“There wouldn’t be, if they’re as serious as you say.” The Marshal chewed his lower lip a moment. “Arvid, go up there now. You’re excused from drill tonight. I’ll see your lad safe to the inn after his. If anyone asks on the way, it’s the truth: I gave you an errand to run for me. Here’s a paper—” He scrawled a few words on it, rolled it, slid it into a message tube, and handed it over. “You don’t know what’s in it; you were told to take it up the hill, is all. I’ll come after drill.”

Arvid raised his brows, but the Marshal did not explain further. As Arvid passed through the grange, someone in his drill group asked where he was going. “Up the hill,” he said. “Marshal told me to carry a note.”

At least he had his sword on and his cloak, bless the chill in the air. Striding along, he considered looking at the paper. Surely it was just an excuse—nothing important. But if he was carrying a real message, and it was snatched, he should know—but then, the good yeoman did not pry or sneak. But then, if he had not done a less obvious equivalent of prying and sneaking for the past days, he would not have known there was a conspiracy. As with strength, he told himself, prying and sneaking could be used for good as well as ill, and his intentions were entirely good. And it wasn’t quite dark. He broke stride and turned into a convenient alley.

“Well! Looka what we got here. Fancy boy from t’grange, works for t’Marshal-General.” A dark shadow moved, reaching for him; another raised an arm, holding something that would surely hurt if it hit him.

“Not exactly,” Arvid said. The one trying to yank the message tube out of his heart-hand yelped and staggered back, wrist spurting; the one with the club missed Arvid’s head by three fingers. Arvid spun that one around and smashed him face-first into the alley wall, kicking the other man in the knee as he turned. He slid the message tube into a pocket in his cloak, then let the knife in his sleeve fall into his hand.

The man against the wall lurched backward, trying for room and chance; Arvid thrust the short knife through clothing. The tip grated on mail. “Not so smart,” the man said, turning; he had drawn a long knife or short sword.