"Mine too."

For a second, the barbarian thought Greenwillow meant his life was precious to her. Then he realized that, of course, she meant her own.

So the three companions, two living, one dead, trudged silently back to the city they'd spent almost two seasons trying to reach.

In the end, Dorlas was neither buried nor burned. Three dwarves had taken custody of the body and worked the night through to plane and hammer a coffin that was only partly watertight. At dawn, as the sun rose rimmed in blood, the three carried the short coffin on their shoulders to the edge of the river. A quiet word had passed to the city elders that there would be no ornate state funeral. The only observers to the ceremony were Sunbright and Greenwillow, who argued they had been friends of the dead man, or at least comrades.

The dwarves eased the coffin down on the pebbly shingle. Each bent to pluck a handful of gravel that was then sprinkled over the wooden box. The rattling was loud enough to startle sleeping ducks from the cattails on the other side of the river. When invited, Sunbright and Dorlas also stepped forward and sprinkled handfuls of soil on the coffin.

The dwarf in charge of the funeral, Mondar, explained, "These stones will cover him as he begins his journey to his homeland." Dorlas, they'd been told, was originally from a tribe called the Sons of Baltar in the Iron Mountains far to the south. Since the river wended that way, the leaky coffin would be consigned to it. Somewhere along the way it would surely sink, but the idea was that the dead Dorlas could travel the rest of the way underground once he reached the riverbed. Together, the five participants pushed the coffin into the quiet water. It bobbed and tipped, then straightened side-on to the current and sailed southward. Mondar called, "Go, brother, and lead the way!"

Dorlas's warrior tackle had been stripped from his body, for it was thought there was no fighting in the afterlife, only simple pleasures and fulfilling work. Solemnly, Mondar held up the dead man's knife, and asked, "Who will take this knife, that it might work well and honor its master's name?" A dwarf held out his hand and received it. So went the crossbow and quarrels, baldric, even his file and fishhooks and compass. The dwarves were all workmen in the city and could find a use for the tools. At the last, Mondar held up the fearsome warhammer, frowning at it, for with its long narrow head and sharp parrot's beak on the back face, it would make a poor tool for blacksmith or cobbler or silversmith. At the ritual question "Who will take this warhammer, that it might work well and honor its master's name?" no one extended his hand.

In the awkward silence, Sunbright surprised himself and everyone else by saying, "I will."

The dwarves squinted in the bright light of dawn. Needing to explain, Sunbright said, "I have more battles ahead, and can do honor to Dorlas's name. But I promise that someday I will return the hammer to his family in the Iron Mountains. I'll tell them how he died and saved our lives."

"It is not necessary." Mondar frowned. "We know of his dying. Word will pass to his relatives."

"Good. For if I'm killed, I won't be able to relate the tale. But if I live, I will make that journey. I owe him that much." Behind him Greenwillow sniffed, but this time to hold back tears.

Without a word, Mondar laid the cold, heavy war-hammer in the young man's hand. Sunbright slid it in his belt, felt it nestle beneath his ribs. He wasn't sure why he'd taken it or made that vow. Perhaps he was only being selfish, and hoped that when he was killed, someone would make an effort to see that his family knew. But whatever the reason, he was glad.

Barbarian and elf had slept for a few short hours in a soldiers' hostel where the women were separated from the men. Over a breakfast of bread and ale and cheese served at long tables in a surprisingly quiet throng, Sunbright suggested, "Since this is my first time in a city, you'd best lead the way. What do we do?"

Greenwillow used her crust to sop up the last of her ale and stuffed it in her mouth. "First we collect our wages, before anyone forgets they owe us. Let's go." Getting up from the table, she dropped her mug in a tub by the door and strode into the sunshine.

Unerringly, she marched to the left and up the center of the street. Sunbright had no idea where they were bound, or what their destination was, so he simply trotted along at her side like a child. Housewives and masons and fishmongers and schoolchildren watched them curiously as they passed.

Thinking aloud, Greenwillow said, "We bodyguarded them for six months, give or take. One hundred eighty days… at two silver crowns a day… with two of us… is seven hundred twenty crowns. The traders who survived were fourteen, so that's… fifty-odd apiece they owe us. Cheap enough for saving their lives, and they don't have to pay Dorlas or the other dead bodyguards. Still, I imagine they'll squeal like trapped pigs. We could go to the piepowder court for our wages, but that would take forever. There's one!"

Sunbright was flummoxed by her ciphering. He'd been fuzzy on the whole idea of being paid in coins, anyway. In his tribe, you bargained for the completion of a job, usually for supplies. So what she was doing was a mystery. But he recognized the flag over the shop door. It was a bluebird on a yellow circle, symbol of the house of Sunadram, a middle-aged trader with a yellow beard.

Sunadram was in his shop, which was heaped high on all sides with fabrics in every color. He held an account book, jabbing a finger repeatedly, demanding of his cringing clerks why the figures didn't add up. Greenwillow had to shout his name several times to get his attention.

When she did, Sunadram slammed the book shut and rubbed his face. "Oh, you two. What do you want?"

Sunbright didn't like his tone of voice, and would have punched the man for his insolence, but Greenwillow only spread her feet, planted her hands on her hips, and stated simply, "Our wages for bodyguarding. We kept you alive, so we'll take fifty silver crowns, if you please."

Already the fabric seller was shaking his head. "No, no, no. I pay no bills without a proper invoice. You'll need to write up your request, then have it notarized by the city clerk. I'll consider it then, but you'll have to wait. My shop is in chaos because of my long absence. These idiots can't add two and two without slipping three into their pockets. Now, I'm busy, so good day."

Greenwillow only nodded, which Sunbright found astonishing. The man, who'd bargained fairly at the beginning of the journey, now reneged. By barbarian code, the two fighters could cut him down, chop off his head, then take their pay in money or goods, or else enslave some of these clerks, though they were puny specimens. But Greenwillow only turned for the door.

"Wait!" Sunbright whirled after her, tackle jingling. "What about our-"

"Hush!" She stepped through the door into the morning bustle, then pointed to the doorjamb. "Stand there and be quiet. And sharpen your sword; it must need it."

"It does not! I hone it every night-" But a glare told him to belt up.

Bemused, the barbarian slid Harvester from its scabbard, put his back to the doorjamb, and worked to hone the edge with a fine stone, though he could have shaved with it already. Greenwillow waited, fuming. Inside the shop, Sunadram and the clerks watched and whispered.

It wasn't long before they learned what was to transpire. An elderly woman was brought near the door in a sedan chair toted by two sweating porters. Holding her skirts high, the woman stepped into the mucky street, careful not to dirty her red slippers. A pair of maids who'd walked behind flanked her. The lady glanced at Greenwillow, expecting the elf-maid to step aside, but the warrior instead barred the door with her arm. "Sorry, milady, but Sunadram can't see you. He's putting his shop in order."