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any one time last night, but he’d encouraged her to drink often. Cele became painfully aware of her bladder.
    She also became aware the rhythm of Dahleven’s breathing was not that of a sleeping man. She sat up abruptly to find him returning her gaze, clear-eyed and alert.
    How long had he been lying there awake while she cozied up to him like some stray cat?
    Dahleven sat up and reached for his boots. He didn’t look at her as he said, “Good morning, Lady Celia. We’ll move soon. Sorn will escort you away from camp so you may…accommodate your needs.” Then he stood and walked away without another glance.
    Amusement warred with annoyance and quickly won. He probably doesn’t know any words that are suitable for a “lady” to hear in this situation. I wonder if polite people ever refer to such vulgar things as bodily functions here? Probably not .
    Her amusement faded as Sorn returned to lead her beyond the camp. As he took her outside the main area of activity, Cele’s discomfort with the situation increased. This was one of the reasons she took short day hikes: taking care of business in the wide-open spaces had never appealed to her. Before they’d gone far, Sorn stopped. Cele continued on a few steps then turned back to him. He handed her a wooden trowel and turned his back.
    “What’s this for?” Cele asked.
    “For digging a cat-hole.”
    Sorn sounded like she had asked if water was wet.
    “Here?” Over Sorn’s shoulder, Cele could clearly see the camp and the men in it. Very little obscured the view, only one scraggly desert bush that was more stem than leaf. Cele marched around Sorn to face him. “I don’t think so! There’s no cover here. I’m not going to drop my drawers here in full view of God and everybody!”
    Sorn refused to look at her, but he spoke firmly. “Here. Now. To go further from camp would both endanger you and waste time.”
    “Endanger me? What are you talking about?”
    “We’re on the edge of enemy territory. We are not here by invitation.”
    “What are you talking about? What enemies?”
    “Our trade caravans and borders have been raided and attacked. Those responsible are not far from here. It’s not safe for you to wander off, searching for the perfect bush to hide behind. No eye will violate your privacy. Lord Dahleven has said it.”
    And what Dahleven says is law, judging by Sorn’s refusal to look at me .
    “Please, hurry. We have far to go and must make haste.”
    Cele’s bladder seconded the need for haste. She looked at the digging tool in her hand, and then over her shoulder at the camp. The men there were all busy–with their backs turned to her. Cele looked again at the tool, at Sorn with his carefully averted gaze, then went back around behind him.
    Sorn’s explanation didn’t make sense. She’s seen no one but Dahleven and his men in the last two days. Just going out of sight for a few minutes wouldn’t put her at any risk. Cele thought for a moment about just walking on and finding her own spot, but Sorn was obviously under orders. He’d try to stop her. She’d have to let him or break his arm. Not a good choice. He’d been nice to her, and this wasn’t worth fighting over.
    Cele scratched a little trench in the sand. She didn’t look around to see if anyone was looking when she dropped her shorts. If she saw no one, she could pretend no one saw her. Besides, Lord Dahleven had Spoken.
     
    *
     
    Breakfast was the same as it had been the morning before and the morning before that and every morning since they’d left Nuvinland. By the Talents, Dahleven hated journey bread. It kept a man on his feet, packed small and carried light, but it tasted like how the inside of a boot smelled.
    Kepliner and Knut were standing watch while the rest of the men ate, sitting together in a loosely formed circle. Usually they gathered in small twos and threes, quickly ate their morning meal and readied themselves to move out, but this morning they all