“The bounty for the four brigands killed so far goes to the travelers,” Arcolin said.

“Understood,” the caravan master said. He turned and jogged toward the front of the caravan, now three wagons ahead.

With the guards, Arcolin crossed the ditch again, this time on foot; his horse made no difficulty, hopping the deepest muck at the bottom and scrambling up the bank in two heaves of its hindquarters. It was dry again, breathing normally.

“These men will stand guard with you until a cart comes for her,” he said, nodding to the woman. “I must go now.”

“Gird’s grace go with you,” they all said in a ragged chorus. Arcolin mounted and turned his horse eastward again, letting the horse roll into a strong canter.

He caught up with the cohort at last, to the obvious relief of his new young captain; by then his mount was willing to walk quietly along as he explained what had happened. He did not mention leaving his helmet off; that story would be all over the cohort as soon as Devlin returned, he was sure.

The rest of the march to Cortes Vonja was uneventful as they followed the familiar trade road to Fossnir and Foss, then the river branch that led down the Immerest to Vonja and Silwan. The eve of the Spring Evener found them near enough Fossnir to see the bonfires on the city towers; Arcolin wondered where his old companions were. He imagined Kieri presiding over a formal celebration—blooding a ploughshare, perhaps, or a spade—and then lighting the ceremonial fire. If elves did that sort of thing. Dorrin, he was sure, would have a bonfire. As captain of the cohort, he cut his hand and blooded his own blade, then touched it to the others’. The next morning, the sun rose indecently early—with the others he had stayed up singing most of the night—and they went on.

Burek, though much younger, had all the qualities Aesil M’dierra had claimed, and Arcolin saw nothing in his manner that should have set off even the prickly Count of Andressat. Burek’s speech and behavior were both mannerly, respectful of all, without indicating any weakness. His sergeants liked him; Stammel, usually noncommittal about new officers, sought Arcolin out to commend the choice.

When they reached Cortes Vonja, the city militia commander, a man Arcolin remembered vaguely from the last year of the war against Siniava, explained why the militia needed help.

“It’s not like it was before,” he said. “No more campaigns of city against city, each one knowing why and when. Now it’s wandering troops, no allegiance but to themselves, some with a grudge against a city, and some without, but all hungry. Trade’s down—I’m sure you know that from over the mountains—and caravaners expect cities to patrol the trade roads and keep the brigands off ’em. There’ve even been attacks between here and Valdaire, if you can believe it.”

“I can,” Arcolin said. “I was in one. Brigands attacked a party of foot travelers in broad daylight, right beside the trade road, still in Valdaire’s outbounds.”