think about the blind risk they had both taken, not knowing a thing about their enemy. Grant was wise enough to have avoided that risk, she guessed, but he had gone along with her when she asked, though. He was more loyal than she deserved.
With all that she now knew, she would be more careful in future about putting others in danger to further her own goals. And, yet, was that not what she was here for? Some band of patriots, desperate and well-meaning, would be waiting for her word, and her word would be, Rescue Scavian. Did she imagine that none of them would die for that peculiarly personal goal of hers?
They make demands of me, I will demand back. How equitable that sounded!
There was a light ahead, even a campfire. She guessed at the distance they had travelled, and thought that she now knew where they were. The Ghyer had chosen this same place. Was it just coincidence? Was there some great attraction in this site that she could not see? Were they aware that Mr Northway knew of this place? He would find them, would be not? Root them out?
It was not her concern. If they joined with her, she would tell them to move camp. If not . . .
If not, to hell with them. I have no time for wooing them.
There were perhaps a dozen men in the clearing, cloaks tugged up against the lightly spotting rain and hands held out towards the fire. She recalled ever more strongly the Ghyer’s sad little band, all he had managed to gather. She had to hope now that there were more in the woods, or in Chalcaster, that would rally to any summons she gave.
She slipped off her horse, as Balfor went out to stand before them.
‘This is her. This is the Marshwic. Not bad, eh? Not a bad show, don’t you think?’
Most of them stood up, pulling back hoods to see her clearly. She looked from face to face: lean men, tough men, desperate men. Most were unshaven, a few scarred. She guessed some as old soldiers, others as court hangers-on who were coping with such deprivation only with difficulty. About half just looked like ruffians to her, the sort that any jail could offer up given the chance. Of course, the jails had been emptied for the war. They could be soldiers too, like Balfor.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ she asked them. ‘You, Balfor?’
‘Oh, not me, Lieutenant. A follower is what I am. He’s on his way. He likes his entrance, he does.’
She looked about her, feeling tense, wanting to get things over with. The nascent rebels looked at her hungrily: her clean, pressed uniform, the shine on her sabre scabbard and the helm she had draped over her saddle pommel. She must look to them like a ghost more than a woman: the very fighting spirit of Lascanne military might before it all went sour.
One of the still-seated men rose, then, and approached her, flipping back his hood.
‘You’re the leader?’ she asked him, and he shook his head.
‘Just another follower, Miss Marshwic. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.’
She frowned at him. ‘Not that I . . .’ But she did know him. She had seen him before. Not at the front – she did not have the sense of a comrade here. Almost the opposite . . .
‘You were . . . you couldn’t have been with the Ghyer?’ she breathed.
‘The name’s Griff, Miss Marshwic. I gave it you once before.’ He grinned insolently at her. If he had chosen now to ask her to give his regards to her sister, she would have struck him.
‘This man is a brigand,’ she told the others. ‘He didn’t even fight in the war. What’s he doing among you?’
They did not show any surprise at her news. Some of them shrugged.
‘Leave a man out for that, and you condemn a fair few willing to rise to the cause now,’ Griff explained. ‘Denlanders are a nosy bunch. That’s bad for everybody’s business. Strange that we should have a common cause now, Miss Marshwic. Who’d have thought it, really?’
‘Not I,’ she said, heartfelt. ‘Are we to wait all night for this leader of yours?’
‘He’s coming,’ Balfor assured her. ‘Wait on him. It’ll be worth it.’
And, like an actor on cue, he stepped into the clearing so that the firelight could touch him. Emily, about to rebuke Balfor, felt the words dry up inside her throat and her hand slip