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The maid smiled sheepishly. “I just wanted to give everything a last look-over,” she explained. She briskly folded and stacked shirts, breeches, tunics, stockings, underclothes, and, in one of the shirts, more cloth pads.
    “You’d think I rip my seams every day,” Kel grumbled, pulling on her stockings. By the time she straightened her tunic, Lalasa had put her clothes in a wicker basket.
    Kel hugged the girl, who was as much friend as maid, then grabbed the basket and gave her key to Lalasa. “Tell Neal and the others I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye,” she said, and raced down the hall with Jump and the sparrows.
    In the stable Kel and over a hundred men saddled riding horses and put lead reins on their remounts. Qasim had left a pack with Kel’s name on it for her spare clothes; she filled it from her basket and gave the pack to the supply officer when he collected them.
    Qasim had put a burnoose, weapons, mail, helmet, and shield with her tack. Kel popped out of her tunic, slid into the mail shirt, then pulled the tunic over it. The men of the Own wore burnooses as cloaks. Kel fastened hers at the neck, hoping Qasim would show her how to shape a hood from it and fix it to her head when there was time.
    She fastened her shield and weapons to her saddle, then donned her helmet. She was ready. Looping Hoshi’s reins around one hand and Peach-blossom’s around the other, Kel walked out of the stable with her mounts and Jump. The sparrows had vanished into Jump’s carrier on Hoshi’s back.
    Kel tethered her horses on the edge of the courtyard where the company assembled. The torches, blown by the wind, gave the scene a dreamlike feel as the faces of the men were first brightly lit, then shadowed. The night itself was a cool one, the wind smelling of water and the first hay cutting of the summer.
    Kel watched the men unnoticed. Some were thirty or older, but most were young, single men in their twenties - married men were not allowed to join the King’s Own. A third were Bazhir. Of all the realm’s forces the King’s Own had done the best at enlisting the once-scorned Bazhir. That was Lord Raoul’s doing: he had taken the Own to live among the Bazhir for two seasons and recruited new men from their sons.
    “So who’s this youngster?” someone asked. Hoshi’s bulk shielded Kel from the men’s view. “We’ve got Lerant here for standard-bearer.” “A squire,” sneered a young man’s voice. The one who’d first spoken exclaimed, “He’s never wanted a squire - “
    Kel stroked Peachblossom’s nose. Eavesdropping had become a vice for her. She strained to hear a whispered remark, but didn’t catch what was said. Then: “The Girl!” someone demanded. “I don’t care if she’s the Wave Walker,” someone drawled. “She’s green as grass.”
    “She better not foul us up in the field,” another voice proclaimed.
    “Don’t you saddle rats have better things to do?” a gruff voice demanded. “Let’s have an inspection. Mithros witness, if I find one strap undone, heads will roll.”
    “But, Sergeant Osbern, sir, I like my head,” someone muttered.
    “Very well, Gildes of Veldine. Let’s inspect you first and put you out of your misery,” the decisive voice said.
    Now that they were no longer talking about her, Kel emerged from between the horses. Gildes must be the drooping fellow who led his mounts to a blond, barrel-chested man. The others were double-checking their things.
    “Did you eat?” someone asked Kel. A young man about four inches taller than she approached her. He gave Kel a warm turnover. “Just rolled out of bed and came charging on down, I bet. You’ll learn. Eat.”
    Kel bit and discovered sausage and cheese inside the turnover. “It’s good!” she mumbled, her mouth full.
    The stranger grinned cheerfully at her. In his early twenties, he was broad-shouldered, big-handed, and very handsome. He wore his dark hair cut just below his ears. His mouth was long and