Men working in the shadows around a campfire [https://i.imgur.com/tkbLchS.jpeg]

THE COMPANY

He couldn't believe it was here, she led them right to it. "It" is a camp of about five makeshift tents, crammed into a small forest clearing and "she" is an otherwise ordinary tabby cat. "He" is a tracker named Monte and in this moment, he spied a campfire. He assumed the cat must have smelled the fires as they wandered through the forest. It was a lucky break, nothing more. Even so, he had finally found what he was looking for. A lucky break indeed.

They’ve only been here a few days.

Men went between tents in the near darkness, unaware they were being observed. Had they known, they might have made an effort to conceal the obviously stolen gold candelabras, silver pitchers, and various pieces of tableware as they packed it all into cheap leather trunks.

Okay.

He readied himself, looking at the cat.

"You stay here." He whispered, as if she could understand.

He couldn't make out the color of her ruddy fur in the twilight, but her eyes were two flashes like coins falling into a well. Monte thought he saw her blink in acknowledgment.

Crouching to stay low, he made his way through the brush as quietly as he could, towards an unlit area on the perimeter. Without a plan this would certainly be a disaster. Luckily, Monte had a plan.

He would find someone in the camp, hopefully someone just nodding off after a long day pilfering valuables off unsuspecting townspeople. While his knife kept their neck company, they would have a quiet chat. Nothing complicated. Nobody needed to get hurt. Leave no proof you were there. Take no proof you were there. If anyone shows up uninvited, run. The cat would find him, she always did.

Nothing could have been simpler than slipping under the canvas sheet forming the tent's outer wall. Inside, man in fitful sleep was splayed out on what appeared to be an overturned log draped in a ratty blanket. At first, he appeared quite old, but upon further inspection the man couldn't have been long past middle age. Monte guessed a hard life of crime was to blame for the hardened lines around his mouth and brow.

Monte hadn't exactly been living the high life over the past couple of years but at least he wasn't living like this. Only halfway through his twenties, his hair was still dark and thick. People often remarked that his bright eyes made him look younger than he was.

Monte had been sleeping in string of tavern rooms when could afford them, and unused Guard cells when he couldn’t. The stench inside this tent alone made even the occasional hayloft he’d slept in seem luxurious by comparison.

Carefully he retrieved the dirk knife he kept on his belt and pressed its quiet steel against the sleeping neck before him.

Everything is going to plan.

"Tell me how to find the leader." Monte said.

That sounded better in my head.

Hissed into the air it came out more than a little flat. The sleeping man barely stirred.

Shaking him a little bit had the desired effect, slowly his eyes blinked open. The man's reaction suggested waking up at knifepoint was something of a lifelong passion.

"Tell me where the leader is." Monte said again.

That sounded a little better.

"We ‘aven't got a leader. The Company’s just that." Monte could not have been prepared for the stench that emanated from the man's mouth.

He was prepared for the answer. He had heard it dozens of times by now.

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I know that’s a lie.

Monte wasn’t yet sure the man knew he was lying.

"How do I find him? Where is he?" He tried again.

"There's no man to find mate, you're looking at the leader as much as we've got one."

We both know that’s a lie.

Monte was sure now. He had heard this line before too, but not quite as often. This man had been around long enough to learn what to say to outsiders. He was probably trained by the Company to speak in these riddles. Monte needed to outsmart him, and based on the look of him, that wouldn't be too hard.

"When you've picked this place clean, where do you go next?" Monte asked the man.

Staying away from questions with simple answers tended to make people say more than they wanted to, Monte knew.

"We've got it this time. It's even better this time around. The lad won’t be too pleased but it's what we've been after."

This time Monte wasn’t ready, none of what the man said meant anything. The lad? What they’ve been after? His heart was racing with the prospect of any answers after so many months. He learned where they would be camped, tracked them here, everything led up to this Monte. Monte’s only mistake so far was finding a man uninterested in making things simple.

"Is the lad your leader?" Monte asked.

Wrong question.

"How do I find the lad?" He asked again.

