For the next week, the camp continued to grow like a steaming pustule on the plain. Mercenaries were still arriving, but the majority of the crowd was made up of carts and artisans that the rearguard would escort to the front lines. The bulk of the army, commanded by the seneschal Vittori, was currently roaming the canton of Ac-Pass. Last I heard, Vittori had already captured several strongholds and his troops were busy pacifying the countryside. This way, the supply lines could function without hindrance when the siege of Ac-Pass would finally begin. From their few contacts, the Vals had described the seneschal in a mixed light. Stiff and severe despite his young age, he had seemed overconfident, and too ambitious for his own good. No one was unaware that Vittori was among the ranks of Emaly's courtiers, the eldest daughter of Nawd Corju, and the young lord must have seen in Ac-Pass a golden opportunity, his ticket to the primate's family. Therefore, the Vals were suspicious of his eagerness. Nevertheless, the seneschal Vittori had also appeared to them to be competent and methodical. Moreover, he had already expressed his interest in the vaïdogan council on several occasions, which in itself was the only thing that really mattered.

For his part, Cleo Gon, Hill's primate, had obviously decided to forget about the farms of Ac-Pass. There had not yet been a confrontation with anything other than the local militia, and even so, according to the echoes we had, the vanguard of Vittori was meeting only limited resistance. For the time being, Gon was taking the hit, and assembling his forces in order to launch a counter-offensive. There was a lot of nonsense about this, the most optimistic said that Hill would not even fight, while the birds of ill omen explained this idleness by the gathering of a huge army. True to the Padekke, the Vals preferred not to speculate on such a vague situation, and they laughed gently in the face of all the overconfident newsmongers.

Forty-three warriors and sixteen yunlings formed the vaïdoerk, all of whom had been hardened by years spent in Vaw, fighting in the shadows of a latent rebellion. The most experienced had played a role in king Ab's wars, and I was told that Ofrid and a few others were also veterans of Cambran's succession conflicts. They all lived together in a tight and functional group. Most were friends and some were lovers.

I was at first surprised by this discovery, because among the Brownians there is a stupid contempt for these men, who are considered inferior. The Vals, on the other hand, didn't give a damn about it, and made no secret of it. When, the day after our arrival, Ereck caught me staring at a kiss between Sidrik Harstelebb and his companion, a dark-skinned warrior whose name I have forgotten, my troubled expression must have caught his eye. "In Carm," he said to me in a conversational tone, "the phalangists have a duty to love other men. Their commanders think that a soldier will fight more fiercely to defend the one he loves. There, women are matrons and nothing more. We, on the other hand, believe that everyone should be free to choose their own preferences."

The sphere of exclusivity that bound us, Ulrick and I, absolutely burst when we arrived in Garnear, and I believe that it did us both a lot of good. The val-warrior spent most of his time reconnecting with his old comrades and I spent mine discovering new ones. I quickly became fond of Sven, the vivacious yunling I had sat next to on the first night. He was a jokester and had a pleasant face, ringed with black curls. I liked his open and frank manner, and his natural sensitivity reminded me of Robin. There was also Katja, one of the four girls of the vaïdoerk, who was both the child and the yunling of Rared Rotsakk. Katja was stocky and quiet, with large, blue eyes and a somewhat too obvious taste for Sven's jokes. The three of us were roughly the same age, and we immediately hit it off.

I preferred the camp in the early morning, when the air was fresh and the cacophonous concert of roosters broke the silence of the night: it was also little things like this that I had missed during my years in the forest. At daybreak, the most intoxicated soldiers were still drinking their wine and we could come and go without fear of being disturbed by their obscene rantings. Nevertheless, we never went anywhere without our weapons. The other kids watched us go by with a kind of fearful respect that, I confess, sometimes gave me a little too much pleasure. At the very beginning, I would puff out my chest with an exaggerated gait and a fierce look, which earned me worried looks from the morning milkmaids, and half-hearted scolding from my companions. Their embarrassed comments soon turned into less subtle remarks: they took the reputation of the vaïdogans very seriously, and made it clear to me that from now on I was supposed to do the same. This revelation filled me with a feeling of importance and, after a few days, my attitude changed completely. I became like them, helpful, respectful and courteous.

