“From Horngard? Unlikely.” Not even Siniava had attacked Horngard, though he had taken Pliuni and threatened that mountain kingdom. “I’ll see him,” he said. “Bring him here.”

“Leave his weapons outside the gate, sir, or outside the command area?”

“Let him retain them.”

Burek gave him a startled glance, then turned and went back out. Arcolin grimaced, then went to the back of the tent, to his private room, and opened the little casket he had bought for his few treasures when he left Halveric Company to become Kieri Phelan’s first captain. Gold gleamed in the light that came through the tent canvas: a heavy torc, a wide bracelet, earrings. He opened a small leather bag and shook a ring into his palm. Gold like the others, but with a dragon’s head on one side. Arcolin put it on, just in case, but turned the dragon’s head inward, also just in case. It could not be, but … just in case. He left the earrings, the torc, and the bracelet in the casket, then pulled out his dagger and stared at it a moment. His father’s parting gift, it bore the family crest on the hilt, hidden under the thick leather wrapping he’d put over it.

Kieri had understood family troubles, estrangement, a flight in the night. He had never asked more than that. Arcolin felt sure Kieri had known there was more than that, but in all the years he’d never asked. “Somewhere in the Westmounts,” he’d told Kieri, as he’d told Aliam Halveric, and that was true. “Some little place you’ve never heard of,” he’d told Kieri, which was not true. His heart had twisted when he’d said that. It twisted now. It was hard to remember why he’d lied.

What to do. He must see the fellow, hear what he had to say. But he was Count of the North Marches now, a vassal of Tsaia’s king, prince of a tribe of gnomes, and—not least—commander of Fox Company under contract to Foss Council.

Whatever the problem was, it could not be his problem.

He looked around his sleeping chamber again, pushing the casket a little more under his bed, and then went back to the front room of the tent.

“Captain,” Burek said from outside.

Arcolin squared his shoulders and came out. A travel-stained man in a kilt, a square-necked shirt, a wide belt, and low boots stood slightly behind Burek. He had the mountain face: long and bony, a prominent nose, a wide mouth now firmly closed. His hair—dark and streaked with gray—hung in a long braid over one shoulder; his gray eyes roamed over Arcolin as if looking for a sign and paused on his hands, but the plain gold band told nothing unless he could see through the finger. The Fox Company seal on the next finger told more. Arcolin did not recognize him.