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silver and emerald, birds rejoicing everywhere. I, on the contrary, was wet, cold, stiff, hungry and sour. Eyeing the muddy square with its charcoal-heap outposts, the limp horses, the limper men, my charge still blissfully slumbering, I wished heartily that I had never set eyes on him. Then two guards bracketed me, and I knew real trouble had arrived.
    â€œRanks’ prerogative,” the first said curtly, with no attempt to salute. It is a euphemism. It means, accept our ultimatum or face a mutiny.
    What, I thought, have I done to merit this? With a bitter pang I saw my dismounted troopers battling through the Stirsselian swamps, rotten with fever, riddled with ulcers, rife with dysentery, fighting, dying, abusing me at every turn and deserting me at none. And these fat flawns curled up after a single open bivouac.
    The spokesman was still talking. “. . . nothing personal. But either we get rid of this—warlock—or else.”
    â€œElse what?” My hand itched for a sword hilt.
    â€œOr else,” he repeated, and evaded my eye.
    â€œYou fat louse.” I kept my voice down, for effect, and not to wake a man who would never have encountered mutiny. “You parade-ground parrot. You creeping belly-ache. Your orders are escort duty to Zyphryr Coryan. There’s no ‘or else’ for you.”
    He had gone purple. Hopefully, I watched his sword-hand. But he was a guard.
    â€œYou’re not fit,” I said, “to wash a surcoat, let be dirty one. A soldier wouldn’t wipe his boots on you.” Still he did not bite. “Get away from me before you end where you belong. In the mud.”
    More purple than ever, he persevered manfully, “Is that your last word?”
    â€œNo,” I snapped. “This is my last word.” I wrenched at my sword, he sprang away, and a yell of, “ ’Ware backs!” nearly burst my ears.
    I spun as any fighter would and my feet shot from under me as the second man’s point speared between my right arm and ribs, I rolled and kicked with the spokesman charging my other flank and my frantic whip-lash just cleared his thrust, they closed in, I heard shouts and running feet and prepared to end under the pack of them—then the one who had struck from ambush dropped his sword, clapped both hands to his eyes, and folded gently down beside me in the mud.
    I sat up. Retrieved my sword. Got to my feet. Nine whey-faced muddy black posts confronted me, slack-jawed, paralyzed. My charge emerged from behind them in an equally bedraggled blue robe. I took one glance and jerked my head away. He had no face. His eyes obliterated it, a glare of blinding, white-shot green.
    â€œSorry,” he said curtly, “to interfere.”
    When none of us managed a word he came over to the man in the mud. Bent to feel a wrist. Straightened up.
    The changed expression told me before he spoke. “I’m truly sorry.” The voice had altered too. “He’s dead, Alkir.”
    â€œSorry?” I was still airborne with rage. “For what?” I rounded on the rest. “Anyone else want to exercise ‘ranks’ prerogative’?”
    No one did. Sheathing the sword, I turned to my rescuer. And stopped.
    After a moment I said, “Mutiny. Trying to kill an officer. The kindest he could hope for was to lose his head.” He did not look round. “One more barrack-rat. The Lady won’t worry. She’s more likely to string me up for negligence.”
    He sat on his heels over the corpse. I found I had put a hand on his shoulder as with one of my own subordinates. I said, “There was nothing else you could have done.”
    He might not have heard. He was staring, mute, deaf, as if nothing but the body existed. As if he had never seen a man die before.
    I took the hand away. My skin crept. I heard myself say, too quietly, “Could you?”
    There was a pause so deep I heard a foot squelch in the mud,