The toll collectors were doing their work with the dedication of men who knew that the smallest coin could be a feast or famine. They moved slowly, painfully so, counting each barrel, each crate, each bundle of iron with the same deliberate tedium. Remy watched them from the deck, arms folded, wondering if he should offer to teach them better mathematics to make them faster. Everyone in this era could do better in terms of how they calculate, if they knew the tricks, then this would have been faster.

  One of them, a squat man with a patchy beard, scratched figures into a wax tablet, his stylus squeaking faintly. When Remy leaned closer, he noticed the use of Arabic numerals. That drew a faint flicker of approval from him.

  The Italians had embraced the system years ago, the Hanseatic traders had followed, and now even the toll clerks along the Danube had begun to use it. Progress was a slow contagion, spreading wherever commerce reached. Yet the Churchmen still clung to Roman numerals, stubbornly archaic, like monks counting prayers instead of coins.

  Remy smiled faintly, approving. Merchants had no patience for inefficiency. Profit was their scripture.

  The counting dragged on, and the collectors began eyeing the horses tethered on the lower deck. The destrier stamped its hoof and snorted, glaring at the nearest man as though offended by the scrutiny. The collectors hesitated, their suspicion turning briefly into wariness.

  They could tell what Remy was by his bearing alone, and if they could not, then perhaps they deserved a hard knock on the head to help them think clearer. Though if they truly asked, he would have started calculating from one to a one thousand just to show them up.

  He did not pay the toll. Neither did Jehan. The captain, who had nursed a thin hope of avoiding the fee altogether, ended up paying, mostly for the iron tools stacked in his cargo. Remy could have intervened. He could have argued privilege or rank, but he found no reason in favoring the man. The captain was paid and must serve fairly.

  Once the last coin had clinked into the collector’s pouch and the tally confirmed, the Slovak came up to Remy, muttering in his rough tongue, “Weather’s turning. You should find shelter soon, my lord. I smell the storm already.”

  “So do I,” Remy replied. The air had that sharp chill that comes before rain.

  He thanked the man and disembarked with Jehan. The docks were a chaos of movement from porters shouting, donkeys braying, barrels rolling over slick boards. The river stank of tar and fish and the sweet-sour rot of refuse.

  Remy made his way through the narrow streets, sidestepping puddles and piles of dung, the clatter of his spurs drawing quick glances. The townsfolk parted before him out of instinct. Full plate armor usually had that effect on the common people. Some murmured, crossing themselves as he passed.

  Jehan followed close behind, her blue cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. The city was unfamiliar to her, and she clung to his presence as if his shadow alone might keep her safe. Not that Jehan would back down if there was indeed a fight.

  They found an inn not far from the market square, a sturdy timbered place with smoke curling from its chimney. Inside, warmth and noise enveloped them at once, the crackle of the hearth, the smell of bread and broth, the rough laughter of men who had already begun to drink away the day.

  Remy stamped the mud from his boots, tapping the spurs clean on the threshold before stepping in. They found a table near the window, where pale light filtered through the grime-streaked glass.

  He ordered thick soup rich with meat and a jug of wine cooled from the cellar. Jehan, more modest, chose beans and bread, eating with the quiet restraint of someone aware she was being watched.

  A mural adorned the wall beside them, of Saint Martin of Tours, sword in hand, cutting his cloak in half to clothe a beggar. The paint was cracked and faded, yet something in the saint’s expression still held its compassion.

  Remy studied it absently between sips of wine. “Saint Martin,” he murmured. “A soldier who became a saint. You should like him, Jehan.”

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  She looked up. “Because he gave away his cloak?”

  “Because he learned that kindness can wear armor,” Remy said.

  Jehan dipped her bread into the beans. “And you, Monsieur Remy, do you think yourself like him?”

  He smiled faintly. “No. He gave away his cloak. I keep mine. Oh, do you relate to the Saint of Tours, Jehan?”

  “No,” That made her laugh softly somewhat, a rare sound, almost girlish, especially coming from her.

  Remy’s gaze softened. He had been urging her for weeks to eat more, to strengthen herself. Too often she forgot, or pretended to. She was young but had the pallor of one who had known hunger too long. He had explained to her, patiently, that food built muscle, that muscle gave endurance, and that endurance was necessary if she wished to defend herself. Sometimes he even resorted to crude simplifications just to avoid her endless questions upon question.

  She was a quick learner, yes, but when the subject turned to God, or faith, or the mysteries of creation, her mind became a fortress.

  He did not blame her. Faith was all she had known all her life so far probably. To challenge it was to threaten the ground she stood upon. And Remy, despite all the knowledge he had, had no desire to tear down the one thing that gave her peace.

  He broke the silence gently. “Jehan,” he said, “when this is done, when our task is complete, do you wish to return to France?”

  She froze mid-bite. Her spoon hovered in the air before she set it down carefully. A long silence passed.

  “I do not know,” she said finally. “Truthfully, I have been feeling lost as of late. Unsure where I should take a step, or what direction the Lord intends for me.”

  Her voice faltered slightly. She looked down at her hands. “For now, I can only follow your shadow… if you will permit it, Monsieur.”

  Remy studied her face, the uncertainty, the faint tremor of uncertainty behind her words. He could have told her that she owed him nothing, that she was free to go wherever she wished. But he knew she would not. She was tethered to him now by circumstance, by survival, perhaps even by trust.

  “Of course,” he said simply. “You are free to accompany me, Squire Jehan. And perhaps, the trip will be beneficial for the both of us.”

  Jehan’s smile was small, almost shy, tinged with melancholy. “You are a kind man, Monsieur. Truly kind.”

  Was he? The thought lingered as he took another sip of wine. Kindness was not something he often attributed to himself. What she saw as kindness, he saw as mere practicality, a courtesy that cost him nothing. Yet her words struck something deeper, something that made him uneasy.

  Perhaps it was because he knew that, by the measure of his own time, he had ceased to be kind long ago. Kindness had been eroded by years, replaced by a colder sort of mercy.

  He looked down at his hands, the hands of a man who had killed, healed, and written in equal measure and wondered what sort of soul such hands revealed.

  Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the river. The wind had turned, rattling the shutters. The scent of rain crept in through the cracks.

  Jehan resumed eating, quiet again, her eyes lowered. Remy leaned back in his chair and watched the room, the glow of the fire on wooden beams, the faint sheen of sweat on the innkeeper’s brow, the way the serving girl moved between tables with the wary grace of one used to avoiding hands that reached too freely.

  The storm would come soon. He could feel it in his bones, that strange ache of pressure and change. It was a strange thing.

  He set down his cup and said softly, “We’ll stay the night. Tomorrow we move on.”

  Jehan nodded without question.

  For a long while they sat in silence, the murmur of the tavern swelling and fading around them. Then Remy’s gaze drifted again to the mural of Saint Martin, the soldier and the beggar, the cloak divided between them.

  There was something haunting in it. Perhaps it was the notion that mercy required sacrifice. Or perhaps it was the faint smile on the saint’s face, the quiet certainty of one who had found peace not in victory, but in surrender.

  Remy lowered his eyes. A sudden pang stirred in him, not of guilt, nor regret exactly, but of distance. A reminder that whatever warmth or faith still kindled in others had long cooled in him.

  He did not sigh. He simply sat there, silent, as the rain began to fall against the window, each drop tapping like a small, deliberate thought that refused to fade.