I see her sit down to eat. When our eyes cross, I sketch a greeting with my hand and resume staring at my plate. It is good to see other women travelling these roads... could it be that it is finally safer out here, after last summer's turmoil?

I grin embarassedly to myself. All women travellers always look more refined than I do. Then again, I am a mercenary. I do not need to be ashamed of my dirty clothes and unwashed face. I make my living by fighting!

Maybe if I repeat it often enough I will start to believe it... and meanwhile wait for some kind farmer to give me a loaf of bread in exchange for protecting his hen house from a fox... but sweet Brighid, didn't we have some fighting last year! Thinking back on it, I would rather be an unemployed mercenary, yes, I would.