The morning sun was barely visible over the outer walls when Ethan stepped out of the keep, giving his shoulders that specific shake that settled the lorica squamata about him. Scales scraped across one another in a muted, but noticeable rasp. Good craftsmanship was like that.

  He tightened his belt, lightly touching the hilt of the Gladius hanging from it. With eight inches of grip topped with two feet of blade it was a convenient size for moving about. Not what he’d prefer to use on a battlefield, but then there were many types of battlefields. He considered sending for his lance again, then regretfully didn’t. Again.

  Old habits. A few strides took him to the front of the stable where his mare waited, saddled though without the chest plate and scale skirt she’d wear in battle.

  He leaned against her, speaking softly of nothing while he ran his hands through her mane just the way she liked. Then offered her a bit of apple he’d snagged on the way out. It was a withered specimen from the previous year’s harvest, but she didn’t mind. Crunching happily into the less-than-firm fruit.

  A life lesson, perhaps. He shook off the overly maudlin thought and took a small bite out of a twist of jerky, his own breakfast on the move. He glanced around the courtyard, trying to stifle a yawn. He’d been up long enough to see the stars in their full glory dance across the sky. The opportunity to pick the good baron’s mind was far too valuable to turn down. Or in.

  It was a damn good thing his Body stat was in the twenties and it would take several such nights to significantly exhaust him. But that didn’t stop his body from speaking its displeasure.

  His body could stuff it.

  His mind was still sharp. Sharp enough to notice that the courtyard was a bit more crowded than expected. While he’d expected, and in fact ordered, the four Lancers in shiny new lorica segmentata to join him for the day, their tier 1 heavy chargers weren’t the only horses saddled and waiting.

  A pair of simple war horses, well fed, muscled and cared for but several hands smaller, waited beside a beautiful dappled palfrey with a side saddle.

  He paused and gave it a second look. Damn, but that was a fine piece of horseflesh. Dainty, but with lines that spoke of grace and speed. It pranced briefly in place with all the grace of a tier 1 beast, though of a completely different line than the chargers.

  A wealthy lady’s mount and a pair of mid-level guards. Skilled enough to keep up, but not mounted on horseflesh of any great quality. You could tell a lot about a man from his mount.

  It wasn’t just size either, he reflected and held in a chuckle. When your life depended on a mount, the wise spent accordingly. And trained accordingly as well.

  These were geldings from the local stud. Serviceable enough animals, but they shied away at a snort from the chargers. Not war-trained then. Mounted infantry rode those sorts of horses. Good enough to get you there, then proceed to fight on foot.

  He would not be riding with the baron this morning. As to which lady he would be riding with, that he’d have to wait and see.

  At least it wasn’t a long wait. The keep’s double doors swung open vigorously, followed quickly by the Baron's emergence. He was smiling brightly, his lined face nearly cherubic with good humor and health despite the late evening.

  A lady he’d seen at the high table the previous night appeared behind him. She was attired in a simple light brown summer dress. Embroidered with small white flowers about the hem and mid forearm length sleeves, it likely said as much about her as the horses did about her men. Though it was a language he wasn’t fluent enough to read.

  The cloth appeared thick and of a fine, regular weave. Linen not wool. Both expensive choices, fit for hot days and travel. The neckline rose nearly to her chin. Businesslike. But it was no simple sack. The waist was gathered tightly and the torso showed careful tailoring. Its lines making the best of her, hmm, subtle curves. And of her tall, slender but fit shape too.

  The high neck extended outward like a vase, framing her triangular face and sharp cheekbones. Muting her over large eyes and slightly too small mouth. A generously patrician nose grabbed for attention while a full head of clean, straight waist-length brown hair was braided tightly back but still peaking free of a lace coif.

  Not the most beautiful woman he’d seen. Not by a good bit. But she was no dog either. And for all that she held herself well. Confident. Assertive.

  That small mouth was drawn up in a severe smile. Polite, but with no interest or tolerance for nonsense. Though if it be by intent or nature he couldn't say. Time would tell, no doubt.

