Bird-call pierced the open window followed by a cool breeze, a reminder of winter not long gone. Devorah kept her focus on the chessboard. The Governor sat across from her, swirling a glass of dark, red wine as she watched. The game had entered its final moves and Devorah knew the Governor's plan without having to read her face. Everything form the way she swirled her wine, to her small smile, to her choice of a pale blue dress with gold trim, gave her away. This evening’s game wasn't about the game at all.

Devorah moved a cleric and knew the Governor's smile widened just a bit.

“I keep telling you, Devorah, every move is important. You’re not thinking long term.”

Devorah nodded. Her move put the Governor's royal in check, but with a simple move, the Governor would protect her royal and take one of Devorah's castles.

Devorah sighed as the Governor took her castle with a pawn, just as Devorah had known she would. She got up from the game and crossed the room to where refreshments were laid out.

“Never forget the goal is to take the royal, and everything you do is giving away your game.”

Devorah dipped a piece of cheese in a small pot of spicy mustard and ate it as she poured herself a glass of wine. “Even the cheese I eat and the wine I drink?” Devorah asked without turning around.

The Governor laughed, sounding genuinely charmed. “Perhaps not.”

Devorah took a sip of wine and ate another piece of cheese all the while she looked across the study at the wall of bookshelves and the large, black, leather-bound book shelved with other leather-bound books. The book called to her, a quiet, whispery, deep-pitched song of sighing winds and shifting earth and decaying bodies. The Governor's intentions for tonight’s chess game were political, but Devorah's were larcenous.

Since her encounter with Sister Clarice, since the confirmation that she was powered, she wondered if, perhaps, she was telepathic. Perhaps her insights into that which others wished to hide was latent telepathy. And her ability to see in the dark? And her felicity with weapons? Perhaps. But the Sister had been certain about Devorah's necromancy. And since that pronouncement, Devorah had dreamed of the black book.

She turned back to the chess game. The Governor would win in three moves now. The only thing Devorah could to do prevent it would be to lose in even fewer. She could have won the game—her aunt's strategies were open to her—but losing better served her purpose.

Devorah lingered over the chessboard. Her goal was the book, but her maneuverings would take time. She would not take the book tonight, or the next night, or even the night after. The Governor asked her to dinner several nights a week and if the book disappeared on a night when Devorah had been invited up, it would look suspicious. So, tonight was about confirming the book’s location, nothing more.

Devorah lost that game, just as she'd planned. The Governor smiled, self satisfied, and dismissed her.

“After all, you've got a big day tomorrow.”

Colonel Lambert had given her the responsibility of leading weapons training for a set of new recruits. Devorah had objected, pointing out she had only started her own training a few months ago and she had no idea how to teach anybody anything, but Colonel Lambert had insisted she had to learn how to give orders. She was to start tomorrow morning.

Devorah saluted the Governor, receiving an exasperated sigh for her efforts, and returned to the camp and her tent. At the sight of the tent ropes cut, tent poles broken, and canvas smashed into the mud that came with warmer days, Devorah sighed.

Since her return to camp, the pranks had discontinued, but after the execution of Lieutenant Birkett, they had started again. Nobody tried to bump her or trip her anymore, but stolen clothes, fouled bedding, and broken tents were a daily occurrence.

Devorah made her way to Lefty's wagon in the deepening shadows. When she arrived, she found the camp's supply man deep in conversation with Quartermaster Dewhurst.

Lefty noticed her and his already gruff visage turned fearsome. “They're at it again, are they, sir?”

“What's this?” asked Quartermaster Dewhurst.

Before Devorah could tell him not to, Lefty told the Quartermaster about the supply-wasting pranks Devorah had endured since her arrival. Devorah wasn't eager to have that knowledge spread about camp. It would make her seem a whiner. But the Quartermaster was just as outraged as Lefty.

“Foolish nonsense,” sputtered Quartermaster Dewhurst. “No wonder we've been short on tent canvas.” But then he smiled grimly. “Although, rumor has it you begin heading up some weapons training tomorrow.”

Devorah nodded.

“Well, Major, if the miscreants are who I think they are, then you'll have a chance to sort them out tomorrow.”

In a new tent provided by Lefty, who also helped her set it up, Devorah bundled herself under the blankets to keep the chill at bay. Her rapier remained under the blankets with her to keep it from sticking in the cold if she needed a fast draw, and a bandoleer of throwing daggers hung from a peg by her head.

