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out again. But by the time night fell, he felt no closer to Berhanu than he had in the castle.
    It was a very slow night at the inn, and an older woman who looked very much like Mato attended most of the customers, leaving Mato free to sit opposite Volos. “You look discouraged, friend. Have you decided already that Chorno won’t suit your employer?”
    “I don’t know,” Volos sighed. He was beginning to hate lying to a man who’d been nothing but pleasant to him.
    “If he does move here, will you come with him?”
    “I… I suppose.”
    “Nothing much to guard anyone from around here. Were you always a bodyguard?”
    “For a long time.”
    Mato had brought over a little dish of walnuts. He cracked one with his fist, dug out the meat, and ate it. He dropped the shattered shell onto the floor. “Were you a soldier first?”
    “Yes,” said Volos.
    “I thought so.” Mato looked thoughtful. “My father was a soldier. He died. So did my older brother.”
    “I’m sorry.” Volos was sorry, although as far as he knew, he could have been the one who’d killed Mato’s family.
    “I was only a boy. I hardly remember them. I wonder, though. If they’d survived, would they have been able to come back to boring old Chorna and back to their boring old lives? Some of the other men and women in the village were soldiers too, and most of them… well, I think the war changed them.” He blinked and gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”
    “I don’t mind. You’re right. War changes everyone.” It was the first time Volos had ever had this sort of discussion with anyone, and he was surprised to find himself soothed rather than discomfited.
    Mato crushed another nut, but this time he handed the meat to Volos before cracking one for himself. “Do you want to be a bodyguard, Volos? I mean, if you could capture a wizard and make him do your will, what life would you have him give you?”
    Volos had thought about this before, but briefly, furtively, as if even hoping were forbidden. “I’d like to put down my sword. I’d like someone who loves me. A family. I’d like a home.”
    “But not here in Chorna, I’m betting.”
    “No. I’m sorry. Not here.”
    “I understand.” Mato gave him a sweet, wistful smile. Standing, he pushed the bowl of nuts across the table. “I’ve dishes to do. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Volos. The war’s a long time past. You deserve your peace.”
    If Volos failed on his mission, he and Berhanu would die. War would likely break out. And young Mato would be called away from his cozy inn in his sleepy little town to become a soldier.
    ****
    A storm blustered overnight, making the shutters rattle. Volos huddled in a warm bed, wondering if Berhanu was dry. Assuming he still lived, that was. When Volos had been a prisoner, he’d had mixed feelings about the rain, which leaked in through the patchy ceiling high above him. On the one hand, it soaked the stone floor and made him colder than ever. But on the other, it was fresher than anything the Juganin gave him to drink. It also washed the filth from his body— the blood, dirt, and come— and sluiced the piss and shit away from his cell.
    Tonight he slept fitfully, awakened often by the moan of the wind.
    When he awoke and saw the rain still pelting the cobblestones, he decided to delay his search. He had nowhere fresh to examine anyway. He hurried across the square for breakfast, then back to his upstairs room, where he paced back and forth on the creaking floorboards.
    The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he was contemplating going out again when he heard voices below. There was nothing unusual about that— all the villagers passed through the square many times each day. But there was something different about these voices, something louder and more swaggering than the villagers’ quiet conversations. Volos crossed the room and lifted a shutter slat so he could see out.
    Three figures were