Wingborn

by Becca Lusher

  Twenty

  Storms

  20th Harvest

  WHAT HAD STARTED as a normal staff practise outside in the drizzly autumn air swiftly turned into something quite different when Captain Myran appeared. “Come with me,” he said and led them to the barn at the end of the field. It was empty except for the benches and equipment stacked against the wall. On the far side, an open door revealed a creaking waterwheel and somewhere nearby metal was being beaten in time to its thumps.

  As the students filed inside, footsteps crunching over the sandy floor and drowning out the waterwheel with their curious chatter, the hammering stopped. Silence fell as two men entered. Neither were tall, though both had broad, muscular shoulders, ruddy brown faces and strong hands. One was dark haired, his face soot-streaked and sweaty, while the other had sandy-brown hair and wore a discontented scowl.

  Captain Myran cleared his throat. “First-years, meet Derneon Weaponsmith Sohr diDeranon and Gedanon Swordmaster Sohr diGeranon. Your new instructors.”

  Nudging each other excitedly, the students chorused, “Good morning, Masters.”

  “More students,” sandy-haired Gedanon grumbled. “It is always the way.”

  “And always will be, gods and clouds willing,” Derneon agreed, hooking his thumbs in his belt. Unlike his friend, he was smiling. They reminded Mhysra of Hethanon Armsmaster in Nimbys. Clearly all three were Ihran – a people not known for welcoming strangers. Derneon was probably an aberration.

  “If we may begin?” At Captain Myran’s suggestion the three men sorted everyone into groups of strength and size. Only one group was different, containing broad-shoulder Derrain, slender Dhori, powerful Jermyn, willowy Haelle and a few other students Mhysra didn’t know so well. She did, however, recognise that they were all the best fighters.

  “This should be interesting.”

  Studying her own group, Mhysra raised her eyebrows at the boy beside her. He had merry dark eyes and a jaw she recognised: Greig, Lieutenant Stirla’s nephew.

  “Any of you picked up a sword before?” Ierali, a Sutheralli girl asked, sounding bored.

  The group shook their heads. Swords were for noble lads; everyone else made do with bows and staffs, if they trained at all.

  Ierali snorted with disgust. “With any luck they’ll move me up soon.”

  “Too good for us?” Alyne had more height than sense, being a redhead of fiery temper.

  Ierali sneered. “You northerners do not understand the intricacies of the Land of Light.”

  Greig rolled his eyes. “Then spare our tiny minds the burden of explanation, thanks.”

  His input was ignored by both girls as they went toe-to-toe.

  Since arriving at Aquila, the Sutheralli students had found it hardest to adjust. Having all come from the warrior Storm Class of their society, at home they were equal to the Sky Class of healers, priests and priestesses, and subordinate only to the tiny Royal Sun class. This gave them precedent over practically everyone else. At Aquila all students were equal, from the lowest beggar to the loftiest duke’s son. Most of the Sutheralli behaved, but Mhysra could understand why this had been an insult too far for Ierali.

  “You can’t stop them.” Russet-haired Jaymes smiled shyly. Though he sat next to Mhysra in Myran’s lessons, they had exchanged little more than names. “Once Alyne gets her teeth into something, she’ll go at it for days. We called her Terrier back in Farian.”

  Watching the Sutheralli trying to use her slightly taller height to intimidate the stocky northerner, Mhysra shook her head. “I’m not sure who I should be more worried for.”

  “Ierali,” Greig said firmly. “Not even a Storm Warrior can outdo a Northern Red once they get going.” He tugged a clump of Jaymes’ hair.

  The redhead sighed. “Don’t judge a man by his hair, lest you be judged by your family.”

  “Ouch.” Greig grimaced. “I beg you, never judge me by my uncle.”

  “I like your uncle,” Mhysra protested, watching their instructors hand out practise weapons.

  Greig blinked, opened his mouth, then shrugged. “You’re Wingborn to Cumulo – you’re addled. I’ll pray for you.” Taking his practise sword from Master Derneon, he skittered out of reach before Mhysra could swat him with hers.

  “I will hand you yours first next time,” the smith promised her with a wink. Turning away, he frowned. “Why are you making such noise, you pair?”

  Jaymes and Mhysra’s eyes met in silent amusement as the Ihran separated the arguing girls.