Then, with barely a thought, she slid into the room in her mind, the mindspace Sister Clarice had called it, and sat at the desk, resisting the urge to look at the chessboard and bookcase for fear of distraction. She concentrated, and a ceramic bowl filled with cool water appeared on the desk.

Devorah stared into the water.

This water represents your power. A still well you can access any time you like.

Sister Clarice's words echoed to her from weeks ago. As Devorah had stared into the water, the sister had seen something, had been able to determine that Devorah was a necromancer, one who could raise and command the dead. And the more she thought on it, the more it made sense, Ror's corpse stumbling into camp, the way she had felt the dead man in the streets of Sunslance. But Devorah was now convinced there was more, and she hoped that by staring into the water, she would find it. But after a week, she had found nothing but the bottom of the bowl.

• • •

She sat upon her throne of shadow humming a quiet song of dusty sleep, and upon her lap was the black, leather-bound book. She itched to hold it in her hands, but every time she tried, her hands passed through it like smoke on water. And the song wrapped about her mind, calling to her.

• • •

Mornings were still cold enough that the practice ground was frosted as the sun rose, but not so cold that Devorah's breath misted as she surveyed the soldiers before her. Birds called to one another sleepily, promising a day more like spring than winter.

She'd been given fifteen recruits for training. Most were fresh, never held a sword. Some looked like bruisers, men used to street brawls or pub fights. Most of these first two categories, watched her with quiet awe and she knew they'd come straight from Sunslance.

There were some in the group who weren't new, but rather had been with the army longer than her. They had specifically requested her group. At the back of the block stood four boys she recognized immediately. The leader of the four stood at sloppy attention, pulling faces at his friends, two of whom snickered in loud whispers. The fourth boy was Rory. He stood at stiff attention, trying not to look at the other boys.

Devorah put her hands behind her back, her officer's jacket pulling a bit at the shoulders, and stared at the boys, deliberating. She was ready to draw weapons and have it out with them, but that would paint her an incompetent tyrant who solved problems exclusively with violence, and Devorah wasn't keen to be seen in the same light as General Vahramp.

As she considered, her gaze encouraged some of the recruits to look around at the disturbance, especially as the boys got louder. And as more of the recruits looked to see what she was staring at, Devorah decided this was the best course.

First one, then the other of the snickering boys realized they were being watched. Their cheeks flushed and they came to attention. The leader, the one who had admitted to dumping entrails on her bedclothes, the one who had instigated the snow-ball throwing, the one who’d encouraged them all to join her training group, came to a nonchalant attention, showing no sign of shame.

Devorah pointed. “You four, front and center.” She didn't have a good field voice. She knew if she shouted it would sound too much like a whining scream, so she spoke normally, the silence on the practice field allowing her voice to carry.

The boys came to the front of the block, the leader smirking, the two snickerers with a hint of trepidation, Rory stiff-jawed but neutral, though Devorah could tell he was embarrassed.

Devorah stood with her back to the recruits so the four faced them.

“Attention!” she snapped. Rory came to attention, the others seemed to think she’d made a joke.

“Draw!” Devorah said. Rory drew his short sword, awkwardly. The other three were lackadaisical in their draws.

“Sheath!”

Again, Rory took the command seriously, though his skill was lacking. The other three treated it as a joke.

“Attention! Draw! Sheath! Attention! Draw! Sheath!”

On the third cycle, the leader of the boys slammed his sword home. “Is this all we’re going to do all day? I thought you were some kind of a dueling master.” he spoke loudly enough that groups gathering on the other side of the practice yard could hear him.

Devorah stepped close to him. “What's your name, soldier?” She spoke quietly.

He smirked down at her. She'd forgotten he was taller than her.

“Timothy. Timothy Vahramp.” He said his last name as though proclaiming checkmate, and his smirk widened.

“Private Vahramp, you will practice coming to attention, drawing your blade and sheathing your blade for as long as I think you need to,” she said.

“I learned to draw a blade when I was a child,” he retorted.

Devorah took a step back. “Then let's see it.”

Private Vahramp grinned. “You sure you want to stand there?”

“Attention!” Devorah snapped. Private Vharamp took the shouted orders seriously this time. Without breaking rhythm, Devorah said “Draw!”

She drew quicker than him and slapped the flat of her rapier across his left cheek, raising a bright red welt. He yelped, his draw disrupted, tears springing to his eyes.

