We reached the waystation by midday.
It sat at the edge of the borderlands, where the High North's stone and snow gave way to scrub and low hills. A squat building, timber and clay, with a stable out back and a well that hadn't frozen over. Smoke rose from the chimney. A good sign. It meant someone was keeping the fires, which meant we wouldn't be sleeping in the cold.
Joss dismounted first and led the horses to the stable while I stood in the yard and studied the road ahead. Clear, as far as I could see. No tracks but ours. No shadows moving in the hills.
I didn't trust it.
"Captain Halvar?"
I turned. A woman stood in the doorway, wrapped in a wool shawl, her hair braided tight against her skull. She looked Droupet-born. Sharp cheekbones, pale eyes, the kind of stillness that came from winters that could kill you if you moved too fast.
"You're expected," she said.
I hadn't sent word ahead.
"By who?"
"The magistrate's envoy. Arrived this morning. Said you'd be coming through." She stepped aside, gesturing toward the interior. "He's inside. Paid for your lodging and your horses."
I glanced at Joss. He'd paused by the stable door, one hand on his sword.
"Did he give a name?" I asked.
"Sael Varr. Southern registry, he said. Carries a seal."
Southern registry. That meant Cerasis, or one of the tributary cities. It also meant paperwork, which meant someone in the capital knew we were coming and had sent an escort.
Or a spy.
"Tell him I'll be in shortly," I said.
The woman nodded and disappeared back inside. I waited until the door closed, then crossed to Joss.
"You catch that?"
"Magistrate's envoy," he said. "Convenient timing."
"Very."
"You want me to check the horses first, or go in with you?"
"Horses. If this goes wrong, I want us able to leave fast."
He didn't argue. I left him in the stable and walked back across the yard, hand resting on my sword hilt.
***
The interior was warmer than I'd expected. A long room, low-ceilinged, with a fire burning in a stone hearth and tables arranged in two rows. A handful of travelers sat scattered among them. A merchant with ink-stained fingers, two young men who might've been couriers, an older woman mending a torn cloak. None of them looked up when I entered.
A man sat alone near the fire.
Tall, even seated. Dark hair pulled back, though a few strands had come loose and curled against his jaw. He wore southern clothes. Fitted wool, dyed deep blue, with silver clasps at the collar. Expensive, but not ostentatious. The kind of thing a man wore when he wanted to be remembered, but not too closely.
He looked up when I approached, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Captain Halvar," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd camp outside rather than accept hospitality."
"I don't accept things I haven't asked for."
"Then consider it an offering, not a gift." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. Please. You've had a difficult road."
I didn't sit. "You know about the ambush."
"I know Harven didn't arrive with you. I know you buried him at the first halt. And I know you're carrying a folio that certain parties in Cerasis would prefer never reaches the capital."
He said it evenly, without apology or threat. Like he was reciting a weather report.
"Who sent you?" I asked.
"No one sent me. I came because I have business in Cerasis, and because your route overlaps with mine. I'm a magistrate's envoy, Captain. I facilitate agreements between regional governors and the Crown. Right now, I'm facilitating yours."
"I didn't ask for facilitation."
"No. But you'll need it." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. "You're a Warden from Droupet. You have no rank in Cerasis, no family name, no seat at the table. You think you can walk into the capital with a list of accusations and a sealed report and expect the Crown to listen?"
"I expect the Crown to care about raids on its own border."
"The Crown cares about stability. Stability requires allies. Allies require compromises." He paused. "You'll need someone who knows how to make those compromises without losing the substance of what you're trying to say. That's what I do."
I studied him. His hands were clean, nails trimmed. No calluses. No scars. A man who worked with words, not steel.
"What do you get out of this?" I asked.
"Access. If your report is accurate, and I assume it is, then it implicates merchants, brokers, possibly minor lords. People who've been operating with impunity because no one's bothered to connect the raids to the trade routes. If you succeed, the Crown will have to act. And when it does, there will be vacancies. Contracts to renegotiate. Positions to fill."
"You want to profit off this."
"I want to ensure the people responsible face consequences. If I profit in the process, so be it." He tilted his head. "You're not naïve, Captain. You know how these things work."
I did. I just didn't like it.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Think quickly. The road gets more dangerous the closer you get to Cerasis." He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, sealed with red wax. "My credentials. Southern registry, as promised. You're welcome to verify them at the next post."
I took the parchment and turned it over. The seal was intact, embossed with the Crown's double-headed eagle. Legitimate, or a very good forgery.
"I'll have an escort ready by morning," Sael said. "Six men. Well-armed, well-paid, and discreet. They'll ride with us to Cerasis."
"I didn't agree to..."
"You don't have to agree. I'm offering." He stood, smoothing the front of his coat. "Take the night. Rest. Tend your wounds. We'll talk again in the morning."
He walked past me toward the stairs at the back of the room, and I watched him go, the parchment heavy in my hand.
***
I found Joss in the stable, checking the horses' hooves. He glanced up when I entered.
"Well?"
"He's a magistrate's envoy. Says he's here to help us present the folio to the Crown."
"Do you believe him?"
"I believe he's here for a reason. Whether it's the reason he gave me, I don't know yet."
Joss straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You going to take the escort?"