  “Ah, Storm Warrior. How could we forget?” Master Gedanon came over, stroking his jaw, and scowled. “Because we did not. You are poor at staff work. If your sword craft is the same, you belong here. If it is better, improve at the staff. Your past does not matter at Aquila. Pick up your sword and prepare to learn.”

  “Remind me never to get on his bad side,” Jaymes muttered.

  “He has no good one,” Master Derneon chuckled. “Grumpy, grumpier and annoyed. You will learn.” Winking again, the smith rejoined his partner to begin the unenviable task of teaching.

  Captain Myran took his leave and the first-years were ordered to face the front. “We begin,” Gedanon said, holding a practise blade in his right hand. “Strike, then block. Like so.

  “Strike high.” Extending his arm, he slowly swung the sword down from overhead. “Middle.” He thrust forward. “Low.” He swung up from his feet. “Left high.” He swung from his behind his right shoulder to above his left. “Right low.” He turned and crouched. “Left middle. Right middle.” He twisted from side to side. “Right high. Left low.” Mirroring the earlier strikes. “Now you.”

  Gedanon called the moves and the students followed, some faster than others in their enthusiasm. “No!” the swordmaster shouted. “Slow. Accuracy is more important than speed. The body must learn this new weight and movement. Speed comes later. Now follow.” He led them through it slowly five times before he was satisfied.

  “Good. Switch hands.”

  The students blinked stupidly and Derneon smiled at their confusion. “A sword is the best weapon against kaz-naghkt. But kaz-naghkt have many weapons. Claws on hands and feet.” He curled his fingers and swiped across the nearest student’s belly, making the boy yelp. “Teeth.” He snapped at a girl and she squeaked. “Spurs on the wings.” He jabbed his fingers at two more students, grinning when they flinched. “Kaz-naghkt have weapons all over.”

  “You must fight on all sides,” Gedanon agreed. “Switch hands.”

  The students obeyed dubiously and repeated the strikes with varying measures of success. Yelps sounded as students were whacked on heads, shoulders and knees. Poor Mouse was bashed on the head by both of his neighbours when he swung too wildly once too often.

  When Gedanon had led them through it more than ten times and the collisions had stopped, he told them to switch back, then introduced the blocks designed to hold off various strikes. When he was satisfied that they could manage with both hands, he paired them up.

  “Right side strike, left block. Go slowly. Ready? High. Middle. Low.” After a few false starts and many bashed fingers, the students fell into a steady rhythm, keeping pace with the swordmaster’s voice and the clack of the swords. “Left side strike, right block.” They swapped roles and both masters walked around, adjusting stances and holds, raising arms or lowering them, bending elbows and knees. After the excitement Mhysra had felt at finally getting her hands on a sword it was disappointing, boring and painful.

  “My arms!” Greig moaned after they were dismissed. “They feel like string.”

  “String?” Mhysra grimaced, flexing her wrists and rolling her stiff shoulders. “Lucky you. I can’t even feel mine.”

  “You’re all so feeble.” Bright-eyed and with a spring in his step, Derrain rubbed her shoulders. “As if all these months of regular training haven’t built you up.”

  “They haven’t,” Greig, Mhysra, Mouse and Corin chorused.

  Sharing a glance
with Dhori, Derrain shook his head. “You are such disappointments to me.”

  Chuckling, Corin jumped up and ruffled his hair. “You’ll get over it.”

  3rd Storm

  MY DEAREST SISTER,

  I miss you already, and it has not yet been a month since you left. I even miss your bumbling pup, but I’m glad to hear you’ve settled in and I hope you are well. I wish things weren’t as they are, but I would be lying if I said our parents are reconciled to your choice. Father wanted to petition the Stratys for your return, until mother reminded him that Prince Lyrai is a Rider and the Stratys might deem it an insult. There is apparently little they can do, so for now, you and Cumulo are safe. Relatively speaking.

  Thank you for word of Kilai – a more hopeless correspondent I’ve yet to meet. I’m delighted he’s happy in his Rider life, but I’m more pleased that you are. You and Cumulo deserve your happiness.

  Speaking of which, I’ve refused three more suitors. Father grows impatient, but two were older than him and the other younger than Kilai! Mother says I have gained a reputation for being Unattainable, so all the young cubs are forming ridiculous passions for me, certain to be the one who tames me. It is so stupid. One of these days I shall say yes, and won’t the fool in question be surprised.