“Sheath!” She slid her sword into its sheath in a smooth movement.

“You bitch!”

“Attention!”

Private Vahramp came at her, fists raised.

“Draw!”

Again she drew her sword, and this time slapped it against the other cheek. Private Vahramp staggered.

“Sheath!”

“Attention!”

Private Vahramp put his hand on his sword, murder in his glare.

“Draw!”

They started their draw at the same time, but Devorah was far faster. This time she thrust so that the point of her blade pressed firmly onto the pommel of his, preventing him from drawing more than an inch. It wasn't good for her sword, but she'd made her point.

“When you can draw like I can, perhaps you will have practiced enough, soldier.”

Private Vahramp stared at her, still straining to draw his sword. He could not believe that she was overpowering him, that she was faster than him, that she was better than him.

“Back to your places,” Devorah ordered.

Private Vharamp slammed his sword home. Devorah could see his conflicted emotions. On the one hand, to do as ordered was to admit defeat, to accept her as his commander. On the other, he feared if he didn’t, she’d use more than the flat of her blade upon him. In moments, self-preservation won out. Private Vahramp returned to the back of the block and his companions followed.

“Private Vickers,” said Devorah, still with her back to the rest of the soldiers.

Rory stopped, worried.

“Well done,” she said. “Your grasp of the basics is solid.”

Rory let out a sigh of relief, then saluted and followed the others to return to his place. He seemed proud and unworried about the abuse her show of favor might bring. In fact, his hidden smile indicated he didn't give a damn what his fellows thought of her approval, he was just glad to have it.

• • •

The book was within her grasp, not far, and yet she couldn’t put her hands upon it. It sang to her, she knew its quiet, subtle voice like her own. It cried out to her.

Soon, she assured siren song, soon. Every movement is important. Haste is the enemy.

Soon, the song demanded. Soon.

• • •

Devorah looked at the chess board and sighed. She was tired of losing. Within the first few moves the Governor’s strategy was obvious. It was the same strategy she’d used the time before and the time before that. Devorah knew she could win. She wanted to win. But more, she wanted to get her hands on the black book, without drawing suspicion. She didn’t want the Governor thinking her a threat.

But that didn’t mean she had to make it easy on the Governor.

Devorah moved regent’s knight recklessly but in such a way as to disrupt the Governor’s careful strategy. She watched the Governor purse her lips, irritated.

“Colonel Lambert tells me you’re doing well with the recruits.”

Devorah looked up from the game. “Some are showing progress.”

“How quickly will they be ready?”

“Ready for what?”

The Governor looked at her, calculating. “For combat. That’s what pawns are for, Devorah.” She moved a white pawn into jeopardy, a trap for Devorah’s knight. “Aren’t you the one who criticized your own performance in Sunslance by acknowledging that sometimes a pawn needs to be sacrificed?”

Devorah knew the purpose of training men and women to fight was to send them into combat, but the recruits were raw. Even the boys who had been with the army for a while weren’t ready for real combat. But she didn’t think that was the answer the Governor was looking for.

“Does that mean we’re making a move?” Devorah took the bait, capturing the white pawn with her knight.

The Governor shrugged. “Just securing our borders, raiding known bandit hide outs, the usual. Nothing confrontational.”

“Of course, it would make sense, if we were,” Devorah continued. “Winter is over which means troop movement will be easier. On the other hand, farmers are preparing their fields and, if rumors are to be believed, Loreamer has sent an envoy to discuss moving his guards out of our cities.”

The Governor looked at the chess board. “General Vahramp thinks you should be kept out of significant military decisions.” She pretended to mull over her decision before capturing the knight.

Devorah felt a flare of hatred at General Vahramp’s name. The song of the black book harmonized with her anger, promising a way to rid her of him. She flicked her glance to the shelf where the book rested. She bit her tongue and forced herself to look away. Soon, she promised herself.

“Have you considered accepting the royal’s offer?” Devorah said, focusing on the conversation. “If he agrees to move his troops out of Kempenny, haven’t we won?”

The Governor's cheek twitched, and it wasn't difficult to read the hatred there.

Devorah moved a pawn, another reckless move to draw the Governor out of her preferred playing style. She wasn’t going to win with this strategy, but seeing the Governor irritated was its own victory.

“Your play is careless today.” The Governor captured a pawn and put Devorah's royal in check.

