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in my home my entire life. My father said his father carried it when he went off to war as a young man. That was all he ever said about it. I played with it when I was young and playing at soldier. When I ran away, I took it without asking my father.”
    “Was your grandfather a hero in a war?”
    Haft shook his head again. “My grandfather died in a hunting accident when I was an infant, so I never heard anything from him. My father never talked about the war his father was in. I don’t even know what war it was, or in what army he fought.”
    “Maybe the old man will tell us more about it when he comes back.”
    Haft made a face. “The way the old man reacted to it, I don’t think it would be a good idea to let him know we don’t know what the eagle means.” He stared at the rampant eagle on the blade of the axe and wondered what significance it held that he didn’t know about. He remembered the odd looks the axe occasionally got from other Marines, but none of them had ever said anything about it to him.
    Spinner nodded and didn’t say anything more about the axe.
    They looked at their surroundings. They were in a small room—Haft could almost touch both walls with his outstretched arms, and it wasn’t much deeper front to back. The light came from an oil lamp in a wall sconce. A rag-covered pile of pine boughs against the back wall served as a bed. A small table against a side wall held an ewer and bowl. A metal plate and cup hung from pegs on the wall above the table. A small chest tucked under the table looked like it was meant to be pulled out for use as a stool. The bare dirt floor was swept clean.
    Haft pulled the chest out and flipped up its lid. It was filled with small belongings. There was a set of clothes, a bit newer and less often repaired than what the old man had been wearing. A hairbrush, a small box of antique jewelry—“Put it back,” Spinner said—a pocked and ragged-edge stone of unknown origin, a religious medallion, a calfskin-covered book, and a few other objects. The last two objects were of more interest than the rest. One was a miniature painting of a young man and woman lovingly looking at each other.
    Spinner indicated the miniature and said, “If that’s him and his bride, he’s come down a long way.” Portraits, especially those as exquisitely executed as the miniature, were costly.
    Haft nodded agreement. He was glad Spinner made him put back the jewelry. “How will he buy food for us?” he wondered.
    “We’ll pay him,” Spinner said, and tapped the purse at his belt.
    They stared at the other item for a long moment. It was a blue, gold, and red ribbon with a clasp in back, designed to be worn hanging around the neck. A medallion in the form of a five-pointed star with a goddess’s head embossed in its center dangled from a padded knot in the ribbon’s front. It was the Order of Honor—the highest Frangerian military decoration.
    “He was a Marine?” Haft asked.
    Spinner shook his head. “He would have been before Lord Gunny came. We were called ‘Frangerian Sea Soldiers’ then, not ‘Marines.’ ” He looked again at the medal. “If he was, he was a hero.”
    Reverently, they repacked the chest. Spinner regretted the lie he’d told the old man about them being a reconnaissance, but knew no way to back away from it.
    Spinner sat on the chest, and Haft settled a haunch onto the table. They held their weapons in their hands—just in case—and waited.
    In moments the door opened again and the old man scurried in with a steaming tray. A wide-eyed urchin of about ten or eleven inched in behind him carrying a brimming pitcher. Her bare feet were filthy and her hair was matted, but she was otherwise as clean as a girl fresh from the bath, and her dress was of fine material and not anywhere threadbare or patched.
    Haft moved out of the way so the old man could put the tray on the table. “My great-granddaughter,” the old man said as the girl put the pitcher