“What is it?”
“The man died, and I thought you should know before the villagers found him—”
“Found him?”
“And the scene, I mean. He died about midwatch, so I told off a squad to take the body back to where the fight was. I thought that way we didn’t have to explain why we had his body here.”
Arcolin had a quick mental vision of four of his soldiers, two lugging the dead brigand’s body, over the fields in the dark. He could imagine the track they’d leave on the dew-wet grass—
“I worried about the track they might leave,” Burek went on. “But Stammel said the grass was dry enough, just be back here in a glass or less. And they were, and dewfall came after that.”
Arcolin pulled on his other boot and stamped down into it. “Good thinking,” he said. “I suppose you had them take his weapon back with him?”
Burek stared, then flushed. “No, sir—I didn’t think of that.”
“Never mind,” Arcolin said. “They’ll think someone stole it, or there was a third brigand.”
“Do we march today, after all this? The brigands must be near.”
“We march, because we’re not supposed to know the brigands are near.” And with luck they could be packed and on their way before the villagers found the dead men. “We know nothing, we heard nothing, we saw nothing … they told us no brigands were anywhere around and they’d had no trouble, so … we go on being ignorant.”
Burek grinned. “Stammel thought you’d say that.”
“Stammel is a wise man,” Arcolin said.
By the time the sun had cleared the trees beyond the fields, they were ready to march, leaving behind only flattened grass: the jacks filled in, scraps of food burnt to char and then the fire pit watered down and raked, the brambles pulled into a pile. Burek had arched his brows at the care taken.
“Leave a mess behind, find a worse mess when you return,” Arcolin said. “Duke’s saying; I expect he learnt it from Aliam Halveric. Farmers don’t like their fields and pastures damaged, and they’ll find ways to cause you trouble the next time you come through.”
Burek thought about that for a moment, then said, “Dead men aren’t a mess, then …?”
“Not if it’s nothing to do with us. They’ll think it does, but more like we drew trouble down on them, the brigands spying on us. That reminds me—” He turned, just as Tam came up with something wrapped in a cloth. “Ah—thank you, Tam.”
“It’s really pretty, Captain,” Tam said.
“It’ll go in the Company records as split between you and Vik,” Arcolin said. “It’ll be the end of season, most likely, before you see a copper out of it.”
“’Sfine, Captain. I just wondered.”
“And remember—no talking about it, anywhere we go.”
“No, Captain. I’ll tell Vik.” He paused. “I can tell Vik, can’t I?”
“Tell him not to talk about it. Nothing happened. That’s the important part. Nothing at all happened.”
Tam grinned, saluted, and hurried off. Arcolin unwrapped the cloth. The grip of it was made of some intricately carved bone or tooth—he didn’t want to meet the animal with such teeth—inlaid with gold and silver. No guard but a narrow flange of metal where the two met, and the blade itself had the waterflow pattern that meant the best steel.
“Rich brigands,” Burek said. “Or they’ve been robbing rich men.”
“Rich men with exceptional taste in weapons,” Arcolin said. “And this one’s seen considerable use.” The carving had worn down almost to the inlay, just where a hand would put the most pressure. He wrapped the cloth around it again. A shout came from behind the wagons, in the direction of the village. Several shouts. Arcolin loosened the cord of his saddle roll, pushed the wrapped weapon into the center, and retied the cord.
“Try to look stupid,” Arcolin said to Burek. “Whatever you do, don’t smile. Mount up.” He mounted his own horse, and turned it out of the lane, where he could see what was coming.
The rest of the cohort, now in marching formation in front of the wagons, were doing their own best to look stupid. Hurrying up the lane toward them was yesterday’s village headman and two others, waving their arms. Arcolin knew the wagon guards would stop them.
“Stammel, a hand with us, and start the rest down the road.”
“Captain.” Stammel named five, who fell out and lined up beside Arcolin and Burek. The others filled in, Stammel gave the command in a voice that could probably be heard in Cortes Vonja, and the cohort marched off, in perfect step. Behind them, the first wagon’s driver slapped reins together and yelled at the mules; harness creaked and harness rings jingled as that wagon, and then the next, followed.
“With me,” Arcolin said, and nudged his horse forward, toward the approaching villagers.
Faced with two armed men on horseback and five armed soldiers afoot, the villagers straggled to a halt, breathing heavily.
“What’s amiss?” Arcolin asked.
“You—you can’t leave—I demand—you killed four men!” the headman said.
“We did not kill four men,” Arcolin said with perfect honesty. “And you are not authorized to place demands on me—my contract is with Cortes Vonja, in whose outbounds your village lies.”
“I will report you to the city as thieves and murderers,” the headman said, less breathless now.
“Then I will report you as an arrant liar,” Arcolin said. “We stole nothing and we did not kill four men. We camped away from your village, as you requested; we left our camp clean and ready for use again as pasture. We brought our own supplies; we had no need to steal.”
“Two men from the village came to see you last night. I know they did.”
“They did indeed. Did you send them? Did they tell you that I sent them away? I do not deal with such as they—men afraid of the light, who whisper in the dark.”
“They’re dead,” the headman said. “They never came back from your camp, and this morning they’re dead, over there—” He waved in the general direction Arcolin knew was right. “You must have killed them—we have no weapons to take off heads.”
“You said four were killed—who were the others? And why were four of your people wandering around at night?”
The headman glanced at the other two men, who were still standing slack-jawed, staring at the soldiers. “They—we don’t know—maybe from another village—”
“They spoke to me of a robber band, as if they knew where it was—why not robbers?”
The headman paled. “We—we don’t have robbers here. I told you that.”
“But you do have four dead men. And one with his head cut off, you said. Would farmers from another village have swords?”
“Nay,” one of the other men spoke for the first time. “They don’t have swords no more than we do. But you folk have swords.”
“So we do,” Arcolin said. “But we were camped here last night, and you say the dead men are over there somewhere.” He waved in a direction slightly different from what the headman had indicated.
“Not that way, but there,” the second man said, eager now to correct him and pointing very specifically. Arcolin looked in that direction.
“Where?”
“There’s a mound, maybe sunhand away, and there’s trees on it—it’s not level so no use to clear it for a field.”
Arcolin translated this from peasant estimates of distance to those used by the Company. “And you found dead men there?”
“Aye, that I did. I been sent to track the headman’s bull that broke out last night, and once we were past the ploughland, my dog, he picked up the smell of blood, and I couldn’t call him off. It might’ve been the bull’s, after all.”
“And you found four dead men,” Arcolin prompted.
“Yes, and one with no head—it turned me right up, sir, it did indeed. That was Aren, married to m’wife’s third sister, and her baby coming any time. Noki, the other, he’s m’cousin by m’father’s sister, her husband, they has four, the youngest still at breast …”