“Before,” Arcolin said, “you had wanted Siniava dead.”

“So I did,” Maenthar said. “He was a bad man and his raids threatened us. But now—there are many bad men, all with swords and torches. More bad men with swords than good ones, is what I see. And no peace to grow the grain, but the taxes still go up.”

“We were hired to put down brigands,” Arcolin said. “The ones that rob you and spoil the grain.”

“It does not matter whose boots trample the grain,” Maenthar said, in the same hard voice. “The grain gives no harvest, whoever marches across it. We nearly starved, in the great war, and we are still hungry. If you tell Cortes Vonja what I say, they will arrest me and have me torn in the square. And I no longer care.”

Pity filled Arcolin’s heart. He remembered Maenthar’s open, smiling face from before, his wife who made such good sweetcakes and sold them on market day, his daughter who had peered at the troops from the window of their house until her mother pulled her back inside.

“I have no reason to tell Cortes Vonja,” he said. “I only wanted to assure you that we would do your village no harm; we but march through, and perhaps, by ridding you of brigands, we can ease your burdens.”

“Bring back my wife and children from the grave,” Maenthar said. “I would have no burdens a man could not bear, if they lived again.” He looked away a long moment; Arcolin waited. Then he said, “I apologize, Captain. It is not all your fault, but you are the first I could tell. In the city, they threatened me with a trial for treason because I cried out when they told me my two sons in their army were dead. It was too much, to come back and find the others dead as well, and a hand and half more from the village.”

“It is too much,” Arcolin said. He did not try to stop the tears that flowed. Let the man see he was genuinely moved.

Maenthar was crying too, now. “I tried. I held the village together as best I could—I thought it was over—but then they came from the city and told us we were lazy scum, for sending less grain. I told them we had fewer workers and they said—those men in velvet and fur, with gold chains at their neck—they said work harder.”

“Maenthar—” Arcolin put out his hand again, and this time Maenthar gave his freely. “It is hard,” Arcolin said, remembering the loss of most of his cohort at Dwarfwatch. “I am sorry, that is all I can say.”

“I believe you,” Maenthar said. He ducked his head, swiped at his face. “I will bear you no ill will, I swear it.”

“Nor I you,” Arcolin said. “If sharing your anger with me eased your heart, I am glad.”

“The brigands have not bothered me much here,” Maenthar said, this time softly. “They have come through, telling us not to see them, and they’ve stolen a hen or two, and loaves Casra had set on the windowsill to cool, but they stayed on the road.”