“No,” Arvid said. “We’d hear talking. And the muleteer never ate here or left the mules.” He put off his cloak and drew his sword. The Marshal stared at him but did the same. Arvid motioned for silence, then pointed at the wall. The Marshal’s brows rose, but he said nothing as Arvid hoisted himself to the wall just high enough to see over. Regar, his wife, and several workmen lay gagged and bound; one of his other workmen was dead. Five men stood over them, silent for the moment. Arvid recognized two of them from the Guild in Valdaire; one had been on guard at the entrance when he’d carried his son out of the Guildhouse. He slid back down to the ground and motioned the Marshal away—out of earshot, he hoped.

He murmured an explanation to the Marshal and told him to get help. “At least a dozen. They’re very good with techniques your people don’t know.”

“And you?”

“I’ll distract them. Be quick.”

The unattended mule team was his best chance. They had brought a mule team for a purpose—probably to take their prisoners out of town unnoticed—so they would react to the team’s movement. On the other hand, they might kill their prisoners before chasing after him—a chance he’d have to take. He picked up his cloak again, bundled it under one arm, and strolled down the lane and past the wagon.

Two of the mules swung an ear toward him; he saw that the first pair were hobbled. A quick slash of his dagger took care of that. Neither mules nor wagon bore a Guild mark; they’d been stolen, probably here in Ifoss. Arvid plucked the whip left coiled under the wagon seat and spoke in a whining country dialect: “What i’ Gird’s name ye’re doin’ here, y’rascals! Who took yeh? ’F it’s that Regar, I’ll have t’judicars on ’im!” Then he cracked the whip over the mules’ backs; they squealed and lunged into motion, the wagon rattling behind them. Another crack of the whip, and they broke into a fast trot. Arvid flattened himself against the wall and shrugged quickly into his cloak, slipping his arm into the leather bracer he’d installed there. He took his serrated throwing disk into his left hand.

Curses from inside and hurrying footsteps. By now the mules and wagon were three or four wagon lengths down the lane, and the mules seemed perfectly happy to keep going. Ahead, the lane sloped gently down to a stream. They picked up speed.