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As I was hoping, he bristles like a Calendrian porcuhog.

Still looking at me, Henrik asks, “How much do I owe you?”

“Excuse me?” I demand, wondering if he’s asking what it will take to keep me quiet about his romantic affair with the princess.

His eyes slide to Trendleman. “For bringing Lady Clover across the river. The crown will compensate you for your time and effort.”

Looking quietly amused, Trendleman shakes his head and then gives me a wink. “It was my pleasure. Next time you’re in Riverwren, you’ll be sure to look me up, won’t you?”

With a laugh, I say, “I have no choice—you have my horse in your paddock, and my things are still at the inn. Take care of them for me?”

“With the knowledge that you will return, I will gladly see to them,” he says gallantly, waving as he goes.

Once Trendleman is well on his way, Henrik turns back to me. “It’s in your best interest not to flirt with my men like that. They’ll misunderstand.”

I roll my eyes, shouldering my bow, and follow him back to the group. The situation doesn’t look any better than when we left it. An entire sack of onions is strewn across the road. Rice and oats spill from bags.

Somehow, several chickens escaped their pen, and Bartholomew is chasing them down the road.

“We have a problem, Henrik,” one of the men says as he walks up, eyeing me curiously. He wears an emerald arm pennant, showing he’s in the Soldier Class like Henrik. However, his medallion is bronze instead of gold. He’s a captain, likely acting as Henrik’s second on the mission.

Henrik nods, silently telling him to get on with it.

“One of the drivers left.”

“Who?”

“Gertferd. He was… Well, he waswoundedin the fray. The emotional elf healed him, but he claimed he wasn’t getting paid enough for this—” he cuts off abruptly as his eyes move to me again. Lamely, he finishes, “Stuff.”

“What do you mean he was wounded?” Henrik demands.

“He got an arrow in the rump,” a nearby guard says, looking as if he’s trying not to laugh. “No one’s fessing up to the accident.”

I press my lips together, trying very hard not to snort out a laugh myself.

“What do you mean heleft?” Henrik demands. “Haven’t we already paid him?”

The captain shrugs, his meaning clear—it’s not his problem to solve.

“Fine,” Henrik says heavily. “One of you can take his spot.” He turns to the group. “Who will volunteer to drive Gertferd’s wagon?”

Several dozen eyes drop to the ground as Henrik’s men suddenly find themselves wildly interested in the state of their boots.

“What’s wrong with Gertferd’s cart?” I ask warily.

Finished with his chicken chasing, Bartholomew steps up next to me. “It carries a rather pungent cheese,” he says, wincing.

“If it reeks so badly it’s drawing vultures, don’t you think you’d do everyone a service by tossing it out?” I ask.

“We can’t,” Henrik begins, “It’s—”

“Recorded and accounted for,” several of the men say before he can finish.

Looking as if he doesn’t think he’s getting paid enough for this “stuff” either, Henrik ignores their good-natured ribbing and turns away. “Find someone to drive the wagon.”

* * *

“Clover will ride with me,”Henrik says, ending the argument about with whom I’ll travel.