"Maybe. If it keeps us alive long enough to reach Cerasis, it's worth considering."
He nodded slowly, then reached into his pack and pulled out a small cloth bundle. "Found something while you were inside. One of the mercenaries, his coat had a hidden pocket. There was this."
He unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a scrap of parchment, torn along one edge, with a few lines of cramped writing.
North road. First halt. Two Wardens, one cart. Payment on confirmation.
No signature. No seal. Just the words, and below them, a single mark. Three parallel lines, crossed by a fourth.
Rothera.
"They knew we were coming," Joss said quietly.
"They knew when, where, and how many." I folded the parchment and slipped it into my coat beside the token. "Someone's been watching us since Droupet."
"Or someone in Droupet told them."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to think about that yet.
"There's something else," Joss said. He gestured toward the corner of the stable, where a man sat on an overturned crate, cleaning his hands with a rag. I hadn't noticed him when I'd entered.
He looked up, and I saw the blood on the rag. Dried, rust-brown, smeared across his palms.
"Captain," he said, standing. He was younger than I'd expected, maybe twenty-five, with sun-dark skin and a scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw. He wore light armor, leather and mail, and a satchel slung across his chest. "Maer Lys. Scout, formerly attached to the southern garrison at Kellmar. I heard you lost a man on the road."
"Word travels fast."
"Fast enough." He set the rag aside and crossed to me. "I'm sorry for your loss. Harven was a good man. I rode with him once, years ago. He taught me how to read tracks in snow."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
Maer didn't seem to mind. He glanced at Joss, then back to me. "I also heard you took a blade to the shoulder. May I?"
I frowned. "It's fine."
"It's not." He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of herbs. Something sharp and clean, like sage. "You're favoring your left side. You've been favoring it since you dismounted. Let me look."
I hesitated. I didn't like being touched, especially by strangers. But my shoulder did hurt, a dull ache that had settled in after the fight and hadn't left.
I nodded once.
Maer moved carefully, fingers gentle as he pulled back the edge of my coat and inspected the torn fabric beneath. His touch was warm, deliberate, nothing like the rough field stitching I was used to.
"Shallow," he said after a moment. "But it'll fester if you don't clean it. Do you have a kit?"
"I have whiskey."
"That'll work." He straightened, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small vial of clear liquid. "This is better. Distilled pine resin. Burns less, works faster."
He handed me the vial, then pulled out a strip of clean linen. "Sit. I'll wrap it."
I sat on the crate he'd vacated, and he knelt in front of me, working quickly and efficiently. His hands didn't shake. He didn't ask questions. He just worked, and when he was finished, he tied off the bandage and stepped back.
"That should hold until you reach the next waystation," he said. "Change it every two days. If it starts to smell, find a healer."
"Thank you."
He nodded, slinging his satchel back over his shoulder. "I'm heading south as well. Scout work, mostly. If you're looking for an extra pair of eyes on the road, I'm available."
"We're not hiring."
"I'm not asking for pay. I'm asking to travel with you." He glanced at the stable door, then back to me. "The roads aren't safe right now. You know that better than anyone. I'd rather ride with Wardens than alone."
I looked at Joss. He shrugged.
"We leave at first light," I said.
"I'll be ready."
Maer nodded once and walked out of the stable, leaving the scent of sage and pine in his wake.
Joss exhaled. "You're collecting strays."
"He's useful."
"So's a knife, until it cuts you."
I didn't argue. I pulled the token from my pocket and held it up to the fading light. The fox gleamed, dull gold, chains circling.
"I need to show this to someone," I said. "Someone who knows southern houses."
"The innkeeper?"
"No. A scribe. Or a keeper. Someone who tracks trade."
Joss thought for a moment, then nodded. "There's a postal keeper in the main hall. I saw her when I checked the horses. Old woman, grey braid. She looked like she'd been here since the stones were laid."
"Good. I'll talk to her after supper."
I stood, pocketing the token, and we walked back toward the waystation. The sky had gone dark, stars beginning to prick through the clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
I thought of Harven, buried beneath stones, and wondered if the wolves would find him anyway.
***
The postal keeper sat in a small alcove off the main hall, surrounded by ledgers and bundled letters. She looked up when I approached, her eyes sharp despite the lines around them.
"Captain," she said. "You need to send something?"
"No. I need information."
I pulled the token from my pocket and placed it on the table between us. She leaned forward, squinting, then picked it up and turned it over.
"Rothera," she said after a moment.
"You're sure?"
"I've seen their marks before. They use these tokens for high-value contracts. Payments, mostly. You give one to a courier or a broker, they bring it back as proof of delivery." She set the token down. "Where'd you get this?"
"Off a dead man."
She didn't flinch. "Then someone paid him with it. Or someone wanted you to think they did."
"What do you know about House Rothera?"
"Mercantile family. Big operation out of Cerasis. Shipping, speculation, some brokering. They've got ties to half the great houses, and they're careful about it. If they're involved in something, they'll have covered their tracks."
"Not well enough," I said, taking the token back. "Thank you."
She nodded, already turning back to her ledgers. I walked away, the token warm in my hand, and thought about payments and contracts and men who died on snowy roads.
Someone had hired those mercenaries.
Someone had paid them with Rothera gold.
And I was going to find out who.