“They’re closer,” Stammel said. Two other villages lay between them and the coast; it was the smoke of the nearer one burning, he thought. “Gather the children; form your groups. You know what to do—” He had told them, argued with them, told them again, all the summer long, all the autumn. Insisted that they find a place, carry supplies up, practice leaving.

“How long—?”

“If you go now, maybe long enough.” Stammel set down the yoke with its buckets, turned, and went back to the shop. He could hear Cadlin inside, the clink of his tools as he picked them up and packed them into a leather bag.

“It’s now, then,” Cadlin said. Not a question.

“Yes,” Stammel said. He felt his way past the shaving horse almost as quickly as if he could see and reached up to take the crossbow off its peg. He reached again for the sack of bolts and met the sack coming down in Cadlin’s hand.

“You should come with us,” Cadlin said, his warm, callused hand on Stammel’s shoulder. “You are a better leader than anyone else.”

“We have one bow,” Stammel said. “And one archer. And you are a better leader than you know. Tell them what they know to do, and keep them moving.”

“There’s always a chance pirates won’t come this far,” Cadlin said.

“If they don’t, I’ll climb up and tell you it’s safe,” Stammel said. They both knew better. Cadlin hesitated, his feet shuffling on the floor. “Go now,” Stammel said, putting all those years of command into his voice. “They need you.”

“Gods keep you, Matthis,” Cadlin said, and was gone out the door. Stammel waited out of sight, listening to him organizing the villagers—it was taking too long, so much longer than a disciplined troop of soldiers … but the climb up from the sea grew steeper and should slow the enemy down. They would stop to eat and drink; they would stop to loot and rape.

He stroked the crossbow, checked that he had a second string curled into the sack of bolts, counted the bolts—Cadlin had made him more than he remembered. And all the while the bustle and scurry and noise of the villagers gathering what they could carry, dropping things, children beginning to cry, women scolding, men barking gruff orders, the baaing of goats and sheep, the grunting of pigs … anyone would know there was a roused village up ahead.

When they were gone—not quite out of hearing on their way up to the caves—he hung the sack of bolts over his shoulder, took his own supplies—oil, water, bread, cheese—and walked out into the village street, in and out of houses, to be sure no child was hiding under a bed, no one forgotten. The wind brought a stronger smell of smoke but as yet no sound.