Chapter Text
It all started innocently enough on Sixday evening, a day before the end of the annual Ranger Gathering.
The lights of fifty campfires, arrayed neatly next to their respective tents, dotted the Gathering Ground. Will could see them all from his campsite, where he sat mending a tear in his cloak. Orange and red light dazzled his eyes, making it difficult to focus on his task, but he was in a good mood. The stars were coming out, and the breeze brought with it the smell of fresh rain and growing things. Overall, he thought, it wasn’t a bad place to be. Not by a long shot.
Halt, seated on the other side of their fire, was reviewing Will’s assessment results from earlier that day. “All told, you did well,” he said, and Will felt a burst of pride in his chest. His mentor’s praise was rarely given, but when it was, it meant more to him than almost anything in the world.
“Perfect scores in short-range archery, mapmaking… minor deduction in unseen movement on your snake crawl, but we can’t be perfect at everything.” Halt clucked his tongue.
“Even you?” Will teased.
“I’m the exception,” Halt informed him.
“Oh, sure you are.” One moment, there was nothing but dusk and shifting shadows. The next, Crowley seemed to detach from the canvas side of a tent, stepping into the firelight less than five paces away.
Will jumped, fumbling his needlework, and wondered why the horses hadn’t given warnings. Then he checked the wind and realized that it was blowing away from them, in the direction of Crowley’s command tent a row to the left.
Unfortunately for him, Crowley noticed his startled expression. “Oho!” he said. “Halt, it appears that I’ve gotten the better of your latest apprentice.”
“Would be a shame indeed if our Corps Commandant couldn’t sneak up on a fourth-year trainee,” Halt said, not looking up, and Crowley looked slightly crestfallen. “But, Will,” Halt continued. “Crowley has been showing up every evening to mooch off my coffee stash. You should have noticed by now.”
Crowley reached for the coffeepot. “Well, now,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “It isn’t mooching, per se. More like offering your hospitality to an old comrade, wouldn’t you agree?”
“No,” Halt said seriously. “It’s definitely mooching. Pass the honey, would you?”
Crowley looked aghast. “You can’t be serious. Why do you insist on ruining perfectly good cups of coffee?”
Halt snorted, reaching for the honey himself, but Crowley stood up and held it above his head. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Jump?”
Will wouldn’t put it past his mentor to tackle Crowley and send him sprawling, but he kept that opinion to himself.
There was a sudden shout of surprise and a crow of laughter. A tall figure— Gilan , he thought—crept up behind the Commandant and snatched the honeypot from his hands. Crowley spun around with a splutter of outrage, and Will choked back a laugh at the look on his face.
Halt accepted the honey from the tall Ranger. “My former apprentice seems to agree with me,” he said serenely, adding a generous spoonful to his mug.
“That’s right, Crowley.” Gilan took a seat by the campfire. “Coffee with honey is far superior to coffee without it.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. He turned around and yelled at the campsite next to theirs: “Harrison, you agree with me, right? Coffee is better black?”
The figures silhouetted against the neighboring campfire stirred. “Of course,” one said.
His companion shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he protested, and Will recognized the voice of Leander, a senior Ranger from Dacton Fief. “Black coffee is just awful.”
Will was doing his best to keep his mouth shut, waiting to see where this exchange would go. It wasn’t the best idea for him, a lowly apprentice, to alienate the Corps Commandant, he decided.
“How dare you blaspheme like that?” The outrage in Crowley’s voice was fake, but it was nearly impossible to tell. “I ought to have you tried in a court of law!” His raised voice attracted attention from the tents around them. A couple apprentices sidled a little closer, hoping to eavesdrop on an argument between the senior Rangers.
Halt got to his feet and took a step towards Crowley. Will shrank a little further into the shadows in case someone tried to use him as backup. “Meratyn,” Halt said, the edge of a Hibernian accent appearing in his voice. “There is no reason—and no law, might I add—that would persuade me to drink liquified bitterness when there is honey on hand.”
“Also, honey is quick energy. Good for waking up. Adds a little sugar to the caffeine boost,” Gilan supplied helpfully.
Crowley turned red as his hair, rounding on Halt again. “I would have thought you, of all people, would like your coffee black.”
“And why might that be?” Halt’s tone was smooth. Dangerously smooth, Will thought, edging even farther to the left.
“Because then it would be the same color as your general outlook on life.” Crowley’s expression worked furiously as he struggled to keep a straight face.
The look in Halt’s eyes made Will very glad that everyone had stowed their weapons after dinner. He scooted a little farther from the confrontation, perching on the very end of the log on which he was sitting. “Think what you like about me, but I guess it is true what they say: a redhead has no soul,” Halt said quietly.
Crowley gaped. Halt had delivered a killing blow.
“But,” he continued, “if he did, it would be as dark as the coffee you claim to enjoy.”
Gilan stifled a sound between a snort and a chuckle. Will clapped a hand to his mouth, leaning back on the log. Halt didn’t even need a weapon to murder Crowley where he stood.
Crowley glowered. “Absolutely hilarious. I see your dry wit has aged the opposite direction as fine wine, Halt.” His gaze swept over the three Rangers, all of whom returned the look as innocently as possible.
