“I don’t know.” Arcolin glanced down at the courtyard below, to be sure their inquisitive visitors, merchant-agents from Vonja, weren’t in earshot. “He said not to take any contracts until he got back; I suggested they go to Vérella and talk to him, but they were afraid of missing him on the way.”

“What are they offering?”

“A one-cohort contract to protect farmlands and roads from brigands. I told them we’d need two for that—”

“At least. Better the whole Company, or you’re without reliable archery. Or were they planning to assign their militia to help?”

“No. From what they said, they disbanded half the militia. Trade’s down. But what do you think the Council will say? With the trouble this past winter, the Duke can’t say it’s entirely safe here. Yet—we have to do something. This land won’t support so many soldiers year-round.”

Cracolnya leaned over the parapet, watching the recruit cohort. “We’ve got to do something with those recruits, too. They signed up to fight, and all we’ve done with them is train … and he’s taken their final oaths: they’ll be due regular pay soon.”

“He’ll think of something.” Arcolin looked again at the line of clouds along the western horizon. Buds or no buds, another winter storm was coming. “He always does. But if he doesn’t come soon, we won’t get the good quarters in Valdaire.” He looked south again, sighing, then stiffened. “Someone’s coming!”

A single horseman, carrying the Company pennant, moving fast on the road from Duke’s East. Not the Duke, who would have an escort.

“Should I announce it, sir?” the sentry asked.

“No. It’s just a messenger.” Unfortunately. They needed the Duke. Arcolin turned and made his way down to the courtyard with Cracolnya at his heels.

“I’ll tell the stable,” Cracolnya said, turning away. Arcolin moved to the gate, where he could watch the messenger approach.

Whatever the message might be, it was urgent enough for the rider to keep his mount at a steady canter, trotting only the last few yards to the gate and then halting his mount to salute the sentry before riding in. Arcolin recognized Sef, a private in Dorrin’s cohort.

“Captain,” Sef said, after he dismounted and handed the reins to one of the recruits on stable duty. “I have urgent news.”

“Into the barracks,” Arcolin said. Through the opening to the Duke’s courtyard, he could see the two merchants hurrying toward them, but merchants were not allowed in the barracks. He led the way, and turned in to the little room where the sergeants kept the cohort records and brewed sib on their own hearth. “What is it? Is the Duke coming? How far behind you is he?”

“No sir, he’s not coming, and you won’t believe—but I should give you this first.” Sef took a message tube from his tunic and handed it over.

Arcolin glanced at the hearth. “See if there’s any sib left, or brew yourself some; you’ve had a long ride. And if I know Stammel, he’s got a roll hidden away somewhere.”