“What’s our strength today?” he asked when the senior reeves had settled onto the benches around him with their gruel, salted fish, and soft goat cheese.

Medard was a young man—by Joss’s estimation, that meant anyone under thirty—with a mean streak a mey wide. “Get rid of Toban. That hells-rotted vermin walked hand in hand with Yordenas and the worst of his bootlickers, and now he whimpers that he’d no choice but to cozy up to them in order to spy for the sake of the rest of us, those of us who suffered. Or the ones like Dovit and Teren who just disappeared.”

“I didn’t see you leading the resistance,” said Darga, an older woman with a blade of iron in her gaze. “You went running Yordenas’s errands up in the Barrens every chance he gave you.”

“To stay alive! I tell you, that cursed Horas wanted nothing more than to murder me, with the blessing of his sniveling comrades. He would have done it, too, if I hadn’t kept myself away from the hall. I ran no errands for Yordenas!” He was flushed with indignation. “You just ask in some of those villages up in the Barrens, who was it who presided over their assizes when no one else would step in? That was me!”

“Here, now,” said Joss. “What’s past is past. As it says in the tale, ‘no use trying to build with a charred log.’ Toban will be given a chance to do the duty assigned him. If he scants it or neglects it, then we’ll censure him with what the dereliction has earned. We have lost too many reeves as it is, some dead and others flown off.”

“Where does a rogue reeve and his eagle make their perch?” Darga asked. “Who will take them in?”

“I don’t know,” said Joss. “That’s why we need Toban under supervision, doing such tasks as he can be trusted with and thereby freeing up other reeves for patrol. We’re dealing with a desperate situation in the north. We have to find out what is happening, who these people are who are attacking throughout the Hundred. We have to maintain constant communication with Clan Hall, and the other halls if we can. We must be prepared for anything.”

A girl with the slave mark tattooed at her left eye ran into the hall, sweating and out of breath. Every person there hesitated, with spoon half raised to mouth or cup to lip, sentences cut off, laughter choked down. They were like dogs and children who have been kicked once too often: expecting the worst.

She grabbed hold of her braid as if for courage, and quick-stepped up to the head table. “Marshal.” The squeak of her tiny voice made Medard snort and folk at nearby tables titter.

Joss rose to survey the hall until every voice was stilled and no one moved. The girl wasn’t much more than ten or twelve, a fawkner’s assistant’s slave by the look of her clothing, someone to sweep the floors and fetch and carry.