“You don’t honestly think anyone is still following us. I know the empire would want to stop Arista from reaching Gaunt, but I doubt anybody recognized her in Colnora—at least no one still alive.”

Royce did not answer.

“Royce?”

“I’m just playing it safe,” he snapped.

“Royce? What did Cosmos mean back there about you not being the only ex-Diamond in Warric? What was that talk of ghosts all about?” Royce remained silent. Hadrian glared at him. “I came along as a favor to you, but if you’re going to keep secrets …”

Royce relented. “It’s probably nothing, but then again—Merrick could be after us.”

Hadrian lost his look of irritation and replied with a simple, “Oh.”

“Anyone going to tell me who Merrick is?” Arista asked. “Or why Hadrian doesn’t want to go home?”

“I didn’t leave under the best of circumstances,” Hadrian answered, “and haven’t been back in a long time.”

“And Merrick?”

“Merrick Marius, also known as Cutter, was Royce’s friend once. They were members of the Diamond together, but they …” He glanced at Royce. “Well, let’s just say they had a falling out.”

“So?”

Hadrian waited for Royce to speak and, when he did not, answered for him. “It’s a long story, but the gist of the matter is that Merrick and Royce seriously don’t get along.” He paused, then added, “Merrick is an awful lot like Royce.”

Arista continued to stare at Hadrian until the revelation dawned on her.

“Still, that doesn’t mean Merrick is after us,” Hadrian went on. “It’s been a long time, right? Why would he bother with you now?”

“He’s working for the empire,” Royce said. “That’s what Cosmos meant. And if there’s an imperial mole in the Diamond, Merrick knows all about us by now. Even if there isn’t a spy, Merrick could still find out about us from the Diamond. There are plenty who think of him as a hero for sending me to Manzant. I’m the evil one in their eyes.”

“You were in Manzant?” Arista asked, stunned.

“It’s not something he likes to talk about.” Hadrian again answered for him. “So if Merrick is after us, what do we do?”

“What we always do,” Royce replied, “only better.”

The village of Hintindar lay nestled in a small sheltered river valley surrounded by gentle hills. A patchwork of six cultivated fields, outlined by hedgerows and majestic stands of oak and ash, decorated the landscape in a crop mosaic. Horizontal lines of mounded green marked three of the fields with furrows, sown in strips, to hold the runoff. Animals grazed in the fourth field and the fifth was cut for hay. The last field lay fallow. Young women were in the fields, cutting flax and stuffing it in sacks thrown over their shoulders, while men weeded crops and threw up hay.