“You, there!” The call was sharp and peremptory. Skarnu turned. Aconstable was pointing at him. “Aye, you, bumpkin. What are you doing here?”

If he was trying to panic Skarnu, he failed. For all the world asif he were nothing but a bumpkin, the marquis jingled coins in his pocket. “Soldsome eggs,” he answered. “Now I’m heading home.”

“Well, go on, then,” the constable growled. He might not havecaught hold of foes of the Algarvians, but he had exercised his pettyauthority. That was enough to satisfy him.

Skarnu hurried out of Tytuvenai. He breathed easier once he wasout in the countryside. Most people on the roads outside the towns looked likefarmers--which made sense, because most of them were farmers.

He wondered how the Algarvians had got word of the meeting theirenemies were having. Someone betrayed us. The thought was inescapable.And everyone who’d sat around that table now knew what he looked like and nearwhich village he lived. If the Algarvians caught his comrades and squeezedthem, would they send a company of soldiers--or a couple of officers and acompany of Valmieran constables--looking for him on the farms round Pavilosta?In their boots, he would have. That worried him more than anything.

“Come on!” Sergeant Pesaro boomed to the squad of Algarvianconstables he led west from Gromheort. “Keep moving! You can do it!”

Bembo lifted off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead withhis other sleeve. “Fat old bugger,” he grumbled. “Why doesn’t he have anapoplexy and fall over dead?”

“He’s not even as fat as he used to be,” Oraste said.

“I know.” Bembo didn’t like that, either, and wasn’t shy aboutsaying why: “It’s all this fornicating marching we’re doing. Powers above, evenI’m starting to get skinny.”

“Not so you’d notice, you’re not,” Oraste answered, which madeBembo send him a wounded look and tramp along for some little while in silence.