"Yes," said Ambros. "At the keep, with Sir Felis." He looked aside. "We'll need clean cloths, and water—it's too bad the Marshal is gone."

"That's what they counted on, no doubt," said the driver. Paks, meanwhile, had unwrapped the rag he had bound to his head; underneath was an ugly gash. She thought it looked bone-deep.

"It's no wonder they thought you dead with that head wound," she commented. "What's your name?"

"Jeris, lady. Jeris Angarn, of Dapplevale in Lyonya. Do you know it?"

"No. Be steady, now." Paks helped Ambros uncover the man's other injuries—mostly bruises but for two shallow gashes in side and back. "You're lucky, Jeris. They could easily have killed you."

"I know it." He shifted uneasily as they began to clean the wounds. "It—ouch!—sorry. If that mule hadn't bucked, they might have got me sure; they had horses. I don't deserve it, that's the truth, but that's luck. It comes as Simyits pleases—"

"You think Simyits has more power than the High Lord?" asked Ambros. "Is that what you learned in Lyonya?"

"Oh, sir—in Lyonya, I was a boy, and had a boy's faith. But I've been on the roads near twenty years, now, and I've seen good luck and bad come to all. As for the High Lord, he made the whole world, so I hear, if it wasn't Sertig instead, but what does he have to do with a mule driver? The good men, you might say, died today—they that was brave, and tried to fight. And here I am, alive a bit longer, and able to give you word, because a mule bucked me off on my hard head. Does the High Lord extend his power to make a mule buck?"

Paks stifled a laugh. She had heard of Simyits only as the thieves' god, and the gambler's patron, but the muleteer seemed honest if not brave. Ambros, however, was sober, and crouched down to meet the man's eyes.

"If the High Lord wanted your mule to buck, Jeris, be sure he could do it. But there is one more near us than that—Gird Strongarm, a man once, like you. He had a hard head himself, and it's said he knows how to convince another. I would not call it luck alone, if I found myself alive, when my companions were all dead—and a mule nearby to ride on, despite the blood-smell. Does your mule love you so, to buck you off, escape capture, and then return for you?"

Jeris's face furrowed as he tried to think. "Well—now—I see what you mean. To be honest, I wouldn't have thought that donkey-spawn would stay near new dead like that. But why would Gird, if he wanted me alive, dump me on my head first? Why not save the whole caravan and set fire to the brigands?"