Cam rode off at a hand gallop. Before they had covered half the distance—slower, now that it was dark—they saw torches approaching. Andressat’s second son came with the party that met them.

“Sir, I was about ready to set out in search for you, though you had told us not to—I had no idea—”

“Nor I, Meddthal. I have traveled far indeed—but here we have a man injured—this is Burek, a captain in Phelan’s Company.”

“Burek—” Meddthal said; in the torchlight his expression was hard to read.

“Indeed,” Andressat said. “And the reason I am alive to greet you. Is there a surgeon at the fort?”

“Yes—” Meddthal glanced again at Burek. “Captain, can you ride another glass, or—”

“I can ride,” Burek said. “But not fast.”

That night Andressat watched by Burek’s bed. The surgeon had given him numbwine enough to put him to sleep, then unwrapped Andressat’s splints and shook his head over the arm.

“It is not the broken bones—you know this yourself, my lord Count. It is the damage to muscle and sinew. And I understand you had no herbs, not there in the open.”

Dark-bruised and twice its normal size, the arm looked grotesquely like that of a sun-swollen corpse. Andressat repressed a shudder. He had sent the lad away in anger … and now the man might lose his arm. “What can you do?”

“I gave him an infusion of cooling herbs with the numbwine; as you know, that is specific for wound swelling and also wound fever, but that was only a half-glass ago. I am cooling a paste of ganteh and lurz in tallow. If the swelling goes down, we may be able to save the arm. If not—”

“We must save it,” Andressat said, surprised at the tone of his own voice. “I must talk with my son.”

In the other room, Meddthal had a hot meal laid out. “Sir, isn’t that the—”

“Yes,” Andressat said. He sat down heavily. His sons knew he’d not liked Aesil M’dierra’s junior officer, but not why.

“I thought he was with Golden Company.”

“M’dierra sent him away. On my account, I learned.” He swallowed a spoonful of hot spiced soup, then another. Meddthal dipped a slice of bread in oil, sprinkled it with salt, and nibbled on it as he waited. “So then he went to Phelan’s Company—which isn’t Phelan’s anymore; it belongs to his former senior captain, Arcolin. Count Arcolin, now.”

“Northern title …” Meddthal muttered.

“Don’t, Medd,” Andressat said. “But by the humor of the gods—and in this I can see the hand only of the Trickster—it was Burek who undertook to see me safe home, and Burek who saved my life.” He drank more of the soup and sopped bread in the dregs. “I have many things to tell you all, but I am very tired. I was wrong about Captain Burek, though … wrong from the first …” He shook his head.

“Father—sir—”

“Not now. I must rest, but make sure he is not left alone, and wake me if there’s a crisis.”