Arcolin woke to the smell of cooking; torches lit the center of the camp. Someone had lit the candle on his desk; it had burned down a finger-mark. Rain still fell, the persistent soaking rain he remembered. Burek stirred; Arcolin considered letting him sleep another half-glass, but already the younger man’s eyes were opening. “Sir?”

“It’s dark, and supper’s almost ready. I’m going out; come when you’re ready.”

The sentry posts, unlighted and placed so the sentries would not be silhouetted against the central fire, had just been relieved. Arcolin spoke briefly with each sentry, low-voiced in case someone had crept close in the wet darkness to listen. They would be stiffening if they had; he himself had spent more than one wet night creeping up on someone else’s sentries, and it was a cold, miserable job. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out the outer perimeter.

Coming back to the fire, he noted light glowing from the tent that would—if anyone had been injured—have been the sick tent, and a shadow within, bending down. So Stammel had already thought of that—no real surprise. He found Burek at the fire with the last of the soldiers.

“Do we eat here in the rain, sir?”

“No. In the tent, as the others are—they just aren’t lighting all the tents. It’s standard with us. The darker it is, the harder for the brigands to keep track of time.”

Burek nodded; they carried their supper back to Arcolin’s tent and ate by candlelight. The glass emptied before they were through; Arcolin turned it and marked the turn in the log. Burek took the dishes back to the fire. Arcolin went outside again to regain his night vision. Stammel had gathered a few men near the fire to sing for a while.

It was two turns of the glass, and the singing had dwindled to nothing, when the first warning came, a rhythmic tap on the tent. Burek looked up; Arcolin nodded, and snuffed the candle. In moments, their eyes adjusted. Over the way, the “sick tent” still glowed faintly with the candle inside it. Arcolin had planned for attack from either the stream side—which offered attackers the best cover on approach—or the road side, which offered attackers better ground position. “Or both,” he’d told Burek and Stammel. “It’ll tell us something about their training.” True brigands, in his experience, were more likely to come up from the stream—easier navigating from their usual route of travel. Trained troops able to navigate in the dark would cross upstream of them and take the road itself … a longer march, and technically difficult, but they would not be attacking uphill. A clever commander might try both. Rain and a little wind would cover the sound of either. The rain drummed lightly on the tents, made its hissing and pattering sounds on the grass and trees. It should cover the sounds of their movements from the attackers just as well.

A stifled yelp came from the downhill slope … someone had staked himself, Arcolin thought with satisfaction. Unless it was meant to lower their guard, direct their attention to the stream side of camp. He moved to the road side, peered into the wet dark. A veteran grabbed his arm, fingers working in the Company finger-talk. Someone at the inner barricade had heard noise on the road.