Just under my heavy, loose hooded capelet, I held my dagger, the blade side facing the ground. It would be obscured, though it could be quick. He was right next to me.

"You haven't seen Nilganta, have you?" he asked, adjusting his stiff helmet.

"Last sunset, sir. They were gathering ale for—how did they phrase it? 'Like a Javi occupation except for only cards and no women.'" I chuckled. "They went along with Redni and Geel."

He spat, "don't use that inaccurate, foul language with me."

"My apologies, sir, I would not wish to disobey your formalities," I hesitated. I could never seem to calculate his temper. His mood was that of the dark side of the moon: always on the edge, always a mystery. "No insolent language, I know."

"Stop that. You know what I mean," he said sharply, still facing towards the horizon obscured by hills. "They," he scoffed. His breath smelled of garlic and putrid weariness.

He took a step back.

"There are traitors here, Preb"

"To my understandings, sir."

I directed enough of my attention at him, still leaning against the tree that would shatter if it fell. I couldn't guess what he would say next.

"And I am inclined to know why Nilganta"—I held firm to my dagger—"seems to... partake in Javi occupations so frequently; you are aware we are nowhere near the Domenia of Menjava, Preb. The Javi occupations end there." Turning his back on me, the man-at-arms awaited my response.

"Of course, sir." I waited to see if he wanted more. "I will _speak_ to _her_."

"Good."

He ambled back to the encampment, and the smell of roasted meat and trite rations returned back to me. I did not want to believe he could already know. It would have happened so fast. Shit.

At least, by any stretch, he did not know about the rest of us.