Shrouded in the shadows between two huts, Tybalt stared across the path that ran through the commandeered village.

  He had returned to plotting to infect the squad.

  Directly parallel to his lookout spot, the cook, Private Lorenzo, moved back and forth in the hut that had been appropriated as their kitchen. Tybalt could see a corner of the stew pot from his vantage point, and occasionally Lorenzo walked across the open door of the hut and into his view.

  How could Tybalt throw his viral load into the stew without other people noticing—and then associating him with dinner in their minds later?

  He had waited half an hour observing the cook’s patterns. Unfortunately, when the man was working, he never seemed to leave his stew pot unguarded. Tybalt had hoped Lorenzo would eventually step out to relieve himself, giving Tybalt a chance to slip inside. The pot being indoors, within one of the appropriated huts, should have made concealing what Tybalt was doing easier.

  But he was taking far too long finding a weak spot in the cook’s behavior.

  And as he reflected on his task, Tybalt had recognized it would not be as easy as it could have been if he was a simple poisoner. Unlike poison, the components that made viruses potent could be destroyed by boiling—or so the Invisible Enemies textbook had informed him. The stew wasn’t likely to be at a full boil right now, but to be really safe, Tybalt needed to either add his viral components close to the end of the process, when everyone would be gathering around to get their portions of the stew—or he needed a different plan.

  No, the timing is too damn delicate! he finally decided, frustrated. It was too unlikely that the cook would happen to take a break when the stew was almost ready.

  He opened himself up to other options. There should be more places he could place his virions to get them into people’s bodies.

  Tybalt’s eyes went vacant as his gaze stayed fixed on the cooking hut but his mind’s eye flicked through the details of the typical dinner service.

  He saw rolls, spoons, napkins, bowls—and he instantly settled on a strategy.

  Contaminate the bowls themselves. It was obvious in retrospect. The pottery bowls they ate their stew from were cleaned immediately after each meal, but never before the meal. They would be sitting unguarded in a sack on the cart where most of the squad’s important items were. Where Valmont also was.

  Incredible. I don’t have to wait at all.

  He considered for a moment if it could really be that easy. Then he reminded himself that it would only be easy because the squad was used to him. He even had a legitimate excuse for being near the cart. He wanted to let Valmont out for some flight time.

  He rose to his feet. His mind was made up.

  Tybalt crossed the open ground between huts and walked down the path, eyes flicking from side to side surreptitiously. This was a vulnerable moment—one of the first really delicate moments in his new life as an enemy of the Kingdom of Niet. If someone saw him…

  But no one was watching.

  Everyone else seemed to be relaxing inside the appropriated huts, napping before dinner or taking their leisure in any of a dozen other ways. Gambling with dice or playing cards. Sitting around fires swapping stories. Whittling bits of wood they had found scattered around the abandoned village.

  People always found inventive ways to waste their time, Tybalt knew. The more time they had, the worse it was. He supposed his fondness for reading was no different, even if he felt that it enriched him in some deeper way than gambling or whittling would have.

  The important thing was that no one paid him any heed, and once he established that no one was watching, he moved so as to perpetuate that state of affairs. Scouting, Tybalt had learned, was partly about making oneself seem beneath notice. Acting like you belonged wherever you were and had a legitimate purpose for your direction of travel. Appearing un-self-conscious.

  Commander Volusia was nowhere in sight, so there was no one to accost or observe Tybalt without a good reason. Probably off plotting tomorrow’s moves in one of the huts with the Lieutenant and a few of the more senior enlisted men.

  He drew close to the cart. Valmont reacted to Tybalt’s approach, but its movements looked a bit sluggish to him. The bird was probably feeling ready for sleep right about now, considering the fading light in the sky.

  Maybe I should let him out tomorrow instead, Tybalt thought. He stepped into the cart, bending his body into a low, crouching posture, and then he half-crawled over to where Valmont perched in its cage.

