“We’re not even Adepts.” Larochette looked depressed. “Not a Trial among us.”

  “Chin up.” Amir closed his eyes, enjoying the ride. “There’s every chance of a field promotion in our future.”

  The taverna was underground, but not dingy. Lamps with good oil gave a warm, smokeless cheer to the place. The walls were hidden behind tapestries, hushing the echoes and smothering any damp that might linger. The place was constructed about a central box-like bar, a faux prisoner bartender in the middle, ever ready to refill your ale handle while you enjoyed fine conversation.

  There weren’t many souls inside. The slim man, his entourage of six thugs, and a nervous-looking barmaid. She was perhaps thirty summers, but she hid the terror behind a bright smile and brittle voice. Amir thought it gave her the taught, tensioned look of someone a little older, but he was used to such. He’d grown up around thugs.

  Larochette led in her role as Vertiline. Amir admitted she had their teacher’s imperious manner down like it was her own. She stalked to the east side of the bar, put her elbow on it, and said, “Where is everyone?”

  “The city is regrettably at war.” The slim man steepled his hands. “Refreshments?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Amir sauntered to the southern face of the box-like bar, tossing a quick look over the side. No assassin hid behind. So, just the seven in here against their three. Should be just about fair. Faust was doing a slow circuit, making every show of a man admiring the tapestries. “Ho, barkeep.”

  The barmaid curtsied, scurrying over. “What does my lord wish?”

  “He wishes to not be called a lord, and to get a tankard of ale.” Amir smiled to soften his words. He wished he could say, It’ll be okay soon, but that wasn’t certain.

  She nodded like a woodpecker, all quick jerky movements, and bustled behind the bar through a clever hinged part of the east section. She drew him an ale, putting it on the bar in front of him. Amir ignored it, wondering how to get the action started as quickly as possible.

  Larochette put her hands on the bar, leaning forward. Amir heard her back pop as she stretched. The slim man gave her a cautious look, then sidled up to Amir. In a low voice he said, “What’s she doing?”

  “Limbering up, I’d imagine.” He beamed. “Fierce tight quarters aboard a ship.”

  “Ah.” The slim man brightened as a boy arrived from the back room carrying a platter. The platter was festooned with all manner of treats. Candied plums. Smoked meat and dried sausage. Bread, fresh-baked too by the look, and a good crock of butter. Grapes, dates, and cheeses.

  Amir resented all of it. He craned his neck left then right and was rewarded with a crack. “Let’s be about it, then.”

  “I’m sorry?” The slim man backed away a step.

  “It’s not lost on me that in a war-torn city without a regent, having horses and a dock escort is unlikely.” Amir smiled, but apologetically this time. “Your task was to waylay us at the docks, then poison us.”

  “The city has a regent,” the man spluttered.

  “Curious you didn’t jump on the poison angle first,” Amir noted.

  “Ah.” The slim man took another step back. “Only because it was so preposterous.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like a plum?” Amir’s smile turned wolfish. “Come now, don’t be saying you just ate. You, sir, have the look of a man with a case of worms. You could eat all day and not gain a gram.”

  It wasn’t lost on Amir that while he was talking with the slim man, his opponent’s compatriots were fanning about the room. No doubt they thought to put two against one and take Tresward on the blade, which showed just how unused to seeing Smithsteel these people were. The best option was to amass your forces against a single opponent, hoping your war of attrition would win. Bring enough people and you can solve almost any problem.

  The slim man did a quick tally, perhaps satisfied his gang were in position. Two brutes were behind Faust, who was still giving every appearance of a man studying an apprenticeship in tapestry manufacture. Larochette enjoyed the attention of another pair who had the look of ordinary sellswords, a lean hardness about them that would normally encourage you to offer your coin purse without being asked. The slim man was now backed by a man and woman who were so alike as to be cast from the same mould. Amir hazarded them as twins, but if they didn’t share a birthday, siblings either way.

  Many thought having someone you knew almost as well as yourself in a fight was an asset. In Amir’s experience it could be, but only if you didn’t care about them. Otherwise it was a hazard, the kind of thing to distract the mind and eye both. While I have three against my one, two of them will be crippled by concern. It wasn’t a bad way to start an imbalanced fight.