He shook his head, disappointed. “I’m headed off to bed.” With that, Crowley swept out of the campsite, his cloak hiding him to the night before he’d gone ten paces.
Halt reached for the coffee pot again with a contented sigh. “All the more for me, then.” He and Gilan clinked their mugs together. Will, whose legs were starting to ache from their current position, attempted to scoot back onto the log without drawing attention to himself.
Without looking up, Halt said, “Will, stop lurking in the shadows and trying to be unobtrusive. It’s very obvious, you know.” Abashed, Will abandoned his attempts to be discreet, moving closer to the fire. He heard Tug snort from where he was munching oats from a bucket and couldn’t help but wonder if his horse had been eavesdropping.
The old Ranger scrutinized him. “It’s been a long day, and you have more assessments tomorrow. I’d get to bed if I were you.”
“Yes, Will, go to bed and let the grown-ups talk,” Gilan mimicked, taking a long draft of coffee.
Halt turned a baleful eye on him. “Sarcasm isn’t the lowest form of wit, Gilan. It isn’t wit at all.”
“Oh, that wasn’t meant to be witty,” Gilan said cheerfully. “That was meant to annoy you.”
Will ducked into his tent before he could witness his mentor commit another homicide.
He emerged from his bedroll shortly after dawn to find Halt cursing over the cookfire.
“What’s happening?” he yawned. “Did you manage to burn water?”
“Some idiot snuck into my kit during the night and took our honey,” the older Ranger seethed. “What am I supposed to do now, drink my coffee without it?” His words faded to an indistinct muttering, through which his irritation was still clearly visible.
“Are you sure the honey wasn’t misplaced?”
“Of course I am,” Halt said impatiently. “I don’t misplace things.”
Will wisely kept his mouth shut. Halt adamantly refused to have coffee without honey or sugar; they had run out of sugar before leaving for the Gathering, and now the honeypot was missing. He knew from experience that Halt without his morning coffee was as bad-tempered as a charging boar. Thinking back on it, Will would prefer the boar any day.
He sighed and unwrapped a chunk of stale bread from last night’s dinner. There might not be any coffee, but at least he had food. I’ve been spending too much time around Horace, Will thought.
“That’s it,” Halt said suddenly, leaping to his feet and setting down the coffeepot. “I’m going after him. It shouldn’t take long, so don’t stray too far, Will.” He strode away, cloak flapping gently in the morning breeze. “And remember to feed that horse of yours!” he called behind him.
Will continued munching his bread, considering the morning’s strange turn of events. He thought of the argument from the night before. So maybe the thief had been Crowley, or Harrison, because what? Because they had wanted to prove a point? Would the senior Rangers of the Corps really behave that way?
He scowled and rubbed his eyes, not liking the feeling of being left in the dark. Halt had known right away, he thought. If only he’d explained his reasoning before rushing off.
Abelard raised his head and made a sound of greeting, followed closely by Tug. “Hullo, back already,” Will said, half to himself.
His mentor appeared between the rows of tents, a scowl etched on his face. As he neared, Will saw that he was leading someone roughly by the collar. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Halt said, marching up to Will.
Will craned his neck for a better look at Halt’s captive, but his face was shaded by the cowl of his cloak. “Of course, that would make you the cat,” he remarked.
Halt made a disparaging noise, indicating he couldn’t be bothered to care either way. His captive, seeing his distraction, ducked and kicked out at Halt’s legs. Halt evaded the clumsy attempt and tightened his grip on the man’s collar. As he did so, Will caught a glimpse of a wooden leg underneath the other man’s cloak. He frowned—he wasn’t sure if he knew of any Rangers in active service that had lost a leg.
“Really,” Halt said to his captive. “Did you think you could get way with that, Berrigan? Another Ranger, perhaps, but not you with that leg of yours. It leaves prints so distinct a child could track them. You must be getting rusty in your old age.”
Berrigan. The name struck a chord in Will’s mind. He frowned, wracking his brains, wondering where he’d seen the other Ranger before. Then it hit him: Berrigan had assessed his mapmaking skills yesterday. He must not have seen the peg leg, because it would’ve been under the table.
“You’re one to talk about old age, Halt. Beginning to get some gray hairs, are we? Not as young as you used to be?” Berrigan shrugged off his cowl, looked as nonchalant as a man held by the neck of his jerkin could be. He was around fifty years old, with more gray than brown in his hair, and Will saw that the oakleaf he wore around his neck was gold.
“Besides,” Berrigan continued. “Subtlety wasn’t exactly required. What’s important is that you won’t find the honey again: that’s no more sacreligious coffee for you.”
Halt sighed, exasperated. “This…” He gestured with his free hand toward Berrigan’s general vicinity, a look of extreme frustration on his face. “This whole situation is beginning to border on religious fanaticism. Remember that cult we put down a couple months ago in the north, Will?”
Berrigan tried to worm out of Halt’s grasp again, and without looking down, Halt tightened his grip and shook him by the collar. “What a rabble of misguided idiotic zealots. I seem to recall that they were fond of the same rhetoric.” He glared at Berrigan, whose face was impassive. “Who put you up to this, Crowley?”
“Can’t say, won’t say.” Berrigan crossed his arms, reminding Will of a petulant child.
Halt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Have it your way, then. Does this Gathering Ground have a moat?”