  The sack where the bowls were stored was close by, just a foot away from the goshawk.

  Valmont followed Tybalt with its eyes as he moved closer, and its eyes seemed more attentive than he had reckoned. He made a quick decision.

  A flight would do the bird good, even if it would have to be a short one before it was time for Val to roost for the evening. As he thought this—and tried to make his body appear oriented toward that thought, leaning toward the cage—Tybalt also concentrated his aura around his hand. In a few seconds, working off the same virus concept he had used earlier, he produced as many virions as he could without fully depleting his mana and going woozy from mana exhaustion.

  Then his hand darted into the sack with the bowls.

  At just that moment, there was a sharp sound close by. Tybalt ducked down in the cart, his hand still buried in the sack. He wondered if he would have to abort the plan. If anyone had noticed what he was doing, it could be a disaster.

  A moment later, he heard two soldiers walk close by beside the cart. They sounded drunk.

  “I say, what we should do is charge up that mountain and attack those bloody demon furballs in the night,” said the first man.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Hear, hear,” slurred the second. “Give them a nightmare they’ll never forget.”

  Private Graven and Private Ismail, Tybalt recognized. Not the most attentive men. Private Graven was most distinguished by being a superb brown noser. Private Ismail, Tybalt had noticed, had a particular fondness—whenever they attacked a demihuman village—for young girls. A bit too young.

  The men shared a loud chuckle, and the sound of their voices quickly moved away. Tybalt continued to lie there without sitting up. He recognized he hadn’t needed to sink down, because he had a real excuse to be in the cart.

  But if Graven saw him, the Private would definitely remember it. Even if Graven was drunk. Tybalt was a man who stuck in the Commander’s craw. Graven could get a lot of appreciation from Volusia just by watching Tybalt and waiting for him to do something wrong.

  Tybalt created an extra burst of virions on his hand, without getting up, and then he quickly ran his palm over everything he could, touching as many of the dishes as possible with his contaminant.

  After less than a minute, Tybalt was confident that he had spread his contagion to virtually every single bowl in the sack. He did his best to compound the exposure by rubbing his hand against the inside of the sack to scrape off as much virus as he could against the rough material and hopefully allow the bowls to be brought into further contact.

  Then he pulled his hand back from within the sack, and his other hand grabbed the glove he used for falconry. He rose slowly to a seated position, flung open Valmont’s cage door—and as the goshawk flew forward to land on Tybalt’s glove, Baldwin’s voice filled his mind.

  Well done, master, I don’t think anyone noticed you, Baldwin sent. Not even the two Privates.

  Except you, Tybalt sent back, slightly embarrassed. He had not told Baldwin that he was coming over here to contaminate the bowls; it had been a sudden change of plans.

  Being called out made the necromancer feel distinctly unsubtle.

  You know that you could have used me for that, don’t you, master? Baldwin replied. It probably would have been better. If Volusia had seen you, he would remember it. When he sees me, I blend in with the surroundings in a pleasant way. He’s got a real fixation on you.

  Tybalt choked back his impulse to make a scornful reply—always a powerful instinct for him—and considered Baldwin’s words seriously. The revenant was probably right.

  There was no reason to think Baldwin was any more likely to be caught at this than Tybalt, except that Baldwin was a larger man whose movements might be harder to miss. But the fact that the Commander was so biased against Tybalt outweighed the size factor. And, of course, if Baldwin were suspected of tampering with the camp’s food, he was far more expendable than Tybalt.

  The revenant could be ordered to keep silent about his master’s secrets, and if he was killed by the squad, it might be a temporary death, like his first, depending on the mechanism of death used. Against an undead, hanging wouldn’t take, for instance. Even if Baldwin could not be repaired after a second death, that was a sacrifice Tybalt should be prepared to make, so that the necromancer could continue the larger mission.

