“If the poison wasn’t strong enough. If he can walk fast enough to keep up with us.” He hoped it would. They would not easily find a replacement in southern Cortes Vonja; it wasn’t good horse country. He dismounted and went to look at their prisoner. The man was staring straight ahead, ignoring everything or pretending to.

“I’m sure you recognize the uniform,” Arcolin said. “That scar on your face is at least three years old; you would have seen us before.”

No response, not the flicker of an eyelid.

“Some men prefer death to life, and that’s a choice any man can make,” Arcolin said. “You will shortly have that choice. You can tell me one of three things: who your leader is, where your leader is, or who hired your band. Or you can die. Think about it.”

“Ya’kint make muh,” the man said, without looking at Arcolin.

“I won’t try,” Arcolin said. “But I will see you dead before midday if you don’t.” He turned away.

“I’ll die,” the man said.

“Your choice,” Arcolin said over his shoulder.

“Better you than them,” the man said, more softly.

“Them?” Arcolin said, turning back.

The man spat toward the left. “You been here before—you figure it out. How you do it?”

“Kill you? Sword to the neck, how else?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “You do it quick? Even if I don’t tell?”

Arcolin’s memories of the last season in Aarenis rose to choke him. “Yes,” he said.

“You one of them Girdish?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then—go on. Do it now. I got nothing to think about and nothing to live for.”

Arcolin looked at him a long moment, but the man stared past him, unresponsive again. He drew his sword, aware of many watching eyes—the veterans of the last trip to the south in particular.

“This man has chosen to die,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “He wants a quick death, and I have promised it. Gird’s grace on him, Tir’s honor for his courage, and the High Lord forgive what he has done and tried to do.” He stepped to one side; the man continued to stare ahead. One swing of his sword and it was done; blood spurted and the man’s head fell forward. “I’m sorry,” Arcolin said softly to the man’s departing spirit.

“What should we do with him, sir?” Stammel asked.

“Bury him,” Arcolin said. “Let his fellows find that we gave him that much honor.”

“Very good, sir.”

The soil was deep and soft; it didn’t take long to dig a grave, and they rolled him into it and covered it over before the others returned. The injured horse plodded along, barely at a foot-pace. “It’s the numbweed,” the surgeon said. “It’ll wear off by sunset. Wasn’t as bad as it looked, barely into the meat. Should heal clean.”

“There was something on the blade,” Arcolin said.

“Worse for men,” the surgeon said. “Would’ve felled you, left you barely moving, easy prey. Horses are bigger; it would take more than you could get on one blade. He’ll be slow today, possibly stumble now and then, no more. Walking will do him good. I’ll look him over again when we stop at noon.”