“Don’t do it,” Faust said.

  Amir jumped. The giant found him as if by accident, uncannily quiet on those big feet. “You know what they say about men with big feet, hey?”

  “Big di⁠—”

  “Big shoes,” Amir said. “Yours are very quiet. How do you do that?”

  “Stop changing the subject.” Faust leaned against a stack of crates. “You were going to talk to her.”

  “Of course. She has some kind of devil’s eye.”

  “Have you ever had a dog?”

  Amir blinked. “You what?”

  “A dog. Usually about so high,” he placed a hand level with his knees, “but they come smaller and larger depending on your fancy.”

  “No. I’ve never had a dog. Wouldn’t mind one, but⁠—”

  “Dogs have an ability to know the soft touch in a group. The one most likely to give a treat or a pat when it’s wanted. They’ll follow such a man most anywhere. The privy, for example.”

  “She’s not followed me there. She’s in a cage.”

  “She’s watched you enter and leave. I’ll bet she knows more about you than your own mother.” Faust wasn’t smiling. “And she’s learned that just by being patient. Imagine what she’ll do if she gets to trade words.”

  “Words are more or less my thing.”

  “You jest, friend Amir, but you are good with a blade.”

  “You’ve never seen me with a blade.” Amir frowned. He was sure he’d remember drawing steel around someone so full of promised menace. And were they friends? Sometimes it felt like it, but others…

  “Two nights back there was a scuffle in the torturer’s cage.”

  “Aye. I remember.” Amir nodded. “Some fool left a spoon in a mongrel’s bowl, and⁠—”

  “And you walked into the middle of it. Unbolted the cage, knocked out three men, disarmed the imbecile with the spoon, and kicked him in the groin. Good blow. Made me wince.”

  “I didn’t use a blade.”

  “You had a blade. It’s the same one you wear there.” Faust pointed at Amir’s hip. “No one took it from you. The way you moved said you knew how it would feel in your hand. Like you were lovers but not talking because of a tiff. And you walked into a cage of violent men intent on harm and you never drew it. You left without a scratch.”

  “Luck,” Amir lied. “You also know the weight of steel unless I miss my guess. You’re silent. We’ve covered this before. But you’re silent all while wearing ringmail and carrying whatever you call that thing.”

  “It’s a mattock, and we’ve spoken on the matter of changing the subject. I said before: there’s another way. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Not particularly.” Amir straightened his sword belt, turned away from Faust, and set off toward the murderer’s cage. It wasn’t far, but he took his time, avoiding getting his wind up, because he didn’t want to breathe too deep. The smell was still everywhere and sipping a shallow breath was the path to not throwing up.

  He arrived at the cage, and sure enough, her eyes were right where he expected. On him. Unblinking. There were four other men in the cage, and unless he missed his guess, they were as far from her as they could get within a cage but three metres long. He watched her for a while, hands on hips, matching stare for stare. It wasn’t a staring contest; they both blinked, but Amir felt they spent the time in useful contemplation. After a while, he sighed. “Faust says you want to kill me.”

  “He said no such thing.” Her voice was rich, lush like long grass. He was sure if she wasn’t covered in filth, she’d be a beauty, but you’d need dragonfire to burn off the grime to know for sure.

  “He most certainly did. He wasn’t direct about it, because that’s not his way.” Amir waited her out.

  “All right. He said I want to kill you.” She lifted her chin. “Do you believe him?”

  “About half-way.” Amir tipped his hand in a so-so gesture. “I think you want out of the cage, and you want me to do it. Then, when free, you’ll kill me.”

  “It sounds like you’ve experience with the world.”

  “More than my share. Less than you, I’ll vouch.”

  “Sir,” a man behind her said, “can I get another cage? I’ll be ever so good.”

  The woman’s attention shifted from Amir for a moment. It was just a fraction of time, nothing more than anyone else when distracted, but it left him with the understanding of just how focused on him she was. “Shut it, Gribbs.”