  A few stomping steps brought the Baron to a polite 10 feet of distance. "Baronet! I trust you slept well? Good, good. Now, I know I said I'd show you the fief today, but our talk did drag on. You wouldn't mind a substitute to give these old bones a rest?"

  A doubting side-eyed glance from what could only be his daughter matched Ethan's feelings precisely. Not that either of them would call the not-that-old man on it.

  "Instead, let me offer you a much better companion for the road. This is my eldest daughter Ermina. She deals with much of the day-to-day oversight of the town and surrounding villages these days anyway. Come daughter, I know you saw him at dinner last night, but let me make known to you Baronet Ethan of Alfwin Pass. War hero and Strategos. You might recall his name from your brother’s messages, yes? Excellent! Well then, don't let me keep the two of you."

  With a smile that was just short of villainous, the man gave them both a jaunty wave before turning and darting back inside, the doors booming closed behind him.

  Ethan shrugged and placed a closed fist gently to his chest. "Lady Ermina, I'd be honored if you would consent to be my guide. I am excited to see a bit of what is no doubt a wonderfully managed fief. And perhaps learn a bit of how it became such."

  She shot him a considering look before dipping slightly, her own closed fist raised to her heart, then extended outward. "Of course Lord Ethan. While my father will have his jokes, I would be honored if you’d join me on my morning rounds."

  Ethan easily took and kissed the back of her offered hand, before stepping to the side of the palfrey and offering her his clasped hands. With a nod, she stepped into them and was quickly boosted into the side saddle, her leading knee hooked around the gentle saddle horn of the mostly leather construction.

  A comfortable seat, no doubt, but without the reinforced wooden framing that allowed a man to thrust a spear from it without flying off. He wondered how one could stay on such a thin pad. How could you balance without gripping the horse between your legs? Not well, he mused. At least not on any kind of slope or at anything beyond a gentle walk. Or, he reflected wryly, a correspondingly high level of skill.

  Seeing her seated, and two guards in lorica hamata, sleeves and a knee-length skirt of chain included, half covered by a belted tabard in the Barons colors, Red and gold quartered with a lance over a ripe sheaf of grain, placed a hand on top and vaulted up, stomach down over their saddles, before rolling over and upright.

  A bit roughly, he mused. Without the grace he'd expect from a body stat in the 2nd tier. No, Tier 1 and indeed used to fighting on foot. Not that he undervalued them for all of that. They were experienced men, with the scarred hands of a practicing swordsmen, along with eyes that darted about and missed little.

  Perhaps more telling, those gazes didn't overlap much. With each of them instinctively breaking up the area into individual zones of control. It took a great deal of practice to pull that off. Even more to make it a habit.

  His own escort, though he'd back any one of them against both men in a fight, lacked that focused perception.

  Bodyguards then. And good ones.

  He mounted his mare with an easy jump, tying his helmet to the saddle before his hand habitually checked the much larger cavalry spatha strapped beneath his left leg, fully three feet of blade with a grip that could fit both hands, though balanced for just one. Its flattened disk-shaped pommel was smooth and fit easily against the base of his hand. He eased an inch out of its sheath before sliding it back into place.

  He glanced back to find his Lancers mounted and with their named weapons raised to the sky, butts braced in the lance cup to the front left of their saddles and a quiver of horsemen’s pilum, sometimes called javelins, balancing the weight on the right.

  Confirming their readiness, he glanced back to Lady Ermina to find her giving him and his men a similarly probing glance. He wondered what she saw with her civy eyes. Though no noble, woman or not, could truly be called a civilian. If she didn't have a skill for the delicate-looking long poignard hanging from her belt, he'd eat it. And for all it was a pretty little thing, it could still kill.

  "If the Lady will lead the way?" He offered, right hand extending in a gentle wave.

  She nodded easily and, with a light click of her tongue, set out. First down the steep ramp, easily holding her seat with grace and elegance and then through the already opened gate, its guards offering respectful salutes, and into the kill zone of an open courtyard before entering the town proper.

  Ethan brought his mare up beside her, enjoying the brisk morning, even if he could do with a bit more light. The ground was more shadow than sun, despite it being above the horizon by now.

