Kailas, every man, twice over, in my company's been killed or taken off, grave wounded.

"I'm the only one who's still alive from the first ones, and I know they're going to keep putting us in the thick of things, and then, when we're wiped out, bringing up fresh men, so it's like a whole new unit, and there's no need to give us rest.

"But I remember… I'll always remember. Remember what it's like, seeing all your friends, down in death, friends you were joking with an hour earlier. Then you determine you're not going to let anybody close, let anybody be your friend, and maybe that's worse." Larnell's voice was growing higher. "I just couldn't take it any more.

"I'm no shirker… I wouldn't run away. But I thought, if I claimed I knew something about dragons, it'd get me out of the lines. Give me a chance to think, to pull myself together.

"Don't tell on me," he pleaded, and his voice was that of a child, terrified of being reported to his parents.

Hal looked into his eyes, saw the wrinkles at the edges, thought Larnell had the gaze of a very old man.

"Look," Hal said after a moment. "I don't nark on people. I've said it before, I'll probably say it again.

"You want to fly dragons, that's good. But don't start things, like you did last night. Keep your mouth shut, and don't go looking to get exposed."

"I won't. I promise I won't. And thanks. Thank you."

He bobbed his head twice, scurried away.

Excellent, Hal thought. Now, you're all of what, twenty, and you're a priest confessor. And what if Larnell finishes training, and then breaks in combat, and puts somebody's ass in a sling?

If that happens, a part of his brain said coldly, you'll have to kill him yourself.

"Can I get you something from the canteen, Hal?" Vad Feccia asked, parading an ingratiating smile.

"No, thanks."

Feccia hesitated, then ran off.

Serjeant Te had witnessed the exchange.

"He's been acting a bit different since he had some kind of accident I heard about," he observed.

"He is that," Hal said shortly.

"Almost like a bully that's been whipped into line… Or the way a dog licks the arse of a bigger dog that got him on his back, pawing for mercy…

except, of course, there's no fighting at this school."

Hal made no answer. Feccia had been very friendly with Kailas since the "fight," which Hal considered no more than a shoving match.

"Word of advice, young Serjeant," Te said. "A snake that turns once can do it again."

"I'd already figured that."

"Thought you might've."

"This 'un might be in'trestin'," Farren Mariah said. "You see what I'm wigglin' here?"

"Looks like," Hal said carefully, "a kid's toy. You going back to your childhood, Farren, playing the simpleton, hoping to get away from one of Patrice's little fun details?"

"Heh. Heh." Mariah said deliberately, if uninformatively. "What sort of kid's toy?"

"Uh…"

"Like the shitwagon coming down the line, 'bout halfway with its rounds," Rai Garadice said. The four hutmates were crouched in the door to their hut, Farren having cautioned them, without explaining, against being seen.

"Wood, wood, goodwood," Mariah said. By now, the others were used to his occasional rhyming slang. "Just so, just like, and keep thinking that.

"And who's ramblin' up the row toward the shitwagon?"

"Patrice."

"Heh. Heh. Heh," Farren said again, spacing his "hehs" deliberately.

"This center piece's carved by me, out of a bit whittledy from the wagon's arse. It's dipped in real shit—used my own, sackerficin' an sanctifyin', like they said—an' rubbed with some herbs I plucked on the last run beyont the grounds I know the meanin' of. Plus I said some words my gran'sire taught me when I was puttin' it together.

"Th' wheels're toothpicks, an' touched an' charmed by rubbin' against the real ones out there.

"Now, be watchin', that wagon, and I'll be chantin' away."

Garadice drew back, a little nervously. Farren grinned, seeing that.

"Careful m'magic don't slip, an' you go hoppin' out as a toady-frog.

"Wagon roll

Wagon creak

Full of stuff

I'll not speak

Wheel wiggle

Wheel haul

Wheel wobble

Wheel FALL!!"

At the last words, Farren twisted one of the toothpick wheels off the toy.

But no one noticed.

Outside, a wheel on the real privy carrier groaned, and gave way.

The cart teetered, and Serjeant Patrice had a moment to shout alarm.

Then it crashed sideways, spilling a brown wave high into the air, to splash down over the warrant.

He tried to run, but the wagon was turning on its side, and more ordure washed over him.

There were shouts, screams, laughter as the students tumbled out of their huts.

"Paradise," Hal said, solemnly taking Farren by the ears and kissing him.

"Git away!" Mariah spluttered.