  “When will the regent arrive?” Amir fingered his belt, wishing he had a sword there.

  “We are men of action,” the slim man chided. “There should be no lies between us.”

  “Since it’s come to this, I feel I need to come clean.” Amir brightened. “We are not Tresward.”

  “You’re … not?” The slim man backed between the twins. “But … you arrived on their ship.”

  “True enough, but you missed Vertiline by moments. We, sir, are common vagabonds who stowed away.” Amir spread his arms. “What can you do?”

  The ruse might have worked on a country rube, but Amir had spent too much time cementing these people’s view of them as Vertiline and her retinue. At this, the play’s third act, it held less water than a sieve. The twins lunged past the slim man, both with evil-looking curved knives that seemed to sprout from nowhere.

  Amir’s hands sought weapons behind him. His right found the back of a chair. His left came back with a spoon from the bar top. Teacher said we should make anything a weapon, and each weapon our own. Amir skidded the chair under the feet of the sister, who went down in a tangle of wood, limbs, and curses. He took a fighting stance, left hand brandishing the spoon in vertical guard.

  The brother’s eye twitched the barest fraction as his sister fell, which was perfect, but he didn’t pause his assault, which wasn’t. The man’s curved knife came in a savage cut that went inside Amir’s guard and up toward his neck. Amir swayed left in an approximation of the first step of Deer’s Passing, kicking out with his leading foot into the man’s shin. It was nobody’s foot sweep, and he could hear the Justiciar saying wrong pattern for the wrong attack, seconds before she smacked him upside the head, but it staggered the brother well enough. Amir stepped forward and, using the man’s arm as a convenient guide to run his strike along, rammed the haft of his spoon into his foe’s neck.

  The man choked, stumbled back, and dropped his knife, which Amir saved from a swift fall. The brother wasn’t dead, but his collapsed throat promised that outcome, so Amir changed his focus to the sister. Deer’s Passing was a poor choice for this, which was why he wasn’t yet an Adept, so he discarded the form and went for Spearing Hawk. This pattern assumed a downed opponent which fit the rules of engagement.

  Downed, but not out: the sister hissed and spat like a cat in a sack, kicking the chair at Amir. It hit his shins, which hurt more than a little, and overbalanced him also more than a little. Her knife came up at him, so he decided to join her on the floor. He slapped her wrist aside with his right hand as he fell, turning his back toward the floor as he went. He focused on landing on his right elbow, and unfortunately for the sister she was between it and the ground. The air went out of her in a rush as she spasmed.

  Amir swung with his left arm as she curled up, embedding her brother’s knife in her throat. He turned away as blood sprayed and attempted to get to his feet.

  The slim man hit him with a chair, and Amir went down again. He turned the fall into a roll, getting just the right momentum from it, came up beside a table, grabbed the vase upon it, and spun. He sent the vase in a tumbling motion that was a better semblance of the first movement of Sparrow’s Flight. For the barest moment he smelled cinnamon, but no Light touched the vase. It broke against the slim man’s nose with a satisfying crack. Amir was already running, and as the slim man stumbled Amir tackled him, taking the man to the ground—again with the ground!—and punching him in his already broken nose.

  The man looked to be putting up a fuss, so Amir gave him a judicious slug across the jaw. He sloshed the slim man’s brain in his skull well enough, and his opponent went unconscious, his head banging the hard wooden floor.

  Amir stood in a fighting stance, hands at the ready, but the action was already over. Faust had inserted a giant into the wall, showcasing the tapestries hid wood panelling that wasn’t very strong. He’d put the other giant into the hearth, which smoked and guttered. Larochette had opened a sellsword from throat to navel with her opponent’s blade, then nailed the other to the bar with it. The only thing she looked upset about was her spilled ale.

  “Ho, friends,” Amir said. “We emerge, victorious.”

  “We emerge without the Light,” Larochette spat. “It will not come.”

  “Perhaps with time,” Faust murmured.

  “Easy for you to say,” she said. “You don’t need the Light to beat anyone.”

