The others subsided and Sinter was careful to hide her relief. That damned gum had been in her pouch too long, making it dirty, and she could feel the stuff on her fingers. She surreptitiously brought her hands down to her thighs and rubbed as if trying to warm up.
Kisswhere shot her a jaded look. The damned barracks was hot as a head-shrinker’s oven.
They made a point of ignoring the clump of boots as someone marched up to their table. Badan Gruk threw the bones-and achieved six out of six in the core.
‘Did you see that! Look!’ Badan’s smile was huge and hugely fake. ‘Look, you two, look at that cast!’
But they were looking at him instead, because cheaters couldn’t stand that for long-they’d twitch, they’d bead up, they’d squirrel on the chair.
‘Look!’ he said again, pointing, but the command sounded more like a plea, and all at once he sagged back and raised his hands. ‘Fingers clean, darlings-’
‘That would be a first,’ said the man standing now at their table.
Badan Gruk’s expression displayed hurt and innocence, with just a touch of indignation. ‘That wasn’t called for, sir. You saw my throw-you can see my fingers, too. Clean as clean can be. No gum, no tar, no wax. Soldiers can’t be smelly or dirty-it’s bad for morale.’
‘You sure about that?’
Sinter twisted in her chair. ‘Can we help you, Lieutenant Pores?’
The man’s eyes flickered in surprise. ‘You mistake me, Sergeant Sinter. I am Captain-’
‘Kindly was pointed out to us, sir.’
‘I thought I ordered you to cut your hair.’
‘We did,’ said Kisswhere. ‘It grew back. It’s a trait among Dal Honese, right in the blood, an aversion-is that the word, Sint? Sure it is. Aversion. To bad haircuts. We get them and our hair insists on growing back to what looks better. Happens overnight, sir.’
‘You might be comfortable,’ said Pores, ‘believing that I’m not Captain Kindly; that I’m not, in fact, the man who was pointed out to you. But can you be certain that the right one was pointed out to you? If Lieutenant Pores was doing the pointing, for example. He’s one for jokes in bad taste. Infamous for it, in fact. He could have elected to take advantage of you-it’s a trait of his, one suspects. In the blood, as it were.’
‘So,’ asked Sinter, ‘who might he have pointed to, sir?’
‘Why, anyone at all.’