The soldier assigned to relieve Godmar arrived at the outpost with his collar pulled high against the cold coming down from the foothills. He stopped long enough to make sure the handoff was clear.

"You’re done for the night."

Godmar gave the road one last look. "Northeast quarter. Well near the edge o’ the houses. Same bunch of local girls keep turnin’ up there every evenin’. Watchin’ the garrison and not tryin’ very hard to hide it."

He jerked his chin toward the well.

"So if you hear voices over there, that’s probably your answer."

The soldier glanced that way.

"Got it."

Satisfied the information had been passed along, Godmar turned over the post and started back down the main street.

Osford had the feel of a town too small to ever become indifferent to strangers. Three companies of soldiers represented more unfamiliar faces than the town could comfortably absorb at once.

As he walked, he passed two men standing in a doorway with cups in hand. They watched the street with cautious attention, wary about the companies.

Godmar saw no reason to interfere with the process and kept moving.

The billet stood at the far end of the residential district. He found it first by the strip of lamplight beneath the door. Then he heard voices from inside. That confirmed it.

He pushed the door open.

The warmth hit him immediately. After four hours standing watch in the foothills cold, the difference was significant enough that he paused in the doorway for a heartbeat before stepping fully inside.

Varo sat against the far wall with a field sketchbook balanced on one knee. He wasn’t using it. He simply held it, the way he did when his hands required a task while his thoughts worked elsewhere.

Brek lay stretched across his bedroll with one forearm over his eyes and his boots still on.

Near the door, Aldwin crouched with his coat across his knee, studying a damaged seam near the right sleeve. He kept adjusting the angle to bring the lamplight across the stitching correctly.

Aldwin looked up.

"Anything interesting?"

"Just the girls at the northeast well."

Godmar dropped his kit against the wall.

"Same time as yesterday. Been countin’ soldiers since we got here."

He began removing his right boot. Four hours of wet leather and cold had tightened it around his foot. It resisted until the heel finally gave way all at once. He set it aside and removed the other more carefully.

He reached into his kit and retrieved a ration pack. Aldwin already had his open. A biscuit sat in one hand and a strip of dried meat in the other. Godmar loosened the cord on his own pack and folded back the waxed cloth.

The biscuit rested heavily in his palm. It had clearly been designed for storage first and consumption second. Double-baked Stearne flour. Identical size, identical weight, identical shape to every other ration biscuit he had opened during the deployment.

He turned it and started from the edge. Experience had demonstrated that eating the center first was a mistake.

Varo examined his own biscuit as if evaluating an item before negotiating for it.

"Baked twice," Varo said, turning the biscuit in his fingers. "Then maybe a third time out o’ spite."

Aldwin snorted.

"Start from the edge and keep going. If you bite the middle, it fights back."

"We found some inside their camps."

Godmar worked at the biscuit with his teeth.

"It was hard as a bloody rock."

He took another bite.

"Ours wins the comparison."

Brek didn’t move.

"Same biscuit. Different birthday."

For a time, the four men concentrated on their rations.

The lamp on the shelf hissed steadily. Outside, a patrol passed along the rear wall of the building. Three sets of boots crossed the stone at an easy pace before rounding the corner and fading from earshot.

Varo rotated the biscuit once in his fingers.

"Two more days of this and Ashmark’s kitchens’ll start looking respectable."

"Depends which kitchen."

Aldwin tore off another strip of meat.

"The barracks cook gave up weeks ago. Just nobody told him."

"Still hot food."

Godmar shrugged.

"That’s enough from where I’m sitting."

"The standards remain low."

Brek sat up. He had finished his dried meat and now occupied himself with his pistol. He opened the flintlock pan with one thumb and inspected the interior. It was the sort of repetitive check his hands defaulted to whenever conversation continued around him.

Satisfied, he closed it and ran a thumb along the frizzen’s edge.

"March call’s second hour."

"Aye. Second hour."

Aldwin set aside the ration pack and returned to the damaged seam, working a loose thread free with his good hand.

