“Now, I see that expression on your face, Lan Mandragoran,” Nazar said. “Well, don’t you be getting all self-centered about this. A man has a right to carry his kingdom’s flag with him.”

“You’re a baker, Nazar.”

“I’m a Borderlander first, son,” the man said, tucking the banner away. “This is my heritage.”

“Bah!” Lan said, turning away. The others were breaking up camp. He’d grudgingly allowed the three newcomers to join him—they were stubborn as boars, and in the end, he had had to succumb to his oath. He’d promised that he’d accept followers. These men, technically, hadn’t asked to ride with him—they’d simply started doing it. That was enough. Besides, if they were going to travel in the same direction, then there was little sense in making two camps.

Lan continued to wipe his face dry from the morning’s washing. Bulen was getting bread ready for breakfast. This grove of pines was in eastern Kandor; they were getting close to the border into Arafel. Perhaps he could—

He froze. There were several new tents in their camp. A group of eight men were chatting with Andere. Three of them looked plump around the waist—not warriors, judging by their soft clothing, though they did appear to be Malkieri. The other five were all Shienarans, topknots on their heads, leather bracers on their arms, and horsebows stored in cases on their backs beside long, two-handed swords.

“What is this?” Lan demanded.

“Weilin, Managan and Gorenellin,” Andere said, gesturing to the Malkieri. “These others are Qi, Joao, Merekel, Ianor, Kuehn—”

“I didn’t ask who,” Lan said, voice cold. “I asked what. What have you done?”

Andere shrugged. “We met them before running into you. We told them to wait along the southern roadway for us. Rakim fetched them last night, while you were sleeping.”

“Rakim was supposed to be on watch!” Lan said.

“I watched in his stead,” Andere said. “I figured we’d want these fellows.”

All three of the plump merchants looked to Lan, then went down on their knees. One was weeping openly. “Tai’shar Malkier.”

The five Shienarans saluted Lan. “Dai Shan,” one said.

“We have brought what we could to the cause of the Golden Crane,” another of the merchants added. “All that we could gather in a little time.”

“It is not much,” said the third. “But we lend you our swords as well. We may look to have grown soft, but we can fight. We will fight.”

“I don’t need what you brought,” Lan said, exasperated. “I—”

“Before you say too much more, old friend,” Andere said, laying a hand on Lan’s shoulder, “perhaps you should have a look at that.” He nodded to the side.

Lan frowned, hearing a rattling sound. He stepped past a patch of trees to look upon the path to the camp. Two dozen wagons were approaching, each piled high with supplies—weapons, sacks of grain, tents. Lan opened his eyes wide. A good dozen warhorses were hitched in a line, and strong oxen pulled the wagons. Teamsters and servants walked alongside them.