  I need to stop behaving this way, Tybalt thought. When he was a no-named bastard soldier, acting recklessly and impulsively was just a way of fitting in a little more with the army and enjoying the moment. There was no future that he could see, and he had expected to die someday in one of these little villages, murdering demihumans trying to live on the Kingdom’s land. An utterly pointless death. Ever since Ma died, I haven’t had anyone to rely on. Not really.

  Involuntarily, his mind went to Brandy Sharsmith. The memory of the woman who would have happily supported Tybalt reproached him. Or… maybe I just wasn’t willing to lean on anyone. Too proud. Nor did I have anyone who depended on me.

  That had been an asset in some ways. It was part of why he had been able to fight so fearlessly in the Tower of Death. He was a man with no attachments, no anchors. His life wasn’t valuable, even to him.

  But now things were different. He had power and purpose. Tybalt had to remember that his life was much more precious than it had been. His safety ought not to be risked lightly.

  You’re right, Tybalt sent.

  I—oh, um, I mean, yes, yes, I am, Baldwin replied, clearly surprised that Tybalt had agreed so easily.

  I’m still getting used to being a leader, Tybalt admitted. I need to work on thinking more like one and delegating tasks to the best man for the job.

  He let Val fly free and distanced himself from the cart.

  I appreciate the way you’re reflecting on this, master, came Baldwin’s inner voice once more, hesitantly, uncertain whether Tybalt was really being sincere.

  Tybalt turned away from Valmont’s flight path and moved his head until he saw Baldwin. The older man wasn’t looking Tybalt’s way at the moment. He was dicing with one of the groups of men, which was why Tybalt had not paid him much attention earlier.

  He’s actually distracting them a bit with his mannerisms, Tybalt thought. Baldwin wasn’t doing anything too overt, but he had a way of getting attention just as effectively as Tybalt’s methods for shunning it. Have I underestimated him all this time? Maybe… He’s a little more than just an average soldier. Clever in a way I haven’t properly credited him for. The necromancer reflected on how lucky he was that it had been him and not Baldwin who acquired the Tower of Death’s gift—that it had been Tybalt who had survived their fateful duel.

  As Tybalt set eyes on the older man, Baldwin managed to turn his head slightly to meet Tybalt’s gaze. The revenant winked at his master, then turned back and rubbed at the eye that had winked as if he had something in it.

  I’m also lucky that he has seemingly accepted his new place in the world so quickly, Tybalt thought. Not that he was worried that Baldwin could disobey his direct orders; that seemed to be close to impossible based on both Unholy Forces and Tybalt’s experience of simply ordering Baldwin to stop strangling him.

  But there was more to service than simply doing what one was told.

  Far more.

  In any enterprise, the management was dependent on the employees or slaves doing more than what was explicitly asked of them. An employee who only performed the exact tasks described in their job description would be providing malicious service indeed.

  In a store, it would mean no smiles for the customers, no trying to stop thieves from robbing the store, no attempts to negotiate a better deal from the wholesaler who supplied one’s goods.

  Whores who didn’t pretend to like the customers, farmhands who did not try to distinguish between fresh and rotten fruit, and lawyers who failed to bribe the appropriate officials would all be disastrous for their employers.

  Such people could put an enterprise out of business.

  Tybalt knew he would be far better off if Baldwin willingly chose to help him—as he had just now—even when Tybalt did not explicitly ask for it, than if Baldwin became simply an unwilling slave, dependent on Tybalt’s commands to give his actions direction.

  The necromancer spent the next half hour watching Valmont fly—and reflecting on his next steps. As the darkness started to settle over the camp, and the only light to be found was around campfires, the number of fires set near the center of the village multiplied.

  In the center of that gathering of flames, the cook finally emerged, dragging his great stew pot behind him.

  Tybalt returned Valmont to the birdcage, and then he lined up with everyone else to get stew and rolls of bread. Tybalt tried not to smile in a way that might be remembered later. This was his moment of truth.