a minute, and rode off to the hostel.
Whether due to his efforts or not, by the time they finally got to the gateposts things were moving faster. One of the Wolves questioned the chief trader and the guard captain. The members of the train, men and beasts, were sent through in single file, a Wolf watching from each side. Harald looked curiously from side to side as they went through; neither Wolf looked familiar. One of the other guards said something rude in a strong south vale accent; the guard captain turned in his saddle to glare at him. Then up the road and into the woods.
Late afternoon, a brush-covered hillside. Ahead on the right a small camp, a dozen Wolves. Harald spotted three more spread across the slope. Gunnar edged his horse right.
"Lost? The gateposts are that way."
The nearest Wolf glared at him, made no answer. Two hours farther on they stopped to camp.
One of the wagons was for food—convenient, at least until they reached the steep part of the pass. Harald filled a bowl with stew, a plate with bread, dried apples. He ate the stew standing by the mare, watching the fire where a sheep turned, tilted the plate to let its contents slide into the open saddlebag. Untidy, but he was tired of being hungry. He refilled the plate, collected a sizable chunk of mutton, noticed the chief trader's eyes on him.
After dinner, Harald walked over to the feed wagon, got a sack of oats, fed some of it to the mare, absentmindedly dumped the sack with the pile of his gear outside the tent pitched for him and three of the other guards. He moved the mare to the side of his tent away from the camp, told her not to wander, carried his gear into the empty tent. As night darkened, most of the cats gathered around a fire to trade lies. The mule drivers and camp servants had their own fire, the traders the biggest tent; Harald could see lantern light through the walls, hear voices. He spent a few minutes considering the pleasures of a good night's sleep, then went to the back of the tent, tested the stakes.
Kari's voice at