Caliphate

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,

1538 AH (3 November, 2113)

Uniquely, the janissaries' weapons were left behind, locked in their barracks room. The men were going on an all-expense-paid night to paradise and, as Hans had announced, "There's no need to upset the houris."

Preceded by the first sergeant, who announced the name of each soldier before Hans inspected, Hans walked the lines checking uniforms. There was little to object to, predictably, as the janissaries were so eager to get out from under Hans' heavy thumb. They were even more eager to get at the houris, so eager, in fact, that they'd taken extra care to look perfect.

Hans stopped in front of one man and accused, "You've been over- trimming your mustache, soldier."

The accused soldier answered, "Sorry, sir. It's that we've been in the field so much lately, dirty and sweaty so much, that my skin underneath was starting to get inflamed."

Hans pursed his lips and seemed to think about it. "Well," he said, at length, "I won't pull your pass and send you back until the thing grows back properly. But I will hold you to letting it grow back."

Breathing a sigh of relief, the janissary answered, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I promise I will."

Now there's a fair officer, thought Sig, the armorer, standing at the far end of the first rank. And everyone was bitching about what a hard ass he was. I told them he was a good man.