Chapter 15 — Cracks

Morning brought shouting.

Two men argued by the supply crates, voices rising, arms waving. One had a ledger board clutched to his chest, chalk dust smearing his tunic. The other jabbed a finger toward the rows of meat hanging to dry.

I couldn't follow every word, but I caught enough. Shortage. Dues. Caller.

The word again: caller. Not lord, not master. Caller.

The argument drew a crowd. Half the camp stood watching, some jeering, some silent. The leader appeared only at the end, stalking forward with his bow over his shoulder. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. A look was enough to silence them, though their faces stayed sour.

Tov leaned in close to me, voice low. "See that? They're not as united as they want you to think. Too many mouths. Not enough coin. And the caller's dues come first."

"What happens," I murmured, "when they can't pay?"

He grinned, but it was tight, humorless. "Then someone pays with flesh."

The crowd dispersed, the meat and crates counted again, chalk marks redrawn on the board. Order restored, but brittle.

Later, as I sat with Merlin, stroking the fur around his tired chest, I thought about it. This camp wasn't a hive. It was a cage. And cracks in cages spread if you press hard enough.

— Fifth day in the bandit camp —