At dawn, we often went to visit the horses to bring them the peels left over from the night before, and I even fought for the privilege of emptying the shit buckets in the pit dug under the ramparts. These few moments of independence were salutary for me and, even if it was in another time and another place, I could not help thinking of my old expeditions in the alleys of the lower city, and that also did me good. For a week, I had the illusion of finding my freedom again and, even if my independence was no less limited than before, it was no longer the responsibility of one person. The metaphor is misplaced, because I didn't experience it that way at all, but it was like leaving a narrow prison cell to go in a dungeon: suddenly there was enough room for me to stretch my legs, and it filled me with a sweet and vibrant euphoria.

The time that was not occupied by discussions or daily tasks was devoted to training. I understood that the martial rhythm that Ulrick had imposed on us on the plateau was in fact a way of life, and as it took on a new dimension since we were no longer alone, I took to it with renewed strength. Two or three warriors remained in the camp, and the others, in a long clattering procession, went to the large open grove above the horse corral. There, the vaïdogans practiced their maneuvers under Ofrid's command, while a handful of others took care of the yunlings. However, the arrival of Ulrick, who by his own admission said he was out of practice, brought individual sparring back into fashion. When he felt better after four or five days, I could really judge the incredible level of my mentor. Despite his slight limp, few warriors were able to stand up to him with any consistency, whether with a sword or wrestling, and even fewer were able to surpass him on a regular basis.

I took admiring pride in his victories and the respect others showed him, and I think it was then that I first realized all the sacrifices he had made for me. It wasn't that he stopped being Ulrick, the grumpy, snoring, hairy guy I'd watched take a dump every morning for the past two years, but the way the Vals watched him changed the way I looked at him, too. I began to see that he was also Ulrick Treikuss, a renowned fighter, an honored man among the free Vals, someone whose advice was sought as much as his company. It struck me even more when Sven pointed out that many yunlings envied my position. That Ulrick could choose to set all this aside for me filled me with a gratitude that rivaled the intensity of feelings I had felt in those first days, just after he had saved me from being hanged. Since we had been seeing each other less, since the carnivorous routine of our little pack had been disrupted, I began to see how much I cared for him.

The training sessions were also an opportunity to evaluate myself. I was the unconventional choice of an admired man, I was vebladdet and naturally attracted curiosity. My incompetence with the bow soon became a sort of recurring joke, despite the patient guidance of Anbor, one of the vaïdoerk's hobblars. The other yunlings got into the habit of calling me Friddkayer, which roughly translates as "friend-killer", but the jokes were never actually mean, and to my own surprise, when I wasn't the instigator, I was often the first to laugh. Retrospectively, I think that this capacity for self-mockery emerged mainly because I was willingly acknowledged as having other talents.

No other apprentice used the short sword, and with my wooden replica, I initially gave them a hard time, even the older ones.

None of them had really learned to fight an opponent like me, and at first the ferocity with which I closed the distance often caught them off guard. They learned, however, and quickly, so that after a few days the situation stabilized, and I was reduced to handing out about as many beatings as I received. I excelled at knife fighting, and only Walfrick, a slender thirteen year old yunling, clearly overpowered me.

All this incessant maneuvering in the grove did not go unnoticed at the camp. There were always a couple of spectators who came to watch the duels we were having, a few helpers or a cook between mealtimes, and the idle soldiers from the blockade also came to hang out when they had time. On the other hand, despite the unpopularity of the Vals, a handful of independent mercenaries had taken to coming to practice with the vaïdoerk. In the camp, they were called all sorts of names, horse-suckers and sodomites, and some had set up their tents near our pavilions so as not to have to endure constant suspicion and mockery. They were mostly foreigners, tradesmen, scarred, hardened, and less inclined to drink than the hotshots who ruled the rest of the bivouac. Among them were a few paxxian auxiliaries and a vaasan swordsman who smiled a lot, but didn't speak the language. However, the most appreciated among us were a gruff Brownian called Ringer, and his highlander partner, Jask.

Both were skilled with the spear and the shield, but that was where the similarities ended. Ringer was a forty-year-old man, thick as an ox with short legs, a big mouth and a receding hairline. He had fought the Vals in Brican and had concluded that he preferred to stay on good terms with them, even if it meant being insulted by the other soldiers. "They won't be so cocky with iron in front of them," he often repeated. Jask was ten years younger, slim and nervous, slender and swarthy like most highlanders, with a rapacious look and viper's reflexes. He spoke little, whereas Ringer spoke for two. It was their differences that made me like them at first.