  It’s not that I enjoy turning them down – you know how much I hate it – but I’ve yet to be asked by a man who wants me for myself. The Kilpapan name and fortune are so attractive, but we have no need of advantageous alliances. Despite father’s blustering, your decision to enter the Riders has been met with nothing but praise. Everyone thinks you are terribly brave. You have quite raised our status. The Kilpapans are not just rich but courageous too, not to mention favourites of the Stratys.

  Show me the man who has no care for these things, who sees me as more than an empty-headed doll, and I will happily marry him.

  Alas, I do not think he will ask. Nor would father agree to such a match.

  Did I mention how much I miss you, dearest? And your friends. They were so lively. I hope they’re all doing well. And your lieutenants too. How is Lieutenant Lyrai? And Lieutenant Stirla?

  I wish I could visit, since you cannot come to me. A break from town would be most welcome. Guests from across the Overworld have descended for the negotiations over Prince Henryn’s marriage and Nimbys begins to feel quite small. Crowds gather wherever the foreign dignitaries are staying and trail their every move. You’d hate it.

  March Serfyn, from the King’s Council of North Point, is staying with the Fenhays three houses along. Father deems it unacceptable, though mother often goes out to catch the attention of the press and promote the business. She is quite shameless, but you already knew that.

  The negotiations might continue for another month! I shall go mad. Write back soon, dearest, and take my mind away from such things. In the meantime, please take care, and send my regards to everyone.

  Love to you, Cumulo and Kilai.

  Your lonely, spinsterish sister,

  Milluqua x

  Mhysra folded her letter and grinned. She didn’t envy her sister in the slightest; seven months in Nimbys had been more than enough.

  “Everything all right?” Corin whispered, filching Mhysra’s history notes. “Is your sister getting married yet?”

  “No.” Mhysra tucked the letter under her geography essay and looked busy as Lieutenant Willym walked past. Study sessions were never fun when he was around since he banned talking, smiling or enjoyment in any form. Whispers rustled in his wake, but stopped the moment he turned as the students had become adept at avoiding his notice.

  Scribbling about the gently sloping mountains and agricultural yield of the Lowlands, Mhysra kept an eye on the lieutenant. “She’s turned down another three.”

  Corin chuckled, squinting at Mhysra’s notes on the reign of King Meryk VI of Scudia and the Jarl uprising of 548 CE. “I’m beginning to think your sister doesn’t want to get married.”

  “She does,” Mhysra murmured. “She has someone in mind, but father would never agree.”

  “Who?” Corin demanded, nosy as ever. Unfortunately, she was noisy too.

  Willym pounced. “All done, Student Corin? And you, Student Mhysra?”

  Since their tutors delighted in giving them more work than anyone could possibly manage, it was obvious that they weren’t. Excuses were pointless, though. They shook their heads.

  “No?” Willym drawled. “Then what is so important that you need to shriek about it to the entire hall?” Looming over them, he poked at their papers with his flying crop.

  Mhysra bit her lip, worried he would uncover her sister’s letter – Willym read private correspondence aloud whenever he found it. Not that there was anything to embarrass Mhysra in the letter, but she hated the thought of others making fun of her sister. Thankfully she had hidden it well, and when Willym’s insolent prodding knocked a heap of papers off the table, she slipped it into her pocket.

  After he’d disrupted all their things and found nothing except lesson notes, the lieutenant sniffed. “Report to the tanners on Starday. Two bells each. Don’t let me hear another squeak from you.” Slapping his crop against his palm, he stalked off.

  Corin grimaced apologetically at Mhysra and they settled back to work in silence. That didn’t mean their conversation was finished. The moment Willym was across the room, Corin nudged a note towards Mhysra. Who?

  Biting her lip to restrain a smile, Mhysra scribbled, Lt. Stirla.

  Corin masked her gasp under a convincing sneeze. Poor Milli!

  I know. Mhysra sighed, putting her geography essay aside and fishing her arithmetic notes out of the mess Willym had made. The sums looked no more appealing now than they had the day before, or at any point during the last quarter-moon, but they were due the next morning.