  Gribbs shut it. Amir couldn’t help but smile. “I see you’ve created a fiefdom in the tiny island of your cell.”

  “I’ve done no such thing.”

  “Yes, you have. You’ve convinced Grubbs that⁠—”

  “Gribbs,” the man offered.

  “Whatever,” Amir breezed. “The men in the cell are convinced that you’re a demon, and that you’ll kill any of them as surely as the victim of the crime that landed you here. No mean feat, since you’re all here for the same reason.”

  “Not the same,” Gribbs said. “We did it honest, like.”

  Amir pursed his lips, then faced the woman again. “Honest?”

  “I’ll talk to him later. Etiquette is important.” Her voice had a damnable accent, like she was from Or’sen, but hadn’t been there for a long, long time. It was fetching enough, and he could imagine liking the lilt of it if he were ever in a situation where he could relax around her. Which was, obviously, never.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you’re making friends. We’ll be at the slave markets in a week and a half. It could be a shade longer if the rains come. You can teach Gribbs table manners in that time, surely.”

  The woman’s eyes hardened. “Etiquette is more than how one sits at table.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Amir doffed an imaginary cap. “Well, good day to you.” He turned and made sure his walk had just enough saunter in it to be highly annoying to anyone, but especially to someone in a cage.

  “My name’s Larochette,” she called, her voice completely the opposite of annoyed.

  “I don’t care,” he called back, not turning, but slightly annoyed himself.

  Fuck it. Maybe I do care.

  He found himself watching Larochette as she watched him right back. Or, maybe she’d watched him first. It was difficult to remember. He’d wake, scratch his balls, take a piss at the latrines, and look up to find her right there. It didn’t seem to matter where the murderer’s cage was; she found him just fine.

  Maybe I found her. Maybe that’s why I’m in this shitty place, doing this shitty job.

  It didn’t sound right, not even inside Amir’s head. Least ways because he knew he should be in the cage right alongside her. The natural order of justice was perverted, and here they were, murderer on the outside, and something else on the inside.

  He stamped up to the cage. “Who’d you kill?”

  She gave him a long, appraising look, like the last thirty minutes of staring hadn’t been enough to answer the question. “Does it matter?”

  “Always matters.” Amir kept his tone light. “Why, you’re in a cage destined for a market, a hog trussed for slaughter, and I’m out here, enjoying the sunlight.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “I live in eternal hope.”

  “Do you believe in justice?”

  “Not even a little bit.” Amir’s tone still sounded light, but he felt the weight of it right in his chest. “If there was justice, I’d pay for crimes you couldn’t imagine.”

  “I can imagine a lot.” She gave him steady regard. “The woman you took on your blade three years back?”

  “Not her. Her children.” He didn’t even ask how she knew. “They came at me, you see. She’d found some damnable holy weapon⁠—”

  “A scattergun?”

  “I took the shot against my shield. Never really liked shields before that day. Still got pellets in my hip but didn’t notice them until after. What they don’t tell peasants about holy weapons is the reload speed. I figure it’s because a Knight can take you on the edge of steel just as easily as they please. Reloading’s not something they worry about.”

  “No.” She leaned away from the bars.

  Curious. “You know the ways of Knights? Odd, for someone in a cell.”

  “The children?” she prompted.

  “Oh.” Amir scratched under his jaw. Missed a spot shaving this morning. Always thinking about eyes, never about the job. “There were two of them. Brats, I suppose. Didn’t like seeing their mother’s head a distance from her body.” He thought about adding a laugh here, but it wouldn’t come. “I didn’t take them seriously until I got a knife in the gut.”

  “And then there were two dead children?”

  “And then I knew there was no justice.” He shrugged. “It was war.”

  “Except, it wasn’t.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You know a lot. Some might call that suspicious.”

  “Some might,” she allowed. “It doesn’t come the way it used to. Not anymore. They stripped me of my power, you see. Took my name and took my honour.”

  “Called you a sinner?”

