The shopkeeper scratched his head, nails scraping scalp. She could smell his fear, but he wasn’t afraid enough. He didn’t see it coming.

“None but my wife, as a curiosity.”

Because he thinks he can sell the information later. Because if no one else knows, then he can hoard harness and the used traveling gear he accumulates in the hope of making a greater profit off it later by selling to a mass of men on the move—an army—who need goods immediately and can’t wait. The fate of the folk of Olossi concerns him not at all.

“If the troubles down south settle out,” he added, “then maybe more folk will be on the roads, we’ll see more trade. Trade’s been scarce these past few seasons. Folk don’t want to be out on the roads because they fear—”

She stood in the moment the captain drew his sword.

In the lineaments of a face shine the spirit; in the posture of the body speaks the soul. The tight set of a jaw reveals anger. A hand clenched around the hilt of a sword shows resolve.

Fear settles where a man leans back.

Shoulders hunching, a hand raised helplessly, the shopkeeper glanced toward Marit.

I am dead now, but at least I kept the secret. At least my sister will have escaped them. The shopkeeper’s thoughts might as well have been words spoken aloud, they were cast like seeds in a broad spray, everything about him caught between his small, fatal victory and his simple fear that the blade, striking him, would hurt terribly as it cut and smashed his flesh.

We all live in terror of pain.

“You not least,” she said to the captain. “You are one of those who will die in pain. You have sown with cruel seeds, and the bloody harvest will devour you.”

His sword point dropped. She studied his face so she would remember it no matter how much time passed before they met again: a broken nose; a scar under his left eye.

His lips parted as he trembled. “You are death. Where did you come from?”

“Answer your own question. Go from this town. Don’t come back. I know you now. I’ll hunt you down if harm comes to any here.”

His thoughts spilled as water over the lip of a fountain. I’ll be rewarded for this message, for telling them I’ve spotted one of the cloaks walking abroad in daylight. Or what if she is already acting in concert with them? What if this is a test? To see if I act rightly, follow orders? What if they punish me? Aui! Aui!

“Get out,” she said, wondering if she’d have to try and grab the sword out of his hand and kill him.

But he fled.

The shopkeeper began gasping, spurts of sobs punctuated by racking coughs. The door slid back. The pretty daughter stuck her head in, eyes seeming white with fear.

He spun, hearing the door tap against the stop, and before she could cringe back he slapped her. “Get back in the closet, you witless girl! Can’t you stay where you’re told?” The purse of his mouth betrayed his shame. He looked back at Marit.