Kezra Venn didn’t look directly at the wooden toll cart. A good land-mapper never stares at the benchmark she intends to use. Staring draws the eye of every watcher on the field.
Instead, she took two steps backward toward the pack mule. She held her hands in the air with her palms open in a gesture of hesitant, country uncertainty.
“Captain Vale,” Kezra called out, pitching her voice with just enough tremor to sound like an intimidated village girl trying to negotiate with a royal officer. “If we accompany your calm distance to the forward station... What happens to our pack mule? And our medicines? My mother’s pottery accounts are in those panniers.”
Captain Vale smiled, an expression of relaxed, condescending reassurance that acknowledged the young woman’s apparent capitulation.
“Your property will be inventoried and protected under military seal, Mistress Venn,” Vale replied, easing her grip on the chestnut mare’s reins. “The Cairn Host isn’t an assembly of common bandits. We take no plunder from provincials. You’ll have full access to your clothing and your food.”
While Captain Vale spoke, Kezra backed until her left shoulder touched the mule’s timber pack frame.
Fellis stood half a pace behind her, his left hand resting on the knotted cargo coils at his hip. His face was pale, but his grey eyes were sharp as fresh-split flint.