  “Last summer’s day, I fought an impossible foe of immense size⁠—”

  “You fought an ox,” Amir said. “You don’t believe us, but you were so drunk you tried to wrestle livestock. That’s why you lost.”

  Larochette looked about. “Where’s that damn barkeep? I need a refill.”

  “I’m not sure our coin’s welcome here.” Faust dragged the man free from the hearth. “Burning hair smells bad, and flesh worse.”

  “Our coin spends well enough,” Amir assured him. “Besides, we need time to question this asshole.” He pointed to the unconscious slim man. “I figure they were sent to murder the rightful queen’s retinue, and any Tresward with her. Anyone want to take that bet?”

  “Not I.” Larochette headed for the back. “I’ll find us something to eat that’s not poisoned.”

  They didn’t eat after all. The barmaid had legged it, gone on the wind, and without her sage counsel none of them were willing to risk eating or drinking anything that might have hemlock’s kiss. Larochette gave a half-hearted effort to find something in the kitchen anyway, and during that found a final foe hiding behind a shelf in the kitchen, by way of him trying to bury a blade in her neck.

  After that problem was squared away, with Larochette alive and her assassin with a crick in his neck he would never recover from, she drew their attention to the man’s hidey-hole. It wasn’t so much an alcove as a passage and swept clean of the usual spiderwebs. It screamed secret tunnel. There were no lighting sconces within, and it travelled down old stone steps before vanishing into the dark.

  Amir eyed the hole. “I think we have to go down there.”

  “Are you mad, man?” Larochette busied herself with propping up the assassin-slash-guard against a box of potatoes. “There. He looks like he’s sleeping.”

  “Come now. You can clearly see his neck is broken.” Faust rubbed his chin. “I think we need to go down there, too.”

  Larochette tossed curled locks. “You’re mad, too. Was it something you ate on the ship? Some men go wild on the whipped seas. Telling tales of mermaids and such.”

  “There are no mermaids down there.” Amir hitched his belt. “Here’s my thinking. These men were sent to kill Vertiline. Stands to reason they had instructions from someone. With the queen gone, the regent is the most likely suspect. I would imagine this tunnel is one of those escape routes royalty use when their castle is besieged.”

  “Because it comes out into a less than vainglorious pub?” Larochette’s words were hung on a scaffold of sarcasm.

  “Exactly so. There will be other guards ahead in case the Tresward split their forces.”

  “Which we did,” Faust said.

  “Aye. Although that was more through luck than skill.” Amir gave Larochette a glance. “Do you think we should be the saviours of our Justiciar?”

  “If she needs saving by the likes of you, we’re proper fucked.” Larochette sounded thoughtful, rather than argumentative. “We’ll need a disguise. And it just so happens there are plenty of discarded clothes here on the bodies of the fallen. No uniforms but at a distance we could be the people they knew.” She sized up Amir. “Yours were brother and sister, no? We could play the part.”

  “No one here carries my size.” Faust sighed. “I trust we will use the tired ruse where I am your prisoner?”

  “Of course,” Amir breezed. “Let’s be about it.”

  And this is how they hurried through the passages beneath the city of Ravenswall. A lantern liberated from the pub’s storeroom cast light enough for the three of them. And, if we’ve learned our patterns well enough, we can fight in the dark. Amir wasn’t sure if he was ready for that test. He was good with a blade, but the Light didn’t come to heel.

  The passage didn’t run straight, nor was it well maintained, but it hadn’t seen a cave in. Amir held the lead, Faust in the middle, and Larochette guarding the rear. Their ‘siblings’ clothes were good enough if you ignored the blood-soaked nature of the garments, so Amir donned a cloak to cover the worst of it.

  The lantern burned steady, confirming the publican didn’t use the cheap oil. They came, after much walking in the dark, to the base of another set of steps. They marched to the top, silent as a dream, pausing at a door. Amir put his ear to it, making out voices on the other side.

  A gruff man said, “We should be up there already.”

  A man with enough weasel in his tone to steal a henhouse countered. “We’ve our orders.”

  This was good enough for Amir. He’d done his share of gambling, and if he had a copper baron on the outcome, it would be this being a rearguard force or some other mischief. He put hand to handle, flipped the latch, and strode into the room. “Ho, friends. What news?”

