The caravan master took a swig of steaming thrusk that would have cooked Narm's gullet, realized who he was talking to, and added hastily, "Uh, no offense meant to ye, lad and lady."

Back in her corner, Shandril waved a dismissive hand and returned to Voldovan with a despairing look and the heavy chaos of her breastplate in her arms. The caravan master drained his tankard in another throat-scalding swig, hastily lifted the garment, and turned it so that she could step in under his hands and let him lower it into place.

"Watch this," the maid from Highmoon said sharply to her husband. "I won't be troubling Master Voldovan to be dressing me every morn, no matter how much he enjoys it."

Orthil gave her a half-amused snort and said grimly to Narm, "Ye may have to get battle-spells ready, lad, if this goes on. Those brigands haven't done with us. They probably took the Two Pools trail and will be waiting for us next night. Or they're shadowing us, along the ridges. Either way, we're so much cook-meat on firespits once they learn how weak we're getting."

"Voldovan?" a rough but familiar voice called from close by outside the wagon.

"In!" the caravan master called curtly, and Arauntar thrust his head in at the flap, Beldimarr at his shoulder. "Well?"

"We've searched all. Nothing."

"Just gone, hey?"

The veteran guards nodded in grim unison.

"Any of the wagons better than what's still rolling?"

Arauntar shook his head. "Two clients lost theirs, an' we've shifted them to the best abandoned ones already. Valuable cargo, food, an' wagon wheels are in the other ready-wagon. Packed to the high hoops, 'tis."

"Thank the gods ye two know what to do. Anything to come in here?"

"A dozen strongchests an' a water barrel, if there's room."

"Oh, there'll be room. With just the lass riding the perch and one of ye as drover, we can pack this one to the hoops, too. Gods, but the hay's going fast."

"We'll be staying together," Narm said quietly, "Shan and me. At all times."

Orthil glared at him. "Oh ye will, will ye?"

"Yes," Shandril told him crisply, hefting her helmet. "We will, Orthil."

"That'd be best," Arauntar said quickly, ere Voldovan could draw breath for the angry tirade that by the look on his face seemed to be building swiftly to an eruption, "now that so many of us guards're down. With 'em both together, it takes only one of us to watch 'em. B'marr and I can take turns at that."

Beldimarr nodded, and then looked at Orthil.

"Well," the caravan master growled, "seeing as how ye seem to have it all worked out, why don't we just do that?" He eyed Narm and Shandril suspiciously, then whirled to peer at Arauntar and Beldimarr.

After a long, narrow-eyed look, Voldovan turned back to the mage and the spellfire-maid and growled, "If I thought ye'd worked a spell on these two to get them to say aye to yer plan, it'd be my sword ye'd both be feeling about now." He sighed. "My scheme was to have a hold over ye, lass, to guard against any tyranny ye might feel the need of dispensing, by having thy husband elsewhere, in our grasp. I can make the same threats with crossbows, if need be. Be warned."

"Oh, aye," Beldimarr growled before Shandril could reply, "one more thing: Carngaur died. The lance must've been poisoned."

"Buried?"

"Nay-let him poison a few leucrotta an' do us all one last service. He's back in the woods a-ways."

The caravan master nodded, sighed again, and made a large, circular knot in one of the tally-cords at his belt.

"He has a wife," Arauntar said softly, and Orthil frowned and changed the knot to another. Then his hands went to his other hip and held up some of the cords hanging there.

"We haven't the day it would take to tally every last chest and coffer and cask moved here or there; just tell me what wagons to tie off."

"Well, now. Dead folk can't pay us outstanding passage costs-an' we're going to have a real battle if we try to charge men who lost wagons any costs that come with another one we salvaged, to give to them…"

The caravan master and his senior guard were already out of the wagon and tramping away, the problem of the young mage and the fire-witch forgotten.

Beldimarr gave Narm and Shandril a gap-toothed grin and said, "That went rather well, hey?"

Shandril nodded, but Narm frowned. "Those cords?"

"Tallies, knotted an' unknotted to track payments an' debts an' cargo amounts."

"Yes, but what's to stop Voldovan or any master from making whatever knots he pleases?"

The scarred, coarse-tongued caravan guard gave Narm a severe look and growled, "His love for retaining his own head. Now let's be loading. If we're not ready to roll when the horn calls, 'twill be our heads in the next stew-blandreth."

Shandril gave him a scornful look. "Just save breath and stop trying to scare us, B'marr. You don't boil heads for stew."

"Nay, you're right about that. I leave that to Raunt, who's better'n'me with salt an' suchlike."

He gave the young couple a sidelong grin. Shandril answered it with another sour look and asked, "I suppose nothing frightens veteran Harpers like you?"

Beldimarr's unlovely head and fearsome mustache turned her way and Shandril found herself looking into eyes that seemed older than she thought they'd be.

"Oh now, lass, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all. We've just learned not to waste time worrying, or noise fretting to others about it. I'm scared of a goodly handful of things right now."

"Oh?" Shandril shook her head, and gave him a little grin. "Somehow that makes me feel better. A goodly handful, eh?" She pointed at the wagon-flap. "Therefore tremble and depart."

"As you command, fire-witch," the Harper said good-naturedly and stepped down from the wagon with a grunt. Settling his swordbelt into place, Narm strolled across the floorboards to watch Beldimarr go-and was sent staggering by the arrival of the first coffer, tossed into his midriff with deadly accuracy by the guard outside. Shandril sputtered with laughter as Narm found an unexpected seat upon the roll of bedding and sprang forward to catch the next box herself. It clanged into her frontal collection of armor plates, rebounded up into her chin, and left her wishing she had put on her hot, heavy helm.

Another day was under way in earnest, it seemed, and familiar aches and pains swiftly returned to register their protests. Shandril and Narm gave each other wry grins and commenced fielding coffers, not bothering about proper stowage. The casks would determine that, with Beldimarr's roared directions, when they started arriving.

"I'm not spending my life running caravans," Narm grunted. "This one is more than enough."

Shandril wrinkled her nose at him. "I wonder how many folk have said that before?"

The man who was not Haransau Olimer smiled a soft smile as he watched the taller and dirtier of Voldovan's head guards stride purposefully past, several more sword-dogs in his wake. All it had taken was a bewildered comment about a certain wagon "clanking" to another merchant nursing thrusk over a fire. Even suspicious merchants talk. Especially suspicious merchants talk-and as weakened and scared as these guards were, now, they'd even learned to listen.

The Dark Blade of Doom was a long way from familiar alleys and hiding-holes, now. In fact, everyone's favorite Marlel was trapped amid wolves who hid behind masks. Little games like this could tug a few of those masks into slipping-but the spells their wearers could hurl could snatch away his life in an instant. He'd need spellfire to have any hope of standing against them.

Spellfire. Well, now. What a coincidence…

"Watch, now," Sabran the Weaver murmured to his business partner. "They're coming this way again."

"Dolts," Mhegras Master-of-Furs snapped, whirling back into the wagon. "Do they really think that searching us once more will show them things they somehow missed the last dozen times? This fool of a Voldovan'll give every last prowling beast and desperate fool of a brigand a chance at us, going so slowly! We should have been up and away at dawn, not waiting around for his self-important sword-heads to tramp all over us one more time!"