Fresh unease roils around the soldiers, though animosity withholds itself. They look from Slick to one another, then turn their eyes on their seeming leader, who mulls his words carefully, jaw slack and clicking his tongue — as if he might wet his fleshless lips to avoid the aridity of the canyons.

"Be nothin' I'm saying against the good Lord." This, half for Slick, half for the men around him, to know he is not incriminating their good liege, or making them his accomplice in the misdeed. "The Attaryl witches sent'er young and pretty, loaned off to our 'court.' Course, we don't have nothing so fancy, but it's what they do. Train'em, send them off as court mages, and she had herself learning to do. They work while they're borrowed, we don't be feeding them for nothing."

A quiet, approving nod hum from many in the group. The story carries on, "So we took her, meaning, we had'er along for some marches. She spent her some time in tents doing whatever witches do, or healing, or... writing letters to her people, or putting the coin books in order. Nonsense. We're conquerors, not heavens-struck scribes. But she passed'er time. And she was always with the Lord, needing this scroll, that approval, presenting some... plans for... orphans or war children, or... whatever she did. Course he took a liking to her. Told you. She was pretty. And just about the only woman we had with us, except them camp whores. Think it was a year before the Attaryl wanted her back. She went over. The Lord didn't like that, but him, man of his word, what could he have done? She wasn't his to keep, though damned if he didn't try."