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two-horse team, and could probably get by with one.
    Once I sabotaged the main wagons, I crept to the carriage and made sure all the tack was in place, unbuckled and ready for a team.
    Okay, now the hard part.
    I crept over to the clearing where the horses were tied. I had a moment of panic when I realized that I’d have to guess which ones were riding horses and which ones were trained as a team. Fortunately for me, it was clear after a moment which horses went with the carriage. There were two gray horses a hand or two smaller than the other shaggy draft animals, and both had their mane and tail tightly braided.
    Just to complicate any pursuit, I untied the other animals and removed their halters, cutting a few critical straps with my dagger. If I was lucky, they’d also wander off.
    After that, I took the first gray and coaxed him back toward the carriage. Lucky me, the horse was well trained and fairly docile. I managed to get him hitched up to the carriage without an incident or any undue noise.
    I stepped back and briefly considered pushing my luck and fetching the other gray horse.
    I wasn’t nearly as lucky as I thought I was.
    â€œHey!” Across the campsite from me stood a gentleman with his arm in a sling. I guessed he was the same man who had taken a quarrel in the shoulder while bequeathing me my current dagger. At least from the bridge of the nose upward it could have been him. He spent a split second staring at me in open-mouthed surprise.
    I ran.
    The man started yelling to raise the camp.
    Men began emerging from tents across the campsite, and I aimed my sprint toward the largest and most luxuriously appointed of the tents, intent on my secondary escape plan. I was halfway there when my escape plan emerged from the tent complaining about the ungodly racket. He wore a nightcap and long robe trimmed with ermine. He had a pale, pudgy, slightly annoyed look of someone who found physical activity distasteful and had either the money or power to avoid it as much as possible.
    I grabbed him before he’d had a chance to turn his attention from the man raising the alarm. I swung him between me and everyone else and held a dagger up to his throat as I backed him away from the big tent.
    â€œI suggest everyone stay calm,” I yelled toward my acquaintance with the sling, “or our friend here gets a very brief lesson in how to breathe through a hole in his neck.”
    â€œCur,” Ermine boy said, “Do you know who I am?”
    For an answer, I increased the pressure on the dagger and whispered at him, “Do you know who I am?” It was a lot easier to get an intimidating tone from my voice now that I wasn’t a princess. He was about to say something, but he glanced back in my direction and—surprisingly for the type—shut up.
    And I had to struggle to not lose my grip on the dagger because I
did
know who he was.
    Prince Oliver?
    I had just taken the prince of Dermonica hostage.

CHAPTER 9

    I had headed for the opulent tent intending to take a hostage. Given that assassins were generally working stiffs, someone was probably paying them to be out here. The presence of a too-luxurious carriage and tent were obvious signs that their employer was along for the ride. And really, the best way to stop an assassin from doing anything is to threaten the source of his pay.
    The fact that a dozen men had emerged from the tents around the campsite and none made a move toward me was a pretty good sign that my theory was sound.
    I’d just never given consideration to exactly
who
might have been paying these guys. I backed my hostage up toward the carriage, keeping him in front of me. I whispered into his ear, “Now, good prince, if we’re all calm and businesslike, we can all avoid a lot of pain. Understand?”
    â€œY-Yes.”
    â€œYou hold the purse strings, correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen you’re going to order all these men back into