His passage was silent, not a snap of a twig to be heard, not a single bird flushed from cover. Tall ferns and tree limbs swayed in a breeze—not from the touch of the man who seemed to pass right through without brushing a thing. The Horse whickered and watched the traveler, his ears pricked forward.

“What does he see?” Jendara asked. She looked right at the traveler and . . . through him. Torne and Garroty chattered, oblivious to the newcomer.

Karigan narrowed her eyes and saw the traveler’s pale face, and two arrows sticking from his back. F’ryan Coblebay. He turned to her, still keeping pace with them. His mouth worked as if he were trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t hear words. He kept speaking until he passed through the shadow of a tall hemlock and disappeared.

The Horse champed the bit and sidestepped in a skittish way. Maybe he could hear the voice of the ghost.

Watch as she might throughout the day, Karigan saw no further signs of F’ryan Coblebay. What message had he been trying to convey? Jendara had asked, at one point, what it was she saw, or expected to see, in the woods.

“Just ghosts,” she said matter-of-factly. “A spirit follows me.”

Jendara frowned. The two men overheard, and while Garroty guffawed loudly, Torne growled. “I ought to cut your tongue out. Your superstitious talk won’t work with me.”

“You actually sound worried, Torne.” Tobacco juice slapped the road. Garroty wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you superstitious? You, a swordmaster and grown man?”

Torne glowered. “Of course not. Those Mirwellian fools brought it up first, and this Greenie is trying to make us nervous. Won’t work, Greenie, won’t work.”

Karigan shrugged. She had spoken plain truth which she believed Torne and Jendara must have sensed despite their protests, for they began searching the woods with their eyes, and their pace had picked up.

Garroty chuckled. “All of this plain living has gotten to you. Why, if you had stayed with the Talons a little longer, we could’ve taught you a few things.”

“We are comfortable where we are.” Now Garroty had managed to prickle even Torne. “As comfortable as we ever were in Sacor City. Why we were sent on this mission, we don’t know and will not question. What my lord wills, my lord receives, and time spent with the Talons has nothing to do with it.”

“You are infants lost in the woods,” Garroty said. “I bet your horses were stolen right from under you.” At Torne’s glower, he let out a great “Hah!” and, “I guessed right. And if you took that leather jerkin off, I bet I could count your ribs. Weapons and swordmasters indeed. You may survive in the court, but out here is where it counts.”

Karigan could nearly see the smoke pouring out of Torne’s ears. With a yawn, she listened closely as Garroty and Torne continued their debate.

“The problem with you Weapons,” Garroty said, scraping bristly hairs on his cheek, “is that you’re all honor and ceremony. Honor and ceremony may work in court and in battle, but it won’t do much good out here. Even the Blood Guard of Rhovanny leave the court once in a while to see what the world looks like.”

“Ceremony is deeply traditional among Weapons of the Order of Black Shields,” Torne said. “Ceremony instills discipline. Besides, who needs to know of the real world when the court is the real world? Jendara and I . . . well, our circumstances are special.”

“Ah, and if any of Zachary’s soldiers see you and recognize you, you’ll be hanged as traitors—at the least.”

“We aren’t traitors, Garroty.”

“I suppose that depends on who you work for, then. Zachary or his brother. But hear this, Swordmaster, Zachary is the one in power. He was the one named heir by his father, not Amilton, no matter the usual order of succession. What you’ve done is high treason, and if you get caught and strung up, you will be let off easy, I assure you. If I recall history, there was a traitorous Weapon named Saverill who was slowly tortured for weeks, and then chained to the prison tower for the vultures to feed on. He was still alive.”

“We know the consequences of our loyalties,” Torne said. “Tales of Saverill the Traitor were drilled into our memories when we were mere pledges at the academy. You don’t have to remind us.”

Garroty shrugged. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for fighting on behalf of the highest bidder, even if the stakes are a little high. What I am simply trying to say is that you, a Weapon whose honor and ideals go beyond payment, should make very sure the stakes are worth the price you may have to pay, and that you will succeed.”

“The stakes are worth it,” Torne said barely above a whisper, “and we will succeed.”

Another blob of tobacco juice hit the road in reply. The debate ended there.

The shadows of evening deepened, and the air became heavy with dew. Fireflies blinked, falling like flurries of light between the trees. Thrushes sang their evening songs, and as night descended, milky moonlight spilled into the woods. Torne led them off the road and into the clearing where they set up camp.

Karigan was thrown her usual hard chunk of bread, and was thankful as ever for the cache of food in her pockets given to her by little Dusty. The cache wouldn’t last much longer, and soon she’d go hungry again, unless she escaped. Her stomach grumbled as the scent of meat drifted from the mercenaries’ cookfire. Torne tossed pieces of dried meat into the stew pot.