"And who could blame them?"

The youngster assigned as guide showed them where they were supposed to eat, then where they were supposed to clean up the wooden plates and cups and utensils they had been issued at the head of the line. That much order could not last, Else was confident

They were shown to a large tent where they were supposed to bed down with another half-dozen potential recruits. Pig Iron was hobbled alongside, outside. The mule seemed to think that he had elevated to mule heaven. Else had spent much of his life in worse quarters than that tent. He told Bo Biogna, “They're sure trying to seduce us here."

Biogna grunted. "You seen, they got an actual, real shithouse?"

Else had not overlooked that fact. It was an improvement on the traditional Praman field latrine. Which, Else felt, proved that the Brotherhood of War was in charge here. And it proved that the warrior monks were not so narrow of vision as to remain incapable of learning from their enemies.

Traditionally, more crusaders perished of dysentery, cholera, and typhoid than they did of the most violent efforts of Indala al-Sul Halaladin and other defenders of the Holy Lands. And the main reason that diseases got them was because they failed to recognize any possibility of a connection between illness and the presence of their own ordure.

Even here, though, there was a problem with the by-product of the animal population, especially horses and dogs.

"THIS ALL SEEMS NICE SO FAR," GOFIT ASPEL OBSERVED AS THE band ate breakfast.

Else agreed. "They're doing everything they can to make us want to sign on. Things won't be nearly as nice once we take an oath."

Bo Biogna grumbled, "Let's hope that don't mean they figure it will all to go to shit whenever they get to wherever they're going."

"You fibbed. You've done this before."

"No. Only stands to reason that it might."

"So just keep expecting the worst. Then you'll be ready for it"

Their guide materialized. "You need to hurry. They want to get started early. Something important happened somewhere."

That something was all over camp in fifteen minutes, a secret out strutting its stuff in a dozen different dresses, none of them more than one quarter accurate.

"Somebody tried to kill the anti-Patriarch!"

"The killers were all wiped out by his guards!"

"I heard the assassins were ambushed!"

Before it was over Else could have put together a version where God himself had sent down an archangel with a warning while, in Viscesment, an army of elite Patriarchal troops was destroyed to the last man by invulnerable shadow knights magically whisked in from Hansel's capital in the New Brothen Empire. Which was a sufficiently delicious rumor that everyone played it up despite it being common knowledge that Johannes Blackboots and his daughters had taken up permanent residence at the Dimmel Palace in Plemenza, declaring an end to any interest in Firaldia, with the Emperor saying he was taking a vacation from politics.

Rumor and speculation simmered all morning. Else found the camp command's reaction to the news interesting. He told his group, "I think the Brotherhood is recruiting for a foray into the Connec, not Sonsa."

"They're starting to pack up," Just Plain Joe observed.

He was right. Men were striking tents, breaking down the kitchen facility, loading all that into wagons. Horses were being gotten into harness. Dogs were running around, being confused. The only thing missing was a train of women and children.

A grizzled old Brother named Redfearn arrived to take the potential recruits in hand. In addition to Else's group, four more would-be soldiers had come in since the last recruiting speech. Redfearn did not have much to say. "We're moving out." He had a strong accent that suggested an origin somewhere deep inside the New Brothen Empire. "You have until we begin movement to decide if you're with us. Pay will be regular. It will be on time. Food will be provided. It will be the best our quartermasters can obtain. Your enlistment will be for a period not to exceed one year. Weapons will be provided. You'll have to pay for any weapons or equipment you lose or throw away. If we have the opportunity to acquire it, uniform clothing will be provided. In return for all this generosity you'll be expected to train hard, behave well at all times, observe all religious obligations, and submit to Brotherhood discipline. Punishments will be harsh. But fair. Oh. You'll be expected to fight like hell in the name of heaven if we do get involved in a battle."

Else studied the veteran closely. The man had characteristics that were almost Sha-lug. He would be the Brotherhood's equivalent of Bone.

"What're you gonna do, Pipe?" Just Plain Joe asked. Bo and Gofit and the others all looked at him, too.

"Hey, you all thought you were grown-up enough to leave home." He softened his pushing away by asking the old soldier, "Who are we signing on with? We've heard talk about a sorcerer."

The Brother frowned, having trouble grasping the fact that mercenaries might have intellectual difficulties with their services. The man came closer, where he could whisper, all talk lost in the increasing bang and clatter of an armed camp preparing to move. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I am. I assume you're a religious man. Which would mean there are things you won't do because they're just not right."

"This is the Brotherhood of War! The Sword of Heaven!" The old soldier could not imagine the rectitude of the Brotherhood being questioned.

"But there was talk about a sorcerer."

"You're not one of those fundamentalists who believes that any sorcerer, by definition, has to be an agent of evil, are you?"

"No. But I don't like getting close to anybody with ties to the Instrumentalities of the Night."

"Oh. I don't think you'll find a straighter arrow than Grade Drocker. He came all the way from the Special Office headquarters at Runch."

"A witchfinder!" one of the boys blurted, suddenly frightened.

Bo Biogna asked aloud what Else had wondered in private. "How come, if they want to fight sorcery an' all that shit, an' get rid of the invisible people, an' all that shit, too, how come they're all big-time sorcerers an' necromancers, an' all that shit?"

The question did not bother the old man a bit. "You don't send a pacifist priest to duel an enemy champion. Not if you want to come out on top."

For just an instant Else caught a glimpse of a man leaving the one tent still standing. He was dressed in worn Brotherhood field apparel but Else was sure he was the sorcerer from Sonsa.

“The witchfinder's name is Grade Drocker?"

"That's not his real name. Look, we need to move out. You have to make a decision."

"Rate of pay?" Else asked.

"Raw recruits, three and a half silver scutti monthly, with a boost to five when training is complete. That's the good Sonsan scutti, too. Food, weapons, and clothing provided. We don't have mail or protective clothing available. Experienced soldiers will start at five scutti, be expected to lead and teach the greenhorns, and will get a kick up to six scutti when the training period is complete."

"What about guys what's been officers an' shit?" Just Plain Joe asked. Just Plain Joe seemed to get smarter when he was in touching distance of Pig Iron.

"You mean you?"

"Shit. No. Piper. Lookit. Pipe don' say shit 'bout what he done 'fore he hooked up wit' us, but even a dummy like me can see that he musta been some kin' a officer or a sergeant at least, once upon a time. He always knows what ta do an' the best way ta do it."

The old soldier turned to Else. "What do you have to say?"

"Joe is letting his imagination get away from him."

The Brother started to question Else more closely. Else was evasive, offering vague remarks about, "the fighting east of the Shurstula," "pagan savages," "the Grand Marshes," and whatnot. The more specific his story became the more likely it would be that someone would trip him up on a detail.