Was this one last straggler from the attack at Way Camp? Why had they been so eager to finish him off? It was almost as if this man was such a dangerous person that they wanted to kill him extra dead.

Robbers or southern renegades wouldn’t worry about one survivor, would they? Soldiers never carried much money, not even right after payday. In Ragmarket, everybody knew they were not worth slide-hand, let alone a hard rush.

Anyway, they’d left Ginny Foster’s pay voucher behind.

It didn’t make sense—unless they’d served as guard to something valuable—trade goods, maybe. Maybe whoever had attacked them didn’t want anyone carrying tales back to the capital.

Wary as he was of being ambushed, Han would have ridden on by, except that he saw something glittering in the snow next to the dead soldier.

Taking a quick look around, Han dismounted and knelt next to the body. It was a sword, lying half under the dead man.

Made itchy by the notion of stealing from the dead, Han gently turned the body over, freeing the sword.

It was a beautiful piece, the hilt and cross-guard worked in gold, in the form of a lady with flowing hair.

His attackers must’ve been in a real hurry, to leave it behind.

No simple soldier carried a blade like this. It was the kind of movable that was handed down in blueblood families. Could this man be a noble in disguise?

He studied the man’s face for clues. He was older than the others he’d seen—of middle age, with graying hair in a military cut, his gray eyes staring out accusingly. There was something familiar about that face, about those gray eyes.

Han shivered, making the Maker’s sign, as if someone had walked over his own grave. Ah, Alister, he thought, shaking his head. You’re likely going all romantic about a thief and his stolen sword.

With his thumb and forefinger, Han gently closed the soldier’s eyes. The body was still faintly warm, and hadn’t stiffened up completely. He lifted the soldier’s hands and pressed them together across his chest. Then sat back, staring, his heart thumping.

The soldier wore a heavy gold ring on his right hand, engraved with circling wolves.

He’d seen rings like that before.

A memory came back to him: Rebecca’s Corporal Byrne smashing him up against a wall in Oden’s Ford, his hand in a choke hold around his neck, demanding to know where Rebecca was.

When Byrne had released him, Han had noticed the ring he wore. Wolves. Just like this one. Just like the ring Rebecca Morley had worn. At the time, Han had thought maybe she and her corporal had exchanged love tokens.