“They may move some of their force away, but they’ll need to keep an eye on us,” Arcolin said. “What I would worry about, given their use of poison so far, is whether they have the means to poison the water. We hurt them; that makes some men hot for revenge.” They had come to the camp entrance by then. Arcolin dismounted and led his horse to the horse lines. Burek followed, handed the roan to one of the grooms then went to see his other mount. It whuffled at him and he leaned to check the gash on its chest then breathed into its nostrils.

“So we move?” Burek asked on the way back to their tent.

“Yes,” Arcolin said. “After the promotion assembly.”

The newly promoted privates fairly glowed with pride—they were the ones actually engaged against the enemy—and the remaining recruits looked ready to attack any number of troops if only they could earn promotion. Arcolin glanced back as he led the cohort away from the camp, well pleased with their appearance. It still felt strange to have no one over him—no Kieri Phelan to approve what he had done, or correct his errors. It felt strange to have no other cohorts, too. He imagined himself coming down next year with another cohort to join this one, perhaps Cracolnya’s, to give him archery support.

The day brightened as the morning wore on, clouds lifting and thinning. The scouts reported nothing alarming; the next village, as they neared it, looked placid enough. His horse pricked its ears, and mules brayed ahead. Mules? The peasants here did not use mules, but oxen, in their fields.

In the village, he found two wagons blocking the way. Four armed men stood before them, obviously frightened but determined, a motley group with a tall skinny black-haired man on one end. Behind them, an obvious merchant and someone who might be an assistant or family member.

“Who are you?” one of the armed men said.

“Duke Phelan’s Company,” Arcolin said. “Hired by Cortes Vonja to restore peace to the countryside. And you?”

“A merchant of the Guild,” the merchant said, coming forward. “How many are you? Enough to lend us escort on the way to Cortes Vonja?”

“No,” Arcolin said. “That is not our contract. However, we fought off a brigand attack last night, and you should have fewer problems on the way north than before.” He looked the merchant, his guards, and his wagons over carefully. What was a Guild merchant doing out here, so far from major transport routes? “Where are you from?”

The merchant frowned. “That is Guild business,” he said, “and none of yours.”

“I must insist,” Arcolin said, with a gesture to his cohort. “You have four men; I have a hundred.”

“Sibili,” the merchant said. “I come from Sibili with silks and tiles, oilberries and wine.”

“So you came through Andressat?” Arcolin said.

“No. It is too hard to get the wagons up that damned cliff at Cortes Andres, and that’s the only crossing. We followed the war road to the east and curved back around.”