After that, there was no question that Lissa would ride with the company.

The priestess healed all she could while the soldiers buried their dead, for whom there was no help. Pinch warned off Sprite from rifling their pockets by pointing out that the troopers would surely spit the little halfling if they caught him at it. "And I'll let them," the upright man added. "Get your booty from those two high lawyers."

"Waste of time-after all they was robbing her," the halfling groused while looting Ox and Lance. The slim pickings he got-a ring, two wallets, and a necklace- were commandeered by the troop sergeant.

"Pensions for the dead men's wives, you thieving terrier," said the windburned sergeant, as shallow a lie as any the halfling could have put up.

After fumbling and grousing about certain over-zealous hypocrites, Sprite gave up his booty. Still, when the halfling rejoined Pinch, Therin, and Maeve, his face was a bubble of unsuppressed glee. "What gulls! I could dine off them for weeks," he chortled. With a quick nod to his hand, the little rogue flashed a fistful of cut stones and worn coins. "Didn't think I'd let him have it all, did you?"

"Then we'll divvy up tonight," Pinch stated, as coolly matter-of-fact as if he'd just done the job. "Square splits for all." The other two, sorceress and bravo, nodded their agreement.

Sprite-Heels scowled but nodded too. He had better sense than to cross his partners so openly. "Tonight then," he muttered before scurrying away.

"Maeve-"

"I'll keep an eye on him," the witch assured before Pinch could finish his words. Slip-slopping through the mire, she was already falling in behind the halfling, her voice wheezing from the effort of talking while she rushed after. "Sprite, hold slow for me, dearie…"

Pinch watched the pair weave through the scattered packs of men, Sprite poking what he shouldn't at every chance. They played the roles they had played in many a throng, that of mother and child, old Corruption's family.

Then the cold-shock settled onto Pinch. The wet, the chill, and the grime stroked his bones with their ferocious touch and drew their cruel pale to his skin. Two troopers, one a pock-faced veteran who had spent his years raising malingering to a substantial art, the other a bull with a broad, flat nose smashed in a tavern brawl, had stoked up a fire for drinks, as troopers will do given any short stop. Pinch took Therin by the arm and led him toward the growing blaze.

"Pinch, what about her?" Therin whispered with a quick tilt of the brow toward the only woman at the circle-Lissa the priestess, already favored with a seat in the troopers' midst.

"We don't panic," the regulator whispered back, cheek to cheek.

Therin turned himself away, conspicuously trying to avoid her notice. "I saw her sign when she was working spells! She's one of the temple-"

"Stay that!" Pinch hissed. He pulled the man back around and pushed him forward.

The big rogue stumbled a little step forward and stopped. "But what's she doing here?" Therin's whisper was filling with panic.

"She's looking for a thief." The dig of an elbow got Therin moving again so that his terrified stare was not so obvious.

"Damned gods, she's made us!" he blurted. "You go first, Pinch."

"Stow it and get going, you fool. She's not made me, you, or anybody. The temple's sent out patricos to watch every road out of Elturel. She's fishing and, by damn, I'm setting her to the wrong catch."

"Uncle said, 'Never rob a temple.' Too many people get too interested. Get myself hanged all again, I will-"

"I told you to stow it, so clamp your flapping lips and play a dumb show." Pinch hissed one last time as he pulled Therin toward the camp circle. The old rogue couldn't stand such whining. Their lives were their lives, not given to them, not chosen for them. Therin had chosen to be a high lawyer and a rogue, and right now that meant taking the dues in full.

I won't snivel so, Pinch scornfully reminded himself, not while there are other choices to be made.

"Now let's get warmed up before we freeze." There was no bother to wait for an answer. The rogue sent Therin stumbling into the bunch with a firm shove from behind.

The cold shivers of the group, the tight banter of near death, and the swallowed scent of blood were an effective disguise for the pair. Nobody sat comfortably around the fire, so there was nothing to note when Therin sat himself opposite the priestess and tried to stare at her without staring from across the flames.

Cleedis didn't waste time with orders to bury the highwaymen. His men heaved the bodies into the brush, far from the stream, where their decay wouldn't pollute the water. The burials of their own, dug down into the muddy half-frozen soil, were ceremonies of brutal custom-the wrapping of the body, the sergeant's words, the file-by of those who lived-all done by passionless drill.

The work done, Cleedis came by the fire and stood in the sputtering warmth from the too-wet wood. His fur-lined robes were hitched up above the muck so that he was nothing more than a grotesque mushroom, a stem of two feeble legs that tottered under the bulging top of thick winter robes. "Put it out. We're leaving."

Cloaking their irritation behind dutiful yes-sirs, the two guards set to packing their kits. Therin, proudly clinging to the image that he was uncommandable, tore his gaze from the priestess. "Now? You've already wasted your light. You won't get a mile before dark."

"We're leaving. There may be more bandits about, but you can stay if you want," Cleedis offered, his hands spread in willingness.

"You best come with us, miss," said one of the two troopers, who'd been goldbricking till now. The pock-faced veteran touched his eye in a sign to ward off evil. "There's unblessed dead here and evil they was, to be sure. Ain't wise to sleep near 'em, what with them so recent killed. Sure to know they'll come for live folks in the night. 'Course, you being a priestess and all, this ain't no puzzle to you."

"Tyr's truth to all that," murmured his flat-nosed companion.

"Quit stalling, you two!" boomed the sergeant's baritone from across the glade. "Lord Cleedis wants us on the trail now, so get your arses in your saddles, if it would not be too much effort, gentlemen!"

With a flick of his thumb, Therin went off to get their horses.

"Get to work," bossed the pock-faced fellow when his companion gawked dully. The veteran reinforced the words with a kick of mud in the other's direction. While the flat-nosed fellow juggled the still-scorching pots into his haversack, the veteran snapped off his own rude gesture as soon as the sergeant's back was turned.

"Prig-faced jackass."

"Lost his sense of the trooper's life, has he?" Pinch's question hung with the air of casual conversation.

The veteran's wary weather eye, sensing the gray front coming, fixed on the rogue. "He's well enough, and a damn stretch better than you, magpie."

The words slid off Pinch's well-oiled conscience. "Least I don't make others dance to my jig."

"That may be and that may not. Your friends don't ride too far from you." Therin slogged back through the slush, leading two horses by their jingling reins.

"Only fools split their strength in the camp of the enemy." With a middle-aged man's grunt, Pinch got one foot into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. A snap of the reins moved him away from the fire.

"What was that all about?" the younger thief puzzled as he trotted up beside.

"Salt in the wounds and oil on the water, my aide-de-camp." The old fox grinned. "Never miss a chance to rile them up and make them think you're on their side. Right now he's testy, but maybe by Ankhapur that horse soldier won't snap back so hard."

Therin saw the message. "Friends in the right places, eh?"