Nights were safer for them than days in this camp, but every caution had to be strictly observed. Radstac peered closely at the line of gashed flesh. She had inflicted it and done so neatly. A cosmetic wound. It had served to fool the searching parties that were hastily mounted following the failed assassination of Weisel. Deo had pretended to be a scout, newly returned from the field and wounded by bandits. The Felk searchers had found Radstac tending to that very convincing wound. Then, during the ongoing commotion, the two of them had slipped away.

She snipped the stitches one by one, removed the bits of thread. Deo was admirably stoic about it. Nephew of Petgrad's premier he might be, but he was no coddled noble; so she had concluded some time ago.

"Radstac," he said when the last binding thread was cut. The wound had closed tidily. The light inside the tent was almost gone. They were shadows to each other, familiar hinted shapes. She had her ungloved hand to his chest, atop the healing slash.

"What is it?" she asked.

"We have to get out of here. Out of this camp."

"You don't want another shot at Weisel, then?"

"I do. I do. But I won't get it. Not now. He'll be guarded. It'll be impossible."

In truth this whole venture had been impossible, Deo's self-appointed quest to assassinate the Felk war commander. It was vastly improbable that they'd made it as far as they had. Deo's bolt had almost caught the general. Almost...

"I agree," she said.

"Then we must go."

She lifted her shoulders, a silhouetted fatalistic shrug. "That's a nice thought. But I don't think we can simply stroll our way out."

"No. We go out the way we got into this camp."

"By being Far Moved? And how do we convince one of those Felk wizards to accommodate us?"

Her hand was still to his bare chest. One of Deo's hands rose now and closed gently over her fingers. "I think we might find a willing accomplice."