“When did they come?” Arcolin asked.

She thought a long time, spreading one hand to touch her fingers, then shaking it to cancel the count; he wasn’t sure she knew how to reckon days. Finally she said. “It wasn’t the night we feasted, or the night after, or the night after that, but the next day.”

“Thank you,” Arcolin said. “And now—do you know where the outbounds of Vonja are? We’re bidden to stay within them. Is there another village within the bounds farther on this road?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, my lord. There was one before Siniava’s War, but I heard it had been destroyed, and I haven’t left here since I got back. There’s our hog-wood just to the south of us—and there’s a sort of ford over the creek in about a sunhand’s walk, but your wagons may have trouble with it. The pigherds say someone should have repaired it. That other village was most of the day’s walk at one time.”

“Perhaps we should look,” Arcolin said. “Thank you, for your time. I am sorry I have no grain for you this time—but this—” He handed her two of the copper coins southerners called pages.

“Thank you, my lord. You was kind before and these’ll hide easy, if them brigands come back.”

Beyond the village, the lane deteriorated even more as it led into the woods. The wheelmarks of the merchant’s wagons showed clear, and old ruts with them, but certainly wagons passed this way only a few times a year. Soon the trees shut out all sight of the village behind. The road twisted back and forth as they climbed a low rise. Around one turn, they came on a sounder of swine, the herdboy trying to prod them off the way, but two were intent on something on one verge, rooting determinedly, and the boy’s stick made no difference to them. A prick from the tip of Arcolin’s sword was another matter; with an annoyed grunt, the two trotted off down a woods path after the others; the boy gaped at Arcolin, then ran after them.

Down the other side of the rise, they came to the stream the headwoman had mentioned, the remnants of a gravel ford now scattered by many a spring flood, and mucky holes on both banks. Rough-trimmed timbers along both sides showed how the merchant had managed to get his wagons across. But with only seven men altogether? Arcolin rode out into the stream and looked upstream and down. On the right bank of the stream, a game trail wide enough for humans ran alongside the stream, and when he looked closely—yes, rain-softened boot marks.

“Checkpoint,” he said to Burek. “The ford’s been deliberately made more difficult. They’d meet the wagons from the south here—check the cargo—help them across—and then meet them again at that village—must be closer to their camp.” He chewed his lip, trying to think out the logic of it. How was the merchant paid? Wait—those two sacks of coins he’d found in the false-bottom of the first wagon, under the sacks of grain. They had not been marked with the seals of the Moneychangers’ Guild. Would a merchant carry so much of his own money after he bought goods and before he sold them? Arcolin had first thought of that money as a bribe … but if the brigands hadn’t taken it—why not? What if, instead of a bribe, the brigands had added it to the load?