  Tall walls and buildings to all sides conspired to keep it at bay, leaving only the dim blue glow to light their way.

  Despite the early hour they were far from alone. Already, the streets were beginning to bustle with morning traffic. Carts with fresh vegetables, eggs and livestock were parked beside butchers and grocers while kitchens served out the ever-present puls. Large pots of barley and milk, not the fancy version they'd had the previous evening. That, along with sheets of flat bread, thin slices of hard cheese and piles of olives were the standard for breaking the fast. He leaned casually from the saddle and offered two silver drachma to a vendor, then gestured to the men behind him. He raised an eyebrow in invitation, but Ermina shook her head.

  He shrugged and gave the man both silvers anyway. He was overpaying, but a bit of generosity was a far better look than the opposite. With a smile and a grateful salute, the man quickly tore a double hand-sized piece of flat bread from the sheet, wrapped it around a chunk of cheese and a dash of seasoned olive oil with the olives still in it before handing it Ethan. Then another just like it to each Lancer.

  Eating one handed with lances propped up in the other elbow took skill, but his men handled it easily, to a growing concerned look from the Lady's guards.

  Smart men.

  Several large blocks later, Lady Ermina drew her palfrey to the side, gesturing briefly, inviting Ethan to follow, though for the guards to stay back. An older woman, grandmotherly even, her back bent slightly beneath the years and worries that lined her face. It was a face with a great deal of personality and no small bit of history. She was well dressed in locally spun fabrics. Clean in a way that wasn’t common for city folk, but not unheard of either and while she leaned on a cane, it looked more for comfort and because it was expected of her than necessity. She stood beside a staircase leading from a weavery below to the residences above.

  “Ealdorman Valeria, I trust the morning finds you well?”

  “Indeed Milady. Quite well.” She gave Ethan a hesitant look.

  A look Ermina ignored. What followed was 10 minutes of what Ethan could only call gossip. Husbands who got into fights. A wife caught cheating. A man who beat his wife only for her brother to nearly stave in his head, only to be beaten in turn by his own sister, screaming about her children starving without a father to feed them.

  As they finally rode away, Ethans eye was caught by a Lancer Aetius, he touched his ear casually, then an even more casual negation.

  Huh. Private conversation? A useful skill.

  He glanced at the lady but when she offered no comment, he merely continued to walk his horse beside her. She stopped three more times for such quick chats, never lingering overlong, but neither did she hurry or cut short the meetings.

  Ethan could hold it in no longer. “What do you do with such… information Lady?”

  “Gossip, you mean, Baronet? What do I do with the gossip?”

  “Well.” He coughed awkwardly, then shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Very little, in fact. To put it in terms you might understand, there is a, or something very like it, a chain of command here. Ealdormen are expected to deal with the issues within their buildings. So long as the issues don’t step beyond the common law.”

  Intrabuilding disputes are worked out by a council of the involved Ealdormen. If they can’t work it out, or the crime is serious, then a Bailiff will hear it. If the Bailiff finds it necessary to escalate, there is the Reeve.”

  “As the representative of my Father, but not his voice, I am not in that chain. Unless something is drastically wrong, I should not act. And while my father would not gainsay me on such a small issue, it’s unnecessary. If we trust the men and women we appointed, let them do their job. If we do not, then remove them promptly and find someone new.”

  “And yet you spend time listening?”

  “Yes, and all involved know I do. A noble must keep the pulse of their town. To feel its currents and the state of morale. He or she must have several methods, several chains where information, and yes, gossip may travel. And those Reeves and bailiffs, knowing that their liege knows, will not fail to act. Hopefully responsibly.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  That… that made sense. Trust but verify. The term floated up as many such odd terms did. He considered it for a moment, then let it be.

  “And how often do you personally make these checkups?”

  “Several times a week, though along different routes. It amounts to once a month or every other month for each of them. Never consistently on the same day or time. Irregular check-ups are more effective. A runner informed those I wished to speak with to make themselves available. And-” She broke off, staring ahead. “This, Baronet, might prove more interesting for you.” She gestured with her chin to the next waiting elder.