“I know,” Devorah said, then bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to let that slip, but she was sick of losing, sick of pretending to be less than she was, sick of resisting the black book’s song.

“If you’re going to be a competent leader…”

Devorah laughed. “Competant leader? Like you? Governor, I understand wanting to have Kempenny guardsmen protecting Kempenny cities. I understand disliking how the royals are running the nation. I understand wanting to overthrow tyrants and put someone better in their place. What I don't understand, Governor Kempenny, is why you run your rebellion so ineffectivly.”

The Governor looked at her now without any pretense of focusing on the chess game.

“You have no idea—”

“You're right,” Devorah interrupted. “I don't because you won't explain it to me. Explain to me why you have this fortress only a day's ride from home but you rarely came to visit me. Explain to me why you hate the royals so much. Explain to me why we're really doing this, and I will follow you across the nation and into the ocean if you ask me to.”

Devorah swallowed hard, her face flush, her fingertips tingling, her breathing hard. She’d said it all in a rush, without thinking. She wondered if she cared that the Governor had rarely come to visit or why she hated the royals or whether she’d follow the Governor into the ocean. She hadn’t thought so. The song of the book made her reckless. She needed to get her hands on it.

The Governor stood and strode away, her posture stiff. “You dare demand answers of your Governor? You dare to ask me to reveal such personal details?” Her voice shook with emotion.

Devorah bit back a self-deriding oath. She should have kept her temper. She should have continued the game. “Are you not also my aunt, or are you only my Governor? What's personal for you, is personal for me too.”

The Governor fixed her with a furious glare. “We’re done. Leave me.”

Devorah wanted to reveal everything, from how easily she could win the chess game to the extent of the hazing in camp to the call of the black book. She wanted to scream and rant and cry. She wanted to demand the truth, to beat it from the Governor if necessary. But the Governor held all the political power, and Devorah knew if she offended the Governor too deeply, she would be tossed out of the army with nowhere else to go. Or worse, abandoned to the full mercy of General Vahramp.

No, she needed to stay in the Governor's good graces long enough to take some power for herself or else risk a slow, hungry death.

She walked around the room rather than across it to the door. The room was lined in bookcases and she reached out so her fingertips brushed the spines of a row of books as she passed.

“You know, I miss your library. When I was ill, I used to sleep there sometimes. Late at night, I'd wander among the shelves, just touching the books, as though I could read them by proximity.”

As she neared the black, leather-bound book, her skin tingled. Soon she would know its contents, why it sang to her, and why the Governor didn't want her to have it.

“Perhaps I should just go back there and live quietly—your sick little niece who no one need ever know about.”

Her fingers brushed the black book and she wanted to linger, but to do so would invite suspicion.

“It’s too late for that. Get out.”

And she did.

• • •

The song of the black book was high-pitched and staccato, deep harmonies and languid, frentic and sleepy. And soon, so very soon now, it would be hers and she would know it as she knew herself.

• • •

The night could not have been more perfect. The moon had waned to nothing, scattered clouds obscured the stars, and Quartermaster Dewhurst had ordered a severe rationing of lamp oil and torches because of shortening supplies.

In loose fitting pants and shirt, gathered tight at ankles and wrists, Devorah stole from her tent into the night, checking the knives at either wrist and the key she’d purloined from Lefty’s strong box, secure in a small hip pocket. Nights still felt more like winter than spring, but Devorah did not regret her choice of light clothing. She could ignore the cold and didn’t want to be bogged down by heavy clothes. She slipped between the tents, her feet finding sure footing in the dark.

The Governor’s fortress loomed before her, a brooding black cube squatting on the darkened field. Some windows were lighted from within, but those windows that were the Governor’s rooms were dark.

At the edge of camp, just outside the light of perimeter torches, Devorah closed her eyes and thought about the dark rooms belonging to the Governor. It was like her mind had been fired from a bow. She flew straight and true through the shadows, through windows shuttered and secured, through the bedroom where the Governor slept fitfully, and into the study where they played chess. The game remained untouched since Devorah had been dismissed. The black book remained on the shelf where it had been this afternoon.

Sliding her mind through the study door, Devorah noted the two soldiers standing guard duty and several more throughout the hallways as she slid from the Governor’s room to the kitchen door on the backside of the fortress where fires were banked and only a mouse or two stirred.

With a breath and physical effort, Devorah drew her self back to herself and opened her eyes. She would slide in and out, no one would see her, and soon the sickly-sweet song of the book would be in her hands.

