here, for the most part. We shouldn't have any trouble getting to Gram. Just remember: Be polite and respectful."

"All right," Amara said, impatient.

"I mean it," Bernard said. "Gram's got a quick temper, and he's more than capable of tossing us into holding cells until he cools off. Don't test him."

"I won't," Amara said. "Can you tell if they're getting any closer to us?"

Bernard shook his head, grimacing.

"Then we go across. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anyone coming, we'll get into the air." Amara glanced across the plain and swept her eyes across the sky one last time, winced as she put weight on her injured ankle, and started off toward Garrison at a limping lope. Bernard shuffled along several paces behind her, his footsteps heavy.

The run seemed to take forever, and Amara nearly twisted her ankle again, more than once, as she turned her head this way and that, watching for pursuit.

But for all their fear of being ridden down in the open ground, they reached the outbuildings and then the guarded gates to Garrison itself without incident.

A pair of young legionares stood on guard at the gates, their expressions bored, heavy cloaks worn against the cold, spears held negligently in gloved hands. One of them was unshaven (strictly against Legion regulations, Amara knew), and the other wore a cloak that did not seem to be of standard Legion issue, either, its fabric finer, its colors unmatched.

"Hold," said the unshaven guard in a flat tone. "State your name and purpose of your visit."

Amara deferred to Bernard, glancing back at the Steadholder.

Bernard frowned at the two men. "Where is Centurion Giraldi?"

The one in the cloak gave Bernard a blank look. "Hey," he said. "Clodhopper. In case you didn't notice, we're the soldiers here-"

"And Citizens," put in the other in a surly tone.

"And Citizens," the guard in the fine cloak said. "So we'll ask the questions, if that's all right with you. State your name and the purpose of your visit."

Bernard narrowed his eyes. "I suppose you boys are new to the Valley. I am Steadholder Bernard, and I am here to see Count Gram."

Both soldiers broke out in snickers.

"Yes, well," the unshaven one said, "The Count is a busy man. He doesn't have time for visiting with every scruffy clodhopper about every little problem that comes up."

Bernard took a deep breath. "I understand that," he said. "Nonetheless, I am well within my rights to request to see him immediately on a matter of urgency to his holdings."

The unshaven guard shrugged. "You aren't a Citizen, clodhopper. You don't have any rights that I know of."

Amara's temper flashed, her patience evaporating. "We do not have time for this," she snapped. She turned to the guard in the fine cloak and said, "Garrison could be in danger of attack. We need to warn Gram about it, and let him react as he thinks fit."

The guards glanced at each other and then at Amara. "Look at that," the unshaven one drawled. "A girl. And here I thought that was just a skinny boy."

His partner leered. "I suppose we could always take off those breeches and find out."

Bernard narrowed his eyes. The Steadholder's fist lashed out, and the young legionare in the fine cloak landed in a senseless sprawl on the snow.

His unshaven partner blinked down at the unconscious young man and then up at Bernard. He reached for his spear, but Bernard spoke sharply, and the weapon's haft bowed, then straightened again, writhing out of the guard's reach and bounding away. The guard let out a short shriek and reached for his dagger.

Bernard stepped close to the young man and clutched his wrist, holding his hand at his belt. "Son. Don't be stupid. You'd best go get your superior officer."

"You can't do that," the guard sputtered. "I'll throw you in irons."

"I just did it," Bernard said. "And if you don't want me to do it again, you'll go get your centurion." Then he gave the young man a stiff shove, sending him clattering backward and falling into the snow at the base of the wall.

The guard swallowed and then bolted, running inside.

Amara looked from the guard in the snow to Bernard and asked, "Polite and respectful, eh?"

Bernard's face flushed. "They might be spoiled city boys, but they're Legion, by the furies. They should treat women with more respect." He rubbed at his hair. "And show more respect to a Steadholder, I suppose."

Amara smiled, but didn't say anything. Bernard flushed even brighter and coughed, looking away.

The unshaven guard emerged from the guardhouse with a half-dressed centurion, a young man little older than him. The centurion blinked stupidly at Bernard for a minute, then gave the guard a terse order, before stumbling back into the guardhouse to march off a moment later, still only half-dressed.

Several legionares gathered around the gate, and to Bernard's relief he recognized a few of the men from previous visits to Garrison. A few moments later, a grizzled old man dressed in a civilian tunic, but with the bearing and mien of a soldier, came walking briskly out of the gates, wisps of white hair drifting around his bald pate.

"Steadholder Bernard," he said, critically, eyeing the Steadholder. "You don't look so good." He made no particular comment about the condition of the guard lying in the snow, leaning down to rest his fingertips lightly on the young man's temples.

"Healer Harger," Bernard responded. "Did I hit him too hard?"

"Can't hit a head that thick too hard," Harger muttered. Then cackled. "Oh, he'll have a headache when he wakes up. I've been waiting for this to happen."

"New recruits?"

Harger stood up and paid little further attention to the young guard in the snow. "The better part of two whole cohorts down from Riva herself. Citizens' sons, almost all of them. Not enough sense to carry salt in a storm among the whole lot."

Bernard grimaced. "I need to get to Gram. Fast, Harger."

Harger frowned, tilting his head to one side and studying Bernard. "What's happened?"

"Get me to Gram," Bernard said.

Harger shook his head. "Gram's… been indisposed."

Amara blinked. "He's sick?"

Harger snorted. "Sick of rich boys who expect to be treated like invalids instead of legionares, maybe." He shook his head. "You'll have to talk to his truthfinder, Bernard."

"Olivia? Get her on down here."

"No," Harger said, and grimaced. "Liwie's youngest came to term, and she went back to Riva to help with the birth. Now we've got-"

"Centurion," bawled a high, nasal voice. "What's going on down here? Who is in charge of this gate? What foolishness is this?"

Harger rolled his eyes. "We've got Pluvus Pentius instead. Good luck, Bernard." Harger stooped down and scooped up the unconscious young legionare, tossing him over one shoulder with a grunt, and then headed back inside the fort.

Pluvus Pentius turned out to be a slight young man with watery blue eyes and a decided overbite. He wore the crimson and gold of a Rivan officer, though his uniform tended to sag around the shoulders and stretched a bit over the belly. The officer slouched toward them through the snow, squinting in disapproval.

"Now see here," Pluvus said. "I don't know who you people are, but assaulting a soldier on duty is a Realm offense." He drew a sheaf of papers from his tunic and peered at them, flipping through several pages. Then he turned and looked around him. "Yes, here it is, a Realm offense. Centurion? Arrest both of them and see them to the holding cells-"

"Excuse me," Bernard interrupted. "But there's a more important matter at hand, sir. I am Steadholder Bernard, and it is vital that I speak to Count Gram at once."

Pluvus blinked up at them. "Excuse me?"

Bernard repeated himself.