Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) by Damien Lake Page A

their voices anew, flipping to the opposite side. 
“It’s about time we finally get a good assignment!”  “It’s only what we
deserve, after last summer!”
    Fraser allowed the men a moment to appreciate their
good fortune.  “So make sure all your gear is fit to be seen in the company of
the upper classes.  No one is to have the arse hanging out of their breeches
come summer!  That’s why we have shops in this town.  Now, to other business. 
For the Fourth Unit, Sloan is being promoted to fill the empty sergeant
position.”
    If Sloan expected cheers, he kept his disappointment
well concealed when the room fell silent.  Knowing what he did about his new
sergeant, Marik’s feelings about this man having control over his life
out in the field were tangled.
    “As for the First Unit, Kineta,” Fraser gestured with
one thumb at the woman, “is being transferred from heading Third Unit, Fifth
Squad to take over the sergeant duty.”
    None of the men, especially those in the First Unit,
cared for that.  Several mean looks and meaner protests greeted this announcement.
    Kineta spoke in her own defense.  “Feel free to
challenge me if you have a gripe.  If you can beat me, I’ll back down.  If I
beat you, you’ll be breaking your ass under my own special training regime for
the next five days.”
    With that, she gracefully spun on one heel to walk out
the door.  Fraser approached Marik’s table while Sloan crossed to the Fourth
Unit’s bunk area, meaning to move his possessions to the officers’ quarters, no
doubt.  Without a word, Fraser dropped a paper scrap onto the table beside
Marik’s plate before following Kineta outside.
    The scrawl on the paper read, Appointment with
Commander Torrance: Second Noon Bell, Tomorrow.   A mighty scowl reaching
his boots, Marik shoved the paper into his pocket, wondering what new complications
he was in for.  Tollaf must have pulled the commander into the fray, meaning
his time in the training areas would likely vanish from tomorrow onward.
    Ill will filled the air in a cloying fog.  Men
muttered discontentedly, which nudged Marik from his irritation at the old
bastard and his cheap tricks.  He had never felt one way or the other about
women fighters…probably because Nyla, a woman who had jointly led his
orientation into the mercenary band, had easily been as much boot leather,
saddle soap, stained chainmail, whipcord and worn nail-heads as the man Mylor,
the other instructor.  After glancing around the room, he noticed Dietrik wore
a neutral expression.
    “What do you think of her?”
    “Too early to say,” Dietrik replied.  “She must be
good, else the officers would never have selected her.”
    “Especially for a position outside the Fifth,” Marik
agreed.  “Why would they assign her to an all-male unit?”
    “That’s what I want to know!” a new voice thundered
behind Marik.  He recognized Vance from the First Unit.  “What’s she doing
outside the whore squad?”
    Several others joined Vance in his voluble discourse. 
Dietrik replied in a quieter voice.  “You’d have to ask the officers, mate. 
But she must be good.  No, she must be better than that!”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If you’re good, you can head a unit, so she must be
good.  But she’s going to have to head a unit and handle all these
muttonheads at the same time.”
    Marik nodded in understanding.  “She couldn’t handle
both if she was only ‘good’.  If she can handle both.”
    “That remains to be seen, but she wouldn’t have been
assigned if the brass did not think she were capable of it.  I suspect the
Fifth Squad is suffering from a rather high-quality problem.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They must have more talent than they have positions
for.  Someone else in there must have deserved a sergeantcy, but was not ready
for the challenge Vance and his like will offer.”  After a moment of thought,
Dietrik concluded, “Or maybe Torrance