“Name?” asked the clerk.

“Delta”, said Delta. The clerk raised his eyebrow. “Fourth child”, she said by way of explanation.

Over a few hours the area had transformed from a battlefield to a camp. The wounded and dead were carted away, and eventually the two mercenaries were led to an administration tent.

“Company?” the clerk asked the next question.

“Wight’s Brigade.”

“Registration number?”

“Avenio 217.”

The clerk scribbled some more entries in the form.

“Name?” the clerk asked again.

“Zip”, said the spearwoman. “Although people call me ‘Z’ for short, and ‘Zipper’ for long.”

“Which is your real name?” asked the clerk, looking levelly at her.

“Does it matter?” Zipper asked.

The clerk sighed. “No. It does not.” He wrote something down. “Company?”

“The Puissant Company of Superlative Adventurers. Reformed.” He looked at her. “No, really. That’s the name. Registered in Romitu. PCC 12.”

The clerk scratched on in silence. A page came by and hung up a lantern, as the sun was going down. Although the lantern itself was ordinary, there was no flame contained in it, just a glowing stone.

“Thank you for your information”, said the clerk, perfunctory. “Been in a standard camp before?”

“I served for a time near Bavel”, said Zipper.

“You know the layout then”, said the clerk. “Guest quarters are the last tent to the left across from the horse pickets. Follow your nose to the mess tent. In the morning you will need to sign up, hire on, or be on your way. Dis…” he stopped himself and smiled thinly. “Be at your ease.” Then he walked off.

“That’s it?” said Zipper. “No shackles? No interrogation? No hot irons?”

“We’re mercenaries. We’re protected by the code” said Delta, getting to her feet.

“I thought nothing was sacred to the Imperials”, said Zipper, following her. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Did you really sign on with them before?” asked Delta.

“Nah”, said Zipper. “I made that up. But I do know how they lay out their camps.” She led them down a few rows. “Yep. Right next to the latrines.”

“Convenient”, said Delta, without amusement.

There were six others in the tent, with wounds large and small. There was an empty flagon of wine to dull the pain. None were from their companies. They stacked their armor and wrung out their padding.

“Let’s find that mess tent”, said Zipper. “Might be better company there.”

“Morgue first”, said Delta. Zipper nodded.

The bodies were laid out just outside the camp. A pair of guards stood there, watching them idly. Some incense and a votive shrine to the Grave Keeper had been placed on a portable altar. The bodies were laid out respectfully with a surprising amount of personal gear. Delta looked from the bodies to the guards and met their eyes. They didn’t have to warn her about looting.

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Delta walked down the line. “Five down. One left”, she said, quietly.

“Just two from my company”, said Zipper. “The others probably ran off with the rest.”

“Are you going to try to catch up?” asked Delta.

Zipper shrugged. “I just go where the wind blows me.”

They started back into the camp. “Let’s blow towards the food. My appetite is coming back.”

“Yeah, dead people do that for me too”, said Zipper, smirking.

On the way they passed a cordon of soldiers. The Montihouse forces who had not surrendered were still there, singing patriotic songs. The guarding Imperial soldiers surrounded them, interjecting rude words into their lyrics.

Delta stopped for a moment until an officer turned to them. “How long are you going to keep them there?” she asked.

“Until they surrender”, said the officer.

“Wouldn’t be simpler just to kill them, like the rest?” asked Zipper. Delta elbowed her.

“This is a civil war, not a conquest”, said the officer stiffly.

Delta pulled Zipper away before she could respond.

The mess tent was loud and raucous, as any large group of fighters tends to be. Winning fighters, anyway. There were cheers, jeers, and multiple re-enactments of the deeds of the day. There were also quiet corners, empty seats, and empty tankards of those dealing with it in other ways.

No one seemed to pay them much heed. People clearly recognized them as mercenaries but didn’t resent them for having been on the other side. Neither did they welcome them to their tables. So they sat, together, off to the side.

“The food’s hot”, said Zipper, eating with gusto. “And it’s not crap!”

Delta nodded back at the mess line. “No fire. No smoke. More Imperial magic?”

“That’s two for two”, said Zipper around a mouthful. “Magic being used for useful things, that is.”

Delta nodded and ate slowly. Her mind was on the bodies lying out on the ground. She hadn’t signed on to Wight’s Brigade that long ago. She didn’t know them well. They were polite and all. But she was really there to just fill out the numbers. The first empire may have fallen apart seventy years ago, and now the new Imperialists were having a civil war trying to put it back together. But neither fought the bureaucracy, which had lasted a thousand years of Empire. And the bureaucracy said that mercenaries came in companies of up to six. If there were more than six, they were an army. So, she had been a sixth body, to bring them up to six to get the contract they wanted.

And now she was all that was left of Wight’s Brigade.

She left the wine ration she had been given untouched. Even watered down it wasn’t what she wanted right now. She remembered her comrades in arms, but she found it hard to mourn them.

Instead she watched the troops eating. From the outside, she could see those who were just putting on bravado to try to mask their own thoughts. Empty flagons bore witness to others masking it in other ways. A few watched, as she did. Veterans.

Funny. She never saw herself as a veteran. This was the first major fight she had been in. Everything else was just skirmishes. Maybe it wasn’t so much experience as viewpoint.

Zipper had finished her food and had started to eat Delta’s. “You know”, said Delta, “they’ll just give you more.”

“No way?” Zipper looked up and around. “Grania’s blessing be on this table!” she jumped up and headed back to the mess line.

Delta made an effort to eat. She didn’t peg Zipper as experienced. She certainly didn’t take anything too seriously. But that also meant she was hard to phase. Not a bad quality.

Wight’s Brigade or not? That was the question Delta had to decide. As the sole surviving member, she inherited command of it. Such as it was. She could disband it, and hire on with another company, or find another five swords to bring it up to quota.

Zipper sat down again; plate heaped with more food. “Cook’s some barbarian from Gnollistan or somewhere. I bet him a double portion if I could swallow and keep down a bit flavored to his liking.” She grinned. “Good thing I like it spicy.”

Delta nodded, somewhat solemn. “Zipper. I’ve got something to ask you.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll sign on”, she said waving her knife.

“What?” said Delta, taken aback. “How did you even know I was going to ask?”

Zipper waved vaguely. “You had that look about you. Making a serious decision or something.” She chewed, swallowed, and drank half a tankard of water. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Delta smiled wearily and nodded. “Got it in one.”

Zipper winked at her and sloshed half her wine ration into her water tankard. Then scooped up more food. “So, yeah. I’m in.”

“We haven’t even discussed terms”, said Delta.

“Either you’re a crook, in which case there is no point discussing them. Or you’re honest, in which case they’ll be fine”, said Zipper. She pointed at her plate. “You should really eat that. It’s the best we’ll see in some time.”

“You don’t want to sign on with the Imperials?” asked Delta.

Zipper gave her a crazy look. “The food’s great. They use magic sensibly. But this whole civil war is insane. They’re fanatics.”

“You sympathize with Avenio then?”

“No”, said Zipper, quickly. “They are petty provincials.”

“What’s that make us?”

“Smart enough to take money from both of them.”