"Let's see what's in that pack."

"Nothing worth taking," said Sarros. He didn't relinquish the pack, but tightened his grip on the ash walking stick he'd carried with him for years.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," said the man Sarros supposed to be the leader. He waved a hand, and two of his men shuffled to surround the much smaller traveler.

Sarros gritted his teeth. He was not frail, but only a fool would fight six men at once. He could fight one with his staff, and if Sarros had a sword he felt confident he could even fight two. Anything more than that was idiocy. He darted towards the smaller of the two bandits flanking him, swung his staff at the burly man's ankle, and shoved his assailant to the ground as he passed.

He wasn't quick enough. Something thudded into the back of Sarros' head, and he saw the ground rise to meet him. "Fuck," he groaned, and tried in vain to resist the rope being roughly knotted around his arms and legs.

***

Mochon, leader of the men who occupied the small encampment at the edge of the Eastern Border, picked his teeth with a knife. The prisoner sat with his back against a pole, hands tied behind him. The young man looked Ulritten, the pale skin of his chest and arms traced with scars that described a life of violence. His shoulder-length black hair was matted with blood on the back of his head, and the narcotic herbs they had forced down his throat kept him in the clutches of unconsciousness.

"Is a bad idea, cap'n. Leaving him alive."

Mochon turned calmly. He prided himself on his civilization, knowing that a lesser man would have struck his second in command for speaking in such a manner. "Do you think so, Turis?"

Short, wart-nosed Turis had served under Mochon years back when they were both soldiers in the Imperial Army. When Mochon deserted to seek his fortune elsewhere, Turis was the only man to follow him. "What if he gets free, sir?" Turis glanced down at the table before his leader.

"He won't." Mochon touched the Mask again. It looked like silver, but its weight and texture were like pine wood. A stylized pair of horns curled down each side, and in place of eye holes was an etched blindfold. It disconcerted Mochon. "We're lucky we surprised him. If he'd had the opportunity to retrieve his Mask, I doubt any of us would have made it out alive."

Turis shivered, and took a step further away from the prisoner. "Thank the stars."

"Indeed." Mochon wrapped the Mask back up in its woolen cloth and rose from his seat, towering even more above Turis as he did so. Battle-worn Mochon did not look like an educated and noble man, even he knew, but that was what made the bandit leader so dangerous. "Hide it in the secret place." He looked at the unconscious prisoner. "The stars only know what tricks he has up his sleeve."

"Yes sir." Turis saluted, as he always insisted, and scooped up the profane Mask. The ex-soldier flinched as he touched it, as though some malevolent force had reached him even through the thick cloth wrapped around the thing. He scurried away, leaving his leader alone in the prisoner tent.

The newcomer happened to be the bandits' only prisoner at the moment. They had kept a merchant's son for ransom a few week's before, but the father had not paid for his youngest son, who had turned out to be a drunkard and a disappointment to the family name, and so Mochon had killed the boy himself. It wasn't proud work, but if word got out that Mochon's crew was merciful they would never get another ransom. The unconscious prisoner now sat in a dried pool of the merchant's son's blood. Maybe the evidence of his predecessor's fate would loosen his tongue a bit when he woke.

Mochon left the tent, nodding to the spear-wielding bandit who guarded the entrance. "Send word when he wakes. I'll want to speak with him."

"Yessir." The guard did not salute, but nodded deferentially as Mochon passed. It was as the leader preferred. The fewer reminders of his old life, the better.

***

Sarros tasted iron. He must have bitten his lip when—Oh, right. The Actor grimaced, spitting the remnants of narcotic herbs from his dry mouth. The blood in his mouth was that of one of the bandits. Sarros had bitten him when the bandit pried his mouth open to force the drugs into his mouth. The Actor groaned as quietly as he could, assessing his situation.

Light shone into the tent in a thin bar through the wind-shaken flap that served as a door. The only furniture in the tent was a low wooden table and chair about eight feet away. Upon it lay Sarros’s traveling pouch. Against his better judgment, Sarros growled. They must have stolen the Mask. “Hey!” he tried to shout. His throat and mouth felt hairy, and his voice had trouble escaping his throat. The Actor tried to express enough saliva to lubricate his throat. “I’m awake!” No one answered. The tent flap whipped in a particularly strong breeze and Sarros glimpsed a worn leather boot. There was clearly a guard, but either he couldn’t hear Sarros or was purposefully ignoring his prisoner.

Groaning, Sarros slumped back down. He winced as something hard contacted the wound on the back of his head. Sarros twisted around and saw the thick wooden pole holding up the tent, the column to which the mercenary Actor was secured. He poked at the ropes which bound his hands behind the pole, but they were too tight for him to move them much.

“Oh!” The guard had peeled back the tent flap. He must have heard Sarros after all. “Fetch Captain,” he yelled to someone outside, and then returned outside.

“Get over here!” called Sarros. “I’ve got questions!” His call was ignored, and so the Actor lay back again, waiting for the leader. He began to process the events of his capture. What were bandits doing on such a minor wilderness road? The Imperial highway was almost a half-day’s travel southward. Sarros had chosen his path specifically because it was so disused. Why would bandits ignore a major throughway but ambush a road where they might not even catch a single traveler on a given day?

Of course, they had caught even careful Sarros, so who was he to judge?

