In fact, they were taking so long to make their move that Mare Dorna joked about inviting them into the camp to share breakfast.

At last, a lone masked figure wandered into their clearing. Brother Qown hid his surprise; he hadn’t expected the brigand to be a woman. Then again, Jorat had defied so many expectations.

“Finally,” Dorna muttered. Brother Qown elbowed her to keep quiet. Evidently in this part of Jorat, criminals were timid creatures who had to be lured from their warrens.

“Where are your guards?” the bandit asked as she looked around—a sensible question to ask when about to commit a crime.

Mare Dorna snorted as she scraped stale sweet rice from her iron stir pan.

Their party’s third member sat still and poised by the campfire. She embodied all the motives the desperate might ever need for banditry. A jeweled ring on a chain hung from her neck. Gold thread stitched her riding tunic. Jade pins decorated her laevos hair.

“Guards? Why?” Janel asked the newcomer while she sipped her tea. “Are you looking for work?”

The bandit rolled her eyes at the jest. She continued examining the clearing as if armed soldiers hid under the bedrolls. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the deer corpse, hanging upside down from one of the trees.

Brother Qown could guess her thoughts: there were just three of them, and none looked capable of stringing up a deer, let alone defending themselves. Dorna looked older than many mountains. Brother Qown himself was ill-used to strenuous exercise. The noblewoman, Janel, muddied the distinction between woman and child. Their horses foraged in a nearby pasture: harmless by casual observation. No sign, anywhere, of the all-important guards who might protect a Joratese aristocrat from those with less fortunate births.

Easy metal.

“Too simple,” the bandit murmured. “You’re too well-bred not to have protectors.”

That makes her smarter than the last four outlaw leaders, Brother Qown thought.

This trap always reminded Brother Qown of the salos, a snake living in the Manol Jungle. He’d never seen one himself, having never been as far south as to leave Quur’s borders, but Father Zajhera had described the creature. The reptile hunted by mimicking a wounded animal with its tail, twitching the tip in distress. Any predator who pounced on this free appetizer discovered they were intended as the main course.

His employer, Janel Theranon, Count of Tolamer, looked just as vulnerable.

His gaze shifted out into the woods as he heard dry leaves crackle, the twigs snapping underfoot. “Count,” he said, “this one isn’t alone.”

“I should hope not, Brother Qown,” Count Janel said, setting down her teacup with exaggerated care as she regarded the brigand. “Are your companions seeking employment as well?” She smiled at the woman.