Wisdom tasted as bad as rancid meat. I’d need the Rousters. I didn’t want them, but Foxglove would need them. I made a brief stop in my room and then went in search of them.

I did not find them on the practice yards or in the steams or even in the guards’ mess. I hated the wasted time so much that I took a horse from the stables and rode down the hill. I did not have to go all the way to Buckkeep Town. On the edge of the sprawling growth from the town, I entered the tavern called the Lusty Buck, just past the blackened ruins of the Bawdy Trout. It was exactly the sort of place I had expected it to be. The door did not fit tight in the jamb; a door can only be knocked off its hinges so many times before it always hangs askew. Inside, the candles were few and dark corners many. The air was ripe with cheap, coarse Smoke and the vinegary smell of spilled wine never completely mopped up. A woman smiled wearily at me as I came in; one of her eyes was swollen near shut and I could feel only pity for her. I wondered if debt had put her here. I shook my head at her and stood just within the door, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.

The Rousters were scattered round the room. They were a small troop, and the losses Chade and I had inflicted on them had reduced them even more. There were perhaps twenty-seven troops in the dark-blue livery. There were a few sodden regulars mixed in with them, a handful of soldiers from other guard companies, and a scattering of weary whores, but the Rousters dominated with their dark jerkins and darker expressions. One or two had turned to look at me as I ran my eyes over them, trying to appraise them.

“Rousters. To me!”

The command should at least have brought them to their feet. Heads turned toward me and many who stared were blearily the worse for drink. Only a few lurched unsteadily upright. I suspected they had been here since they’d stabled their horses on their return from Withywoods. I didn’t repeat my order. Instead I asked of the air, “Who’s in charge, Rousters? I know some of your officers went down near Oaksbywater. Where is Sergeant Goodhand?”

I had expected one of the older guards to stand. Instead it was a youngster with a patchy beard who spoke without rising. The heels of his boots rested on the corner of his table. “I’m here.”

I waited for someone to laugh or contradict him. No one did. Very well. “Sergeant Goodhand, muster your troop and bring them up to the practice fields. I need to speak to them.” I turned to go.

“Not today,” he told my back. “We’re just home from a long ride. And we’re in mourning. Maybe a couple days from now.”

That brought a mutter of suppressed laughter.

There were a hundred ways to deal with that level of insubordination. I sorted through all of them as I turned and made my unhurried way through the tables to him, stripping my left glove from my hand as I came. I smiled at him, sharing his amusement. He did not move.

“Ah. I think I’ve heard of you,” I said as I slowly walked toward him. “My stable boy. Perseverance. I believe you backhanded him when he came to the defense of Thick. The king’s companion.”

He gave a single guffaw. “The king’s half-wit!”

“That’s the one.” I did not lose my smile but I suddenly moved faster. I reached him as he was just moving his feet from the table to the floor. He was sneering at me as I hit him so hard I felt his cheekbones crunch under my fist. He’d already been off balance. As he teetered in his chair, I kicked the legs out from under it. He went all the way to the floor. I added a solid boot to his midsection where his ribs did not protect him. He curled up tightly.

“And now I’m in charge,” I told him.

The silence that fell was not a good one. It simmered with anger. I spoke into it.

“King Dutiful gave you to me to keep or discard. Right now, I have a use for your swords. If you want to continue to be members of any guard company, form up on the practice grounds. Report to Captain Foxglove. Respect her. She’ll be selecting which of you we keep. Now. Anyone who chooses not to form up is dismissed from the Buckkeep Guard. Forever.”

I stood still one breath longer. Then I walked unhurriedly toward the door, every sense prickling in case someone attacked me from behind. As I stepped back into the snowy street, I heard one of the women say, “That was the Witted Bastard, that was. What he did was mild compared with what he could’ve done. You’re lucky he didn’t turn into a wolf and rip your throats out.”

I smiled as I drew my left glove on, mounted the horse, and rode away. Inside the weighted gauntlet, my right fist still ached, but not as much as it would have if my fist had been bare. Chade had taught me always to protect my knuckles.