Instead of a simple surrender, virtually every one of its inhabitants—man, woman, and child—had been put to the sword without mercy, and the city itself razed to the ground. Only a very small group was spared, survivors that were deliberately allowed to flee southward, to spread news of the might and terror of the Felk army and its wizards.

It was a startling revelation that he was taking the blame for that on himself. Now that he was aware of his deeper feelings, however, Aquint set his mind to quickly correcting them. Subconsciously seeking punishment was one thing. When one's life and limb were actually about to be put on the line, however, it was time to focus on self-preservation.

The lieutenant paused at the entrance to a large command pavilion.

"Wait here," he said, and disappeared inside.

Aquint ran his fingers through his hair again and tried to dust the twigs and blades of grass from his uniform. It looked as if his case was to be reviewed by the company commander, and trying to put on a presentable front couldn't hurt. Perhaps he could get off with a reprimand and a warning.

The lieutenant reappeared, holding the tent flap open and beckoning Aquint to enter. As he did, the lieutenant pointed to a spot at the center of the tent, then left, letting the tent flap close behind him.

Aquint moved to the indicated point and stood, forcing down an impulse to fidget. Looking exceptionally nervous or overly innocent would only label him as guilty even before the conversation

began. Instead, he worked on appearing patient and curious.

The commander was seated behind a low table, scribbling on one of several pieces of vellum scattered across the table's surface. He did not look up or otherwise acknowledge Aquint's presence.

The only other person in the tent was a thin, pale woman in dark robes who sat in the tent's corner. Wizard, Aquint thought. He didn't often see them up close like this. It was incredible to think that this creature and her fellows had opened those portals, that any beings could have such power. It was rumored that they could also communicate directly with the city-state of Felk through magical means and often relayed orders from Matokin himself.

People, in Aquint's experience, generally feared magic. It was an ancient practice. But the Felk had embraced the art apparently, absorbing it into their own army, a tactic that had never been used in the history of the Isthmus. These wizards—wherever they were coming from—were formidable.

Aquint did his best to ignore the one in the corner. Looking at her only reminded him of how frightened he'd been to step through that portal.

"You are Aquint?" the commander said at last, looking up from his writing.

"Yes, sir."

"The same Aquint who came up with the idea for the quick march?"

Caught off guard by this line of questioning, Aquint hesitated a beat before answering.

"Yes, sir."

"Could you explain to me how that idea occurred to you?"

Aquint decided there was nothing to be lost by telling the truth.

"Well, sir," he said, "before I joined the army, I ran a small hauling and freight business in Callah. We charged different rates, depending on the size of the load and the urgency of the delivery. It just seemed to me that if I had run things the way the army has been moving troops, I would be out of business."

"How so?"

"Everything would have to be delivered at the same time, and by definition, that time would be dictated by the heaviest, hardest to move item." Aquint continued to resist the urge to fidget.

"Go on," the commander said.

"It occurred to me that if we expedited certain units of the army like I used to expedite certain cargos, those units could move farther and faster than the army as a whole."

"Interesting," the commander said. "A good business, was it?"

Was. He had the tense right, Aquint thought with wry bitterness. "Actually, the army commandeered most of my stock and wagons, so I didn't have much of a business left," he said. "I didn't have anything in the way of other marketable skills, so I, uh, enlisted."

The truth was of course that he had been conscripted as well. Few able-bodied individuals in Callah had escaped being impressed into the army. Luckily, no one had discovered the false-bottomed wagons and mislabeled shipments that marked him as a smuggler as much as a legitimate businessman.

"My point," the commander was saying, "is that you're new to the army, not a career man. That's good. One of the problems the army has is clinging to old procedures because they've always worked before."

Aquint had no ready response. Was he being complimented?

"Your idea was a good one," the commander said. "As it happened, we had ... other means of quickening the speed at which we could move."

Aquint noticed the officer give an involuntary, uneasy glance to the magician in the corner. So, thought Aquint, even this army's higher-ups hadn't enjoyed stepping through those portals.

"Anyway," the commander continued, "this is a new means of transportation. I don't know how often General Weisel will want to make use of it, or even how reliable it is." Another look toward the corner, this one mildly defiant. "But I need transport officers in the regular ranks. These... mages might be able to send us magically through the air, but I'll wager they don't know how a convoy should be organized to pass most efficiently through those tight portals."

Aquint blinked, still groping for a reply.

He didn't get the chance to make one. "You have a background in freight hauling," the commander

said. "You're not afraid to express your ideas. Fresh thinking is rare, and it's in our best interest to make use of it when we find it. I'm promoting you, effective when your paperwork is complete. That's all. You can return to your unit."

Aquint was out of the tent and walking back to his unit when it finally, truly sank in that he was not going to be punished. When it did, he burst out in sudden, joyous laughter. Cat appearing at his side, peering at him with concern, only made him laugh harder.

A SHEET OF parchment was whipped abruptly underneath her narrow nose, causing her to start violently and nearly spill from the high stool. Having her intense study so crassly interrupted made her bare her teeth in annoyance. Some prank? Some lower phase brat playing games with—

'Tell me what you make of this by the end of the watch. Wherever I am, find me. Start now."

With a rustle of his robe, Master Honnis glided past her desk, his shrunken body moving with its usual grace. The pure white fringe of what remained of his hair stood out starkly against his richly dark flesh. Master Honnis was the oldest individual at the University, one of the oldest people Praulth had ever met in her life. Yet within that small, bony shape burned an irascible vigor that had earned him a widespread reputation as a taskmaster.

Praulth didn't entirely share that general view, though Master Honnis's fearsomeness was evident. His speech was often short, his manner curt. Yet she had gotten to know the old instructor—as much as anyone was likely to—and quite admired him. He had once told her that the reason for his brusqueness was that he simply didn't have time for social niceties. At his age there could only be so many days left to him.

Praulth, a fourth-phase student of first ranking here at the University at Febretree, was twenty-two years old. Physically she was of average height and lean, with short blandly brownish hair. Her trimness wasn't due to exercise. She was slim only because her diet was poor; as an obsessive intellect she regularly overlooked meals.

She was charting a course of academic excellence, one that was almost predetermined to secure her a post on one of the scholastic councils. Historic studies to be specific, since that was her field of greatest achievement. Another tenwinter of diligence, of honing her analytical faculties, and she would perhaps be Mistress Praulth. Would she then also be blunt? Intimidating? Intellectually ferocious? Just like her mentor, Master Honnis. Perhaps.