"You are a wizard," Ev Larnell said.

"It'll be a long night's cleanup he'll be having us doing," Rai said. "But worth every minute."

"Can I ask a question, Serjeant?" Hal asked Te, who'd taken charge of the formation due to Patrice's absence.

"Ask."

"You're assigned to this class, correct?"

"Aye."

"But I haven't seen you doing any teaching, or more than a morning run once a week or so."

"Aye."

"Can I ask why?"

Te smiled, the look of a cat with many, many, secrets, didn't respond.

"I've got a question of my own, Kailas."

"Yes, Serjeant."

"Do you have any ideas how that unfortunate accident could've happened to poor Serjeant Patrice?"

"No, Serjeant."

"Didn't think you would. Nobody else does either." Te smiled, and his skull face looked almost friendly.

"Go after your classmates, young Serjeant. Late class is coming up."

Hal, realizing he wasn't going to get an answer to his question, saluted, and doubled away.

As he ran, a possible answer came—just as a high-ranking officer didn't get where he was without having a bit of a political sense, the same had to be true of a troop serjeant.

Was Te aware of how screwed this school was, and making sure none of the blame would stick to his coat?

Some of the students had gotten in the habit of sitting behind the row of huts, in a quiet glade, between curfew and bed check, when the weather permitted. It gave them a chance to talk about the day, to try to decide if they were ever going to look at a dragon, let alone learn how to ride one.

Since fall was edging toward winter, most brought blankets to sit on and wrap around themselves.

One night, everyone had gone to bed except for Hal and Saslic.

It was clear, a chill in the air, and it seemed very natural for them to lean together, and look up at the almost-full moon.

"Do you suppose," Saslic asked softly, "that over in Roche there are a boy and girl dragon rider, looking up at the same moon… I wonder what they're thinking? Romantic things, maybe?"

Hal had been wondering about the Roche as well, except that his thoughts were running more toward some ideas he had for killing Roche dragon fliers, no matter their sex.

"Of course," he said hastily. "Romantic things, and about, umm, dancing in the moonlight, and…"

His voice trailed off, and he was looking into her eyes, great moonpools.

It seemed like a good idea to kiss her, and he was moving closer, her lips parting, and a voice whispered in their ear.

"How wonderfully romantic!"

Hal whirled, saw Serjeant Patrice, who'd crept up behind them on his hands and knees.

"We have a great deal of energy, do we, to be wanting to play stinkfinger when we ought to be in bed like good little boys and girls?"

"Uh…"

"On your feet, students, and at attention! Move!"

They obeyed.

"I suppose, with all this vim and vigor, you'd appreciate a task to occupy you for the rest of the night, wouldn't you, since you can't be sleepy?"

"Uh…" Hal managed.

"Is the shitwagon fixed yet, Serjeant?" Saslic said.

"No, more's the pity. Not that I'd detail you for that, since it makes noise, and I don't want any of your classmates disturbed from their slumber merely because of your… pastimes.

"You go change into your fatigue suits, children. And then meet me on the far side of where the horse ring used to be. There's at least one stable that wasn't cleaned thoroughly from the old days."

By false dawn, that stable was as clean as it had been on the day it'd been built, Hal and Saslic working by lantern light and with Patrice's occasional check-in.

"Very good," he approved, just as the drums of reveille began clattering.

"Now, back to your huts, and change into class uniform. You've an easy fifteen minutes, and I don't want either of you late, or stinking of horse dung like you do now.

"Fifteen minutes, and I've planned a nice cross-country run for us before breaking our fasts."

Brooms were clattered down and the two pelted for their huts, knowing there was absolutely no way they'd be able to get clean, let alone dressed.

But then came the surprise.

Two huts—Hal's and Saslic's—gleamed with fire- and lamp-light.

"Come on, you eejiots," Farren shouted, and Mynta Gart beckoned from the other hut. "Water's heatin', and yer uniforms're ready."

Busy hands helped Hal out of his stinking fatigue suit, and buckets of soapy water were cascaded about him, as he stood, shivering, outside the hut. Across the way, Saslic was getting similar treatment.

Hal was too tired to even consider lascivious thoughts as his clothes were hurled at him, pulled on.

The only thought that did come, as he and the other students ran toward the shrilling of whistles in the assembly area, was that, with or without dragons, somehow the students had come together, and formed a team, cadre be damned.

The next day the dragons arrived, and everything changed.