Two first spears and seven file closers amongst 'em. Eight of the men are too old or crippled to fight in the ranks—me being one of them. But there's always other jobs need to be done, anyway. Quarter-mastering and such."
The jaws worked back and forth. "Say, give me a few weeks to organize 'em, and you've got a third of a hundred from my own kin. All fighters, I'm counting, complete with gear and kit. They can make the core, if you need a full hundred. We can get the rest, easily enough. There's plenty of retired and out-of-regiment men hereabouts, most of whom aren't finding that it's all that easy to work a farm. If you let me and my kinfolk pick them, we can get ones to be trusted."
Demansk was doing his own calculations. He needed to get Helga off as soon as possible, before the sailing season ended. That meant, at the latest, two months from now.
"You'll have to be ready to leave in six weeks," he said firmly.
The First Spear sloped his shoulders. It was not a gesture of despair; simply one of a man prepared to do whatever work was needed.
"I'm to be First Spear again, then?"
Demansk shook his head. "No. You'll stay out of combat. I need you to oversee the business—and give my daughter the advice and counsel she'll need.
"As far as possible," he added, remembering her headstrong attitude. The First Spear smiled. Clearly enough, he'd heard stories of Helga Demansk's temperament.
"You pick the First Spear," said Demansk. "I've got a different title for you. A new one." He'd given this some thought. "You're a 'Special Attendant' for Verice Demansk.