“Are you ready to go on?” I asked him when he cast the last of his bones aside.

“Do I have a choice? I know what’s happening to me. Cat claws are dirty. The infection will spread.” He touched his chest gingerly. “I can feel it. The heat. Let’s go.”

So on we went that day. Early in the afternoon, a couple of traders’ wagons passed us going west. The men were crouched on their seats, hats pulled low and shoulders hunched against the rain. I called a greeting, but received only a sullen nod from one of them. I decided there was no point in asking them for help. I glanced at Hitch. He made a scornful face, evidently sharing my opinion.

As we continued on our own way, I found myself wondering if the carters would stop in the abandoned town, and then tormented myself with wondering if Amzil would make them welcome. It was stupid. I had no claim on her and she had made it clear she had no interest in me. I should not care what she did, if she whored herself out to strange men or not. She was out of my life, merely a woman I’d met as I stopped on my way east. I’d forget her. I’d find someone to take her stupid canvas sack back to her, and I’d put her out of my mind. I wouldn’t think about her anymore.

The wet penetrated our clothes and soaked the horses’ coats into runnels. I began looking for a likely place to camp before dark. I saw the stacks of rocks, three and then two on top of each other, and turned our horses off the road and into the brush. The trail was narrow, winding uphill through the trees, but as the scout’s sign had promised, it led me to a cleared campsite with a covered supply of firewood.

I dismounted. Hitch sat his horse a few moments longer. “So,” he observed gruffly as he swung himself stiffly down, “maybe you are a soldier son. What branch was your da?”

“Cavalla,” I said briefly. I had no wish to discuss my father or family with him. I took firewood from the stack and dug in my panniers for my hatchet to reduce some of it to kindling. The wind gusted and the trees released a shower of raindrops and wet leaves on us. It was going to be a nasty night. “Let me get a fire started, and then I’ll rig a shelter for us.”

He nodded, grimly silent. I could only guess at his level of pain. He stood stiffly, his arms crossed as if to hold something in. He didn’t offer me any help; I hadn’t expected any. His roll of canvas was designed to shelter one man, not two, but I managed to rig it to the tree trunks in such a way that it cut most of the wind and shed rain. It was not perfect. Errant gusts still drove rain and wet leaves in at us, but it was far better than simply sitting in the storm. The half-naked trees provided little shelter from the incessant rain. I picketed our horses, got water from a nearby streamlet, and brought it back to the fire, putting it on to heat while I took out the venison. I cut it in strips, poked holes in the strips, and then threaded the meat onto some skinny branches. I toasted them over the fire, and we didn’t much care that the meat stayed bloody in the middle. We made coffee from Hitch’s supply and ate the hot dripping meat from the skewers.

I’d spent far worse nights on the road, but not as a fat man. My weight and size made every small task of sharing a camp more difficult. The shelter belonged to Hitch and he was injured. It was only fair that he get the most benefit from it, but my bulk meant that part of me was always out in the storm. Rising to bring more firewood, bending over the fire to set the coffee in the coals, cleaning the pot and cups afterward: every small task was made more onerous by the weight of flesh I carried. Even just rising and then sitting down on the ground again was more of a chore than it had been when I was fit. I told myself that it was my imagination that Lieutenant Hitch watched every move I made. I angrily decided it was what I must expect. People had paid to see the Fat Man in the carnival at Old Thares. I was not as large as he had been, but a man of my bulk was still a noteworthy sight anywhere. Once I arrived at Gettys, people would stare. I’d best get used to it.

“You ain’t always been fat,” Hitch said suddenly.

I gave a snort of amusement. “How would you know?”

“The way you move. You act like a packhorse who’s carrying more than his fair share, or one that’s been badly loaded. If you’d carried that fat all your life, you’d be used to it by now. But I been watching you, and how you set your feet before you try to sit down, and how it takes you two tries to get up.”

I shrugged. “You’re right. This time last year, I was leaner than you.”

“What happened?”

Hitch’s eyes were a bit too bright. Fever burned in him. “If you want, I could go back to those willows and shave off some bark. Willow bark tea is supposed to lower a fever.”

“It’s supposed to, yes. It tastes awful. But actually, I’d rather you answered my question. What happened to you?”

I tried to find a comfortable way to sit. My arse was sore from a day in the saddle, and there was nothing to lean back against except an uneven tree trunk. “I got Speck fever. Everyone else either died or came out of it like a rack of bones. But I got better. Then I started to gain weight. The doctor at the academy knew what was coming. He said that this is a rare side effect of the plague. And they gave me a medical discharge.”

“Academy boy. Should have known,” Hitch muttered. He smiled derisively. “So that makes you Lord Grand Somebody’s son, right?”

“No. I’m nobody’s son anymore. My father disowned me. I failed him. I disgraced myself. I didn’t get through the academy to be a cavalla officer, and he reckoned that I’d never be a soldier of any kind.”

“Probably reckoned right. Most regiments won’t take you in like that, not even as a foot soldier.” He tossed his empty toasting stick into the fire. “But if you wanted, I could put in a word with Colonel Rabbit for you.”

“Colonel Rabbit? Does he command Gettys?”

He laughed out loud. “Yes, he does. But his real name is Colonel Haren. The other name is a bit more apt. He spends all his time hiding in his hole. But you probably shouldn’t call him that if you’re trying to get on with him.” His voice was wandering.

“I think your fever’s coming up. I’m going after some willow bark while I still have light to see by.”

“Suit yourself.” He leaned his head back against a tree trunk. I took my kettle with me, and went back to the streamlet. I knew little other than that willow bark tea was supposed to be good for a fever. I scraped some from the trunk of the tree there, and some from the more supple branches. I filled the kettle half-full of tree shavings and then topped it off with water. I took it back to the campfire, added a few more bits of the dry wood, and left it to heat.

The light was fading. As much to warm myself as to be a good soldier, I took my hatchet and went looking for more wood. Most of what I found was soaked by the rain, but I cut it into lengths and stacked it for the next traveler who might come this way and read the sign. By the time the willow bark tea was steaming, Hitch was shivering. The tea didn’t smell appetizing, but it was hot and he drank two full mugs of it. Then he abruptly closed his eyes and slumped down in his blankets. I dashed the dregs from his mug and made myself as comfortable as I could.

It was a long night. Hitch moaned and twitched his way through it. The wind finally blew the clouds on their way, but as the night cleared, it got colder. I was awake and waiting for the dawn when it came, my body tight with chill. Hitch was the opposite. He burned with fever.

I woke the fire and warmed the willow bark tea for him. I had to help him sit up. He drank the first few sips while I held the mug for him. Then he took it in both hands and nodded at me that he could manage on his own. While he drank, I brought the horses up and saddled them. He had a hard time standing up, but once he was on his feet, he moved around a bit while I loaded our gear. I had to pack the blankets wet. I grimaced to myself, thinking of how unpleasant it would be to sleep in them that night. Before we mounted up, Hitch had me bind his injured arm across his chest. “It’ll joggle less,” was all he said. I did as he asked, trying not to wrinkle my nose at the smell.