That night, mage-hunters tried to sneak into the camp. Two were caught, and one killed.
“We can’t deal with this from here,” Arcolin said. “We’re going to have to go into Fintha and link up with the Marshal-General’s people … For one thing, that’s who the gnomes want to work with.”
“Gnomes!”
Arcolin looked at the Royal Guard captain, and he subsided. “We didn’t need them yesterday. We outnumbered the mage-hunters, and as you noticed, we outnumber them more now. But we need to clear a defensible area where the fugitives—these and any others we find—can live in some safety. Ideally, we’d start with vills that border Tsaia—as a buffer—and then work toward the west. And we don’t have an idea how many of the people are in which camp, for that matter. I wonder if the Marshal-General does.”
Blank looks from the others.
“Never mind. We’re going to take these people home and see what we have to work with.”
“Home?”
“Their vill. Where their houses are. And we’re going to get their livestock back, and their other possessions if we can.”
Two days later, the villagers were back in their homes and the mixed cohort was camped in one of the fields. Stray sheep and goats had been brought back in.
“They’ll come again,” Dorthan said.
“I hope so,” Arcolin told him. “We will be here.”
On the fourth day, a large group of mage-hunters appeared, perhaps a third of them mounted, led by a man in a Marshal’s tabard.
“Your Marshal?”
“He was,” Dorthan said. “He’s not my Marshal now.”
“What’s his name?”
“Coben,” Tamis said.
Arcolin rode out toward the approaching mob.
“You there!” the Marshal said. “Magelord of Tsaia—you don’t belong here!”
Arcolin laughed. “Marshal Coben,” he said. “The one who does not belong here is a traitor to Gird, an oathbreaker.”
“I’m not the oathbreaker. That woman in Fin Panir—”
“You mean the Marshal-General?”
“That woman in Fin Panir, who should never have been a Marshal, let alone Marshal-General—she is the oathbreaker.”
“Not according to Gnarrinfulk,” Arcolin said. “The Gnarrinfulk prince believes she has broken no oaths but your kind has … you have trespassed on gnomish lands—”
“Only to kill mages. We haven’t hurt anything.”
“You spilled human blood on gnome land. You broke Gird’s own oath to Gnarrinfulk, that humans would never trespass. To Gnarrinfulk, you are kteknik—outlaws—for breaking that old contract.”
“It was hundreds of winters ago! We cannot be bound by something we never swore to.”
“You are bound by your Marshal-General’s word, which she and every other Marshal-General since Gird swore to,” Arcolin said. Some of the others in the mob were listening now, then murmuring to those behind them. “Gnarrinfulk has no patience with kteknik humans: for gnomes, to be outside Law is to be outside life.”
“You are outside law,” the Marshal said. “You are a mage, and in the Code of Gird—”
“I am not a mage, and the Code of Gird does not support killing children.”
“They’re mages! Evil!”
Arcolin heard hoofbeats behind him. He hoped it was not the captain again.
“Sir.” A quiet young voice. Not the captain, then. Kaim.
“Yes?”
“Captain Cracolnya says the mule has foaled a cow.” A pause. “A three-legged cow with one left horn.”
Another force, not quite as large as this, approaching from the west.
“How interesting,” Arcolin said. He could not be sure Marshal Coben had heard. In the interest of greater confusion, he raised his voice. “Well, Marshal, did you hear? The mule has foaled a cow.”
The Marshal paled. “A … cow?”
What was that about? He’d never heard of a Marshal afraid of cows. “A cow, yes.”
“What color cow?”
The Company had never used cow colors in their code, only the number of cows, legs, and horns. What color cow would most confuse this Marshal? Arcolin took a guess. “Dun,” he said.
“You lie! You have never seen Gird’s Cow! You are not a true yeoman of Gird!”
Gird’s Cow? Was the man wit-wandering? But if it distracted him … “Yes, dun,” Arcolin said cheerfully. “A very nice cow, in fact.” He didn’t mention the three legs or one horn.
“If you were really Girdish and Gird supported you, then an army of Gird would march over that hill—” Marshal Coben flung out his right hand, pointing to the west. “But since you are not …”