“I’m not sure. He’s quieter than I’d expect.” Arcolin looked the horse over. No other injuries. Sweaty, but they’d galloped and the day was increasingly hot and humid. The horse blew into his hand; Arcolin sniffed. “What’s he like? You’ve had him long enough now.”

“Solid, I’d say. Sound, well trained. Not as spirited as yours. By his teeth, two years older than the seller told me; I got a nata knocked off his price for that.”

“We’ll hope it’s just a quiet disposition,” Arcolin said. Blood dripped freely from the wound; horses always bled a lot, in his experience, and could lose much more blood than a man before falling over.

Devlin arrived with the tensquad; in moments they had the prisoner yanked upright, the cloak off his head, and trussed. Arcolin warned them about the blade, and they left it for him to examine. Burek came over to his horse. “It’s bad …”

“The surgeons can sew it up, if he’s as quiet as you say. You’ll have to ride your spare.” Arcolin gave the reins of both horses to Burek and went to look at the blade. Like the other, it had no guard but a simple flange; the grip was less ornate, made of wood carved into ribs. The blade was smeared with horse blood; Arcolin sniffed. Under the smell of blood was the odor of something else. He picked the blade up by its grip, and handed it to Devlin. “It’s got something on it, probably a contact poison. Wrap it up and bring it along.”

The prisoner meanwhile had said nothing, made no attempt to escape. Arcolin looked at him, and was reminded of the men in Alured the Black’s camp. Darkly sunmarked, as expressionless as a carving, no fear in his eyes, he might have been standing sentry somewhere instead of being bound in hostile hands. He had an old scar on his face, and doubtless more elsewhere on his body. Arcolin looked him up and down. No change in expression at all.

“Get him back to the road,” he said. “Send the surgeon.” Then he turned to Burek. “How’s he doing?”

“Bleeding’s slowed,” Burek said.

“We don’t want to be here too long,” Arcolin said. “I’ll leave the scout and five with you. I need to go see our prisoner.” He mounted. “Hand up your saddle; I’ll see someone saddles your spare and brings it out to you.” He went back to the road in an arc, checking the road ahead of the cohort for anything suspicious. The flanking scout on the far side waved a clear, and Arcolin rode back down toward the cohort. Stammel, as he expected, had set up a temporary perimeter, wagons in the middle.

“Prisoner’s tied to a wagon wheel,” he said. Arcolin handed down Burek’s saddle.

“He’ll need his other mount,” he said.

“Will the horse make it?” Stammel pointed to one of the men, who took the saddle and went to get Burek’s spare from those tied to the last wagon.