Katja, Sven, and many of the older Vals suspected them of having been bandits in the past, but that was the case for half the camp, and they were not bad guys when you got to know them.

Seven days after our arrival, I was beginning to take my marks, to find a certain routine that didn't bore me. The air was getting colder, the Ploughing moon was coming to an end and a drizzling east wind was threatening to chase away the good weather. As could be expected, the mood in the camp began to turn sour. The soldiers were grumbling that we would have to fight in the winter if we didn't leave soon.

That morning, the lord of Garnear had hanged a pot-boy who had stabbed a man to death during the night. The Vals had sent a delegation to plead for the kid's life, but they were too late. We were far from the only ones to feel pity for the pot-boys, who were helpers, soldier's apprentices and were often abused by their masters. Most of them were among the most miserable people I had ever seen. No one envied their fate, but no one did anything to really prevent it, and this practice was unfortunately common to the majority of the small poor companies. The small body of the unfortunate boy hung over the door until noon, until someone was kind enough to bring it down before the crows got at it.

The afternoon was gloomy and tense, and I had trouble getting my heart into my work: the hanging had brought back painful memories. For several hours, Katja kept beating me up with the hammer under Ulrick's critical eyes, until the rain started to fall for good. We were about to return to the pavilions for the evening meal when Sven, who had been punctuating our interactions with dubious jokes, drew my attention to a small column of riders coming at a gallop from the southern road. Two of them separated from the group and came into the grove, their hooves kicking up black clods all around them. They were Vals, I could see from here, but they were riding gracefully and at a faste rate, and seemed to fly over the wet meadow. Behind them, the other riders, a procession of brownian nobles in appearance, continued on their way to the city gates. "If that ain't the orders to start marching, I don't mind getting my dick cut off," Ringer had said, scratching his toad head, eyes squinting. Ulrick laid a hand on my shoulder as the mounts approached. "That must be Gerda, back from Wadd," he whispered in my ear. "The best hobblar we have. If anyone can help you with the bow, it's her."

The foaming horses arrived, and the ranks of the vaïdoerk were filled with murmurs of excitement. A slender, long-legged woman with a gaunt face jumped out of her saddle in front of us, and her traveling companion grabbed the reins of her steed. The scout wore a single braid that started at the top of her forehead and fell to the middle of her back. She had the rest of her head shaved and her high cheekbones. She greeted the warriors with a deep, hoarse voice that I would not have been able to relate to her, had I not seen her speak before me. Water was handed to her and she drank slowly, before exchanging a few words with Ofrid. I saw him nod as the other Vals, including myself, crowded around them. "Folnwordd," Ofrid said in a loud voice as the questions started to come in. "Let's give Gerda and Alrick a rest! Folnwordd in an hour!" Calm returned immediately and we returned to the pavilion in small, impatient groups, each more eager than the other to know what was going on. I could already hear the rumor of departure swelling in the camp like a nest of annoyed wasps with a stick, a mixture of muffled apprehension and bold relief. I fully shared this feeling and my heart was pounding. We were going to battle.

Some time later, we were sitting on the reed mats in the pavilion, digesting a soup of green wheat and bacon. Above, the rain was dancing an erratic jig on the felt of the tent. Ofrid and Gerda occupied the central place, near the fire whose heat was becoming vital, and everyone was waiting for them. It was Gerda who stood up to speak first. "The departure is tomorrow," she announced in a flat voice, to end the false suspense.

Her skin wrinkled curiously with each of her words, and I realized that I could hardly give her an age. She had a strange face, on which the skin seemed to have been stretched, like a mask. Gerda then took a deep breath. "We have negotiated two moons of advance and a small bonus, which we will keep in case the battle ends before that." There was some laughter as this possibility seemed unlikely and also murmurs of assent. "Nawd Corju isn't Vilan," she said in an almost sly tone. "His coffers are full. He'll pay the vaïdoerk twenty crowns a week. We have brought with us one hundred and seventy crowns." The marquee was drowned by a thunder of delighted applause, and satisfaction distorted the lips of the speaker. I couldn't believe it. One hundred and seventy crowns, that was more than three thousand denarii, a fortune I could hardly imagine. It was a princely sum. Ofrid finally asked for silence, and Gerda was finally able to continue:

"In return, this vaïdoerk will provide service - and - counsel to seneschal Vittori." The scout paused, then added with an amused voice, "The primate of Wadd demands it." Again the enthusiastic exclamations rose. Any lingering doubts about Vittori and the role the Vals would play alongside him were finally dispelled.

