Chapter 17: Cassian Confesses to the Wrong Crime

The garrison tower had lost its roof sometime in the last century, judging by the growth patterns of the moss on the fallen stones, and its east wall had come down with it, leaving three standing walls and a quantity of very old rubble that Breck had assessed in four minutes flat and declared structurally sound enough for one night, provided nobody leaned heavily on the south corner.

We had found it an hour before dark, which was Cassian's timing — it was always Cassian's timing — and by now I had stopped wondering how he located shelter in country that appeared to offer none. Either he had walked this ground before or he had a ranger's instinct that functioned like a second memory, stored in the feet and shoulders rather than the head. Both explanations were equally plausible. I had not yet determined which was true, and I added it to the list of questions that were not yet urgent.

The fire went in the sheltered corner, well below the broken wall's sight-line. Breck built it. He had been building every fire since the river, and no one had suggested otherwise, because a man who needs to do something with his hands ought to be given something to do with them.