A little better.

"They say it's even better than before." The old man continued with the nonsense.

"What is better than before?" Monte asked, but he knew there would never be an answer.

A small commotion between a few members of the Company was growing outside the tent, and just then it spilled through the opening. Monte turned, startled, and the old man grasped at his throat where the dirk had been moments ago. The interloper standing in the doorway bore a terrified expression. As suddenly as he came in, he ran out again, shouting for the others.

At this point, according to the plan, Monte should have run. He should have run back into town, paid the innkeeper to watch over his few remaining possessions. He should have then ordered a pint and done his best to convince everyone else at the bar he had been there all night. He should, according to the plan, go to the Capitol tomorrow with information about where the Company was hiding out, take his pay, and live another day.

It was a good plan. He slipped out from under the canvas flat he came in through and was about to run into the darkness, when he saw the cat. She was easy to spot, silhouetted against the next tent over. He could hear the old man getting his bearings and shouting for the others. Monte ran to the cat, scooped her up, and slipped under the canvas flap. In a perfect world, he thought he would find another sleeping man. What he found instead was much more interesting.

The tent contained a simple desk and chair. A single candle burned low in a brass holder and weighed down the pages of a worn-looking book. Monte felt his pace quicken, someone must have stepped out recently and he couldn’t guess when they would be back. What he had spent the last years looking for could be in this camp, maybe in this very tent. This wasn’t part of his plan, but he couldn't run now.

Plans change.

On the open page of the book were several names, all but two of which were crossed out, with numbers to the right. Monte realized immediately this was a ledger. The ones that hadn't been struck through might have meant something, but he didn’t recognize any of them.

Flipping through earlier pages revealed much of the same, lists of names with some crossed out. Now he knew the men camped here couldn't just be a Company raiding party. Most of the pirates, brigands, and otherwise cast-out scoundrels couldn't read their own name much less write pages of others'.

Next to the book was an elaborately decorated box. It was about three feet in length and its brass latches and corner ornaments danced in the candles' light. He lifted the lip of the box and felt his stomach drop. Amidst the rich velvet lining was by all appearances the sword his father carried for most of Monte's life.

Seeing this sword brought him back to the moment the finished blade was pulled from the forge, straight as an arrow with a perfect edge along one side, and flat across the other. A hilt and pommel of deep brass and gold with rich oiled leather wrapping the grip.

But something was clearly off about the sword laying in front of him. This sword was a replica.

His father was renowned for metal craftsmanship. Monte attended the finest academy in the Capitol thanks to his father’s success selling fine metalworks. This sword lacked the exquisite detail his father imparted on every piece that left his shop. The folds in this steel were varied in width, the point appeared dull, and it was clear to him the hilt was of inferior quality brass.

This replica announced itself even more clearly in its silence. His father's sword had let out an audible lamenting wail from the moment its owner died. Monte knew this because his father's sword belonged to him.

At this very moment, his father's sword was in its sheath attached to his pack and in the care of the nearby village’s Innkeeper. Monte knew its wailing would have given him away in the quiet of the forest faster than the cat, but it would be impossible to hear over the din of an evening tavern crowd.

Monte knew for sure the sword in from of him was fake, and that's all he knew.

Though morning was still far away, the light outside the tent was growing, as was the commotion. Men bearing torches had made it to the next tent over and he could hear them shouting names he wouldn't remember. He heard the neighboring entrance flaps open and close and shouting grew too loud and close to bear.

It occurred to him immediately that two things are likely true. First, the ledger could be a chance to discover what happened to his father. Second, if he stayed in this tent much longer, he would never get that chance.

Something brushed against his leg and he had to fight to keep in a scream that would have certainly let the Company men know where to look next. The cat was slinking between his legs, looking concerned. He knew it was a bad idea to take anything that could place him here tonight, but it was time to go. Without spending any more time to consider, he grabbed the ledger and ducked out of the tent. In the same instant, he could hear the men entering from the other side.

Before they had time to realize anything was missing, Monte disappeared into the gloom of the forest.