Making her way to the back side of the fortress without being seen was simple, and Devorah was struck by how peaceful this side of the building was. The military camp was spread out in the fields on the other side, but here the forest grew right to the base of the hill on which the fortress was situated. Guards manned the ramparts, but they didn’t see her slip to the kitchen door and through it. In fact, Devorah was repulsed by the lack of security. If Loreamer were so inclined, he could send a reasonably competent assassin and they would get at least this far.

Devorah sneaked through the kitchen and she was nearly at the door when her elbow struck the protruding handle of a pot. In a moment, before she could realize what had happened, the pot slipped its balance and clattered to the floor, closely followed by the mound of kitchen accoutrements piled atop it. Devorah had no name for all the things she watched bounce, crash, and shatter upon the stone floor.

Her paralysis was broken when she heard muffled shouting and boots pounding on stone. The hallways outside the kitchen were narrow and even if she could hide in the shadows that wouldn’t stop the guards from bumping into her. The only place to hide, it seemed, was the kitchen. Casting about desperately, Devorah tucked herself underneath a counter next to a great stone wash basin. Here the shadows were deep and comforting and she tugged at them, trying to wrap them around her like a snug book cover.

Two men in black uniforms appeared at the door to the kitchen, one held a lantern casting a dim glow. He raised it high, peering into the gloomy kitchen. Finally, the one without the lantern shrugged and pointed.

“You see? I told you, it was just all this junk.”

“Yeah, but what made it fall?” asked the other, and Devorah recognized his voice. The lantern-bearing soldier was Rory Vickers.

“Bah. Don’t worry about it, kid. It was probably just a rat.”

Devorah shuddered at the thought of rats in the Governor’s kitchen.

“We should search, just in case. Imagine if an assassin got into the fortress and got past us,” said Rory, echoing Devorah’s thoughts

The older soldier let out a dark chuckle. “Then maybe this whole foolish errand would be done and I could go back home to my farm.”

Rory shook his head. “Major Kempenny would never forgive me.”

The other soldier gave Rory a sharp look, but Rory ignored him and moved into the kitchen, lantern held high. His partner followed with an exasperated sigh. Rory went first to the door, picking through the fallen kitchen items carefully. Devorah tensed. She watched them, only her eyes moving, as Rory reached the door and pushed it open, the darkness beyond black in contrast with the lantern. The older guard moved up behind him and peered out into it.

“This door should be locked,” Rory said, admonishing someone who wasn’t there.

Devorah agreed, but she didn’t wait to watch him close the door and lock it. She didn’t wait for him to continue his search. Instead, she crawled out from under the counter and sprinted for the hallway, holding the shadows close to her chest.

“What was that?” Rory’s voice was high, panicked, but muffled by the wall.

“Just that rat I mentioned.” The other guard laughed. “You’re jumping at shadows, kid. Let’s get back to our post. You don’t want to have to face Colonel Lambert if he decides tonight’s the night he’s going to inspect the watch and you're missing from your post.”

On shadow-muffled feet, she sped up the tower stairs to the landing where her aunt’s rooms were. Two large guards stood at bored attention, speaking in low, gruff voices.

“I’d rather do this then go back to guarding a whorehouse,” grumbled the one on the left.

“Even if the tyrant takes over? I didn’t sign up to steal from villages.”

“I don’t care. Steady pay, food, and somewhere to sleep that isn’t infested with disease is all I ask.”

Devorah peeked around the corner, safely ensconced in shadow. She focused on the low burning lamp. There were plenty of shadows in the room, and she took hold of them. She pulled them close on the lantern, like almost making a fist, then released.

“Damnit. I thought that kid said he refilled these.”

She did it again, thrice in quick succession.

The guard picked up the lamp, then cursed and dropped it. Devorah didn’t have to play with the shadows any longer as the flame extinguished as the lamp clattered to the floor.

“I think I burned myself.”

“You idiot.”

While the two soldiers fumbled in the darkness, Devorah slipped behind them, pulling the key from her pocket, and let herself into the Governor’s study. The door closed with a soft click, and Devorah leaned her back against it, heart hammering, and strained her ears.

“Did you hear something?”

“Yeah. I heard you drop the lamp.”

Devorah took a slow, silent breath.

