Vena scowls up at him. “I’ve gotta take them back to the refectory! You don’t have to wash your own, but not ‘cause you’re a boy, ‘cause you’re a guest and shot up.” It is very annoying to her to think that there’s ‘woman’s work’ here as soon as there’s a man, but camp life is coming back to her and she remembers that none of the men would cook or clean up after themselves or help at all, even when they had weeks of no battle.

She follows him. Here in the cooling late afternoon, not long before evening service, people are out taking a bit of leisure. Children chase around balls and inflated animal bladders. Women chat, massage each others’ sore hands and arms, and relax in various ways. All activity seems to slow and hush as Guts approaches and picks up again as he passes, voices louder. Various people adjust their plunging necklines.

There are one or two taller geldings about. Rangy and past their prime, not that they were ever powerful. The most dangerous animal present is the enormous ox saddled under the girl Ilse, walking placid circuits while chewing cud. When she glares at Guts the ox she’s riding snorts and rolls its head on its thick neck, showing off its horns, but they don’t leave the paddock.

The stockade walls are maybe twelve feet high or so, the large logs that make them up hacked into rough points. Past them, past some amount of cleared ground, pine forest is visible.

“What are you looking for?” Vena asks.