“ ’Course,” one of them said. He took the coins and set off; the other three walked with Arvid and Regar to the camp and gave the countersign at the sentry for them.

“You live in the camp?” Regar murmured.

“It’s easier,” Arvid said. “I have a tent. We go this way, to Count Arcolin—he’s the commander. He has the big tent.”

Arcolin was not best pleased to find his protégé in trouble at the grange, but after a glance at Regar he gave permission for the two of them to share Arvid’s tent. “I’ll have Dattur bring you a pallet for him,” he said. “And what about mess? Will you need something—?”

“One of yours went to the Mule and will bring back food for tonight,” Arvid said.

“Good. Tomorrow you’ll need to take a wagon over to Garmead and fetch those hogs we ordered.”

Regar ate his meal in silence; Arvid could not tell from the way he ate whether it was better or worse than the food his wife prepared at home. For himself, he found the Mule’s cooking merely acceptable. After the meal, Arvid showed him where the jacks was and then took him back to the tent they would now share, leaving Regar there while he fetched a yoke and buckets of water for bathing.

Regar did indeed snore, great snorting, gurgling snores. Arvid was sure he himself did not, and he finally stopped his ears with wads of the wool he kept for oiling his blades.

The camp was up by dawn, as usual, and Arvid woke reluctantly. Regar still snored. Arvid stared across the still-dark tent at the vague shape on what had been his bed and wondered how he was going to survive the next ten days.

After breakfast, he hitched a team to one of the Company supply wagons and put coils of rope in the wagon bed. Regar helped, his expression showing he hadn’t expected Arvid to know how. He and Regar climbed to the seat. Regar said nothing during the trip. By midmorning, they arrived at Garmead, where Arcolin had contracted for the future delivery of four hands of young hogs and two of cattle.

Arvid knew at once something was wrong. He saw no animals penned in the village square, only a group of men, all looking tense and unfriendly. The village headman, glowering, said, “What do you want?”

Arvid showed him the paper with Arcolin’s seal on it, countersigned by someone in this village. “You’re holding livestock for Count Arcolin of Fox Company; I’ve come to take them and make final payment.”

“No.”

“No?”

The man spat too close to Arvid’s boots for courtesy. “No stock for sale here. Sold ’em all. And anyway, you’re not Fox Company. No uniform.”