"Main road to the valley route after we step off. Once we’re clear of the foothills, the ground flattens out."

Varo looked down at the sketchbook without opening it. "About the deployment. I saw some crazy shit in one of the camps."

He paused.

"Third camp on the northwest side. I was first through after the volley."

Aldwin looked up.

"Captain was already gone. Cut through the back of his tent and ran for the scrub."

Varo tapped the sketchbook.

"Fast thinker."

His eyes stayed on the book.

"He’d also kept seven women in the back."

The room went quiet.

"Seven?" Aldwin asked.

"Seven."

Varo shrugged.

"Told them the camp was finished and they could leave once we were done."

Brek snapped the pan shut.

"Man knew what he liked."

"Seven’s too many."

Godmar turned the biscuit over.

"No man’s got enough hours in the day for seven."

Aldwin stared at him.

"What?"

Godmar pointed with the biscuit. "I’m serious. Three’s manageable. Five if you’re dedicated. Seven and nobody’s gettin’ proper attention."

Brek laughed through his nose.

"Trust you to do the numbers."

"Experience boy."

"The man hoarded more than he could handle," Varo said, "then ran off and left the lot behind."

"Should’ve spent less time collectin’ women and more time practicin’ runnin’."

"Or picking better priorities."

Aldwin finally located the thread he had been working loose. He hooked a thumb beneath it and pulled it free. After examining the repaired seam for a moment, he folded the coat back across his kit.

Godmar finished a compressed bean cake in pieces and moved on to the dried fruits. While Varo had been speaking, another subject had been occupying part of his attention.

After a moment, he voiced it.

"The Grey Wardens stop at every doorway. Check both sides before they go through. Seen ’em do it all week."

"I noticed."

Varo glanced toward the wall.

"They came through that fort passage. Worst fighting was there. A few nearly died because of those doorways."

He turned the sketchbook in his hands.

"Now they look twice."

Brek set the pistol aside.

"Our lads started doing something similar after the first day of the sweep. They slow down at ridgelines now."

He shrugged.

"Nobody told them to. They learned."

"Habits die hard."

Godmar finished the dried fruit and folded the waxed cloth closed again. He saved the packet of salt for morning.

Varo closed the sketchbook and placed it atop his kit bag. "The people of Osford keep exactly one step farther away from soldiers than necessary when they pass on the road. But after a patrol moves through, they close that distance again."

Godmar had observed the same thing from his corner post.

"They still haven’t worked out whether we’re stayin’ or passin’ through."

"They’ll know after winter."

Aldwin rolled one shoulder.

"If we’re here long enough to fix roofs and walls, we’re part of the town."

He leaned back.

"If we’re gone in tomorrow, they’ll be wonderin’ why we came at all."

A voice drifted through the town from somewhere along the main street. The stone walls carried the tone but not the words. A second voice answered a few moments later from another position with the same relaxed cadence.

Everyone heard both exchanges. Nobody considered them important enough to look up.

The lamp had burned low enough that its remaining light would not last much longer.

Brek stretched back onto his bedroll, forearm over his eyes again. His posture made his intentions obvious.

"Second hour. I’m done."

"Second hour. Main road."

"Get some sleep while you’ve got the chance."

Varo opened the sketchbook one final time. He studied a page for several seconds, then closed it and set it back on the kit bag.

"The cook starts making porridge before first watch."

Varo closed the sketchbook.

"She told me yesterday."

A faint pause.

"It’ll be hot."

By then, Brek’s breathing had already settled into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Godmar shifted against the wall, searching for a position where the stone would not make itself known throughout the night.

Through the gap beneath the billet door, he heard footsteps outside. A patrol was completing its rounds. Two or three soldiers moved from the side street back toward the main road. The sound reached the door, passed it, and continued toward the corner near the well where the northeast women had stood earlier that evening.

The lamp finally went out.

Aldwin’s coat rested on the floor beside him. The repaired seam faced upward.

The loose thread was gone.