  He was indeed elderly, but not to the extent of the others. His hair more grey than white, his face lightly lined and his back unbent. But his hands were white knuckled and shaking slightly while his face sported an unnatural and unpleasant chalky paleness.

  They drew rein in front of the clearly anxious man. “Ealdorman Bran. You do not look well.”

  “Milady.” He saluted, then sighed. “I… well, I’d best tell you myself. My son Bultan killed a man while in his cups in the early hours of this morning.” The statement came out bluntly, but the eyes above it seemed to die just that little bit more with the admission.

  Lady Ermina stared at him. Neither judgmental nor forgiving. She merely waited. And he did not disappoint.

  “We’ve… that is I’ve seen the Bailiff already and the blood price will be paid. But…” His hands waved, aimlessly for a moment, then dropped limply to his side. “He’ll see to the widow and the orphans as is custom. I’ll make sure of that.” Ethan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

  They spoke for a few more minutes, but little of it of new.

  As they rode away Ethan asked. “Do I understand that this murderer is to get a flogging and pay a bit of coin in exchange for a life?”

  She looked at him for a moment, then chuckled softly. “This is not a military camp, Lord Ethan. What do you suppose is the purpose of law and custom?”

  He snorted. “That’s a trap if I’ve ever seen one. I’ll not make a fool of myself by stepping in it. By all means, educate me.”

  She nodded. “The point is stability, Lord. Prosperity. With one man dead, his children and wife are in danger of dropping into severe poverty. Desperation causes thievery and crime, where starvation doesn’t lead to disease. Should I kill another father to make it worse? Neither the living, the town nor the taxes thereof will be the better for it.”

  “That… is a might cold. Does not a lack of proper punishment cause more crime?”

  “And who is to say it isn’t a proper punishment? Feeding and housing another set of mouths, forced to see the heartache and loss you caused every day. This is no small punishment. If he was an affluent tradesman before this, he will become a much poorer one from now on. If not from the blood price, then from residuals.”

  “And he is not the only one punished. His father too will lose his position over this. A pity as he showed true promise. Between his skills, ambition and the Ealdorman rider, he had a real chance at making the 2nd tier, and another 25 years of life.”

  She glanced at Ethan, then emphasized. “Had.”

  That… well, there was a lot more thought given than what was apparent on the surface. But for a town where neighbors could and would see to continuous enforcement… indeed not a light sentence. He’d be paying for it for a long time. Just so long as he didn’t continue on the same path and force a further, perhaps final punishment.

  He mentioned as much.

  “After his stripes heal, and that will not be quick, he’ll find it quite hard to get anything harder than posca. When a crime is committed on vino, it is a sign that one is unworthy of the beverage.”

  Ethan nodded. Not that you could keep any man fully away from the sauce. If he wanted it enough, he would find a way. But not for cheap.

  “If the elder has so much potential, will you act to save him?”

  “No Lord Ethan. As I said, I will not undercut the Bailiff's authority. But even were that not an issue, I would still not act. All actions have consequences. And those consequences lie on those closest to us as much as us. For the good, both money and class can be improved for the next generation. But for the bad, they can also be lost. It’s incumbent on one to act wisely.”

  They rode quietly for a time while he mulled it over. It wasn’t a new concept. The choices he made did not die with his father. Ethan had inherited more than just the Band. He’d inherited a number of enemies with it.

  And yet, now that 4 generations of work were coming to fulfillment, more than ever he could not afford to ignore it. His choices would resonate, forming the foundation on which his new house was to be built.

  He snorted softly. Then again, so long as that house existed for his choices to resonate, he would have done rather well!

  He let it go, paying more attention to the road and the people around them as they approached the gate. Approached and passed through with little more than a salute and a wary eye for the Lancers.

  He wondered if a few extra men wouldn’t have joined her if he hadn’t been here. With a father on the edge of war, he couldn’t imagine the daughter could casually ride out so lightly guarded. A thought that had him untying his helmet from the saddle and putting it on.

  It wasn’t the most pleasant thing to wear for long periods. But you only had to be caught without it once to not have to worry about discomfort ever again.

