Sir Remmik was making his rounds with his scribe and two torchbearers when Linsha found him. For some time he deliberately ignored her as he examined the storeroom locks, issued flour, meat, and rations of ale for the morning meal to the cook, checked the barracks and stables, and took a final head-count for the night. Linsha followed him wordlessly, hoping the grinding of her teeth was not obvious over the sounds of their tramping feet.

It was not until he inspected the guardposts that he nodded to Linsha. He frowned at her torn shirt and disheveled appearance. His own uniform was beautifully tailored and immaculate. He moved on, expecting her to follow as he stopped to speak to each sentry and visit each guardpost on the walls, in the towers, and at the gate.

“These Knights were promptly at their stations,” he said to her at last, his expression cold. “They were not gallivanting about the city ignoring their duty.”

Gallivanting? Linsha fought to keep her expression unreadable. The insulting pompous scarecrow. She did not deserve his condescending reprimand; she was no untrained recruit. She was a Knight of the Rose, third in rank in the Circle, and a highly experienced operative.

“Sir Remmik, there was a stranger in the market. I followed him. I suspect-”

She stopped. What exactly did she suspect? But the Knight gave her no time to consider. His hand chopped off any further explanation. The two younger Knights holding the torches clamped their jaws tight and looked anywhere hut at Linsha.

“The Knights of this garrison know their duty and how to follow it,” Remmik stated in short, sharp words. “You would do well to forget your slovenly habits from your previous clandestine assignment and remember what you are.” He stood straight, his back pikestaff straight.

Once again, Linsha thought irritably, here it comes.

“Let honest pride be felt in possessing that truest virtue of a Knight-obedience,” he intoned as if chanting a devotional incantation.

And there lay the crux of the matter. Obedience. Knight Commander Jamis uth Remmik believed in nothing but himself and the Solamnic Measure. He was a high ranking Knight of the Crown, and for him there was only the law, the Oath and the Measure, the obedience of Knighthood. To him, Linsha was an anathema, an undisciplined rogue, a troublemaker, and Sir Remmik couldn’t abide troublemakers.

Much of his animosity stemmed, Linsha knew, from an incident that happened four years ago when she had been brought before the Solamnic Council on charges of treason and disobeying orders after she helped the city of Sanction and saved its governor, Hogan Bight, from assassination. The three commanders of the Clandestine Circle in Sanction had ordered her to disregard the clear threat against Lord Bight and let him face death. She had refused. After the crisis, she had turned herself over to the Council in Sancrist to clear her name, hut politics being what they were, she languished in prison for weeks while arguments passed back and forth between the authorities. It wasn’t until Lord Bight sent an officer of his guards to Sancrist to inform the Council that he was in the debt of the Solamnics for Linsha’s courageous actions and that two of the three Solamnic officers had regrettably died in a raid on their secret headquarters. The Knights of Neraka were suspected.

It hadn’t taken long for the surviving officer to drop the charges against her, and the issue never came to trial. Linsha was quietly cleared and reassigned to a garrison where she could put her considerable talents to use-and where she was far from the center of Solamnic activity without being truly exiled. She was far from home and family, far from the seat of her honored order, and far from those few she could call friends.

Yet Linsha did not allow those facts to dismay her. She chose to remember instead that she and Lord Bight were still alive, that she had cleared her name with the Grand Master, and she had kept her honor intact. Sir Remmik could go blow up a drainpipe.

“Yes, Sir Remmik,” she said in a bland voice. “Obedience. I will work on it.”

His dark eyes narrowed into black slits in the flickering torchlight. The man was older than Linsha by ten years and intelligent enough to recognize that tone of voice. He knew she would not make a sincere effort to become the Knight he thought she should be. But beyond berating her in front of other Knights, there was little he could do. She was of equal rank in the Order of the Rose. Only his seniority and his expertise with planning and supply put him ahead of her in command of the garrison. He would need a severe breach of conduct on her part to inflict any form of punishment on her-and she knew it.

Linsha watched as these thoughts paraded over his face in a quick procession of grimaces. Although he was only slightly over her height, he still managed to look down his long nose at her.

Why was it, she wondered, that there were some people in the world who shared an instant and mutual animosity with each other? No rational explanation. No obvious reason. They just grated on each other’s self-control from first sight. This man was an excellent example. No matter what she tried, she could not banish the dislike that reared up every time she and Sir Remmik came face to face.

“Clean yourself up, Knight,” he snapped. “You are duty officer tonight. Tomorrow, Iyesta asks for you to come to her lair at sunrise. Dismissed.”

Linsha quelled the burst of pleasure that threatened to show on her face. A visit to the brass’s lair was always enjoyable. Of course, it meant no sleep in the morning.

She jerked her head in the barest nod and turned on her heel without bothering to salute. Let him go salute himself. He probably practices saluting in a mirror so he can be perfect.

Linsha strode into the darkness away from the infuriating man and entered the barracks attached to the main keep.

Going into her small niche, she lit an oil lamp on the narrow table that was one of only three pieces of furniture in the room. A narrow bed crowded against the left wall and a wooden chest sat at its foot. Linsha had learned early to travel light and forego the encumbrances of too many personal items. Her room was bare and utilitarian; it contained all she needed to sleep and dress.

She tossed her torn shirt in the chest for one of those cold winter days when she had nothing else better to do than mend clothes, then she pulled out her uniform. Remmik’s words came to her again. Slovenly. Gallivanting. By the absent gods, that man was a fool. For the sake of this garrison, she hoped nothing would happen to Sir Morrec that would put Remmik in charge.

Linsha toyed with the idea of a transfer as she pulled on the blue pants and the blue and silver tunic. Had she served enough time here for the Grand Master to consider her request? Would her request even make it past Sir Morrec? The old man liked her and respected her abilities. One of his greatest strengths as a leader was his skill in bringing out the best efforts of his Knights and allowing them to do their work. She had to admit, even as much as she despised him, Sir Remmik performed excellent work and was superbly placed for his abilities. It was just a shame he was such a rigid, unforgiving, unpleasant example of a Solamnic Knight.

Linsha paused and ran a thumb over the ornate embroidered crest on her jacket-a crown over a kingfisher perched on a horizontal sword decorated with a rose. The design had been sewn, at Sir Remmik’s request, in silver threads on all the uniforms of those serving the citadel. It was rather flashy, Linsha decided, but the symbols of the Solamnics represented almost two thousand years of dedicated service and sacrifice. They were the emblems of an Order she had dedicated her life to serve. To serve with honor. How honorable would it be to request her way out of here?