The Greycloaks

The road-company that robs the Vale's caravans wearing no colours at all — grey on grey, gone before a name can be put to them.

Every failed caravan guard, broke drover, and deserter the Vale spits out drifts to the Greycloaks sooner or later. They take no banner and no oath: the grey cloak IS the point — a man under one is any man, and a dozen are a wall of nobody. They work the drover-roads and the causeway choke-points, take the cargo and the boots, and melt into the scrub before House Vandahl's watch can saddle. The Marrow Lances hunt them for nothing, because a road no one dares hire a guard for is a road that pays the Lances nothing.