  They rode for most of an hour inland to a farming hamlet, discussing the fields and state of the roads as they passed. She laid out easily who was responsible for maintaining what, and by what proceeds it was done, along with a litany of things to watch out for. From undermaintained irrigation ditches to worn fences and off colored leaves that might foretell the presence of insects or infections.

  It was an educational ride and he couldn’t help but be impressed with the scope of knowledge she had at her fingertips. A thought that warmed him somewhat as they at last made a seemingly solitary palisade wall sticking up through a sparse forest of much shorter orchard trees. Apricots, pomegranate, quince and olives abounded on all sides. Enough so that, at Lady Ermina’s urging, he leaned out of the saddle and picked several apricots. The other fruit taking more time or preparation.

  They were delicious. He’d had them dried with fair frequency, but fresh was a rare treat.

  Not that they were bad dried, he was quite partial to them in fact. But fresh was indeed better.

  But alas, work called. Once inside the palisade Ermina quickly occupied the central office. A fortified stone building that housed both the granary, store rooms, several of the baron's guards and the hamlet's records.

  Records that Ermina checked over quickly while the Ealdorman gave her the local gossip and the guard Decurion soon after offered the same.

  The same information, for the most part, though the two’s scope and social circle were substantially different.

  Still, it was not a long stop before they were in the saddle and heading back the way they came. Though not quite by the same road he was pleased to note. It was never good to be predictable. He checked the spatha under his leg again and glanced backwards.

  In time to see a Lancer tightening his chin strap while another checked the fit of a pilum in its quiver. Ethan nodded. Something… it didn’t feel right. Birds spooked, odd sounds, a particular sort of quiet. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  But there was something and he’d not lived this long by ignoring such. “Fall back a bit, if you please Lady Ermina.” He offered softly, acting on his own words as he waved two lancers forward.

  A bodyguard was quickly on either side of her as shields previously strapped to their mounts were in hand with a speed that could only be a skill.

  And that spooked them into launching the ambush far earlier than planned.

  A flight of arrows leapt free even as Ethan and the lancers kicked their horses into a gallop. Dropping the chin down to angle their helms, he blessed himself for not giving in to comfort as an arrow deflected off the solid iron with an angry whine.

  He heard the rattling hiss of others deflecting off armor and a meaty thunk one at least one arrow that did not. Horse flesh. He let out an angry oath.

  But it wasn’t enough. With the number of men in front of them, there should have been more hits. Armor or horses. A grunt from behind him and the sound of a body hitting the road explained why and left his stomach in knots of fear, while his teeth were grit in rage.

  If the Lady had one scratch on her, he’d crucify the lot!

  A dozen black cloaked men had appeared from beside the trees ahead. A small rolling hill beside the road, topped with apricot trees, was their chosen site and a log was already rolling down that hill towards the road.

  A glance at the hill told him all he needed to know. Interwoven tree roots and soft loamy soil. A broken leg for a horse and no mistake.

  Poor fools. They thought this was enough protection?

  Then the first flight of pilum flashed out, driven not just by the arms of tier 2 Lancers, but by the momentum of their mounts. Weapons designed to penetrate shields and mail went right through leather jerkins, flesh and halfway into trees or soil.

  Men screamed in surprise and fear when four of their members went down in moments. Three pined to trees like some morbid bug collection.

  “Aeitius high guard!” He barked, kicking his leg and dismounting at a run, spatha in hand. “Chlodwig, Alaric with me!”

  Head lowered and trusting in his armor, he did not slow. Taking several arrows, but only shifting his head to the side once as an arrow, luck more than skill with how poorly these varlets were shooting, came near the T-shaped slit in his helm. Then he was among them, sword licking out to remove a hand holding a dagger before his lowered scale-clad shoulder struck and flung another rolling.

  It was hot work for several seconds as his blade licked out in an economical back hand to slice the back of a knee, then forward in a thrust that just put the tip an inch through a throat, then a side-stomping kick to shatter a knee, followed quickly by a quick thrust through his heart.

  Then it was still, except for a few moans and a distant runner, quickly pinned to the ground by a thrown pilum.

