“In the river.”

My oldest friend, fouled with blood! thought Larth. What would the numen of the river think of him and his people now?

“They’ll flow to the sea,” Po said. “I left no trace—”

“No! At least one of the bodies must have grounded on the riverbank.”

“How can you know that?”

“Vultures!” Larth could picture the scene—blood in the water, a corpse amid the rushes, the vultures circling overhead.

Larth shook his head. What a hunter the boy must be, to stalk and kill three men! And what a fool! Could the people afford to lose him? Could they afford to keep him? It was in Larth’s power to kill him, here and now, but he would have to justify his action to the others. More than that, he would have to justify the action to himself.

At last, Larth sighed. “I know everything you do, Po. Remember that!” He lifted the spearpoint from the youth’s throat. He let the spear fall to the ground. He turned away and went back to his place by the fire.

It might have been worse. If the boy had been such a fool that he killed only Tarketios, then the other two would surely have come after him, seeking vengeance. They would have taken the news back to their people. The knowledge that one of the salt traders had done such a thing would have spread. The consequences and recriminations could have continued for a lifetime, perhaps for generations.

As it was, only the numina along the trail would know, and the river, and the vultures. And Larth.

He gazed at the fire and wished, more fervently than he had ever wished before, that Fascinus would appear to him that night. Fascinus could put in his mind the proper thing to do. But the fire died to darkness, and Fascinus did not appear.

It would never appear to him again.

That night, except for the vultures, whose gullets were stuffed with carrion, the little island in the river was deserted.