The raspy voice grew suddenly urgent. “If we do find the malice’s lair, put the youngsters to the back.”

“Can’t. They need the experience, just as we did.”

A mutter: “Some experiences no one needs.”

The woman ignored this, and said, “I thought I’d pair Saun with you.”

“Spare me. Unless I’m pulling camp guard duty. Again.”

“Not this time. The Glassforge folk are offering a passel of men to help.”

“Ah, spare us all. Clumsy farmers, worse than the children.”

“It’s their folk being lost. They’ve a right.”

“Doubt they could even take out real bandits.” He added after a moment, “Or they would have by now.” And after another, “If they are real bandits.”

“Thought I’d stick the Glassforgers with holding the horses, mostly. If it is a malice, and if it’s grown as big as Chato fears, we’ll need every pair of our hands to the front.”

A short silence. “Poor word choice, Mari.”

“Bucket’s over there. Soak your head, Dag. You know what I meant.”

The right hand waved. “Yeah, yeah.”

With an oof, the woman rose to her feet. “Eat. That’s an order, if you like.”

“I’m not nervy.”

“No”—the woman sighed—“no, you are not that.” She strode off.

The man settled back again. Go away, you, Fawn thought down at him resentfully. I have to pee.

But in a few minutes, just before she was driven by her body’s needs into entirely unwelcome bravery, the man got up and wandered after the patrol leader. His steps were unhurried but long, and he was across the yard before the leader gave a vague wave of her hand and a side glance. Fawn could not see how it could be an order, yet somehow, everyone in the patrol was suddenly up and in motion, saddlebags repacked, girths tightened. The whole lot of them were mounted and on their way in five minutes.

Fawn slipped down the tree trunk and peered around it. The one-handed man—riding rear guard?—was looking back over his shoulder. She ducked out of sight again till the hoofbeats faded, then unclutched the apple tree and went to seek the farmwife. Her pack, she was relieved to see in passing, lay untouched on the bench.

Dag glanced back, wondering anew about the little farm girl who’d been hiding shyly up the apple tree. There, now—down she slid, but he still gained no clear look at her. Not that a few leaves and branches could hide a life-spark so bright from his groundsense at that range.