I turned my back on them. Tracker had returned to our cook fire already. He dished up supper. I went to work on it, my temper still frayed. Stupid move, stealing horses. What with the uproar they had caused already... The Lady has agents everywhere. We may not be enemies of the grand sort, but we are what she has. Someone was bound to conclude that the Black Company was back in the north.

I fell asleep contemplating turning back. The least likely direction for hunters to look would be on the route to the Plain of Fear. But I could not give the order. Too much depended on us. Though now my earlier optimism stood in serious jeopardy.

Damned irresponsible clowns.

Way back down the line the Captain, who perished at Juniper, must have felt the same. We all gave him cause.

I braced for a golden dream. I slept restlessly. No dream came. Next morning I packed Goblin and One-Eye into the wagon, beneath all the clutter we deemed necessary for our expedition, abandoned the horses, and took the wagon past Meystrikt. Toadkiller Dog ran point. Tracker strolled along beside. I drove. Under the tucker, Goblin and One-Eye sputtered and grumbled. The garrison at the fort merely asked where we were bound, in such a bored manner I knew they did not care.

These lands had been tamed since last I passed through. This garrison could not conceive of trouble lifting its naughty head.

Relieved, I turned up the road that led to Elm and Oar. And to the Great Forest beyond.

“Don’t this weather ever let up?” One-Eye whined. For a week we had slogged northward, had been victimized by daily showers. The roads were bad and promised to get worse. Practicing my Forsbergeron wayside farmers, I learned that this weather had been common for years. It made getting crops to town difficult and, worse, left the grains at risk from disease. There had been an outbreak of the firedance in Oar already, a malady traceable to infected rye. There were a lot of insects, too. Especially mosquitos.

The winters, though abnormal in snow and rainfall, were milder than when we had been stationed here. Mild winters do not augur well for pest control. On the other hand, game species were diminished because they could not forage in the deep snows.

Cycles. Just cycles, the old-timers assured me. The bad winters come around after the Great Comet passes. But even they thought this a cycle among cycles.

Today’s weather is already the most impressive of all time.

“Deal,” Goblin said, and he did not mean cards. That fortress, which the Company took from the Rebel years ago, loomed ahead. The road meanders beneath its scowling walls. I was troubled, as always I was when our path neared an imperial bastion. But there was no need this time. The Lady was so confident of Forsberg that the great fortress stood abandoned. In fact, close up, it looked ragged. Its neighbors were stealing it piece by piece, after the custom of peasants the world over. I expect that is the only return they get on taxes, though they may have to wait generations for the worm to turn.

“Oar tomorrow,” I said as we left the wagon outside an inn a few miles past Deal. “And this time there will be no screwups. Hear?”

One-Eye had the grace to look abashed. But Goblin was ready to argue.

“Keep it up,” I said. “I’ll have Tracker thrash you and tie you up. We aren’t playing games.”

“Life is a game, Croaker,” One-Eye said. “You take it too damned serious.” But he behaved himself, both that night and the next day when we entered Oar.

I found a place well outside areas we frequented before. It catered to small-time traders and travelers. We drew no especial attention. Tracker and I kept a watch on Goblin and One-Eye. They did not seem inclined to play the fool again, though.

Next day I went looking for a smith named Sand. Tracker accompanied me. Goblin and One-Eye stayed behind, constrained by the most terrible threats I could invent.

Sand’s place was easily found. He was a longtime member of his trade, well-known among his peers. We followed directions. They led me through familiar streets. Here the Company had had some adventures.

I discussed them with Tracker as we walked. I noted, “Been a lot of rebuilding since then. We tore the place up good.”

Toadkiller Dog was on point, as often he was of late. He stopped suddenly, looked around suspiciously, took a few tentative steps, sank onto his belly. “Trouble,” Tracker said.

“What kind?” There was nothing obvious to the eye.

“I don’t know. He can’t talk. He’s just doing his watch-out-for-trouble act.”

“Okay. Don’t cost anything to be careful.” We turned into a place that sold and repaired harness and tack. Tracker yakked about needing a saddle for a hunter of large beasts. I stood in the doorway watching the street.

I saw nothing unusual. The normal run of people went about their normal business. But after a while I noted that Sand’s smithy had no custom. That no smithery sounds came forth. He was supposed to supervise a platoon of apprentices and journeymen.

“Hey. Proprietor. Whatever happened to the smith over there? Last time we were here he did us some work. Place looks empty.”

“Grey boys is what happened.” He looked uncomfortable. Grey boys are imperials. The troops in the north wear grey. “Fool didn’t learn back when. Was into the Rebellion.”

“Too bad. He was a good smith. What leads regular folks to get into politics, anyway? People like us, we got trouble enough just trying to make a living.”

“I heard that, brother.” The tackmaker shook his head. “Tell you this. You got smithery needs doing, take your custom elsewhere. The grey boys been hanging around, taking anybody who comes around.”

About then an imperial strolled around the side of the smithy and crossed to a pasty stall. “Damned clumsy,” I said. “And crude.”

The tackmaker looked at me askance. Tracker covered well, drawing him back to business. Not as dumb as he appeared, I noted. Maybe just not socially adept.

Later, after Tracker expressed a desire to think on the deal the tackmaker offered and we departed, Tracker asked, “What now?”

“We could bring up Goblin and One-Eye after dark, use their sleeping spell, go in and see what’s to see. But it don’t seem likely the imperials would leave anything interesting. We could find out what they did with Sand and try to reach him. Or we could go on to the Barrowland.”

“Sounds the safest.”

“On the other hand, we wouldn’t know what we were headed into. Sand’s being taken could mean anything. We better talk it over with the others. Catalog our resources.”

Tracker grunted. “How long before that sutler gets suspicious? The more he thinks about it, the more he’s going to realize we were interested in the smith.”

“Maybe. I’m not going to sweat it.”

Oar is a city like most of substantial size. Crowded, Filled with distractions. I understood how Goblin and One-Eye had been seduced by Roses. The last major city the Company dared visit was Chimney. Six years ago. Since then it has been all the hard times and small towns you can imagine. I battled temptations of my own. I knew places of interest in Oar.

Tracker kept me on the straight line. I’ve never met a man less interested in the traps which tempt men.

Goblin thought we should put the imperials to sleep, give them the question. One-Eye wanted to get out of town. Their solidarity had perished like frost in the sun.

“Logically,” I said, “they would get a stronger guard after dark. But if we drag you down there now, somebody is sure to recognize you.”

“Then find that old boy who brought the first letter,” Goblin said.

“Good idea. But. Think about it. Assuming he had perfect luck, he’d still be a long way from here. He didn’t catch a ride like we did. No go. We get out. Oar is making me nervous.” Too many temptations, too many chances to be recognized. And just too many people. Isolation had grown on me out there on the Plain.