  Faust was on his heels, hands manacled before him, playing the mummer’s part of prisoner. Larochette closed the door behind her, hiding her face for the brief moment’s advantage they had. Amir took in the room. It was a barracks of a sort, windowless and cheerless, with benches about the sides. On the benches were a strong assortment of killing folk, rough-looking readies who had blade or cudgel near at hand. Two men stood by the wide exit door, currently shut and barred from the inside, and Amir would put another copper baron beside the first that they were Gruff and Weasel.

  Blank looks. No responses. But no immediate signs of murderous intent. Amir tightened his smile, making sure it wouldn’t come off. “We’ve a prisoner. This one took down four of our best.”

  Gruff looked up at Faust. “I didn’t know they grew that high in the foreign lands.”

  Weasel looked a little sly. “Did he have one of those pretty glass blades? I’ve always wanted a souvenir.”

  “This was naught but an Adept, unless I miss my guess.” Amir swapped the smile for a puckered, sour face. “Plain steel, and lads, not very good with it. The tales we’ve heard about the fearsome might of the Tresward feel less real than a vial of unicorn’s blood bought at a three-baron hawker.”

  Gruff was in the business of nodding along, but Weasel’s sly face sobered. “And where are the rest of you?”

  “Gone, and the abyss take them.” Larochette stepped from behind Faust’s bulk.

  This turned out to be the wrong action. While she was hidden behind the man mountain of her ‘prisoner’, in plain view of the room her face showed. A man on a bench surged to his feet, pulling a metre of steel from his scabbard, and screaming, “‘Ware! Traitors!”

  No one seemed to move, so Amir gave a delicate cough. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That is not the woman I slept with three days past.” The man pointed his steel at Larochette. “But she’s wearing her clothes.”

  Weasel sidled closer. “Come to think, none of you look familiar.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Amir drew his sword and ran Weasel through.

  “That’s torn it,” Faust murmured, before bedlam took whatever else he might have had to say.

  Gruff approached Amir at an unexpected pace for a big man. Amir waited for him, preparing Sparrow’s Entrance. Left foot forward, weight on the back foot just so, blood-slick blade swapped to off hand. The pattern said a big man moving fast would go for centre mass but had the flexibility to take the attack high or low. The trick, Vertiline explained, was to take high or low without favour, treating them as a gift. No Tresward should be concerned if the blade comes at throat or balls, she’d chided over a prostrate Amir, who’d taken it in the balls that time. A Tresward should be concerned about the Knights at his back, the foes he’s yet to meet, and how to make this one perish.

  No problem. Faust was behind him, so Gruff was about to perish. The enemy went less predictably for throat-not-balls, perhaps a kindred spirit in things you just didn’t do to people, so Amir pivoted around his load-bearing right foot, swaying like a sparrow around a gust of wind. Quick, effortless, as a small bird could ride winds that tore a kite from the sky, and make it look fun. Amir was the sparrow, he was in the moment, and he was⁠—

  A fist hit the side of his head mid-pivot, turning it into a graceless tumble. Amir thought motherfucker as he went straight for the worn flagstones, landed, spat blood, and bounded to his feet in time to stick his knife into a woman who was going balls-not-throat. He wasn’t kind about it, because she went for his balls, and left her fountaining blood, trying to find his sparrow’s grace in the spray.

  Faust and Larochette were doing a favourable imitation of Shoaling, a partner pattern where each Knight moved from an enemy, presenting nothing but emptiness, the other closing around the space to dispatch their shared foes. Amir heard a tiny chime, like a waiter’s bell, and thought it was Larochette’s near-perfect strike that called the hint of Light.

  A woman made for the door, perhaps to unbar it, so Amir kicked her legs out and knifed her as she fell. A man strong-armed Larochette from the side, a blow that would have winded an ox, but she bounced off, taking the hit like a boxer in the first round. Amir threw his blade, steel tumbling end over end to embed in her foe’s chest. A man swung at Amir, all overhead strength and nonsense, so Amir stepped into the grey space between strike and safety, inserted his elbow into the man’s throat, and liberated his mace.