Murder in LaMut by Raymond E. Feist, Joel Rosenberg

instructed. These former slaves would find things much looser in service to the local nobles and franklins.
    Pirojil’s lips tightened. The Tsurani were even worse than were the Kingdom regulars when it came to showing individuality. What was there about a regular soldier’s life that robbed him of any initiative?
    He relieved himself quickly behind the broad bole of an ancient oak, while above a squirrel chittered at him. As he buttoned up his trousers, it was only a matter of reflex to check that the hilt of his sword was near his hand.
    A twig snapped behind him, and his sword was no longer simply near his hand, but in his hand as he spun about to face–
    Durine, a smile playing across his broad face, both hands up, palms out. ‘Stand easy, Pirojil,’ he said. ‘I guess I should have cleared my throat instead of stepping on a twig.’
    Pirojil had to laugh. Snapped twigs as warnings of impending attack were a staple of late-night, campfire stories. For the most part, twigs bent and didn’t make any noise, except in the driest times of the year. Besides, in real life, an enemy was rarely considerate enough to give a warning before an assault: it kind of ruined the whole idea of a surprise attack.
    Pirojil replaced his sword. They might be friends and long-time companions, but Durine’s hand never strayed far from the hilt of his own sword until Pirojil finished resheathing. Some habits were hard enough to break that they probably weren’t worth breaking.
    ‘Excuse me,’ Durine said, politely turning his back as he unbuttoned his own trousers.
    A stream of piss steamed and smoked in the chilly air for an improbably long time.
    ‘With all the places to relieve yourself,’ Pirojil said, ‘did you really need me to be a witness?’
    Durine buttoned his fly. ‘Well, truth be told, I always do prefer to have you or Kethol at my back when I’m occupied handling something this large and delicate, but no, I figured we ought to talk.’
    ‘So, talk.’
    Durine shook his head. ‘I don’t like any of this. Playing bodyguard to an officer is one thing–you don’t have to worry about your own soldiers trying to knock him off–’
    Pirojil’s eyebrows rose and he gave Durine a fish-eye.
    ‘All right, you usually don’t have to worry about your own soldiers trying to knock him off, just about enemy troops bothering him while he’s busy running a battle. I like doing bodyguard stuff.’ He patted his waist.
    Pirojil nodded, though he did not meet the other’s gaze. It wasn’t that he was unwilling to. It was just a reflex for him, after all this time, with both Kethol and Durine: they automatically divided the world into fields of fire; it had saved their lives more than several times.
    ‘I know,’ Pirojil said. Bodyguard duty usually meant some extra coins, and the meals tended to be better, and while you were near enough the front not to get bored, you were also not so close that you had to worry about somebody leaping out at you while you were harvesting a bit of loot. ‘Not the sort of thing I would have volunteered for, but I don’t remember being asked to volunteer, do you?’
    ‘So why us?’
    ‘I don’t know, although I have some ideas. For whatever they’re worth.’ Pirojil shrugged. ‘I don’t think it’s because the Swordmaster thinks we’re better than his own troops.’
    ‘We are.’
    Pirojil couldn’t help but grin. ‘Well, I think that, and you think that, and Kethol thinks that we’re better than they are–but I’m willing to bet that the locals don’t think we are.’
    ‘Their problem.’
    ‘No. Our problem. What we are is uninvolved, which is good.’
    ‘Good?’
    ‘Good for us. We’re not expected to take sides in local rivalries, which means that we can expect not to have our throats cut for making the wrong move at the wrong time.’
    ‘So you like this?’
    ‘I didn’t say that. The bad part is that we’re uninvolved–’
    ‘You said that was the good part.’