Chapter 13 The Net Tightens

The battlefield felt smaller than it had only a few days ago, not because the land had changed, but because eyes seemed to follow every movement now. House Nocthar had doubled its patrols, soldiers standing at every approach to the valley while officers walked among the corpse collectors instead of staying back at the command tents. Conversations died the moment black armor came into view, and even Borik, who usually found something to complain about, kept his mouth shut through most of the morning.

Zevran pushed another cart toward the burning pits, his ribs still aching beneath his shirt, every rough step reminding him of the officer's blow inside the First Grave. He had hidden the injury from Garrick as best he could, but hiding it from himself was a different matter entirely.

"You're slower today," Borik said, appearing beside him with another corpse balanced over one shoulder.

"I've had worse mornings."

Borik snorted. "No, you haven't."

Before Zevran could answer, a sharp voice cut across the field. "Collectors." Everyone stopped working at once. A tall man in a dark gray officer's coat walked through the rows of workers without speaking, and unlike the soldiers he carried no sword, only a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, filled with rolled documents. His eyes missed nothing.

He stopped beside one collector. "What did you recover yesterday?"

"A broken spear. Two silver rings."

"Show me."

The frightened collector emptied his pockets, and the officer barely glanced at the items before moving on to question another, then another, each answer carefully written into a small notebook.

Borik leaned closer. "Who's that?"

"I don't know. I've never seen him before."

Neither had Zevran, yet something about the man's calm expression made him far more unsettling than any soldier carrying a blade could have managed.

The officer stopped in front of them at last. "Names."

"Borik."

"Zevran."

The man wrote both down. "How long have you worked these fields?"

"Five years," Borik answered.

"Ten," Zevran said.

The officer looked up. "Ten years."

"Yes."

"You've seen many wars, then."

"I've buried the people they left behind."

For the first time, something almost like interest crossed the officer's face. "An unusual answer." He closed his notebook. "My name is Cassian Vale."

Neither collector replied.

"I investigate irregularities."

Borik scratched the back of his neck. "What sort of irregularities?"

"The kind that shouldn't exist." His eyes settled on Zevran. "And yet, they usually do anyway." A long silence stretched between them before Cassian smiled politely. "Return to work." He walked away, and only after he'd disappeared among the other workers did Borik release the breath he'd been holding.

"I don't like him."

"Neither do I."

"But he doesn't even carry a weapon."

Zevran watched the investigator speaking with another cluster of collectors farther down the field. "He doesn't need one."

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, almost. As the workers prepared another wagon, shouting erupted near the southern pits. "I didn't steal it!" "You liar!" Two collectors grappled in the mud while an overseer forced them apart, one shouting that his pay pouch had gone missing, the other insisting he'd never touched it. The overseer frowned. "If the pouch isn't found, both of you lose this week's wages."

The accused man's face turned white. "But I have children."

"Then you should have thought of that before stealing."

"I didn't!"

The argument drew a crowd, and Zevran stayed where he was, telling himself it wasn't his problem, that the First Judge had warned him every use of the Eyes carried a price, and he still remembered the grief that had nearly drowned him the last time he'd looked too closely at the dead. He turned back toward his cart, ready to let it go.

Then he noticed a body lying nearby, one of yesterday's soldiers, its hand still resting near the overturned wagon where the argument had begun. He closed his eyes, just once, and placed two fingers against the dead soldier's wrist. The warmth behind his eyes woke instantly, and the battlefield disappeared.

A memory unfolded in its place. The soldier had been dying beneath that same wagon, barely breathing, watching the two collectors load bodies onto their cart without touching a thing that wasn't already dead. A third figure arrived after they'd moved on, not a collector at all, but a supply clerk in House Nocthar colors, who glanced around, spotted the fallen pay pouch, and slipped it beneath his own coat before walking away smiling.

The vision shattered, and Zevran staggered, a sharp headache striking immediately behind his eyes. He caught himself against the wagon before anyone noticed, the memory not his own and yet perfectly clear, right down to the clerk's face.

"Enough," the overseer said, raising his whip. "I'm settling this now."

"They're innocent," Zevran said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Every head turned. The overseer frowned. "What did you say?"

"They didn't steal it."

"And how would you know that?"

Zevran hesitated, but it was too late to take it back. "I saw someone else take it."

The overseer folded his arms. "Who?"

"A supply clerk."

Laughter spread through the gathered workers. Borik stared at him. "A clerk?"

The overseer's face hardened. "You're accusing House Nocthar's own staff?"

"I'm telling you what I saw."

Cassian Vale appeared from somewhere behind the crowd, his voice calm, far too calm. "What exactly did you see?"

Zevran met his eyes. "A clerk picked it up after they'd already walked away."

Cassian studied him for several long seconds. "What did he look like?"

Zevran described the man from the memory in careful detail, and the investigator said nothing, simply closed his notebook and turned toward two nearby soldiers. "Bring me Quartermaster Halen."

The soldiers hurried off, and minutes later returned with a nervous middle-aged clerk trailing behind them. Cassian looked him over once. "Empty your coat."

"I don't understand."

"Your coat."

Slowly, trembling, the man obeyed, and a small leather pay pouch fell into the dirt. Silence swallowed the battlefield. The accused collector stared in disbelief, and Borik looked from the pouch to Zevran and back again, saying nothing.

Cassian picked up the pouch, and without changing expression, handed it back to its rightful owner. "It appears the wrong men were accused." The overseer muttered an apology, and the clerk was dragged away still protesting his innocence, the crowd slowly dispersing around them.

Only Cassian remained. He looked at Zevran for a long moment. "You have sharp eyes."

"I've worked here a long time."

"So you have." Cassian smiled again, though the smile never quite reached his eyes. "I'll be speaking with you again."

He walked away, and Zevran watched him disappear into the rows of soldiers, unable to shake the feeling that this investigator, with no sword and no armor at all, frightened him far more than the officer inside the First Grave ever had.