After they had left, Bueralan pulled himself onto his horse and waited for Orlan. The cartographer’s pale-blue gaze had watched the others leave, following each into the marsh. He had stared into the trees long after they had gone. “It’ll be fine,” Bueralan said. “They worry about nothing.” “I did not agree to this,” the old man said quietly. “You want to ride with us, then you don’t get to avoid the risks. Besides, this is just a bait and switch. We drop you in and later we pull you out. If it gets to be a problem, we’ll pay your ransom.” “And if there is none?” “There’s always a ransom.” “In an ordinary army, yes.” Bueralan did not reply. Orlan’s barb came on the heels of his own doubt, but he did not plan to discuss it with the cartographer. There was little other choice anyway, he told himself as he nudged his horse toward the start of the thin trail leading out of their camp. After a moment, Orlan pulled himself into the pony’s saddle and they made their way down the trail.
