Something was wrong. He couldn’t tell exactly what, but instead of the busy, determined life of the camp he sensed uneasiness, an almost furtive bustle in the distance, and ominous stillness around him. None of his cohort marshals were nearby, and yet he saw no drill in progress, and heard no tramp of feet out of sight. He smiled at Kef, and started toward the hearth. It was bare; the fire burnt out and the stones barely warm. One cookpot sat to the side, and in it was one cold sodden lump of porridge.
“That’s yours, then,” said a woman walking by—Adar, he remembered after a moment. Widowed, mother of two surviving.
“You’ve eaten?” he said to Kef, who was still hovering near him.
“Oh yes. Hours ago. I mean—”
“You mean I overslept because I was drunk,” said Gird, and prodded the porridge to see how firm it was. He broke off a smaller lump and ate it with difficulty, watching Kefs eyes. They wavered, not meeting his gaze.
“Well—you had a lot to do last night—”
“Is that what they all think?” He took another small lump, and gulped it down without trying to chew it. The stuff would hold slates on a roof in a gale, he thought.
“Oh no. I’m sure they don’t—although some—I mean someone said, but I don’t know who—”
Gird finished the porridge, cold and gluey as it was, and thought about it. Rahi’d told him to be careful about drinking too much, but she’d always said that. Tam and Amis, too—but that was years ago. And some people always complained that others drank too much. Far as he was concerned, it was those who had neither head nor heart, trying to deny others what they themselves couldn’t enjoy. Yet he remembered old Sekki well enough, who always smelled of sour ale and staggered when he walked, day or night—who died in a stinking puddle of his own vomit, one night. The sergeant had pointed him out to Gird and the other recruits—and he knew the sergeant’s warnings against drunkeness didn’t come from lack of taste for it.
So—had he been drunk last night, and had he thrown away five good yeomen (he wouldn’t count Binis) by losing his temper in a drunken rage? Evidently some of the others thought so. Could they all be wrong? They’d all been wrong before, but so had he.
His head throbbed, and the porridge sat uneasily in his belly. He hadn’t been really drunk, but then again he had to consider how the others felt, what they thought. He picked up the cooking pot and started for the creek.
“Where are you going with that?” came a sharp voice from behind him. He turned, and grinned at Adar. She reddened.
“Going to clean it,” he said. “Don’t we have a rule, that laggards to table clean the pot?”
Her mouth fell open, then shut with a snap. “But you—but you’re—”
“I can dip water and scour, Adar,” he said mildly. “And one thing about rules, they’re for all of us. I’m no different.” He turned away before she could offer, and stumped down the bank. The first splash of cold water went on his face, then he dipped the pot, scooped up a handful of sand and small gravel, and swirled it around. When he felt with his fingers, the gluey coating of dried-on porridge was still there. Blast. He’d have to really work at it. He looked around for rushes or reeds. Adar was standing on the bank, watching him.
“Here,” she said. “This makes it easier.” She handed him a lump of porous gray rock, very light for its size. Scrapestone, or scourstone: he remembered seeing similar lumps for sale in city markets, priced far above a village peasant’s ability to pay. Mali had always used rushes. But the scourstone took the porridge off the pot quickly, and his knuckles hardly hurt at all. He gave the stone and the rinsed pot back to her.
“Does it pass your inspection?” he asked.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “Better than my breadshovel did yours. I never would have expected you to know how to clean pots.”
He thought of saying it was simple enough, like most women’s work—which had been his father’s comment when his mother was sick—but he thought better of it. Simple work could be hard, and since it had to be done, better those who did it should take pride in it.
“When my mother had fever,” he said, “my father bade me do kitchen work—my brother’s wife was sick, too.”
“Ah. And can you cook?”
He grinned, remembering burnt porridge and bread that baked stone hard outside but soggy within. “No, not well. I’ve tried, and we didn’t starve, but no one would choose my porridge or bread. The Lady gave me wit to plow and raise the grain, not prepare it.” He did not mention his hearthcakes, which had helped him win over a campful of hungry men. They were poor fare compared to real food, and he knew it.
“You have a brewer’s taste for ale,” she said, then colored again. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. And I gather you all agree. How much did I drink last night?”
“Too much,” she said. “A pot or so, that I know of.”
He wanted to explain about the pain in his knees and hips and shoulders, the steady ache that sapped his strength some days, the tension and fear, that ale relieved. But he remembered—and knew she remembered—the tonguelashing he’d given young Black Seli for getting drunk in a tavern and blabbing about the nearest barton. Black Seli’s excuse had been a fever, and he hadn’t put up with it. Rules are for all of us. I’m no different. Why had he said that, right out loud. It was true, but still. No one knew how hard it was, dragging a mob of ignorant peasants through one battle after another. He looked at Adar, and realized that she was not going to accept that argument. Neither would he, if someone else gave it.
Gird sighed, heavily, and said, “Well, you may be right. Times before, I drank too much, and I thought I had my reasons.”
“Most men have,” said Adar, “At least they say so.”
“Yes. Well, I can’t stop last night now—”
She cocked her head at him. “No—and you can’t stop the results of it, either.”
He had not thought Adar was so forthcoming. She’d been a quiet one, hardly speaking in drill, always busy at some task but never chattering with the other women. You said women had brains too, he reminded himself. You said men should listen to them. But it was different, Rahi or Pir and this stranger. He wasn’t going to justify himself to her, and he wasn’t going to make promises, either. He climbed the bank, regaining the advantage of height, and looked down at her.
“I’ll have to try,” he said. Then he went on, to hunt for at least one of his cohort marshals.
Kef caught him halfway across the camp, by which time Gird was sure that the problem was much bigger than he’d thought. All the firepits were cold, when someone should have been brewing sib and baking for the noon meal. Those few he could see all looked to be tying up bundles.
“Gird! Red Seli wants to see you.” Kef was breathless; he must have run some way. “Back there,” he said, waving an arm to answer Gird’s unasked question. “In the woods near the spring.”
“Where are the other marshals?” asked Gird. Already he knew they might have deserted.
“Ivis took his cohort up the river, to gather fuel; Sim’s looking for a better campsite—”
“Better than this?” Gird looked at the clean-running creek, and the heavy woods around that hid them from almost all directions. And they had watchers on the high rocks, the only point that overlooked the camp.
Kef looked down. “They’re afraid Binis will tell,” he said. “Or those new ones.”
“So they all decided to move while I slept.”
“They tried to wake you, but—” Kefs voice trailed off. Gird’s headache was no worse than the pain in his heart. He had told them the importance of a leader’s ability to stay alert, to wake quickly and able to deal with emergencies. He had shown them—and would they distrust him now, because only once he drank too much ale? Could he not have any relaxation?