Victor clicked his teeth in irritation, his eyes glaring after Feather and the news that she had bore. Not that it was her fault, he knew. Never shoot the messenger, at least not unless you were a captain or higher... Still, he had felt that he and his houseguest had been shared what he had heard called 'a moment', and the lamed soldier was loath to end it. Even as he helped her down from the wagon from where he sat, his fingers lingered on hers but reluctantly let them go. Her questions, however, he could not dismiss. Turning his head to look towards the setting sun, he squinted his eyes. 

"Oh, his prices are good enough," he extemporized through his teeth, "I'll grant you that."

Looking down at Kijani from his perch upon the wagon, he scowled. "Man was a quartermaster in the army. Stayed safely behind the lines for most of the war. Got the job by claiming poor eyesight, but he can count every coin in your purse from across the street in a blink. Anything but ammunition and rum had to come out of our pay before we even got paid, and you can be sure that he gouged us hard for every biscuit and bootlace we needed, damn the man. He wasn't the worst of them, not by a cannon's shot, but thank the Gods that I didn't have to see his smarmy face more than once a year at best. He did his best to be nowhere near where the action was, because he knew we'd shot him in the back before the enemy even opened fire. Only about five years ago, there was a bit of scandal with a lieutenant and a captain's daughter that he had a hand in, next thing we know Brandleman's cashiered out with pension. Didn't see that ruddy face of his again until he stopped in Arbordale not long after I arrived. Set himself up as a sutler. Buys goods from the city and sells it in the country. Usually has a band of tinkers following him to patch pots and pans, sharpen knives, and the like."

He looked back out again at the horizon. "Maybe he's turned honest. I wouldn't say for sure, but I doubt it. What I would say is to check anything that catches your fancy with a close eye. Say... small mended tears? Maybe with dark stains about them? Or things that looks too fancy for a sutler's cart? Or things that might have fallen off a wagon?" 

"Then again, the folks of Arbordale don't know enough what to look for." Victor sighed, conceding the reality of the services that Brandleman brought to his neighbors. His voice was softer, resigned to how things were. "Even if they did know, it's not like they could afford any better than what Bandleman brings. So I keep my mouth shut and avoid the man. What else can I do? I open my mouth about Brandleman and my neighbors, honest folks all, would stop doing business with him. They're that good a folk around here. But if I do that, they have to truck to Miles Cross or Rail Yard or one of the there larger towns where they'll have to pay twice as much if they're lucky."