By the time Fox Company reached their destination, just outside Ifoss, Arcolin had heard more rumors from both traders and Foss Council officials. Fear of fever had cut off all travel from downriver through Cortes Cilwan, though rumor had it some traders knew back roads, both north and south of the Guild Road. Travel was up on the difficult western route north from the Immerhoft Sea, starting at the port of Confaer, then upriver to Cha and Sibili and overland to Pliuni. Foss Council, sure Ifoss was their weakest city, the most likely to be infiltrated by spies, asked Arcolin to camp there.

Ifoss lacked a fortified encampment for them to use, so laying out the camp for a full season’s occupation by three cohorts in a flat space outside the city’s east gate meant making a secure perimeter and then arranging everything within it. Nothing new to Arcolin, but Arvid—released now from hiding under canvas in a supply wagon—seemed fascinated by the process. Arcolin had no time to explain everything to him and advised him to stay out of the way.

“You’ll have your own tent, you and Dattur, near mine. We all use the same jacks—that’s over there, where you see them digging a trench. There’ll be two more jacks trenches outside the perimeter.”

“Yes, my lord,” Arvid said.

“You can have a jug in your tent at night, if you need it, but you’ll have to empty it.”

“Do you want me to get anything from the city today?” Arvid asked.

“No. I want to introduce you to the Marshal first. Once the Marshal’s got you on the rolls, you’ll be safer.”

Arvid looked dubious but nodded. Arcolin waved over a sergeant, who led Arvid to one of the tents, and watched as Arvid set his bundle of clothes inside it and came back out.

Once the camp was organized, Arcolin led Arvid through the city to the local grange. Marshal Porfur of Ifoss Grange was a lifelong Fossian who had been to Valdaire only three times in his life. “Too big, too noisy,” he said, looking out the grange door to the drill field and the wooded hills rising beyond. “We had enough noise in Siniava’s War. So, your friend wants to become Girdish?”

Arcolin glanced at Arvid, who wore his merchant’s garb and a glum expression. “Yes,” Arvid said.

Porfur smiled at him. “Come, man, it’s not as bad as all that. The Count tells me you have a letter from the Marshal-General herself. And from a Marshal in Valdaire. If you’re worried about the exchange of blows—”

“Oh, no,” Arvid said. “It’s not that. It’s the Ten Fingers. I get mixed up.”