To everyone’s surprise, Isobel returned the bow. “Well met, Prime Rúsola. Anyone who trains such a fine warrior as Lady Sábria has all my respect and more.”

  As a steadying, warm feeling filled Sábria’s chest at the sight of her old Prime, she turned and looked at Shirin, suddenly realizing her second had brought in Rúsola for just that reason.

  Shirin raised innocent brows, acting as though it was just a happy coincidence that Rúsola was among the contingent of extra warriors who’d come to supplement their overworked Blades.

  Sábria knew better, though, and with one look, conveyed her gratitude for everything Shirin had done for her over the past several days. As she stepped to her place at the front of her guards, Sábria touched Shirin above her elbow, silently telling her how much her efforts meant. She began walking toward the Codpiece and got down to business. “Tell me what’s happening with the food delivery.”

  Shirin fell into step and started right in on her report. “As expected, the nobles didn’t like your proclamation. But as I’m sure you’re well aware, we should never underestimate the power of an organized group of noblewomen sent on a mission by the Arch Priestess of Elyon. A cadre of noblemen was marching to the palace to lodge their complaints with Emperor Aloric when Lady Farryn and about thirty noblewomen blocked their way.” Shirin smiled over at Sábria as they walked. “You should have seen them standing in the middle of the road with their arms crossed and their brows pulled into thirty matching scowls.”

  The baker’s boy, a young lad whose mother owned the bakery located a short distance from Sábria’s townhouse, ran up and planted himself in front of Sábria. His head came no higher than her chest, and a shock of his straight black hair fell over his eyes as he bowed low before holding up a basketful of freshly baked egg pies. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Milady. Me Ma sends her greetin’s and asks if ye and yer Blades might be wantin’ some sausage and egg rolls. No charge like.”

  The lad looked well cared for. He wore a clean, well-mended set of tunic and trews and a pair of rough leather knee-high boots. He grinned and pushed the shock of shiny hair out of his eyes with his free hand. “Says to tell ya th’ folks what’s livin’ in our billyburg knowed ya was in yer crib, and we’re real proud when ya come to stay here.”

  When Sábria glanced to her left, she saw the baker, a hefty woman she’d known since childhood, grin broadly and wave. While she’d felt up to checking how things were going in the Codpiece, she didn’t want to visit with merchants and peasants just yet. Sábria waved her thanks, and the woman held out the bottom of her tan baker’s tunic as though it were a skirt and curtseyed. Sábria turned back to the boy, and even though she and Isobel had already eaten, she took a pastry to avoid giving offense.

  The boy’s brows lowered as he looked between Shirin and Isobel, unsure of whom to offer his wares to next.

  Sábria helped him out. “You offer one to the Lady Knight first,” she pointed to Isobel, “then the Commander and Prime,” she moved her finger between Shirin and Rúsola, “and then to the rest of the Blades.”

  He flashed a set of crooked, white teeth when he grinned up at her. “Thank ya, Milady.” Offering the basket to Isobel with a bow, he waited until she’d taken a pastry and then took his offering to everyone else in turn. When he finished, he happily ran back to his mother, who took his arm and admonished him. With a hurried skip in his step, he scurried back and once more stopped Sábria in her tracks with a low bow. “Beggin’ yer pardon’, Milady. I didn’t ken I were s’posed to bow when I left.” After another friendly grin, he stepped aside and let them continue on their way.

  Isobel took a bite and groaned with pleasure. “Egg and sausage. Tomorrow, I’ll buy our breakfast from the lady and pay her extra for her kindness.”

  Sábria nodded distractedly and returned to her earlier conversation with Shirin. “Enlisting the noblewomen is a good short-term solution to a long-term problem. But for right now, I’m pleased it worked.”

  Shirin quickly swallowed the piece of pastry she’d bitten off, embarrassed to have taken a bite in the middle of a report. She swiped the crumbs from her mouth and glanced over to see whether Sábria had noticed her lack of protocol.

  Sábria lifted her chin, silently letting Shirin know she’d noticed. In less stressful times, she’d joke about such a minor transgression, but she was still on edge and merely motioned for Shirin to go on.

