Yshnim was very pleased with the fish that Ren caught. By the time Aien arrived back at camp ahead of Igbol, they had added the fresh fish to the stew and were sitting down circling a fire, bowls cradled in their ps.

  As he ate, hot stew dispelling the chill of morning, Aien watched the others. He caught a shared look between Igbol and Yshnim as the spearman filled his own bowl and wondered what it meant. Obviously it was about their conversation, but was Igbol signaling that it was serious? He hadn’t made it sound like that when they were speaking, but then again, Aien was the only one with a brown cloak in a camp of Armsmasters.

  “Ren,” Yshnim said when they were done eating, “since you were going on about how well you deal with cold, I’m assigning you to washing dishes duty.”

  Rolling her eyes, Ren stood up and set about collecting everyone’s bowls, spoons and the cooking pot before leaving for the ke.

  “Trystan. Aien. Get the beasts ready.” A tilt of Yshnim’s head told them off and both stood up, leaving Yshnim and Igbol alone around the fire.

  Though Aien was still to get his own mount, they had taught him how to care for a horse and even allowed him to ride alone around the camp when there was enough room. Trystan took Yshnim and Igbol’s mounts, while Aien made for Ren and Trystan’s.

  All of their horses were different hues of brown, dun and chestnut. They didn’t have a pack animal, instead distributing weight evenly and traveling light. One by one, he rubbed the horse’s snout to ensure they were calm, then saddled them, strapping the saddlebag tightly before moving for the reins and bit. They seemed to be well trained and plenty used to the road, accepting the mouthpiece without fighting back.

  Aien and Trystan had to wait for Ren to come back, so they stood there with reins in each hand. When she returned, they made for the road. Trees were few and far between there, so they didn’t have to guide the animals out individually.

  Ren and Trystan took the reins from him and Aien moved towards the Bdes. Igbol’s mount was the only one with a double saddle, so Aien had been riding with him all this time.

  “These beasts don’t scare you?” Yshnim asked, hooking a foot on the stirrup then mounting in one go.

  “No,” Aien answered.

  “Look at them. The muscles.”

  What is this about? Instead of looking, Aien mounted behind Igbol.

  “I suppose they could crack a man’s head open, but the first thing I’ve always heard about horses is to not stand behind them.”

  “They scare me,” said Yshnim. “Been riding one almost daily for half my life, but sometimes I take a better look and wonder what I’m doing. I don’t show it, so they can’t feel it, but I still find myself terrified, sometimes.”

  Willing her mount forward with a snap of the reins, Yshnim set their pace.

  It was around midday when they spotted a settlement up the road. Aien saw men working the fields at a distance, turning to see but too far to make out any detail. It wasn’t a rge city; a gathering of stone buildings surrounded by branching paths. A modest town without any outer wall for protection, though a pit had been dug around it, its shallowness gave the impression of a drainage ditch. A single watchtower stood close to the entrance.

  Their mounts at a peaceful walk, they approached the town.

  Ahead of them three guards were gathered. One raised a hand in salute, but none made any move to stop them.

  “It’s an honor to receive Armsmasters here,” one of the guards said, moving to follow them inside the town. “Can I ask what brings you here? Looking for someone?” Yshnim made to unmount, but the guard hurriedly added, “Oh no, please, there’s no need.”

  “We are here looking for work,” Yshnim said.

  “And to wait out winter if it’s rough for any of my friends,” Igbol said.

  The guard was pacing by Yshnim’s side, mostly hidden by her and her mount. Aien only caught glimpses of the young, long-nosed man.

  “I see, I see. Would you like me to take you to an inn?”

  “I appreciate the hospitality,” Yshnim answered.

  “Best in town?” the guard asked.

  “Something in the middle will be fine.”

  “Follow me, then. Sorry for the trouble, but the mayor will want to speak with you soon. We’ve had some issues with outsiders tely. I hope you understand, Armsmaster…?”

  “Yshnim. And you are?”

  “Sniffer. Not my real name, yes, but everyone calls me that. We’ve got at least thirty other Trystans here.”

  “I’m also Trystan,” Trystan said from behind.

  “Thirty-one.” Aien could hear the smile in Ren’s voice.

  The others continued making small talk on their way to the inn, but Aien was watching the town. The streets weren’t empty and there were shops open, but this was a quiet pce. From its size he’d be surprised if more than a thousand people lived there. Already, Aien wasn’t looking forward to a winter spent in a pce that didn’t even make it into any map. What would a squad of Armsmasters even do for these people?

  Riding behind Igbol, Aien more felt than heard his occasional ughter. When they stopped in front of a three-story wooden building — rger than he expected —, Igbol unmounted before Aien could.

  He caught Sniffer staring at him, an easy smile on his face. A moment looking at one another, and the guard nodded before turning back to Yshnim.

  I know, I don’t look the part.

  “Welcome to Shallow Pit, Armsmasters. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Shallow Pit?” Ren asked.

