He reined his bodine to a stop.
Without discussion, the ranking warman approached the cart while the other stepped inexplicably to an adjacent market stand. He stole a basket and rudely dumped its contents. The hapless vendor standing there didn’t protest. The warman then casually strolled to the cart as if shopping.
“Allowances,” said the ranking warman, jerking Jonas’s attention away from the back of his cart, where the other browsed the terranuts. Jonas looked down and read the name stitched on the breast of the warman’s uniform. Rommel. The warman looked up expectantly, but Jonas could think of nothing to say. Instead, he mutely reached into his tunic with his good hand to retrieve his allowances.
“We need to requisition your produce for the garrison,” Rommel explained, though it wa
