Marcus chewed his last bite of sausage slowly. The dozen carts filled half the clearing, horses and mules with feedbags over their heads or else being led to and from the brook to drink. The carters knew their business for the most part. The old man driving the tin ore was a little deaf and the boy with the high cart of wool cloth was either new to the trade or an idiot or both, but they were the worst. And his acting troupe had worked out magnificently. If he looked at the trees, not considering the people at all, he could still pick out the guards in the sides of his vision, just by their swagger.
By the side of the road, the long-haired woman, Cary, stood with her arms crossed and a huge horn-and-sinew bow slung across her back. Likely she couldn’t have drawn the damn thing, but she wore it like the companion of years. Sandr, the young lead, walked among the carts, head high and brow furrowed. He’d been telling stories to the carters about how he’d broken a foot jousting in an Antean tourney, and had become so familiar with the tale he’d adopted a barely noticable limp to go with it. And then there, sitting with the ’van master’s fat wife, was his cunning man, Master Kit, without whom Yardem would even now be failing to keep Vanai from falling. Without whom Marcus would have been jailed or killed.
The ’van master’s whistle brought Marcus back to himself, and he squinted up into the thin patch of high, white cloud that showed through the canopy above them. Time was harder to judge in the shadows of a forest, but he guessed the meal had run long. Well, his contract was to get them all into Carse safely. On schedule wasn’t his problem. Marcus cleaned his plate with a crust of bread and pulled himself up to standing.
“Rear or fore?” Yardem asked.
“I’ll take fore,” Marcus said.
The Tralgu nodded and lumbered toward the iron merchant’s wagon that brought up the rear of the ’van. It would be the last to leave. Marcus checked his blade and his armor with the same care he did before going into battle—an old habit—and went to the ’van master’s tall, broad feed wagon. He climbed up beside the master’s wife and settled in for the afternoon’s trek. The Timzinae woman nodded to him and blinked her clear inner eyelids.
“That was a fine meal, ma’am,” Marcus said.
“You’re kind to say so, Captain.”
Their conversation complete, she shouted at her horses, flicking her whip lightly at shoulder and haunch to direct them. The wagon lurched forward up onto the road, and then to the west. As they passed into the deep shadows again, Marcus wondered whether Vanai had fallen yet, and if not, how many more days the free city had left. Not many. Another problem not his own.
The rotation was a simple one. Rear and fore were Yardem or Marcus. Master Kit drove his own cart in the center of the ’van with the gaudy colors of the theater draped in cloth. The others rode three on either side of the carts, keeping their eyes on the trees. If anyone saw something suspicious, they’d call out, and Yardem or Marcus would go and look. In a week, the only call they’d had was when Smit, the jack-of-all-roles, had spooked himself with stories about bands of feral Dartinae assassins. Marcus let his eyes narrow, his back rest against the hard wood of the driver’s rig. The world smelled of rotting leaves and coming weather, but he couldn’t decide yet if it would be rain or snow.
The road made a tight turn at the base of a densely wooded hill. A tree had fallen across the road, its base still white where the axe had cut it. Marcus felt his body tense almost before he knew why.
“Call the stop,” he said.
Even before the Timzinae woman could ask why, Smit, Sandr, and Opal all shouted. Marcus turned, scrambling to the top of the wagon. There shouldn’t have been bandits. They didn’t have anything worth taking. The ’van master’s white mare was racing up the side of the carts toward the front. He saw four figures in leather and light chain step out from the trees, bows at the ready. They had hoods covering them, but from the width of their build, Marcus guessed Jasuru or Kurtadam. Four in plain sight could mean the bandits were bluffing. Or that there were a dozen more still in the trees.
At least they hadn’t announced themselves with an arrow.
“Hai!” a raspy voice called from the road ahead. “Who speaks for you?”
Four men on horses had appeared in front of the fallen oak. Three were either poorly groomed Cinnae or badly underfed Firstbloods riding nags, but the one in front rode a grey stallion with good lines and real strength in his legs. He also had a steel breastplate and chainmail. His bow was horn, his sword was curved in the southern style, and his face had the broad, thick-boned jaw and bronze scales of a Jasuru.
The Timzinae caravan master pulled his mare up in front of the supply wagon’s team.
“I speak for this ’van,” he shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”
Marcus shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. Eight men they could see. Half of those mounted. He had eight men, and six of them on horse. It was a damn small advantage, and if it came to blows, they wouldn’t last five long breaths together. He hoped the Timzinae wasn’t going to press the bandits too hard.
“I am Lord Knightly Tierentois,” the bandit captain said loud enough to carry. “You are traveling in my road, and I have come to collect my due tribute.”
Marcus slipped back down to the driver’s rig, the impulse to roll his eyes warring with the tightness in his belly. The horseman might be a fake and a blowhard, but he had blades and bows.
“These are dragon’s roads,” the ’van master shouted. “And you’re a half-wit, jumped-up thief in stolen armor. Birancour doesn’t have any Jasuru knights.”
Well, that wasn’t as politic as Marcus had hoped. The bandit captain’s laughter was hearty and false. Marcus put his hand on the pommel of his sword and tried to think of a way out of this that left the fewest people dead. If the actors charged the bowmen at the sides of the ’van, they might spook them into running. Leaving only four men on horse for him. Yardem appeared at his side, silent as a shadow. The Tralgu’s bow was in his hand. So two horesmen each. Unless there were more in the trees.
“The day you mutiny and take the company?” Marcus murmured.
“Not today, sir.”
The caravan master was shouting now, and the false knight’s face was taking the green-bronze cast that spoke of rage among the Jasuru. Marcus slipped off the wagon and walked forward. The men on horse didn’t seem to notice him until he was almost even with the ’van master’s mare.
“How much do you want?” Marcus said.
Timzinae and Jasuru both shifted to stare down at him with equal anger.
“Pardon my interrupting your fine and spirited debate, but how much do you want?”
“You should show me some respect, boy,” the Jasuru said.
“How much do you want, my lord,” Marcus said. “Because if you’ll look at the ’van here, we don’t have much. Unless his lordship and his lordship’s noble compatriots are willing to accept tribute in tin ore and iron, there may not be a great deal we can offer.”