  “Inviting name, isn’t it? There’s a history to that, but it’s quite long and I’m afraid the mayor is waiting.” With one st nod to them, Sniffer moved away, leisurely hooking his spear behind his neck, arms over it.

  “Funny man,” Ren said as Igbol went inside to look for someone to take care of their horses.

  “Interested?” Yshnim asked.

  “Yes. I’m about to fall in love and abandon my future as an Armsmaster to live the peaceful wife life I’ve always wanted.”

  “Birthing little sniffers out into the world?” Yshnim prodded.

  Ren squinted. “Forget I said anything.”

  They had barely settled on their two rooms — one for the women and one for the men, and the innkeeper was kind enough to allow them to pull a third bed inside the men’s room so they didn’t have to share — when Yshnim appeared in front of the door, knocking to get their attention.

  “This mayor is quite fast. Come,” she said, leaving. Ren followed her down the corridor.

  “All of us?” Aien asked, finishing dragging his bed in position.

  “It’s part of the job,” Igbol expined, “Some Armsmasters are happy enough to act as sellswords. That’s not how we do things. Yshnim wants you to learn to deal with everything that might come up on the road, so you can always be of help.”

  The Second Bde stepped out of the room, white cloak trailing. Aien followed, Trystan coming behind and closing the door.

  When they got to the first floor, Aien noticed that they had left most of their weapons behind. Yshnim had the arming sword strapped to her belt, but had abandoned the whip-sword and the dagger. Igbol didn’t have his spear with him, only the single-edged dagger. Ren still had all of her bdes — rondel and parrying dagger. Looking behind him, Aien saw that Trystan didn’t have his spear either, or his shield, only a dagger that was apparently a st resource, as Aien couldn’t remember seeing him ever use it.

  Makes sense, Aien thought as they made for the street, following the messenger, don’t want the mayor to feel threatened.

  Aien kept his sword. Just a dagger felt like too little.

  Yshnim stayed ahead of them all the way, walking in step with the messenger.

  The mayor’s mansion was close to the town’s center square, which was itself nothing more than a round patch of hard-packed earth, an old rectangur stone building filled with windows from corner to corner. Though it was a mansion, there were plenty of buildings just as rge or rger in big cities. The mayor of this town was probably just as wealthy as a middle-css merchant in the Rift or in the capital.

  Inside, the first room was a well-furnished entrance hall. A set of stairs to the left led to the upper floor, where a servant was walking through, stopping to bow in their direction before continuing on. The messenger guided them straight towards a door in the right, where a long table had been set up in front of a lit hearth, despite the early hour. Rows of seats lined both sides of the table, and the mayor was waiting for them by the hearth.

  “Master Boros. The Armsmasters,” the messenger announced them.

  The mayor turned. He was a man in his forties or fifties, with a bck beard as long as his hair falling beyond his shoulders and over a nice dark-green cloak. Leaning to a walking stick for support, Boros approached, dragging a leg behind him. The ankle was bent at an odd angle, so the edge of his boots always scraped against the ground.

  An elbow to Aien’s side sent his eyes upwards, to stare at the round, smiling face of the mayor. Aien didn’t have to turn to see who it had been. Ren’s bright orange hair was peaking at his peripheral vision.

  “Welcome to Shallow Pit, Armsmasters,” Boros said, his voice carrying all the strength that his body did not, “A Fourth Bde? Well, you’re the highest I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yshnim Tram of the Armsmasters appreciates the hospitality, as well as all my friends,” Yshnim gave a curt bow before continuing, “This is Igbol, my trusted right arm, and these are Aien, Ren and Trystan, our recruits. But no need to ftter me, Master Boros. I am the lowest among the highest.”

  Boros winced and waved Yshnim’s sentiment off with familiarity, looking as if they had known each other for more than just a minute.

  “Whatever happens outside of Shallow Pit rarely matters to us, and forgive me for saying this to an Armsmaster, but there is no need to diminish your achievements. Igbol, yes? From the northern mountains?”

  Igbol nodded. “You recognize the name?”

  “I’ve done a fair share of reading in my time, and I liked to read about wars—I hope that doesn’t come off as insensitive to you—, so the Unan mountains and steppes are pces I often read about. Dreamed about going to those wars myself,” Boros gently spped his dead leg, “A child’s dream, but who doesn’t have those? For the longest time, I wanted to be an Armsmaster. One for the history books I would be, as the first to master the cane,” ughing, the mayor gestured and walked away. “Come, sit wherever you prefer. I’m sorry for the hearth, but the heat helps ease the pain. It’s colder by the window, if you prefer. Thank you for bringing them, Locen. I’ve heard the sweet bread is still fresh in the kitchen, would you ask to bring it to our guests? You can stay there afterwards. And have some yourself—this is an order.”

  The messenger — Locen —, bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  As they moved to get set, Aien whispered to Igbol. “Lowest of the highest?”

  “There is a Ninth Bde,” Igbol said, moving to sit at the right side of the table.

  What?