  “No longer. Can’t sin without power.”

  “You seem to have enough, still.”

  “Fragments,” Larochette said. “I was a diviner.”

  “I don’t care.” But I do. I really do. I should just walk away, but I want to know.

  “Then leave,” she tossed at him, as if knowing what was in his head.

  “Diviner, not enchanter?”

  “Enchanters use a person as a tool. I see… saw what’s writ in the stars. There’s only so much seeing what’s coming before you need to do something about it.”

  “I’ve never had that problem.”

  “Not many can read the stars.”

  “Still fewer care about doing something about it.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “I look after myself. Why I’m here, and you’re there, I expect.”

  “You could be better at hiding it.” Faust’s rumble took them both by surprise.

  Amir spun. “You really must tell me how you walk so quietly.”

  “The path of revenge is often silent,” the giant said, perhaps a shade too cryptically for Amir’s liking.

  “It is never silent,” spat Larochette. “It ends in screaming, no matter the whiteness of your robes or the silver bars you wear.”

  Amir blinked. “You killed a Justiciar?”

  “And what of it? They’d done the same to mine and were about to do the same to me.”

  Faust took a step closer. “You have hidden talents, little sister.”

  “I’m not your sister, freak.” Larochette looked up at his full height. “Was there Vhemin in your family tree?”

  He chuckled, but Amir didn’t think it was a tone full of amusement. “There is naught left in my history but ash and broken promises.”

  “And bad poetic turns of phrase.” Amir looked at his feet. Faust, the dead dogging his heels. Larochette, a killer of power. And me, a murderer of children. “A fine trio we make. All servants to revenge.”

  “There is another way.”

  “You said that before.” Amir studied Faust. “What should we do? Become monks atop a mountain, eating our meagre bowl of rice per day?”

  “I don’t much like rice,” Faust said. “There is a school.”

  “Oh, and teachers we should be?” Larochette’s mockery landed like the lash she knew too well.

  “Students,” Faust said. “They take killers and make them better killers.”

  Amir hooked his thumbs into his belt. “And what do you need to learn of killing? You make less noise than a dead man. You carry weapons like one born to them. And you?” He eyed Larochette. “I’ll wager you’ve skill with a blade.”

  “Give me one and I’ll show you.”

  “Revenge,” Faust said. “The school will make us unstoppable.”

  “There are no unstoppable warriors but Knights of the Three, and they’re fresh out of Tresward hereabouts.” Amir tried for a confident smile, but he let it drop after seeing Faust’s expression. “Wait, what? You want us to be Tresward?”

  “Oh, aye, a fine trio,” Larochette said. “The braggart. The anchorite. The damsel.”

  Faust turned a steady gaze on her. “You are no damsel.”

  “Did you just call me a braggart?” Amir said.

  “It is fitting,” Faust mused.

  “I’m done with Tresward,” Larochette said. “I wouldn’t be here except for them.”

  “Hang about,” Amir said. “We are talking as if this is a solid plan. As if one of us isn’t in a cage, but a day from market. As if the school would take us in.”

  “The school will take us in.” Faust’s shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “The headmistress is a fallen star. She forges the impure into starlight.”

  “You sound like you’ve met her.”

  “I went there. They would not teach me.” His voice was dead, the stillness before the storm. “They said a man without friends is a man without purpose.”

  “And are we friends?” Amir gave him a once-over. Could be handy in a fight, I suppose.

  “No. But we are liars.” Faust glanced at Larochette. “Could you lie well enough to convince a Justiciar to take you in?”

  “I lied well enough to get close enough for bloody knife work,” she said. “But I’ve killed the Justiciar who needed it. I’ve no purpose with this new lot.”

  “There is always purpose. A vengeance against those who take power and deny it to others.”

  “Ah, shit,” Amir said. “This night will end in blood, won’t it?”

  I don’t really want to do this.

