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would strip the season's infant pastures bare, devouring or crushing every green thing in their path. The Baron could conquer Gruethrist or simply starve him.

    The usual stragglers chased the rearguard: landless women with children, motherless children with dogs, ragged misfit families herding sheep and goats, gangs of barely adolescent boys who'd left home to join the men-all the types that an army attracted the way dogs drew fleas.

    But it was a good mixed crop, with some faces and clothing that would be at home among the peasant villages, some in the capital of the empire, and some in the western mountains where Yvon came from. Yvon, Xaragitte, and Claye would easily fit in. No one noticed a few more carrots in a stew.
    Claye giggled and squealed, and tried to pull himself out of the sling. Xaragitte tickled him. He kicked, and laughed even harder as they fell in behind, neither among the other stragglers nor apart from them. Families usually kept to themselves in an army's train, ashamed of their poverty, hoping to claim land in a new territory and start over. A boy, bone-thin with matted hair, trotted along near Yvon, sizing them up for either handouts or theft. Yvon scowled until he ran off, then cringed at the memory of tagging along the same way, lonely, hungry, and desperate. It was like being trailed by a shadow of his youth.
    "Will we walk at this pace all day?" asked Xaragitte, shifting Claye's sling to the other side. Her hair hung limp over her face. Her eyes were dark, and sunken.
    Yvon looked at the sky, the sun just showing over the eastern ridge. "Maybe. If so, we'll reach the castle tonight."
    "But it took us three days to come this far!"
    Fatigue also nipped at his heels. "I know." He thought of the temple priestess. They'd have to find some way across the river without being stopped at the bridge. "We'll have to be very careful."
    Claye squirmed and tried to pull himself over Xaragitte's shoulder. She tugged him down again. "We can't let anyone recognize Claye."
    "Don't use his name, then! We can't let anyone recognize us either."
    From over their shoulders: "You!"
    Xaragitte shied at the sound of the high-pitched voice. Yvon continued walking.
    "You-old man!" The chief herder ran to intercept them. She couldn't have been a eunuch long, Yvon thought: she still had too much energy. Her grin was broad and genuine. "Greetings, greetings, greetings! I thought it was you, the old man afraid of lions."
    Yvon tensed. Did the herder intend a double meaning? Baron Culufre's emblem was the dagger-toothed lion-had she discovered that Yvon was one of Gruethrist's men already? "I'm just a simple farm-husband, fearing for another's livestock."
    "Yes, yes, yes. The Baron intended to pasture the herds in that direction, away from the village. But I conveyed to him your timely, welcome warning. Now he will send hunters up there in advance. We did not come prepared for such a wilderness as this, I tell you. We owe you many thanks."
    "None at all." Yvon walked faster.
    The herder fell in step beside them and politely avoided looking at Xaragitte. "You're here because you've accepted my offer, yes? The Baron generously rewards all those who serve him, and you have served him well already."
    "No, we simply happen to be going this way. It was news I was happy to share, as a lady gives water to a stranger who comes knocking at her door."
    "Is there anything at all I can do to help you?"
    Yvon's footsteps faltered, stopped. He glanced over at Xaragitte. "There is one small favor."
    The herder's smile grew wider. "Name yourself, then name your favor!"
    "You honor us, to ask our names," Yvon said, politely including Xaragitte. He recalled the shepherd boys from the day before-neither their accents nor appearance would match those names, but Yvon didn't expect a noble eunuch from the Imperial City to catch that. "I am Bran. I accompany my niece, Pwylla."
    The herder's expression grew grave and she stopped walking, indicating to