“You sold them to Count Arcolin,” Arvid said. “And yes, I’m a civilian. He hired me to come here. I’m his agent. This is his wagon.” He pointed to the foxhead insignia painted on the side of the wagon.

“Fox Company no good,” the man said. “He pay too little. Got better price.”

“You signed this contract,” Arvid said.

“Not me. Looks like my cousin Vili’s mark, when he’s drunk.” He guffawed; the men behind him did the same. “And he’s not here,” he added. “No pigs here. No cows here. You go.”

The Thieves’ Guild knew how to handle situations like this. In Arvid’s enforcer days, he could have turned the village upside down for such insolence. But now he was Girdish, and Girdish yeomen did not, he was assured, take out their swords and beat sullen peasants into submission. Exactly why he’d thought less of Girdish all these years. And he had Regar with him, so reverting to his former self, even on such good grounds, would not be good strategy.

“Count Arcolin paid you to hold those animals for him,” Arvid said. “You owe the money now. Give it back.”

“He didn’t come soon enough,” the man said. “He’s not getting a niti back. They kept eating.”

Arvid glanced at Regar. He looked angry, but was he willing to help?

“You are in Foss Council jurisdiction,” Arvid said. “A complaint will be filed with the nearest judicar, and you will be hailed to court. We have the proof that this vill contracted to supply animals, that a deposit was put down. Do you really want to be hailed to court and end up paying a fine?”

The men looked at one another but said nothing. Arvid could feel the tension rising. Six men there before him, and how many others nearby? They didn’t have swords, at least not these six, but what about those he couldn’t see? As he was thinking what best to do, Regar said, “Look out!” and pushed Arvid off the wagon seat. The men on the ground let out a nervous laugh, but the unmistakable sound of an arrow hitting the seat back caught Arvid’s attention. He had rolled off the wagon with the push; Regar was on the wagon floor, behind the dashboard.

“This side, Regar,” he said, hoping the other archers weren’t all around them. Before the villagers had quite recovered—they had not expected that arrow either, he could tell—he had reached the headman, yanked him around, and held him between himself and the direction from which the arrow had come, one of his knives at the man’s throat.

“Call them off,” he said in the man’s ear.

“Got another one,” Regar said. “Can’t lead the horses while holding ’im, though.”