  Amir stared at the ceiling of his tent. Around him, snores. No privacy in a group like this, not unless you went close to the cages where the smell was worst. And there? Criminals. Not really that private at all.

  I really want to do it, though.

  It was an odd sensation, as if being pulled in two by a team of equally strong, and strong-willed, oxen on each side. Ropes bound to the arms of his soul, strain thrumming through the knotted cords, and him in the middle.

  I don’t want to do this because these slavers have done nothing wrong, except being slavers, of which part I am equally guilty.

  That was true, and he felt that team of oxen give a triumphant shuffle, a half step that way, offsetting his balance. He felt sick, no joke on his lips to barter with the prosecutor for a smile.

  I want to do this because Larochette is more innocent than I, yet lives a criminal by the whims of fate. The Three have not watched over us, and if they don’t, who will?

  Also true, and unfortunately, the oxen on the other side gave a heroic grunt, pulling him back into tension. If there was a handy wagoner to scold the oxen, But no, it’s not Amir’s job to right the wrongs of the Three, nor is it his job to feel guilty for men justly charged with crimes, that would be useful. His lips moved soundlessly. “This isn’t my fault.”

  The hour would soon be upon him. Where he would need to be at the murderer’s cart, blade in hand, ready for violence. Meet Faust and break the woman free. Run, hopefully fast enough to escape justice, or its close cousin revenge.

  I know it’s not my fault, but that’s not what the wagoner would say. Amir chased imaginary oxen into line for a spell longer, worrying at the problematic cords around his soul. He’d left where he was to be free and took up steel in another woman’s war when she sat a throne besieged. Killed the innocent and became a slaver to take a different kind of guilt as burial mound for the old.

  Lying to himself was easy. He’d done it for a while. It was easier than getting to the school teaching other lost vagrants how to wield the Light in the Three’s name. Amir was not made to shoulder the cares of the gods while they were on vacation. It wasn’t for him to take on the cares of the world.

  Right then, it clicked. A tumbler in his mind, and a sawblade to the binding guilt around him.

  It’s not my fault, but it’s my responsibility. It’s all our responsibility. This world is broken because we keep kicking it in the teeth, and if no one reaches out a hand, who will help it back into the fight?

  It felt a bit shitty, deciding he was arbiter. Did it mean that others were up for Khiton’s dark end if they crossed him? If they hadn’t reached this same milestone in their life’s redemption journey quite soon enough, did that mark them for the burial cart?

  All this accountability is making me sick. It felt better when I didn’t care.

  Was this the curse Larochette put on him with her constant accusing glances? No, that’s witch hunter’s thinking. Peasant superstition. If she were an enchantress, I’d have no doubts. Bound to a cause greater than the holy Knights’ crusade. My doubt means she is true.

  My doubt means she didn’t lie.

  Which was troublesome, as they’d need to lie soon enough. That’s Tomorrow Amir’s problem.

  He slipped free of his blanket, fingers finding boots beneath his bunk in the dark through a soldier’s hard-won habit. He slid his feet into them, lacing them tight through feel alone. His blade was wrapped in a cloth to keep the steel’s whisper silent, the only possession he cared about aside from his cloak, which he snared on the way from the tent.

  Outside, the night sky was cloudless. No moons, because they’d fucked off sometime ago. The stars shone prettily enough, which was unfortunate as it gave enough light for a skilled marksman to shoot them if they didn’t have cover.

  So he padded to the quartermaster’s tent. A rude rack of bows and crossbows awaited a ready hand, which wouldn’t do at all. He slipped his blade free of its shawl and, snick snick snick, cut the bowstrings. It would buy them some time. Almost absently, and not quite sure why he did it, he freed a pair of shortswords, barely more than daggers, but with an edge keen enough to leave a bloody smile.

  Next, he padded to the commissar’s tent, liberating a collection of coin. The wages chest wasn’t well secured because someone cheapened out on the purchase. It acquiesced to the gentle touch of a bent wire. The loss of a pouch of barons and solars would teach someone a valuable life lesson.