“War road” must mean the way armies had taken through the forest Alured had once guarded, and then north … Arcolin tried to remember just where it went. Was this story plausible at all?

“Where did you hire your guards?” Arcolin asked.

This time a guard answered. “Me in Sorellin, two years back; I’m Arnen. Them others, I hired. One of our regulars got sick in Sibili, so Pedar—” He flicked a thumb. “—he’s from Sibili. Meddes comes from some vill in the Immervale, and Kory from Valdaire, he says.” Arcolin looked at each man; he would not have hired any of them.

“And what’s the cargo?”

“What Master Rieran says, I suppose,” the guard said. “Haven’t seen it m’self, but to keep count of the bales and barrels and make sure no seals is broke.”

“As you can’t bear witness to it, we will have to check,” Arcolin said. He looked at the merchant. “Master Rieran, is it? I’m Captain Arcolin. We have no intent to plunder, but we must account for your cargo—we were told the brigands we seek were being supplied from outside.”

“You think I—how dare you!” Rieran puffed up like a rooster; Arcolin ignored that. The man was pale-faced and sweating, not red … he was feigning indignation.

Arcolin looked back at the guards. “Step aside, gentlemen. Sergeant—?”

They moved aside without demur; Stammel and a tensquad herded them out of the village, to sit in the shade of a tree under guard. They gave up their swords without protest, and in return Arcolin saw them provided with water, bread, and cheese.

“Likely they are not involved,” he said to Burek. “Though the guard leader seems none too bright, and might have hired foolishly. Now for the merchant—”

The wagons did indeed contain bales of silk, boxes of painted tiles, and barrels of oilberries, goods worth aplenty in more northern markets—but while riding around the first wagon Arcolin smelled something the merchant had not declared. He flicked his fingers to Devlin and again when the second wagon yielded another smell that did not belong. He said nothing aloud, but had the wagons unloaded there in the street, his troops keeping back curious villagers, who might well want to snatch a few oilberries.

Devlin found the latch to the false bottom in one wagon; Vik found it in the second. One held sacks of unground southern grains, sides of dried salt meat, dried salt fish … though packed round with herbs, the smell could not be hidden. The other held weapons … more of the curved swords, short-stocked crossbows ideal for use in wooded areas, hardened leather armor, some strengthened with metal plates or mail.

“Well,” he said, looking at the merchant, now fishbelly white and trembling. “This looks like smuggling, not trading. Who are these for?”

“I don’t know,” the merchant said. “I—I didn’t know about that. I swear it; I’m an honorable member of the Guild. One of the guards must have—”

“I wonder what the courts in Cortes Vonja will say,” Arcolin said. “They do not look kindly on those in league with their enemies.”