  “Clear!” “Clear! “Clear!” Three voices broke out, nearly on top of one another. With a flick of his wrist, Ethan splattered accumulated blood from his blade, then bent to rip a cloth tunic from under a leather jerkin.

  Leather armored tier 1 archers. He kicked a dagger from an unmoving hand and picked up a gladius that another had sported; he refused to say ‘used’ with the lack of skill involved.

  That against plate and scale armored tier 2 war veterans. The results were never in doubt. But if they’d lamed a horse, it was worth more than the lot of them! And the lady- he glanced backward and released a breath of relief.

  He pointed to the side. “Grab the live one, Chlodwig.” His second target, the man lay gasping breathlessly on the ground, broken ribs possibly. Or if he was lucky just had the breath knocked out of him.

  Ethan was betting on the first. He was not a small man, and add in 30 pounds of armor… No, the scum’d not come out of that collision anything but broken. And in for a penny - “Feel free to break an arm if he gets froggy. Get me what you can from him.”

  “Milord.” He acknowledged, slamming a somewhat blood-spattered fist, his left fist with his right still holding a considerably more blood-drenched spatha, to his chest.

  He wiped his own blade clean, or as clean as he could manage without oil and a whetstone, while walking back to the road. One of the Lady’s bodyguards was on the ground with three arrows sticking out of him.

  That was a problem with Hamata. Bodkins could slip through the links. It wasn’t completely useless, having limited the penetration by a good bit, but there was still at least an inch inside the man. He was damn lucky the fall hadn’t driven them deeper. The arrows in his leg and arm were debilitating, but not immediately dangerous. No, it was the stomach wound that was worrisome.

  Ethan walked over, unimpressed, though too polite to comment, then glanced down and did a double-take. A shield lay on the ground, not beside the man where it should have fallen, but several feet over to the left, with a broken-off arrow shaft stuck in it.

  Stuck on the inside.

  Huh. Damn. He stood corrected. That was a damn good man.

  The lady he’d given much, and might indeed have given everything to protect, was leaning over him. Bandages from a saddlebag and a small, uncorked pot of some yellow paste as well. Her stern face was marked with both fear and genuine concern as she knelt uncaring in the mud.

  She stared at the man, eyes wide and breathing shallow. Staring at the gut wound and hesitation. She shook her head and leaned down to sniff, before sitting back on her heels with a bleak look in her eyes. She glanced at her other guard and gave the slightest of head shakes, her hand dropping towards the blade at her hip.

  “I’m sorry Harold.”

  Damn. Now that was a fine woman. No whining, no railing against fate. Merely ready to do what she must.

  And yet. He placed a hand on her shoulder gently, grimacing slightly as it left more blood stains on the already soiled cloth. “If he can survive the hour, there is a chance.”

  “The bowels are open and without magic Lord-” She bit out gruffly. He’d die. Ethan didn’t have to wait for that explanation. An open gut was a death sentence. And a long, painful sentence at that. Without magic.

  “You did not make the acquaintance of my brother, Magister Blake last night, Lady Ermina. He’s not much of one for parties but is an accomplished war Magister. He’s dealt with many a worse wound. This I can attest with firsthand experience.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, and light began to shine. “How do we…” She mused looking around.

  Ethan nodded. “Bandage what you can so he doesn’t bleed out. Then put him upright in his saddle. A man to either side to hold him there. Then we ride. Speed is his only chance, even if it makes the wound worse. If he has even a thread of life left in him when we get there, he’ll live.”

  She breathed out and looked down at the pain-pinched, but hopeful man. Good, he’d need that drive, because they weren’t out of the woods yet. An hour on a bouncing horse. He hoped he hadn’t neglected his body stat.

  She nodded, and with a sharp grunt, snapped the arrow shaft, leaving the head in the wound. A bundle of bandages, lightly coated in the yellow paste, were slid under the armor and bound around the shaft, then a further strip was placed outside the armor, tightly holding the bundle in place. The lady wrapped and tightly bound the arm and leg as well. Far more firmly than was safe, honestly. It would stop the bleeding better, but he could lose the limbs if it was left that way. Unwise, if you didn’t have a Magister’s healing coming.