The leader of the bandits stormed into the tent, carrying a smoking torch. He loomed above Sarros, and the Actor had a feeling it wasn’t just because he was in a forced seated position against the tent pole. The bandit leader was thick-armed, broad shouldered, and mean-looking. A dip of a scar marred the bridge of his nose, and the man’s beard and hair were nicely trimmed. Underneath all that, however, Sarros felt there was an air of something else. Something refined, almost noble. His gaze was the cool stare of a sheriff or an officer, someone who was used to institutionalized power and bore it as a duty as well as a weapon.

It reminded Sarros of his short stint in the Imperial army, and that soured his mood even further. “Thanks for the warm welcome,” he said, and smiled wryly.

“If you had not struggled, we could have made your accommodations more comfortable,” said the bandit leader. His words carried the accent of one of the northern cities, something Sarros hadn’t noticed in their exchange on the road. “You did strike my man first, if you recall.”

“I’m having a bit of trouble recalling anything, frankly.”

“Please.” The leader set the torch into a hole bored into the table and approached his prisoner. He grabbed a handful of Sarros’ hair and pulled the Actor’s head forward. It wasn’t a cruel gesture, but sure and practical, like a farmer holding a lamb’s head tightly while he checked its teeth. “Your wound is not serious. I think that we were forced to sedate you speaks to that.”

“Normally I’d have to pay good money for shit that good,” said Sarros. “If you throw in a loaf of the stuff when you let me go, I think we can call it even.”

The leader released Sarros, knelt down, and peered into his face. “Let’s dispense with all that.”

“All right. Why am I still alive? Do I look like a rich nobleman to you?”

“You’re a mercenary, clearly.”

“And?” Sarros grinned. “You gonna offer me the chance to join you and your boys? I might take you up on it, actually. Work’s been scare as of late.”

“Perhaps. If I thought I could trust you.”

“And, pray tell, why not?”

“We found your Mask.”

Sarros dropped the pretension of good humor. “Then you know how stupid it is to keep me away from it.”

“On the contrary.” The leader stood, looming large once more. “I have more education than most of the peasants and citizens in the country. That isn’t derision, only fact. I know if the union between an Actor and his Mask is not fully consummated, he must touch it to assume its persona.”

“Fuck you. What’d you do with it?”

The leader spread his arms. “Please don’t take offense. It’s safe. I have no intention of harming it. If we kill you, it will be buried alongside your corpse. I’m not a savage.”

“What a relief.” Sarros slumped back down. He hadn’t realized his body had become so tense. “All you did was beat me, drug me, and keep me prisoner. At least you’re not a savage.”

“You know what I mean.” The leader sighed. “Where is the war, mercenary?”

“Hmm?”

“Why else would you be traveling that road? You carry nothing of value, and only a few days’ rations. I assume you were headed to the frontier settlements, but after that, you leave the Empire. I can only infer there is a war brewing in the barbarian lands.”

“No, I…” Sarros stopped. The leader was staring at him with eyes like a panther’s. “If there’s a war, it’s news to me. I’m looking for someone. Revenge.” He inclined his head. “Why were you waiting for me?”

“If you truly don’t know, then we weren’t waiting for you. But I doubt that.”

“Why?”

The leader scratched his beard. “Quite a few Imperial platoons have passed in the last few months. It must be common knowledge.”

Sarros laughed. “Were you expecting to ambush a platoon?”

“Maybe a spy.” The leader smiled coldly. “I hear they are adept at memorizing their messages so they can pass for travelers or monks or refugees.” He leaned closer. “Or lone mercenaries. There’s a pretty penny to be made off selling information in times of war.”

“Torture me all you like, but I have nothing to tell you.” Sarros tried to keep his half-mocking tone, but he could hear his voice shaking as he spoke. Of course they wouldn’t believe him. They might not until he was already dead. “I swear, I know nothing of the war. I’m no spy.”

A tense moment passed. The bandit leader remained silent, letting Sarros count his own thudding heartbeats and try not to breathe too heavily in his fear.

The leader drew a wicked knife, and despite himself Sarros flinched. He growled as the blade approached his face, determined to go out fighting, but the leader pushed his prisoner’s head aside and bent around the tent pole, sawing at the ropes binding Sarros’ hands. He hauled the Actor up by the front of his shirt and held him steady as the room seemed to spin around Sarros’ head.

“Wh-what?” The Actor put a hand against the tent pole, pushing away the bandit leader. What was happening?

“I believe you, mercenary. Your eyes have things I wish I didn’t have to see in someone so young, but deceit is not one of them.” He gestured to the table. “With the exception of that abominable Mask—which I will keep safe until I am certain I can trust you—all your belongings have been untouched.” The leader picked up his torch and opened the tent flap again, making Sarros squint at the bright sunlight. “My name is Mochon. You will call me Captain. What’s yours?”

“Sarros.” The mercenary’s wry smile returned as he massaged his scraped wrists. “And you can call me Lieutenant.”

Mochon glanced at Sarros’ right arm, hidden beneath a hemp shirt, and touched the scar on his exposed right arm where the Imperial tattoo had once sat. “We may not be Imperial any more, Sarros, but I’m still in charge around here. Take care you remember that.” He left Sarros alone to gather his things.