Better yet, the seneschal had been ordered to include the vaïdogans in his war council, which, if you read between the lines, meant that they would be responsible for most tactical decisions. Several warriors pretended to congratulate Gerda, but she shook her head. "I'm not done yet," she said more quietly, raising a darker face to us. I found myself hanging on her every word, admiring her talent for drama.

"Nawd Corju isn't Vilan. He will not pay for any woman." A wave of indignation swelled, but Gerda raised her voice to cover it. "That's not all!" she shouted, "That's not all... He won't pay for our hobblars either." Circumstantial indignation gave way to incomprehension, and a series of troubled murmurs. The hobblars were the eyes and ears of the vaïdoerk. Placing the vaïdoerk on the war council while removing the hobblars from the equation made as much sense as handing over command to a deaf and blind man. Old Anbor, who had wanted to make me better with a bow, stood up with a grimace and Ofrid allowed him to speak. "Has Corju given an explanation for this?" he asked in a squeaky voice. Gerda shook her head:

- Alrick and I believe that it's mostly a political ploy. Wadd doesn't want to hand us over completely the outcome of the victory and Nawd Corju doesn't want to offend his seneschal, who might be his future son-in-law. There are probably other reasons. The scouts will be the responsibility of a legate named Amon Carson. He's to arrive tomorrow from Tross. Carson will serve as Vittori's second in command.

From there, the conversation went on. One warrior proposed that negotiators be sent back to make the primate understand that his terms were not acceptable, which raised a number of tricky questions, including the payment already made. Ulrick argued that the vaïdoerk should refuse to do anything until the Brownians had no other choice: after all, they seemed to be relying heavily on the Vals for what would happen next. Ereck set about respectfully reminding them that the pay was substantial, but he was interrupted by Rared Rotsakk, who roared that the Vals were not gedesleffe and that they could simply withdraw their support to Wadd and make the Corju pay for their impudence in the process.

The debate was getting heated and my attention was wandering from right to left, when Katja stood up, head down, eyes red. Suddenly it was quiet again, and Ofrid motioned for her to speak. "I don't want the vaïdoerk to give up that gold because of me," she said clearly. Only a fool could have failed to see what those few words cost her. She reached out to her father, his thick face contorted with disappointment. "Dad, we have to get this gold back to Varhed. It pains me not to come with you, but it would pain me even more if the vaïdoerk let this opportunity pass." Rared began to sputter, but Gerda didn't give him time to rebound. "I agree with Katja", she said in a loud voice. Surprised looks converged on the tall scout. "At first I was angry. But your daughter is right, Rared. Six of us must abdicate in favor of the others. Among the gedesleffe we have to deal with the stupid customs of the gedesleffe. In the lands of Vilan we could do as we pleased. That's what was expected of us. We took our ease, but things weren't always like that." A thin smile blossomed at the corner of her mouth. "At Corju's, I had to wear a dress. I did this for you, so don't screw this up. The offer is too generous, and there's nothing else to say about it."

Anbor and Alrick raised their voices in agreement, followed by the other two warriors, Anja and Lindra. "I had a thought," said old Anborn. "All these crowns will need an escort back to Valheld. And maybe after, I'll be done with all this. "There was a long silence, which Ofrid finally broke. "If anyone wishes to put this decision to a vote, he should stand up now." No one moved. "In that case," he continued, "we accept your departure. I think I speak for all of us when I say that you do honor to this vaïdoerk. We'll remember your decision, and I hope we'll fight together again." Gerda nodded stiffly and raised her timbale. Under the Val tent, a bitter toast was made to the future, and that was it.

The next day, we parted ways with Katja and the hobblars, whom I already regretted not spending enough time with. In the pouring rain, we broke camp around noon. In a long column of soaked men and horses, among shouts and screeches, we took the road to Ac-Pass and the war.