  Lieutenant Hlen was no trouble, though. As long as the students made an effort, he treated them fairly. If they didn’t he only looked sad, which was far worse than any humiliation Willym meted out. Dhori shoved a sheet of hints across the table to help her. Grinning, she set to work, while Corin ransacked everyone’s notes for more about King Meryk. By the time the evening bell finally rang, the students were more relieved to escape than usual: the Willym effect.

  “What was all that about?” Derrain asked as they left the hall.

  “A letter from Milli,” Corin said before Mhysra could reply. “She’s in love with Lieutenant Stirla, but the earl would never agree to the match.”

  Mhysra scowled at her. “She isn’t in love with him. They just flirt.”

  Derrain chuckled. “That’s what Corin got you two bells in the tanners for? Poor bargain.”

  “I don’t mind. They’ll give me stitching.” Due to Corin, Mhysra often had punishment duty. Now that she wasn’t being forced to sew useless samplers and handkerchiefs, she’d found she had quite a skill for it.

  “Lucky you,” Corin grumbled. “I always have to cure things.”

  “That’s because your attempts at stitching look like a drunk spider fell into an ink pot,” Derrain told her, using Mhysra as a shield against retaliation.

  “He’s right,” Dhori said, sidestepping the scuffle. “It’s quite a gift.”

  Corin appealed to Mhysra for support, but she shrugged apologetically. “He has a point.”

  “And you call yourselves my friends,” Corin sniffed and flounced off.

  After she left, Derrain turned to Mhysra and grinned. “So, is Milli really in love with Stirla?”

  AS THE STORM Season gathered around Aquila, the first-years settled into a regular routine. They flew every day, alternating mornings and afternoons, and the rest of their time was filled with lessons. On Stardays, the whole of Aquila flew, the bells calling them out to the eyries without warning. The lieutenants claimed it was good practise to spring a surprise summons, but Corin thought it was torture.

  “They watch me, they must do, because the moment I go to the privy the bell rings and I’m stuck with my breeches
round my ankles!”

  Mhysra wouldn’t have put it past Stirla, especially after the third time Corin almost suffered an undignified accident, but she couldn’t believe it of Lyrai. He was too steady, though a lot less stern and humourless now that he had Hurricane. He was certainly better than Lieutenant Willym. Was ever a man more contemptuous? Willym looked down on everyone, but saved a particular brand of disdain for the girls. He was as bad as her father.

  Their lessons ranged from geography to cooking, with arithmetic and even smith-work to keep their brains and bodies busy. They trained with staffs before breakfast, followed by swords, then archery after noon, and were sent on runs through the citadel whenever someone felt the need to give them more exercise. Captain Hylan, whose students were in the upper years, particularly enjoyed making them scurry. As one of Hylan’s Riders, Kilai assured them the captain was the nicest, quietest man they could meet. The exhausted students disagreed.

  “He does have a twisted sense of humour, though,” Kilai warned, but Mhysra and her friends had already noticed.

  Bad weather became so frequent that even Mouse stopped twitching at the lightning. Only Dhori continued to care, his eyes brightest when thunder was in the air.

  “You’re unnatural,” Corin complained during Captain Fredkhen’s geography class. “How can you stand it? My head pounds so much I could scream.”

  Dhori rubbed her tense neck. “I never claimed to be normal. Who doesn’t love the raw power of nature?”

  “Me,” Haelle croaked, head on the desk, in even worse shape than Corin. “I just want one quiet day. I don’t even mind if it rains.”

  “I want to fly,” Mhysra grumbled. The storms had been so thick that she hadn’t so much as sat on Cumulo for six days, and before that they’d had just two flying lessons after a three day wait. Their current lessons were confined to the eyries where everyone was taught how to feed and care for their miryhl, with loud, unimpressed huffs from Cumulo helping to keep things interesting.

  “I thought you liked thunderstorms?” Derrain said, copying the map from the blackboard.

  “So did I,” Mhysra agreed. “Until I moved into one.”

  “You’re no fun, none of you,” Dhori sighed, shaking his head at the lot of them and staring out of the window at the rain-lashed mountain.

  “I never claimed to be,” Corin replied, and groaned as thunder rolled once more.

  16th Storm

  FOR MOST, THE Feast of Maegla was a day of private worship, but at Aquila it was the most important festival of the year. The citadel and town celebrated Her glory loudly, and She threw out the worst storm of the season in response. But most of the students were too tipsy to care.