  “Sorry.” Shirin continued her report, “Also, Terro’s been keeping Ailith firmly under her thumb since she’s taken over as her handler. She’s not letting her go anywhere without permission and then double-checks to ensure she’s where she’s supposed to be, at least during the Festival. When I realized the stress Jenx has been under, I enlisted the Primes to watch out for Ailith, too.”

  The enormous clappers in the clocktower’s cast bronze bells announced the time with resounding enthusiasm, and Shirin paused her report while she waited for the ringing to stop. After the ninth bell, she returned to her explanation. “When we get back to normal, I’ll have Terro or Jenx, when she returns, meet with Osstendler when she and Ailith go off shift to let her know what Ailith has permission to do whenever she’s not in the Temple. Osstendler will pass the information along to Benú when Gloaming shift comes on duty. Since Ailith is in Geller’s watch, Ursuna already has her boot firmly pressing down on Ailith’s neck during shift. The stress for Jenx is mostly from what Ailith gets up to in her off-duty time.”

  “Normally?” Sábria nodded at three Blades who just happened to be standing along their route.

  “Well, this sevenday is a bit different because I’ve taken Ailith off of deadwatch so she can spend time with Ty. When Terro and Ailith are done taking the food to the Codpiece, Terro goes over what Ailith plans to do that day and then meets with Osstendler to let her know what’s on the agenda.”

  Sábria pursed her lips. While she understood the difficulties Ailith’s independence wrought, she was never comfortable treating one shiv differently from the others. “You don’t think that’s a bit overboard? Ailith is an adult, you know.” She elbowed Isobel when the latter huffed an unladylike snort.

  Shirin’s eyes were never still as she scanned the street, alleys, and rooftops, keeping an eye out for trouble. “I’m trying to condition Ailith to the need to follow orders and understand that shivs ask their handlers permission to do just about anything, especially during her first turn of training. As we’ve often discussed, she’s not our normal, everyday recruit.”

  Shirin grinned when both Isobel and Sábria raised matching brows—Sábria to concede the point and Isobel to heartily agree. “Anyway, Ryn is back in town, and yesterday, Ailith told Terro she was going to get a book from Master Lowenbrow’s shop. She ran into Ryn, and they popped into Farry’s house for some mid-morning diversion. Osstendler saw them from down the street, and when the maid, Bella, let her in, Osstendler immediately ran upstairs.”

  The look on Sábria’s face said it all. “I assume since she saw them go in, she got there before…?”

  “You would think. Apparently, Osstendler had to pick up clothing on her way up the staircase. She knocked, heard scrambling and then Ryn opened the door a crack. Osstendler handed in the clothes, and five minutes later, Ailith came out.”

  “With a grin on her face? A lot can happen in five minutes.”

  “Yes, it can. Although, as you know, that’s not the aspect we care about. The problem was that she told Terro she was going one place and ended up in another.” Shirin left it at that. “Anyhow,” she leaned in and lowered her voice so that only Sábria would hear. “I know you’re not one hundred percent ready to return to the Temple, but I’m relieved you feel rested enough to be out and about, though I’m not thrilled you’re going into the Codpiece during Festival again. The food program has been successful so far, even though it’s only been a few days. Farry has enlisted several friends to have their cooks bake extra bread, like rolls and even some sweet muffins. Still, we had to tell the cooks to be careful with that because, as we learned with Ghost, starving skellis and nints just aren’t used to sweet things and would eat and then throw everything up, which defeats the whole purpose of the program.”

  As they walked past the docks, sailors on and off the ships took off their caps and bowed or stared at the ground. The hammering, the distant echoes of which had been so prevalent for the last two days, stopped as the carpenters realized the Arch Priestess was walking past the pier. Once they turned up the street and began walking inland, the steady hammering and buzz of conversation resumed.

