Next morning, Gwenno Marrakai headed east with her fifteen, under orders to patrol as far as the Lyonyan border, if possible, and then return. On the fifth day, Dorrin sent Dar Serrostin west. Beclan Mahieran, predictably, grumbled about being the last to leave on patrol.

“Why?” he asked.

Dorrin gave him her best quelling look. “The short answer is, because I ordered it. The longer answer—which you would have had without asking if you’d been patient—is that I wanted you for the south sector, which I consider the most difficult. You’ll be going as far as Konhalt lands; as you know, they’re also under attainder, and have a new count they don’t know. It would not surprise me to find rebels lurking in the woods down there. You will have two full tensquads, not just three hands of troops, and you have been given an extra ten days to work with them, to come to know them, before you leave.”

He looked abashed, as well he might. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think—”

“Not thinking can get you killed,” Dorrin said. “Put in this time with your troops—convince them you care about them, and expect them to perform well. Think about the possibilities, all along the way: where ambushes might be placed, where allies might be found.”

“Yes, my lord,” Beclan said. Dorrin could tell from his expression that he was thinking—and he had a good tactical mind, she’d learned, when he chose to use it for the right reasons.

Lyonya

Kieri had just finished breakfast when he heard voices in the entrance, louder than usual. One of his Squires looked out.

“Sir King, it’s a courier.”

“If you please,” Kieri said to his breakfast companions, and they cleared the room at once as the courier hurried in. To the courier, Kieri said, “You are fatigued; will you have breakfast?”

“No, Sir King; the news is too urgent. I come from the Royal Archers, near the river.”

“Invasion?”

“Not exactly …” The man handed him a scroll; Kieri broke the seal and unrolled it.

“You might as well have a hot drink while I read,” Kieri said. “There’s sib in the pot.” He scanned the terse report. Someone had come across the river at night; a Royal Archers’ patrol had taken him in custody. Though dressed like a fisherman, he claimed to be the king of Pargun. He had no proof of his claim; he might be crazy, the Royal Archer officer had written, but he carried himself like one used to command.

“Did you see the man?” Kieri asked the courier.

The man swallowed hastily. “Yes, Sir King. But I have never seen the king of Pargun, so I cannot say—”

“He swam, or came in a boat?”

“A boat.”

It made no sense. Why would the king of Pargun—if it was he—sneak across the river at night? To spy? He must have spies; he would not need to spy himself. If he wanted to visit Lyonya—see his daughter, perhaps?—why not come openly, with an entourage?