Fawn jerked and nearly fell out of the tree when the farmwife reached up and rang her bell after all. Two loud clanks and three, repeated: evidently a signal or call, not an alarm, for she was talking all the time in an animated way with the patroller woman. Now that Fawn’s eyes had time to sort them out in their strange garb, she could see three or four more women among the men. A couple of men busied themselves at the well, hauling up the bucket to slosh the water into the wooden trough on the side opposite the bench; others led their horses in turn to drink. A boy loped around the outbuildings in answer to the bell, and the farmwife sent him with several more of the patrollers into the barn. Two of the younger women followed the farmwife into her house, and came out in a while with packets wrapped in cloth—more of the good farm food, obviously. The others emerged from the barn lugging sacks of what Fawn supposed must be grain for their horses.

They all met again by the well, where a brief, vigorous conversation ensued between the farmwife and the gray-haired patroller woman. It ended with a counting over of sacks and packets in return for coins and some small items from the patroller saddlebags that Fawn could not make out, to the apparent satisfaction of both sides. The patrol broke up into small groups to seek shade around the yard and share food.

The patrol leader walked over to Fawn’s tree and sat down cross-legged beside the tall man. “You have the right idea, Dag.”

A grunt. If the man opened his eyes, Fawn could not tell; her leaf-obstructed view was now of two ovals, one smooth and gray, the other ruffled and dark. And a lot of booted leg, stretched out.

“So what did your old friend have to say?” asked the man. His low voice sounded tired, or maybe it was just naturally raspy. “Malice confirmed, or not?”

“Rumors of bandits only, so far, but a lot of disappearances around Glassforge. With no bodies found.”

“Mm.”

“Here, eat.” She handed him something, ham wrapped in bread judging by the enticing aroma that rose to Fawn. The woman lowered her voice. “You feel anything yet?”

“You have better groundsense than I do,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “If you don’t, I surely won’t.”

“Experience, Dag. I’ve been in on maybe nine kills in my life. You’ve done what—fifteen? Twenty?”

“More, but the rest were just little ones. Lucky finds.”

“Lucky ha, and little ones count just the same. They’d have been big ones by the next year.” She took a bite of her own food, chewed, and sighed. “The children are excited.”

“Noticed. They’re going to start setting each other off if they get wound up much tighter.”

A snort, presumably of agreement.