  “S’my birthday,” Mhysra said to the ceiling, but no matter how many times she said it, she still didn’t get any presents.

  “I love you. Did I ever tell you I love you?” Corin told Mhysra for the fifth time.

  “Yes.” As she’d said the same to Haelle, Mouse, Derrain, Lieutenant Stirla and Lieutenant Hlen, Mhysra wasn’t flattered. “You’ve had too much drink.”

  “I like it!” Corin protested, as Mhysra took the bottle away. She tried to put it on the table and missed. “You broke it!”

  “Didn’t,” Mhysra retorted, juggling it until she got a grip. “See, some left.” Tipping back her head, she drained the last third.

  Corin stared at her in shock. “You drank it.”

  “I did.”

  “You drank it.”

  “I did.”

  “You drank it!”

  “She did.” A veteran of intoxicating spirits, Derrain still seemed to be in possession of his wits. “And you’ve both had enough.” He hauled them to their feet. “Time for bed. Lessons tomorrow.”

  “S’no point,” Mhysra hiccupped gloomily. “No flying, no fun. S’my birthday, Derry. Will you take me flying?”

  “Not when you might get struck by lightning. Aquila frowns on that kind of thing.”

  “No fun,” she repeated.

  “I don’ wanna go bed,” Corin protested, tripping over a snoring student. “’m drinkin’.”

  “I noticed,” Derrain said. “And now you’ve stopped. You’re done with drinking.”

  “Nope. Gotta keep goin’. Buildin’ ma courage. Gonna get a kiss.”

  Derrain raised his eyebrows, and Mhysra stopped grumbling long enough to swing around. “Wotcha mean? Where you gonna get a kiss?”

  Corin giggled. “On ma lips. At first.” She winked. “Maybe somewhere else, if he’s lucky.”

  Mhysra swayed as she tried to focus. “S’not what I meant. Who’ll kiss you?”

  “S’secret,” Corin whispered. “C’mere, I tell you.”

  They all leant closer and Corin bashed foreheads with Derrain as she planted a loud kiss on his lips. She teetered away, crowing, “Tol’ you! Tol’ you! I got a kiss!”

  Lunging to catch her before she fell over, Derrain sighed and tucked her under his arm. “You should have asked, Corin. I’d have kissed you gladly.”

  “Ser’sly?” she hiccupped. “S’that easy?”

  “Depends how nicely you ask.”

  She chuckled and cuddled up to his chest. “You’s nice, Derry. I like you.”

  “Should ‘ope so,” Mhysra hiccupped. “Hate to think you go ‘round kissing them you don’t.”

  “Don’t be jealous, M’sra, I’ll kiss you too if you want.”

  Mhysra cackled. “’m all right, thanks.”

  Corin wrinkled her nose. “Can I have ‘novva drink, Derry?”

  “No. You got your kiss.”

  “Offa you, mebbe,” she grumbled. “Need more courage. Wanna ‘novva.”

  “I told you to ask.”

  “Not from you!” she protested, while Mhysra wandered into a wall.

  Derrain reached out and snagged Mhysra’s wrist as she walked into the wall again, asking it why it wasn’t getting out of the way and didn’t it know it was rude to obstructify people in this manner. He reeled her in and smiled at Corin. “You don’t need courage, little one.”

  “You’s nice,” Corin repeated, patting his cheek. “But I wanna kiss from Dhori. Where’d he go? D’you know? Oh! A rhyme! Where’d he go, do you know? I don’t know, where he go? Where he go, I don’t know. I don’t, I don’t know! ’m so clever.” She collapsed against his chest, staring up at him adoringly. “Don’cha think ’m clever, Derry?”

  “Brilliant,” he agreed, staggering sharply left as Mhysra avoided another wall, which she was sure had lunged. They had it in for her, all of them. Evil walls. “Come on, girls, upstairs.”

  “Stairs,” Mhysra whined. “They’re worse than walls. They trip you up an’ everything.”

  “Stairs! I love stairs! ’m good at stairs!” Corin raced off, slipped and slithered down, scraping her hands but miraculously not flattening her face. “Did you see that?” she demanded. “It tripped me!”

  “I warned you,” Mhysra said. “I told you they was mean.”

  “You was right!”