  This time, when Sábria smelled the myriad odors associated with the adjacent fish market, the memories of her parents didn’t bring with them the gut-wrenching flashbacks associated with their deaths. Of course, the barrels where the fishwives tossed the carcasses after they’d filleted the fish sent a putrid odor drifting on the breeze coming in off the bay. Luckily, for the most part, the stench was covered by the smells of the woodfired grills where enterprising open-air vendors cooked the fish on the street and sold the already prepared fillets to restaurants, household servants, and hungry passersby. The foreign spices that flavored the fish added to the overall market bouquet…or stench, depending on the visitor’s point of view.

  As they approached one of the streets leading into the Codpiece, Sábria began seeing Blades patrolling in twos and threes up and down the streets and in the darkened recesses of filthy back alleys. All of them watched her as she walked by, with some older ones nodding a greeting. Sábria looked up at Shirin. “Do they know about Ty? I know she’s been out running with Ailith, and I also know it’s impossible to keep any kind of secret in the Temple.”

  Not wanting the honor guard to overhear their conversation, Shirin leaned in and spoke barely above a whisper. “The first day she was there, I introduced the Subcommanders and all of the Primes to her in their room. No one knows that she was a slave, just that you were a child when you had her and felt Ty would have a better life with a family of her own. And quite honestly, if things had worked out the way you had intended, that might have been true.”

  Turning down a side street, they noticed a group of ten mounted Tuvistian nobles gathered a short distance away. The disgruntled looks on their faces told the women everything they needed to know. One man loudly addressed his friends in his native tongue, and the group fanned out and drew their swords.

  Unfortunately for him, Tuvistian was also Shirin’s first language and she loudly translated his words so all the Blades would know what was happening. She signaled for Rúsola to call for a halt and have the honor guard assume the wedge formation. Even though the older woman had over seventy turns, she was still respected and perfectly capable of being in charge of the squad she was leading.

  Rúsola’s order was immediately obeyed when she barked, “Weapons, surround and wedge.”

  Shirin glanced at Isobel. “My Lady. I assume you wouldn’t be averse to being the apex of the wedge?”

  A wolflike grin was Isobel’s only answer as she moved forward with four Blades and became the sharpened tip of the spear protecting the Arch Priestess.

  With weapons drawn, the remaining Blades surrounded Sábria.

  The men, all knights wearing some aspect of the House of Renaud, a respected Tuvistian noble family, mistook the Blades stopping in the street as a fearful or uncertain hesitation. Their ages ranged from newly anointed knights barely out of their teens to experienced ones somewhere in their late thirties. To a man, they nudged their horses forward. Some wore arrogant grins, while others had licentious looks that said they thought capturing and raping some of these women might be a lot of fun.

  It never ceased to amaze Shirin how often many of the more conservative knights in the other kingdoms underestimated the Daughters of Elyon. The Daughters were renowned throughout the kingdoms, and yet many members of their close-minded, patriarchal societies refused to believe the stories told of their military might. She whistled her personal call and then added a series of three short trills.

  What looked to be around twenty-five Blades appeared on the roofs of the surrounding buildings, knocked their arrows, and drew their bowstrings. All twenty-five arrows pointed down at the noblemen.

  The men nervously pulled their horses to a halt, shocked that anyone would dare threaten visiting nobles.

  Sábria spoke to Shirin out of the corner of her mouth. “A bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

  Scanning the Blades on the rooftops to assess their readiness, Shirin responded with a shrug. “I said I was happy you were getting out. I’m not happy that you’re going to the Codpiece during Festival, especially after we’ve kicked the hornet’s nest with your proclamation.”

  Down the street, the man who appeared to be the leader, a thirty-something round-faced aristocrat wearing the yellow and blue tabard of the Tuvistian House of Renaud, drew his lips back and sneered in heavily accented Cibían. “You wouldn’t dare murder members of the Tuvistian nobility in broad daylight. Your Emperor has given us free rein during Festival.” His eyes sharpened when he spotted Isobel’s tunic. “A Dreyuthan bitch playing dress up and carrying a man’s sword dares to face me with her weapon drawn? What kind of insult is this?” He bared his teeth, raised his sword, and kicked his horse into a charge.

  The rest of the nobles hung back, nervously eyeing the arrows fitted to the taut bows and waiting to see what response their leader would receive.

