Invarr’s new warehouse was on the east side of the city, within sight of the Fox Company camp, and Arvid wondered that he had never noticed it. “The important thing is that the stones are all laid level and set square—no leaning or it’ll fall,” Regar said.

Arvid had never paid attention to building construction. Now he asked what “square” meant, and for the rest of the afternoon, as he worked until he thought he would fall over, Regar explained far more than he really wanted to know. Arvid didn’t hear all of it, as out of breath as he often was, but Regar seemed tireless … and very happy to have a new ear to bend.

Arvid hoped tomorrow’s assignments from Arcolin would be something easy, but he suspected he’d have to make another trip out to get meat or livestock. At least tonight wasn’t a drill night.

Arcolin called him in when he got to the camp, and Regar came along. “Garralt told me about yesterday. I think you’re right that this is related to what happened in Vonja. I’ve reported it to the Foss Council judicary, and they’re taking it up. You’ll be needed as a witness. In the meantime, I’m sending a patrol with you to pick up livestock west of town tomorrow. It’s a vill called Sweetcreek.”

“I know them,” Regar said. “I have an uncle there.”

“Good,” Arcolin said. “Then maybe we won’t have any more problems.” He looked more closely at Arvid. “Are you all right? You look—”

“Tired,” Arvid said. “I’m just tired. I’m finding out how heavy stone is.”

Dattur, who had been sitting silent across the tent, head bent over some sewing, looked up with a grin. “Good stone?”

Regar turned and stared. “It’s a … a dwarf boy?”

Dattur scowled. “Not dwarf. Kapristi. What you call gnome.”

“But—”

“Dattur is helping me,” Arcolin said. “He is of the same tribe as those who live near me in the north.”

“Is that why he’s wearing … colors?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said before Dattur could answer. And to Dattur he said, “Regar is a mason here, building a warehouse for a merchant in town.”

“Arvid helps him?” Dattur said, brow furrowed.

“The Marshal commanded it,” Arvid said. “Every other day.”

“You displeased Marshal?”

“Er … yes,” Arvid said.

“If you’ll take my advice,” Arcolin said, “ask our surgeon to clean out those gashes for you.”

All Arvid wanted was to fall into bed, but he made his way to the surgeon’s tent, empty but for one pallet at the end where someone, the surgeon muttered, had been stupid enough to drink water from a ditch instead of a running stream and now suffered the consequences. He looked at Arvid’s hands, prodded his back muscles, and by the time he was finished, Arvid felt slightly better, though the interim had been unpleasant.