On the fourteenth day of October, in the year 1362, morning came cold and grey over Chambière, the sun pale behind a haze of smoke and mist. Frost rimed the eaves of the Errant Company's hall, and the yard beyond lay hard and silent, still caught in the night's chill. Within, the great room stood mostly empty. The hearth fire had burned to embers, and the quest board sat thick with parchment. The clerk, a lean young woman, moved among the tables gathering the cups left from the night's drinking without wasted motion. Beyond the hall, Chambière came alive, cartwheels creaking over the hardened road and hawkers crying their wares into the cold air. Farther still, past the rooftops and the grey stone of the wall, the frontier waited. It always did, patient and indifferent to whoever dared it.