  With it? He’d either die or be healed. Losing a limb was the least of his problems.

  They lifted him back into the saddle nearly five minutes later. “Chlodweg?”

  “We’d get better back at camp, Milord.” He offered quietly, though the side-eyed glance from Lady Ermina told him it wasn’t quiet enough. Probably another skill.

  “We don’t have an extra horse and yours even has an arrow in its shoulder.”

  “Shallow milord, and she’ll go the distance still!” He protested. He’d always been damn proud of that horse. For good reason, Ethan allowed. It was a fine animal and he prayed that it too would survive the coming ill treatment.

  “I know, but I won’t put an extra body of weight on her. Nor on the rest of us, either. Speed and her man alive is more important. Whatever you got will have to do. So?”

  “Snatchers, the lot of them out of the adventures guild in Caberheim with a pocket full of shiny newly minted silvers, Obstrgartenfeld minted silvers, each.”

  “Employer?”

  “Masked, just a dead drop a day east. There’s a raft on the irrigation canal back that away.” He gestured to the south.

  Plans within plans. The Baron had several children, three daughters and two sons still living. Losing her would not affect the succession. Now, a father’s love was a lever but who wished to wield it here? The marked silvers were far too obvious. You didn’t go to the trouble of dead drops and masks to announce yourself with a marked silver.

  It could be the duke didn’t care. But just as possible, the Count of Auenland wanted the baron to burn his bridges. Or a dozen minor noble enemies in between.

  Either way, he wasn’t going to figure it out now. “Did you clean up after yourself?”

  “Aye Milord.” He patted his bulging purse and hefted a bag made from a former smock. A somewhat blood-soaked smock.

  “Good. Then we’d best hurry.”

  They mounted and set out at a canter. Pushing the horses a good bit, but interspersed with sections of walking where all but the lady and the wounded man dismounted and ran beside the horses.

  Ethan barked commands at each transition. Pulsing his buffs to both men and horses, though only his own unfortunately. They made far better time, but he looked at Harold and wondered at each mile, would it be enough? It depended on him. Could he hold on?

  Then a series of whistles rang out. Ethan's head snapped up and spotted the distant tower of the keep. Maybe 10 minutes out at a gallop. Ethan glanced to the side. Harold was still breathing. A minute later, a pair of lightly armored scouts trotted up, fresh mounts on a string behind them. They switched nearly at a run, A lancer lifting Harold from the saddle bodily, then placing him on a new one.

  Then they were off again, the scouts left behind, slow walking the exhausted horses.

  They might need their own healing; they might not. An additional cost, but not one he begrudged. He glanced aside at Lady Ermina’s pale, slightly pinched face. She wasn’t used to this. Riding for speed and distance was a far cry from a casual day’s trot or walk. But she hadn’t asked for breaks nor complained.

  Not once. He found himself more and more happy with the Baron's choice. This one, she was fit to climb a mountain beside.

  A minute later, two decades of Lancers fell in around them and for the first time in an hour and change, he allowed himself to relax.

  He’d been through harsher and far deadlier ambushes. But there was something about having an unarmored lady at his back that left him more than merely nervous. Especially this lady.

  Blake was waiting at the camp's entrance, healing ritual on the prepared round plank panels behind him. Harold was hauled from the saddle, nearly comatose with pain, but still holding on to that last bit of reason. Tough SOB. A good man indeed.

  As the green lights of the ritual began to glow, he moved to stand beside the Lady. She was much too well trained to do something so obvious as to wring her hands, but they were fisted and trembling slightly in the cover of her sleeves. A few moments passed, and she sighed. “Harold and Arnold have watched over me since I was in the cradle. Harold caught me when I fell off my first pony. He’s… important to me.”

  He nodded softly, but offered no opinion. He had no small number of such men. Or for that matter, he glanced to the side and spotted Conner chatting with Chlodwig, men who’d taught him as much as his father had before that worthy passed on.

  He stood beside her, waiting, while behind them messengers scuttled off like ants from a disturbed hill.

  ___