  The instant the man spurred his horse, Isobel raced forward to meet him head-on instead of waiting for the horse to reach her.

  Shirin immediately whistled for the archers to hold their fire, fearing a stray arrow might accidentally hit the Lady Knight.

  With a steadfast belief that all women warriors were weaker than the weakest Tuvistian male squires, the nobleman swung his blade down, fully expecting to meet little resistance from Isobel’s blade.

  Isobel neatly parried and, in the same motion, swung up behind the rider and efficiently ran her blade across his exposed throat. She continued her sideways motion and ended with a graceful dismount on the horse’s far side. With a look of disgust, she took two steps back as the man’s body landed at her feet.

  The panicked horse ran back to where his herdmates waited with the remaining astonished Tuvistian knights.

  After wiping her blade on the dead man’s trews—just about the only part of his body and clothing that wasn’t covered in blood—Isobel calmly returned to her place at the front of the wedge.

  Rúsola stood to the left and slightly behind Sábria and muttered, “Remind me to stay on that lady’s good side, aye?” She glanced at Sábria, who briefly turned to look at her old friend. Rúsola raised her brows and winked knowingly. “And she’s no bad to look at neither.”

  Her Prime could always make her blush, and just as when she’d been a sixteen-turn shiv, Sábria felt the red rising into her cheeks. “Rúsola, hush.” She heard the chuckle she’d come to love as a young woman and felt the same steadying effect she’d known back then. “Tell them to dismount.”

  Ever the diplomat, Shirin stepped in front of the wedge and calmly said, “Gentlemen. It is protocol to dismount when in the presence of the Arch Priestess of the Daughters of Elyon.”

  One of the youngest of the group, a lad dressed in the same familial colors as the dead man and who may or may not have reached his twentieth nameday, sheathed his sword, jumped from his horse, and strode forward. His long, ginger hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, revealing a thin, pretty boy face typical of most of the older Tuvistian families.

  Intelligent but frightened green eyes stared at Shirin, who said in perfect Tuvistian, “That’s far enough.”

  He stopped and immediately dropped to one knee.

  Shirin waited as the rest of the party dismounted one by one and formed a line across the road directly behind the young man. All of them went down on one knee. Knowing it was challenging to hold a bow taut for an extended period of time, Shirin whistled to the archers, ordering them to stand down but remain ready.

  Sábria joined Shirin and stared down at the young noble, “Name?”

  He understood the Cibían language and answered with less of an accent than the previous man. Young enough that his voice hadn’t yet dropped into the lower registers, it still retained some characteristics of a teenage boy while beginning to deepen and have the more resonant tones of an adult male. It held an interesting blend of youthful qualities while showing hints of his emerging maturity. He swallowed hard. “I’m Jerad—” he hesitated and looked back at the other man’s body, “That is…well…I suppose now I’m Lord Jerad, Marquis of Renaud. That was my cousin, Sanin, the previous Marquis, and these are his…my men.”

  With her arms clasped casually behind her back, Sábria walked from one end of the line of kneeling Tuvistian knights to the other, studying them.

  Shirin stayed close by her side.

  When Sábria reached the last man, her icy blue eyes missed nothing, including the angry set of his broad shoulders. “Name?”

  The man’s eyes held a dangerous glint as he spat out his response. “Sir Glayan of Renaud.”

  The familial relationships of the Tuvistian nobility were slightly different from those in Cibía, and although Sábria was well aware of the differences, Shirin supplied them anyway. “Since Sir Glayan served Lord Sanin, that means he’s a minor lord who, though he has little power or influence, may still claim the Renaud name and crest. If I remember correctly, his father was a second or third cousin once or twice removed from the titular Lord of Renaud.”

  Glayan sneered at Shirin’s explanation. It was apparent he understood Shirin’s words but chose to insult Sábria by responding in his native tongue. “And how would a Cibían wench know where my bloodlines lie?”

  Shirin translated for Sábria’s benefit and then answered in Tuvistian. “A Cibían wench would not. Princess Shirin Dorin Burchard, fifth daughter of the Royal House of Burchard, would.”