"Put a second portion on top of that," she said quietly.

The young cook blinked, as surprised as if his ladle had started speaking to him. "What?" He sounded utterly mystified.

"Double the portion." Radstac gave him a meaningful gaze from her colorless eyes in her scarred face. It seemed to convince him that the easiest thing to do would be to just dump another share of the stewed meat and vegetables onto her plate and let her be on her way. Which is what he did.

Rations of course were just that—rationed. No soldier, at least none in these lowly ranks, was permitted additional servings. If you wanted extra food, she knew, you had to be lucky and skillful enough to forage it on your own.

She still possessed all her familiar accoutrements of combat, despite the Felk costume she was reluctantly wearing. Leather armor, bracers, kidskin boots, and the finely balanced throwing knives tucked therein, hidden from view. Naturally her left hand still wore the weighted leather glove. A weight of gears, of twin recessed prongs that she could extend with a sharp snap of her wrist. And, just as naturally, she retained her faithful combat sword, a companion through more battles than she could bother herself to number.

It was when she was almost out of sight of the squad circle that a voice rose behind her. She took two more steps, past the corner of a storage tent, and halted. This, of course, was the game of it. If anyone did confront her, question her, discover that she wasn't a legitimate member of this army, it would be the end of the whole farce.

And such so-called comedies, she understood, tended to conclude in hilarious tragedy.

A sergeant followed her around behind the tent. He had a thick face, a neck that swelled the collar of his uniform. His eyes were noticeably tiny but highly alert.