Ah. The last mud-men these folk had encountered had still been bound by the will of their maker, intelligent and lethal. Not like this forsaken, sick, confused animal trapped in its awkward body. Dag didn’t feel any overwhelming need to correct the farm men’s misperceptions of his daring. Safer if they remained cautious of the mud-men anyway. His lips curled up in grim amusement, but he said only, “It’s my job. You can have the burying of it, though.” The farm men gathered around the corpse, poking it at tool-handle distance. Dag strolled past them toward the house, not looking back.

Most of the animals had collected in the upper end of the pasture, away from the disturbing intruder. The bay mare raised her head and snuffled at him as he approached. He paused, wiped his knife dry on her warm side, sheathed it, and scratched her poll, which made her flop her ears sideways, droop her lip, and sigh contentedly. The farmwife’s tart suggestion of last night that he take the mare and ride off surfaced in his memory. Tempting idea.

Yes. But not alone.

He climbed the fence, crossed the yard, and made his way up onto the porch. Fawn gazed up at him with nearly as worshipful an expression as Tad, only with keener understanding. The farmwife had her arms crossed, torn between gratitude and glowering.

Dag was suddenly mortally tired of mistrustful strangers. He missed his patrol, for all their irritations. He almost missed the irritations, in their comfortable familiarity.

“Hey, Little Spark. I was going to wait for the wagon and take you to Glassforge lying flat, but I got to thinking. We might double up and ride out the way we came in the other day, and you wouldn’t be jostled around any worse.”

Her face lit. “Better, I should think. That lane would rattle your teeth, in a wagon.”

“Even taking it slowly and carefully, we could reach town in about three hours’ time. If you think it wouldn’t overtire you?”

“Leave now, you mean? I’ll pack my bedroll. It’ll only take a moment!” She twirled about.

“Put my arm harness in it, will you? Along with the other things.” Arm harness, knife pouch, and the linen bag of shattered bone and dreams—everything else that he’d arrived in, he was wearing; everything he’d borrowed was put back.

She paused, lips pursing as if following the same inventory, then nodded vigorously. “Right.”

“Don’t bounce. Don’t scamper, either. Gently!” he called after her. The kitchen door shut on her trailing laugh.

He turned to find Petti giving him a measuring look. He raised his brows back at her.

She shrugged, and said on a sigh, “Not my business, I suppose.”

He bit back rude agreement, converting the impulse to a more polite nod, and turned to collect the mare.