  Aien stood still for a moment, but seeing all of the others already picking their spot made him move again. He sat in the left side and close to the middle of the row. Trystan was closer to the hearth, while Ren and Igbol were on the right, their backs to the window. Ren blinked at him.

  Yshnim had followed the mayor all the way to the hearth. Boros had previously dragged his chair from the head of the table to almost in front of the fire. Yshnim picked the closest seat to his left and sat down like a soldier, back perfectly straight, arms to the side, arming sword on her p.

  “Can I ask what brings you here? I imagine Farhill, but a little off the way.”

  “We’re heading for Farhill, yes, but with the way we work, following these southern roads is faster.”

  “How so?” Boros asked, raising an eyebrow at Yshnim.

  “It’s hard not to spend months in a city, when there is so much to do. The rgest a town is the more used they are to Armsmasters, but I take pride in saying I help wherever I can. That’s how I was taught, and that’s how I expect my recruits to be.”

  “That will be much appreciated, Yshnim. A small town we are, but there is always some trouble.”

  The door was opened then, and a maid walked in pushing a cart, on top of which were two wooden trays with the sweet bread. She brought two fgons of wine as well, though the mayor hadn’t asked for them. One hot and spiced and the other cold. Aien and Trystan asked for the hot one, and Ren stared at them as if they were insane.

  “Has news of the river reached you on the road?” Boros asked.

  “The river?” Yshnim asked, a cup of wine halfway up to her lips.

  “There is a keep north of here,” Boros started expining, “where Viscount Card lives. A river passes by it, then continues west without approaching Shallow Pit. The issue is that the river flows from farther up north, where Viscount Dosan lives. Their families have been fighting over who owns it for ages, but it never caused much trouble to us, at least not until recently.”

  “What changed?” Yshnim asked.

  “The Marquess died old and senile. In his will, he left all his riches to his cousin, but there are two of them. So suddenly it’s not about the river anymore, but about everything around it as well, all the roads and cities and small towns like ours, and smaller vilges as well. Viscount Card cims he is the oldest, so the letter could only be talking about him, while Viscount Dosan reminds his older sibling that he was the one to move to the river first, so the Marquess was thinking about him when he wrote the words. The story goes that the man could follow a conversation until he fell ill, and then it took a fortnight for him to finish dictating it to a scribe.”

  “They’re going to war?” Trystan asked.

  I thought we were here only to listen.

  Yshnim said nothing about Trystan’s question and waited for the mayor to continue.

  “It looked like it, and we can’t know whether it will continue or not. Shallow Pit is a small town and our proximity to the keeps doesn’t seem to matter to the Viscounts when there are rger cities to care about—all north and east from here. Our taxes to Viscount Card were raised, both in coin and produce. Then there was an influx of men passing by to offer their services to the Viscount. One of our storehouses was sacked and rumor is it were the Viscount’s men—a stupid story, if you ask me, when we already pay him taxes, but then some men have taken to saying it was the other Viscount, as if he would care about Shallow Pit of all pces. The men have left only recently, leaving behind a series of fights and insults and missing stolen goods we can’t do anything about, but our restlessness continues. Poor Trystan Leatherer was murdered behind an inn and no one heard a thing. I’ve put the guards to patrolling the area, but everyone knows they’re not great fighters. The Duke himself is coming down to settle the matter and that’s probably the only thing that kept the two Viscounts from killing each other and commonfolk like us in the process. The tax collectors are coming and we received no news of it being reduced.”

  “Which Duke?” Igbol asked.

  “Duke Jori Gillbow. You happen to know him?”

  “By name only.”

  “I imagine some people are saying that the Duke’s way of settling this matter will involve killing one of the Viscounts,” Ren said.

  “Some are, yes, and I can’t say I don’t understand it. If that is the case, then the Duke will arrive with a small army.”

  “You said the tax collectors are coming?” Yshnim asked.

  “They should already have been here, but they’re not punctual men. Every time—and I swear by the gods High and Lesser, every time—they cause some trouble. We’ve never looked forward to their monthly visit, but with everything that’s happened…” Boros sighed, taking a long sip of his spiced wine, “Everyone is restless, and some people are very annoying when they’re restless. When the tax collectors come, can I send someone to get you?”

  Yshnim slowly nodded. “I believe I’ve made my stance clear: we’re here to help. I was thinking about patrolling around the area of that murder. Our white cloaks make us easy to see in the night, but it also sends a message.”

  “That will help the people sleep easier. Much appreciated. Speaking of white cloaks, I have noticed one of your recruits is cking his.”

  The mayor’s mentioning of him forced Aien to stare the man in the eyes. “I’ve joined recently, Mayor Boros. Since we’ve been on the road these past few months, we haven’t had the time to find me a cloak or a horse.”

  “The cloak has to be new,” Yshnim expined. “One of our traditions.”

  “I will gdly ask for your cloak and horse, young man. As part of your payment for helping us.”

  “Much appreciated,” Yshnim said standing up, “Aien will also sleep easier that way.”