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he needed to learn, to improve, to know when to go for the kill and when to show . . . what? What did one call it when one spared an opponent?
    “Sergeant,” he asked, wondering if he would be punished for even voicing the question, “sometimes . . . you said sometimes you don’t kill. Why not?”
    Sergeant regarded him evenly. “It’s called mercy, Thrall,” he said quietly. “And you’ll learn about that, too.”
    Mercy. Under his breath, Thrall turned the word over on his tongue. It was a sweet word.
    “You let him do that to you?” Though Tammis was not supposed to be privy to this particular conversation between his master and the man he had hired to train Thrall, Blackmoore’s shrill voice carried. Pausing in his duty of cleaning the mud off of Blackmoore’s boots, Tammis strained to listen. He did not think of this as eavesdropping. He thought of this as a vital way to protect his family’s welfare.
    “It was a good martial move.” Sergeant Something-or-other replied, sounding not at all defensive. “I treated it the way I would had it been any other man.”
    “But Thrall isn’t a man, he’s an orc! Or hadn’t you noticed?”
    “Aye, I had,” said Sergeant. Tammis maneuvered himself so that he could peer through the half-closed door. Sergeant looked out of place in Blackmoore’s richly decorated receiving room. “And it’s not my place to ask why you want ’im trained so thorough.”
    “You’re right about that.”
    “But you do want ’im trained thorough,” said Sergeant. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
    “By letting him nearly kill you?”
    “By praising a good move, and teaching ’im when it’s good to use the bloodlust and when it’s good to keep a cool head!” growled Sergeant. Tammis smothered a smile. Evidently, it was becoming difficult forSergeant to keep his. “But that’s not the reason I’ve come. I understand you taught ’im to read. I want ’im to have a look at some books.”
    Tammis gaped.
    “What?” cried Blackmoore.
    Tammis had utterly forgotten the chore he was ostensibly performing. He stared through the crack in the door, a brush in one hand and a muddy boot in the other, listening intently. When there was a light tap at his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
    Heart thudding, he whirled to behold Taretha. She grinned impishly at him, her blue eyes flicking from those of her father to the door. Clearly, she knew exactly what he was doing.
    Tammis was embarrassed. But that emotion was overridden by a passionate desire to know what was about to happen. He raised a finger to his lips and Taretha nodded wisely.
    “Now, why did you go and teach an orc to read if you didn’t want him doing so?”
    Blackmoore spluttered something incoherent.
    “’E’s got a brain, whatever else you may think of him, and if you wants ’im trained the way you told me, you’ve got to get him understanding battle tactics, maps, strategies, siege techniques — ”
    Sergeant was calmly ticking things off on his fingers. “All right!” Blackmoore exploded. “Though I imagine I’ll live to regret this. . . .” He strode toward the wall of books and quickly selected a few. “Taretha!” he bellowed.
    Both older and younger Foxton servants jumped. Quickly Taretha smoothed her hair, put on a pleasant expression, and entered the room.
    She dropped a curtsy. “Yes, sir?”
    “Here.” Blackmoore thrust the books at her. They were large and cumbersome and filled her arms. She peered at him over the edge of the top book, only her eyes visible. “I want you to give these to Thrall’s guard to give him.”
    “Yes, sir,” Taretha replied, as if this were something she was asked to do every day and not one of the most shocking things Tammis had heard his master order. “They’re a bit heavy, sir . . . may I go to my quarters for a sack? It will make the carrying easier.”
    She looked every inch the obedient little servant girl. Only Tammis and Clannia