“Bring back my wife and children from the grave,” Maenthar said. “I would have no burdens a man could not bear, if they lived again.” He looked away a long moment; Arcolin waited. Then he said, “I apologize, Captain. It is not all your fault, but you are the first I could tell. In the city, they threatened me with a trial for treason because I cried out when they told me my two sons in their army were dead. It was too much, to come back and find the others dead as well, and a hand and half more from the village.”
“It is too much,” Arcolin said. He did not try to stop the tears that flowed. Let the man see he was genuinely moved.
Maenthar was crying too, now. “I tried. I held the village together as best I could—I thought it was over—but then they came from the city and told us we were lazy scum, for sending less grain. I told them we had fewer workers and they said—those men in velvet and fur, with gold chains at their neck—they said work harder.”
“Maenthar—” Arcolin put out his hand again, and this time Maenthar gave his freely. “It is hard,” Arcolin said, remembering the loss of most of his cohort at Dwarfwatch. “I am sorry, that is all I can say.”
“I believe you,” Maenthar said. He ducked his head, swiped at his face. “I will bear you no ill will, I swear it.”
“Nor I you,” Arcolin said. “If sharing your anger with me eased your heart, I am glad.”
“The brigands have not bothered me much here,” Maenthar said, this time softly. “They have come through, telling us not to see them, and they’ve stolen a hen or two, and loaves Casra had set on the windowsill to cool, but they stayed on the road.”
“They were bold to stay on the road,” Arcolin said, as softly.
“Oh, they’re bold enough. But I told my people to do as they said, and it would be as well if my people thought I had done the same.”
“If you need to berate me all the way out of the village—” Arcolin said.
“I will,” Maenthar said. “But this time it will be an act.” His smile was rueful but genuine. “Two things: They talk of the old kings coming back, and their leader—of this group at least—has a tattoo on his heart-arm he touches when he speaks of someone called Ibbirun.”
“Thank you,” Arcolin said. Ibbirun … the Sandlord of Old Aare. By repute, the Sandlord was evil, either akin to, or another name for, Gitres the Undoer. He raised his voice, then, for any villagers who’d crept to the backs of the houses to hear. “Well, Maenthar, I’m sorry you feel that way. We were friends once, and I hope will be friends again. We never did you injury, and we intend no injury now.”
“Just go away, that’s the best thing you can do for all of us,” Maenthar said just as loudly; his voice once more edged like a scythe. “Stay out of the fields; give the grain a chance. And keep your men from stealing, if you can.”
“My men don’t steal,” Arcolin said coldly. “As you should remember.” He took the reins back from Burek and mounted, nudged his mount into motion, and the cohort followed.
Once they were well out of the village, Burek said, “That was instructive.”
“Did you hear all of it?”
“Should I have?”
“It depends. I need to know—if you did, I needn’t repeat any of it.”
“Yes, sir, then I did.”
“Cortes Vonja politics,” Arcolin said. “Duke Phelan always thought someone high up there was in league with Siniava, but couldn’t prove it. What if that same person has transferred allegiance to Alured?”
“Would Alured believe it?”
“He might. Or he might let whoever it was believe he believed him.”
Burek rode in silence a few moments. “Field tactics are easier than politics.”
“With one cohort compared to a city, yes. But men are men, either way.”
“Do you think that … Maenthar … will tell the brigands about us?”
“I hope so,” Arcolin said. “It will be better for him and will not hurt us. Even if one of his people spied and saw him being friendly, our past friendship excuses it and we were never alone together.”
Burek blinked. “Did you think of that at the time?”
Arcolin laughed. “We both did, I’m sure. In past years, Maenthar would’ve invited me into his house for a cup of sib, at least. He had good reason not to, as I had good reason not to take him aside.”
“You … think of more things than I do,” Burek said. “I thought I knew what a cohort captain’s job was.”
“In twenty or thirty years you’ll know more,” Arcolin said. “Sooner if you’re the fast learner I expect you are.”
Toward the end of that day, they had passed through another village and set up camp in a pasture beyond it. Arcolin had spoken to the headman of the second village, a young man he did not know. The headman bowed and promised anything Arcolin might want, if only he would not ravage the vill.
“We don’t attack villages,” Arcolin said. “We are on hire from your city, to drive away brigands who rob you and damage your fields.”
“We have no brigands here,” the man said. “I’ve heard they have problems south of here.”
That night, well after dark, two men approached the camp and asked to see the commander. Arcolin chose to see them outside his tent, asking them to join him at the campfire where cooks were heating water to wash the cookpots.
“We wanted to talk to you privately,” one of them said. His gaze shifted back and forth; the other stood hunch-shouldered and silent. “Don’t you have someplace we can go?”
“No,” Arcolin said. They looked at the tents, and back at him; he held his expression and finally the speaker sighed.
“Well, sir … knight, you must be, I guess. It’s like this. That boy Stef, he’s afraid to say, because them brigands threatened him and his wife—she’s that big with their first, due by harvest.”
“So there are brigands.”
“Aye. They come every four hands of days and take toll, and then the damned city militia, that doesn’t stir itself to help us, comes to take taxes. And if you goes after them, sir, they’ll think we told and they’ll be down on us. Burn the fields no doubt. You can’t stop ’em. No one can; there’s too many.”
“More than us?” Arcolin asked.
“They said so,” the second man said. “They said we had to tell you the wrong way, if you made us answer.”
“You haven’t told me any way yet,” Arcolin said.
The first man grinned nervously. “Well—we was thinking, maybe it would be worth something.”
“If they come and find natas in your house,” Arcolin said, “they’ll know you took money from us and then they’re most like to send the whole village up in flames.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking natas,” the man said. “Maybe a few coppers? Maybe two each?”
“I’m thinking nothing,” Arcolin said. “We’ll just go on the way we think is best, good or bad. You can tell the brigands you told us nothing.”
The man gulped; his throat moved as he swallowed. “But he said—”
“Who?”
“I told you,” the second man said. “I told you we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?” Arcolin said.
“Don’t you say anything!” the first man said.
“Oh, give over, Ari,” the second man said. “It’s not going to work, and we can’t be worse off for telling him the truth. He has the men with swords, after all.” He turned to Arcolin. “It’s our headman. He wanted us to find out what you knew, and then send you into an ambush. Ari’s right: they threatened him and he gave in.”
“Who carries the messages back and forth?” Arcolin asked. “You? Either of you?”
“I do, sometimes,” the first man said. “There’s more than one of us.”
“One of them comes to meet you somewhere outside the village? Or inside?”
“Outside.”
“And you’re supposed to report after this meeting, aren’t you? They know you’re here.”
“Yes,” the second man said, when the first hesitated.