Sir Conner of Alfwin Pass strode into the Gaol, armed and armored, though sans helmet, with a stride that said he owned wherever he was standing. With a side-armed toss a small but not light purse landed in the surprised Guardsman’s hand.

  “For yous troubles.” He pointed through the riveted wooden portcullis into the cella where two well-bruised men were lying against the far wall. They weren’t alone in the 20 by 20 room. A good 40 others in various states of dress and health were lying on dirty straw or propped against the no-cleaner walls. From a pair of untouched Mercator scions, still hung over and with a bit of vomit on their tunics, to one man he was pretty sure was not only dead, but had been that way for a while now.

  The guard tossed the purse once, but didn’t open it. Not that this implied any trust. Between the weight and the sound of the coins hitting one another, he’d know the value to the last Drachma. He was just smart enough not to gloat about it.

  “Of course, Sir Knight.” The man bowed, then dipped a bucket in a large tank of stagnant water before unbolting a gate and stepping through. A moment later he flung the contents at the two men, jerking them from their sleep and to their feet in a moment, arms up and ready for more. Conner hid a smile.

  The Guardsman took a step back and waved them out. They moved forward gingerly, but with the cocky stride of veterans. Right until their nearly sealed black eyes made out Conner’s waiting form.

  No, when they made out Sir Conner waiting. He hid another darker chuckle as metaphorical tails dropped between legs and they came out like the newly condemned. Not the redeemed.

  He spun on his heels and walked out. Down a corridor and through an open room where even now one set of Guardsmen were coming off duty, stripping off the light leather armor and setting down the arm-length batons while another set suited up.

  Between the two, there were most of a hundred men in just this room. And it was far from the only such room in even the outer ring.

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  And while tier 0 Guardsmen were hardly a match for his beaten men, much less a knight, it was still a worthy warning as to the scale of troops a city could call up.

  Not that he let the thought grace his face as he strode past, giving a regal nod to the quickly offered salutes.

  Then they were outside into the already bright morning light. The sun's upper tip was barely streaming in over the large outer walls, but it was a glaring light all the same.

  And he was neither hungover nor beaten. He fought down a snarl as he stepped out into the street, tracking the footsteps to either side behind him. Not now. Not yet.

  A few minutes passed as he simply walked, passing through heavy crowds of morning shoppers, produce carts and livestock driven in from the outlying farms for butchering.

  He continued until a small eddy formed in the traffic around them. An artificial quiet against a background sea of noise. “Yous know what yous did?”

  “Ah, Sir, we’uns didn’t start da fight-”

  “Don’t yous fuck wit me, Viriathus.” Conner barked, not daring to look at the man, lest he give in to temptation. “I’s don’t give a horse’s ass if yous did or didn’t. I does care that yous left your decade against orders, that yous as muddied our reputation. I cares that I’s had to pay to get yous out. But most of all? Most of all, I care that yous lost!” He was roaring by the end. With a deep breath, he stopped talking, walking for a few silent moments.

  Then a full minute. In the distance, a set of gates with armored Bandsmen guarding them slid into view. “Two weeks’ pay for da fines. A stripe for each of yous in da decade for failing to stick together-“

  “Sir no! Twer my mistake-“ “-mine to!” Flavia lisped slightly around a missing tooth. “-we’uns ull take da stripes.” Conner nodded, at least they had some shame. Not that it would save the rest entirely, but it was the only decent thing to do. Also, the only healthy thing. Squad mates could be brutal to their own.

  “-Five stripes each den, and latrine duty for yous decade.”

  “But for losing the fight?” He stopped at the gates, ignoring the twitching ears of the unmoving Hastati to either side. He spun to glare at them. Steaming. “I doesn’t have a punishment bad enough! Yous are going to have to make it up. Somehow. And until yous do, as its clear I hasn’t trained yous enough. Yous is going t’be joining me every morning in da ring while I’s correct dat.”

  They swallowed, staring at him with growing horror. A sight that gave him some small degree of pleasure, he couldn’t deny.

  “Dismissed!”