“Who carries the messages back and forth?” Arcolin asked. “You? Either of you?”

“I do, sometimes,” the first man said. “There’s more than one of us.”

“One of them comes to meet you somewhere outside the village? Or inside?”

“Outside.”

“And you’re supposed to report after this meeting, aren’t you? They know you’re here.”

“Yes,” the second man said, when the first hesitated.

“Well, then,” Arcolin said. “Tell them we don’t trust you, would not pay you, and intend to stay on the road, not go haring off across the fields like a bunch of novices.”

“Is that true?”

“I’m telling you,” Arcolin said. He gave a covert hand signal, saw it picked up and passed along. In moments, Stammel was just in view at the far side of the fire, but well back. Arcolin stood abruptly, as if out of patience. “Take these two to the perimeter and send them away,” he said to the nearest soldiers. “Tell the sentries I don’t want them lurking around the camp.” He threw out his hand, as if tossing them away, then turned and went into his tent. Would they go back to the village, or would they go to meet the brigand? He trusted that either way one of his own expert scouts could follow without detection.

Burek was still up, copying the day’s notes onto the map. Arcolin looked over his shoulder. The younger man had neat handwriting, the writing of someone who had been schooled early. “I’m almost done,” Burek said.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Arcolin said. “If there’s trouble, it’ll come after the turn of night. One of us must be fresh, and if we’re lucky I’ll have a report coming in within the turn of the glass.”

“Thank you, sir,” Burek said. Another few minutes, and he sat back, fanning the map with his hand to dry the ink. “That’s all, I think.” Arcolin looked again.

“Very good. If I get a report before your watch, I’ll add it myself.”

Burek followed him outside and disappeared in the direction of the jacks; Arcolin began a circuit of the sentry posts. This was their first truly hostile camp, though after the attack on the road, he had insisted on a camp defense even under the walls of Cortes Vonja. Here they’d erected a barrier of bramble and stakes.

Arcolin heard nothing he should not hear—their own animals munching grain in their nosebags, the familiar night sounds of the south—grassfrogs, treefrogs, various insects, a night-bird singing in the distance—were what they should be at this time of year. A light breeze eased across the camp, moving away the smells of men and armor, fire and food, and bringing a hint of cow dung, sheep, and the stronger smell of spring grass and herbs. He greeted each sentry, took a report, and went on to the next. At the sunrising post, opposite the camp entrance, he met Devlin, making a circuit the other way.

“All’s well summer-side, Captain,” Devlin said.