Seventeen – 03

“I see,” Anselm said, his voice abruptly grave. “That does put a new spin on things.” He stood and raised his voice. “Korolev, come over here for a moment.”

A thin, boyish man with hair so pale it was almost white set down the buckets he was carrying and came over. He glanced toward Phelan, Marin, and Neve with a curious look before turning his attention fully to Anselm. “What is it?”

“Get two of the others and sweep the area outside of camp, all sides, the ravines and flatlands both. Report back as soon as you’ve finished.”

The other man blinked, but nodded, as if he’d decided arguing wouldn’t gain him the explanation he craved. “Of course.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Should we split up to cover more ground?”

“No,” Anselm said. “Now go, and be quick.”

Korolev nodded and darted off, the buckets forgotten in his haste. Phelan shoved himself to his feet and went to retrieve them, frowning.

“Not to judge, but shouldn’t you have sent more of them if you’re sending them? They’d cover more ground.”

Anselm shook his head slowly. “I imagine that whatever attacked Cariocecus is biding its time. My men will find traces of the perpetrator, but likely not the perpetrator himself—or herself.”

“You sound awfully certain of that,” Neve said, edging closer to Marin, who didn’t look much steadier than she had before they’d seated themselves.

“If whatever attacked him was hanging about, they’d have hit your borders by now like a hammer. No. Cariocecus was a warning. They want you frightened and not thinking clearly.” Anselm smiled faintly. “They think you weak, which is an advantage to us. They don’t know that you don’t frighten easily.”

Phelan set the buckets down near the fire, a shiver creeping down his spine. Perhaps no one knows us as well as they think.

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