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town, show me the way to the local physician, and then the tavern – and that’s it. I’m hardly about to drag you around by way of an example of the King’s might."
    The boy still didn’t look convinced.
    "I can hang a sign around your neck reading ‘Not Colluding’ if you’ll just get the water."
    With a look of resignation, the boy left. Perhaps he’d simply run off now – though the fact that he hadn't during the night when he could have danced a jig an inch from his own mead-filled head and not woken him made him suspect that the boy was either very frightened or very confused. In any event, Pomeroy assumed he could find the way to the heart of the village without too much trouble on his own. He turned and walked over to the bed.
    "And what about you, Hawkes?" he said. He tapped the leg of the bed. Hawkes didn’t stir. Pomeroy bent down and gave his shoulder a nudge, but he still didn’t wake. He held his hand in front of the Private’s nose and felt breath. The man’s forehead was hot and the blankets were soaked through with sweat.
    "The unstoppable Royal Grenadier," he said.
    He’d have to deal with this. Too much mead, too little thought. Not much had gone right on this ‘powder hunt’. He frowned, thinking about the farmhouse. Cooper and Hutchison. The boy came running in, breaking his train of thought.
    "Where are the water skins?" Pomeroy said. The boy’s hands were empty.
    "Come look," Thomas said. He spun and ran back outside.
    Pomeroy looked at the open door for a moment and then followed him, not bothering to put his boots on. As he jogged after the boy, he grunted; it felt as if the inside of his head was full of broken crockery. And if the sunlight coming in through the window had been bad, being outdoors in the morning was simply brutal. Thomas led him over to where the brook cut across a strip of cleared land. The water ran fast over the stones, a foot deep in places and two strides wide. Stepping down to the very edge of the water, Thomas went upstream, to a point where the brook widened into a slower moving pool, where the water filtered the sunlight into waving bands of gold on the bottom. Maple trees hung over the left side, while a large elm marked the start of a clump of woods on the right. Thomas stepped along the large rocks at the edge and pointed to the bank. Pomeroy followed, his feet slipping into the cold water.
    "Now I’m awake," he said.
    He didn’t see anything at first. The bank was thick with roots from the elm and mossy stones. He looked more carefully. A bit of white sleeve and the brown of homespun breeches nestled underneath the earth and twisted roots. With a splash, he stepped further into the water, his feet sliding on the smooth rocks on the bottom. It was a man, arms folded across the chest and the legs crossed – as if he’d decided to take a leisurely nap among the roots by the brookside. Blood caked the back of his head. The body was wedged in good, and quite dead – the skin was a drained white gray, cold to the touch. Pomeroy turned to the boy.
    "Do you know who he is?" he said.
    Thomas watched his mouth and then shook his head. Pomeroy turned back and grabbed some of the man’s shirt near the shoulder and gave it a careful pull. The arm was stiff. With a grimace, Pomeroy pulled harder, until the body began to slide free. The head hung back, matted hair pointing out in several directions. Thomas splashed in closer behind him. The man had been in his thirties and thin. Several of his teeth were missing. Around his nose and mouth was a black substance, caked on. Pomeroy reached up and grabbed a twig from the bank, and then scraped some of the black matter from the face. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled of rot and clay and made the back of his neck tighten. He tossed the twig into the water. Lifting the shoulder, he bent and looked underneath. Absolutely lovely. The back of the man’s head was shattered, a mess of skin, bone, hair, and