"Jesus, what a marvel of organization," someone muttered. "Real Prussian stuff."

Alston frowned; Swindapa was scowling at the slight on her people. "So if we want to get the Spear Chosen on our side, the way is to lavish hospitality and plenty of gifts. Hence this series of barbecues. Clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ortiz said. "Ah, the locals, they evidently have a rather, ah, wild idea of a party."

Alston smiled thinly. "Well, that brings me to the next order of business. As you know, I've always insisted on enforcing the nonfraternization and public-displays-of-affection orders strictly on board ship. I intend to continue to do so."

Nods went around the table. Shipboard was enough of a pressure cooker as it was.

"However, onshore, that's a different matter. We have nearly four hundred healthy young people here, and they aren't going to live like Cistercians indefinitely. Never give an order you know will be ignored." Emphatic nods; doing that made the next one more likely to be ignored as well.

"I'd like to emphasize, however, ladies, gentlemen, and have you pass on to your commands, that any misuse of rank, in fact any fraternization up or down the chain of command, is going to be goddam painful for all involved. In short, I'll come down on it like a ton of wet cement, and so will each and every one of y'all. Ditto anythin' else that interferes with discipline or combat readiness. Every officer will take a personal interest in seein' that any such individual will suffer. Clear? Off-duty, however, we'll apply the consentin'-adults rule."

She relaxed slightly. "However, that brings up another problem. Our expeditionary force is about two-thirds male, as you know. This can cause… awkwardness."

More nods; in fact, it had created fairly serious problems back on Nantucket. The cadets were numerous enough in the island's small young-adult population to throw the balance between the genders off, and there had been fights and tension over it,

"I anticipate that our position vis-a-vis the locals will, ah, lessen the problem."

"God, yes, ma'am," Ortiz said. "Like I said-very, very friendly around here."

And we'll probably end up with a fair number of war brides, Alston reflected. Nothing wrong with that; I could scarcely complain even if there was, all things considered.

She smiled secretly to herself behind an impassive face. Swindapa had also said, privately and emphatically, that if they were going to do this monogamy thing they could at least do, it frequently. Not much danger of Lesbian Bed Death there.

"Now, as soon as a fair number of locals come in," she went on, "we'll have to start outfittin' and trainin' them."

A crewman saluted. "Ma'am. The locals are at the gate."

"Very well," she said, returning the courtesy. "Ladies, gentlemen, we have guests." Alston drew on her gloves; dress uniform again, even if it meant nothing to the locals. Strange. Last time here it was for Daurthunnicar. And hadn't that been a total fuckup… she looked at the Fiernan girl. Well, not quite. Not at all, personally speakin'.

She ducked out of the tent, returning the sentries' salutes, and toward the gate; it was local courtesy to greet guests at the door.

"So Walker is a king already, as he wished," Swindapa said, while they walked toward the inland apex of the pentagonal fort.

"I'm sorry, 'dapa," Alston said quietly. "If we could have come again last year…"

"That wasn't the way the stars moved," Swindapa replied in a murmur. "It's Walker's fault, not yours."

"Besides"-Swindapa shrugged-"if things weren't bad, they might not listen to you. They might not anyway."

They'd certainly talked a good fight here, full of anger against the Sun People, but Alston didn't know how much of that was telling her what she wanted to hear. From what the Arnsteins and Martha had told her, most primitive people took hospitality very seriously-if you traveled at all, it had to be as a guest. No Ho Jo's here.

The locals were back-not the old woman in the intricately checked and embroidered cloak, but the middle-aged man and his sons, and this time some girls as well, dressed in string skirts and short-sleeved knitted shirts and colorful shawls. They looked around in awe, and there was well-hidden fear in the older man's eyes. Pelanatorn, she remembered. The younger Fiernans called greetings to the sentries on the walls, and seemed surprised and a little hurt at being ignored; even more surprised at the way the gate guard braced to attention and saluted as Alston came up.

"Better explain, 'dapa," she said.

"I have-I told them that it's prayer, to please the Eagle People spirits of war."

Alston's mouth quirked. That's actually not far from the truth. Most of the Fiernans were holding baskets, two had a gutted and dressed pig on a carrying pole thrust between its legs, and several children drove a pair of cattle and four sheep.

"And thank them for the gifts," she said, after calling for a detail to come and take them.

"Oh, no-that would be impolite, thanking them for being hospitable, as if they might not be," Swindapa said. "Just smile and nod."

Well, thank God for interpreters, Alston thought. They slowed things down so you could avoid putting your foot into it too badly. I feel like Captain goddam Cook.

"Stop there, outlander. Who are you?"

Two warriors stepped out from behind the smooth, mottled bark of a huge beech. Isketerol reined in his horse. I'm a man with a sore arse, he said to himself; he'd learned how to ride over the winter, but doing twenty miles in a day still told. His horse seemed to agree, lowering its head and blowing out its lips.

"Isketerol of Tartessos, oath-brother of Wehaxpothis Hwalkarz of the Iraiina," he said. "These are my handfast men," he added, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the others and the train of packhorses.

"Oath-brother to the sorcerer?" The bearded faces behind the spearheads-steel spearheads, he noticed-went pale. "Pass."

The weapons dipped in salute. The Tartessians booted their horses up out of the vale and onto the hillsides. The war camp of the Iraiina and their allies lay sprawled about them, a vast shapeless mass in clumps and clusters across the downs. There was no problem in finding his blood-brother. The Walkerburg men had pitched their tents in neat rows, northward and upstream of the others; some of them were still digging the latrines their lord insisted on, grumbling as shovelfuls of chalky subsoil flew. Sentries paced the outlines of the camp, full-armed; most of the rest lay around their cooking fires, throwing dice or talking, working on their gear or already rolled in their blankets and asleep. Servants carried grain and cut grass to the picketed horses, or tended the trek oxen near the wagons that made a wall around half the camp. Wind blew the scents of wildwood from the great forest to the north, overcoming the stench of massed humanity and animals. Meat roasted over the flames, and flat griddle cakes of wheat flour cooked.

Sentries cried him hail as he reined in, and men dashed over to care for his horse and his followers'. All the Walkerburg folk knew the friend of their chief, who guested with him so often. The Tartessian took the hot mead one offered and drank it gratefully, walking over to the wehaxpothis's pavilion. It wasn't a cold day, by the standards of spring in the White Isle, but the wind could still flog your blood to racing.

"Good to see you!" Walker said, in English. "Did you get the saltpeter? And the barrels from base?"

The Amurrukan were like that, abrupt; he meant no insult by it. "That I did," he said. "And I left the saltpeter at Walkerburg. What do you need it for? All it's good for is cooling the blood, as far as I know." Isketerol sat in one of the folding canvas chairs before Walker's tent.