The study was as it had been, even the unfinished chess game was untouched. Devorah went straight to the black book, and when her fingertips touched the leather spine, her head hummed with the haunting song, fairly vibrating. She wasn’t sure for how long she stood there, slave to the tune dancing about her thoughts. When her mind was her own again, she held the book in her hands and the incessant song dimmed.

She tucked the book under one arm and turned to leave, but her gaze fell across the door to the Governor’s bedchamber. Unbidden, treacherous thoughts surfaced.

The problem with the rebellion was the fighting between the Governor and the General. If the Governor were removed, if there were a new Governor, a Governor who could reign in or eliminate the General, perhaps it wouldn’t be for naught. Perhaps the soldiers of Kempenny would be proud of their position. Perhaps Birkett’s prediction that it would all fall apart would be disproven.

Devorah paused. The knives at her wrists felt heavy.

But she stayed her hand. There was no advantage to be gained by taking such an abrupt and messy solution to the problem. Besides, she had reading to do.

• • •

She sat, cross-legged, in her tent, the book balanced on her lap. The pull was stronger than ever now, but she held herself back, not wanting to rush the moment. Slowly, she stretched a shaking hand, her left hand, to the book-cover.

The black leather was not hard and stiff as she'd expected, but smooth and supple. She ran her hand along it, back and forth. She opened the book and the pull, the song, stopped. It was as though the book had breathed a sigh of relief.

She did too.

The first several pages were covered in a scrawling script, but the symbols were nothing she recognized as writing. To her they looked like gibberish. On the sixth page though, right in the middle so that she almost missed it, the writing changed to the language of Khulanty.

Herein lie the complete studies, theories, and catalogs of Doctor Henry P. Milton, Necromancer Adept. A most bold assertion on the nature of reality and the mystery of death, this, my greatest work shall be both guide and warning to all necromancers who follow. At great personal risk, I have studied the dead and the undead and the Realm of the Wasteland, and now pass that knowledge on to you, dear reader.

And it went on that like for some time, Doctor Milton both praising himself and warning the reader, without getting into specifics. But Devorah plowed on, suffering through Doctor Milton's self-aggrandizement. And then in the middle of a sentence, Doctor Milton's rambling pontification was interrupted by further gibberish.

Devorah blinked, wondering if she'd been reading so long her vision had gone blurry, but the gibberish remained and she sighed. She straightened from where she'd hunched over the book and her back popped several times. She rubbed at her grainy eyes and they watered. And she realized that the canvas of her tent had begun to lighten with coming dawn. She'd been up all night and she was expected to run weapons training this morning. She bit her lip on a frustrated sigh

She had hoped to be able to take the book to her mindspace and return it before dawn, but until she'd read the whole thing, she knew from experience, she couldn't take it to that most private of rooms. With a yawn that popped her jaw, Devorah hid the book under her pillow. It was an awful hiding place, but it would have to do.

Taking up her weapons made her feel better.

She opened the tent flap, and as she did so found Private Timothy Vahramp marching toward her, expression stiff. Devorah put a hand on her sword and turned to face him. She throttled panicked thoughts that the Governor had found the book missing and ordered her arrested.

Private Vahramp stopped several paces from her and saluted. He still bore the bruises she’d given him, one on each cheek.

“Yes, private?”

“General Vahramp has ordered you to the Governor's meeting room.”

Devorah could read in him a hatred boiling just below the forced veneer of formality. She could tell he longed to draw the blade at his side and cut her down. And she had no doubt that once she'd gone as commanded, he would continue his juvenile campaign of vandalism. And if he did that, he might find the book.

Devorah nodded and Private Vahramp spun on his heel, but Devorah stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He spun about, drawing his blade, and Devorah had to admit he'd gotten better, faster. Devorah sprang back, drawing her own weapon and when he thrust at her, she stepped to the side and brought the edge of her blade against the underside of his wrist.

Private Vahramp gasped and dropped his sword, clutching at his wrist with his left hand.

Devorah flicked the blood from her blade to the muddy thoroughfare between tents before pointing her blade at him.

“First, you'll need to clean that blade. Second, be sure to see the healers when we're through; I recommend Sister Clarice. Third, I know who's been directing the pranks against me: stolen clothes, destroyed tents, filth in the bedding. You've as much as admitted it. You should feel lucky I haven't reported you to Lefty. Now hear this, private. If it happens again, even once, it won't matter your sur name, you'll have a terrible accident come next weapon's practice.”

And she left him there, bleeding, shaking with fury, to pick his sword up out of the muck.