  “Is there any reason why we can’t talk like normal people?” Derrain pleaded, as they berated the stairs.

  “You’re at Aquila, lad. There are no normal people here.” Stirla and Lyrai were watching their distinct lack of progress, bright-eyed with amusement. “Need a hand?” Stirla offered.

  “Please.”

  “Come on, milady. Up.” Lyrai pulled Mhysra to her feet and hauled her over his shoulder.

  “Ooooh,” she groaned as he straightened. “Feel dizzy. World’s gone upsides.”

  “No, just you,” Lyrai assured her, while Stirla scooped up Corin.

  “You know, you’re not as grouchy as I thought you were,” Mhysra murmured to Lyrai’s back. “An’ you have a nice bum.”

  It was Derrain’s turn to trip on the stairs, he was laughing so hard.

  “Thank you,” Lyrai said gravely, not even flinching when Mhysra patted his backside.

  “’m gonna regret this in the mornin’, aren’t
I?” she muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  As Lyrai carried her up the stairs, she remained quiet, though Corin was trying to bargain a kiss out of Stirla, who promised to drop her if she tried.

  Then Mhysra hiccupped. “Ow. Your shoulder’s not as nice as your bum. S’all bony.”

  “His bum?” Stirla asked.

  “No, the shoulder. It sticks in my –” another hiccup “– belly. Hurts. Uh-oh.”

  “What?” Derrain, Lyrai and Stirla asked.

  “Feel sick.”

  It was quite possible that Lieutenant Lyrai had never moved so fast as when he put Mhysra down, turned her around and boosted her up to an open window.

  When she was dangling halfway out of it, she giggled. “S’rainin’.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know.”

  “Umm… Dhori’s on the roof.”

  “What?” Stirla dumped Corin and ran to the next window, while Lyrai gripped hold of Mhysra’s belt before she could fall out.

  “Are you done?” Lyrai asked.

  “I don’t feel sick now,” she confirmed, then protested as he dragged her inside. “I like it out there. I like rain. Noooo!”

  “Blast it, does he want to get killed?” Stirla cursed, leaning right out of the window to see Dhori on the high roof opposite.

  “He likes it,” Mhysra grumbled, sliding down the wall next to the sleepy Corin. “He likes rain on his skin an’ thunder in his bones. Makes him feel good.”

  “How do you know?” Lyrai asked in surprise.

  She shrugged. “If you knew him, you’d know. He’s safe on the roof.” The rain had turned her maudlin. “Don’t make him get down. You didn’t like it when you couldn’t fly.”

  Lyrai blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Do you like it when you can’t?”

  “Course not. It’d be the same for Dhori if you made him get down. He needs storms. Don’t make him come inside.”

  Smiling, he hauled Mhysra to her feet. “I won’t. Come on.”

  This time he scooped her into his arms rather than over his shoulder and she snuggled against his chest. “S’nice,” she murmured. “You smell better than my cousins.”

  Stirla chuckled as he picked up Corin again, Derrain having disappeared. “Careful, he’ll think you’re an admirer.”

  “I admire all kinds of things.” She yawned. “An’ my cousins smell terrible. Bet you smell better too.”

  “He has a nice bum too,” Corin murmured.

  “Who?” Stirla asked.

  “You,” she replied sleepily. “Do I get a kiss?”

  “No.”

  “I tried. L’ten’n Lyrai, can I have a kiss?”

  “No.”

  “No fun,” Corin complained.

  “I thought you wanted to kiss Dhori,” Mhysra reminded her, on the verge of sleep herself.

  “Do. Wouldn’t say no to a l’ten’n, tho’. Keepin’ my options open.”

  “Wise child,” Stirla agreed, but neither of the girls were listening. Both were sound asleep.

  THE MORNING AFTER the feast, Aquila was bathed in uncharacteristic sunshine. It broke over the mountain edge and speared straight in through the girls’ dormitory window, where it was greeted with groans. When a maid climbed the stairs to find out why none of them had come down to breakfast, she was forced out under a rain of pillows.

  Lessons for the day were cancelled.

  Luckily for most, they had only hazy memories of the night before. Still, it was a good half-moon before Mhysra felt able to look Lieutenant Lyrai in the eye again, and Corin couldn’t speak to Lieutenant Stirla for the better part of a month. Oddly enough, neither lieutenant complained.