“And you’re in a hurry. Let me have m’wife fix you a stuffed roll for the ride, if you won’t sit down to eat.”

“I can’t stay, but I’d thank you for a roll … anything …”

In a few minutes, Arcolin was mounted again; he set his horse’s nose to the west breeze and eyed the rising dark cloud there with apprehension. His horse was willing now to canter quietly; Arcolin unwrapped the stuffed roll—hot fried ham, onions, and chopped winter greens—and took a bite. Lucky mayor, he thought as he finished, to have such a cook in the household. A second roll nestled in his tunic, in case of need.

The ride to Duke’s West took most of the afternoon as the cold breeze stiffened and the cloud rose higher, soaking up all the light. Before he arrived, he saw the glow of light through windows brighter than the day outside. A sentry called challenge; Arcolin halted his horse.

“Captain Arcolin of the stronghold to speak to the mayor,” he said. He dismounted, stiffer from the cold than he’d expected. “It’s gone dark early this evening.”

“Storm coming, Captain. Sorry to question you—”

“No, that’s right, after the mess we had before. But I need to speak to the mayor; we’ve had word from the Duke.”

“I can take your horse, Captain. We’ll find a place out of this wind. You’re staying the night—”

“No, I mustn’t.” Now others had come out in the cold, windy near-dark, some with torches, and Duke’s West’s mayor, Alwyn Foretson, hurried over. Younger than Mayor Fontaine, he’d lost a hand on campaign.

“What’s wrong, Captain? Attack?”

“No, not that. Word from the Duke. If we could go to your house—”

“Of course.” Foretson led the way. Duke’s West, newer than Duke’s East, was a little smaller, but the mayor’s house was just as comfortable. Rich cooking smells permeated the front rooms. “You’ll eat with us,” Foretson said, as if there were no doubt.

“Gladly,” Arcolin said. “Do we have time to get the business over with?”

“Yes. I told Melyin to hold the dumplings when I left the house and that’s another half-glass.”

“Good. You should read this—it came from the Duke by courier this morning and I know nothing more.”

Foretson raised an eyebrow, took the message, and went into the passage, coming back with a four-stick candleholder. “She put the dumplings in and she’s keeping the children in the kitchen. Let’s see now—” His brows went up his forehead as he read. Arcolin walked about, stretching after the ride. The room had a fireplace, but no fire had been laid; a blanket covered the opening. He grimaced; the stronghold had asked the villages for more wood only the week before. Foretson looked up at last. “King?”

“So it says,” Arcolin said.

“I served under the man fifteen years until I lost my hand. I didn’t know he was royal bred.” Foretson sounded as if that were a personal insult.

“Nor I,” said Arcolin, who had been with the Duke longer, as they both knew.