a woman.”
Walegrin’s sigh made the candles flicker. “Very well-send her in.”
It was not the custom of the army, even here in the hinterlands, to consider a
woman fit for anything but cooking and fornicating. Jubal’s rejection of this
time-honored attitude was, to Walegrin, far more outrageous than any of his
other activities. Unfortunately, with the Stepsons changing the face of the
Downwind side of town, Walegrin was forced to consider these distaff aberations
if he was to leave town with a dozen men-soldiers-swords, whatever, in his
command.
The last candidate entered the room. Thrusher slid back under the eaves as soon
as he had shut the door.
There were two types to these women Jubal had hired. The first was small-built,
all teeth and eyes and utterly devoid of the traditional virtues almost every
soldier brought into battle. The second type was a man save for accident of
birth-big and broad, strong as any man of equal size, but as lacking in military
honor as her scrawny sister.
This one was of the first type; her head barely reached Walegrin’s chest. In a
way she reminded him of Illyra and the resemblence was almost enough for him to
order her out on the spot.
She was shaking out her short kilt; repairing a knot at the shoulder of her
tunic which tried to conceal a small breast as grimy as the rest of her.
Walegrin judged she hadn’t eaten for two or three days. A half-healed slash
stiffened her face; another wound ran down her hard, bare arm. Someone had tried
to kill this woman and failed. She tugged wide-spread fingers through her