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toward the door. The spearmen in the room were more concerned with keeping everyone out of the way, and they didn’t turn right away, even as they heard shouting, and the swordsmen could do little but pursue and shout as he ran. For an instant, it looked like the patron was going to win his freedom, or at least access to the door and the world beyond, but two soldiers who’d been stationed just outside entered the inn, and the patron’s legs almost went out from beneath him as he changed direction, heading towards the kitchen. However, he’d taken only a few steps when a spearmen stepped in his path.
    Apparently realizing all escapes were closed off, and having no other idea what to do, he jumped on a bench, and from there onto a long table, waving his bound hands before him. He looked up at the Hornmen in desperation, hoping for some kind of reprieve.
    He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was snuffed out. A spear flew across the room and the prisoner doubled over when it sunk into his stomach, dropping to his knees. His nightshirt protruded in back, the spearhead having gone through him entirely but not quite through the fabric. The prisoner grabbed at the haft of the spear, mouth moving silently, but with his hands bound he wasn’t able to do much with it, and then he fell forward. He jerked like a fish yanked from the sea, his body convulsing, head rising and slamming back onto the table, finally letting out a low moan that seemed to carry on forever. The leader stepped forward, glaring at the man who threw the spear as he did. He pulled the prisoner up by the hair, who finally let out a shrill scream, as if the hair pulling were more painful than the spear sticking through him. The leader drew a dagger across his throat, covering the table with a fresh coat of blood.
    We all watched silently as the red pooled on the table and began to run onto the floor. Hobbins stepped forward, incensed, which temporarily made him bold. “I said you could come in, take who you wanted—but this blood here, this blood is a different story. You told me you wouldn’t be spilling no blood, but here you are, spilling plenty all over my good wood. I got a reputation in Rivermost, a good one—this here is a clean establishment, clean as you find anywhere. But this—” He looked around the inn with his arms spread wide—“this here is a mess, no two ways of looking at it. People hear about something like this, it’s bad for me, see? People ride on by if they think there’s murder in the night here. Do you see my problem? I said you could come in, take who you wanted, so long as you was clean about it, but what do I see here, but blood. Blood, blood, and more blood—”
    “Count yourself lucky it’s not yours. Perhaps next time you’ll think twice about sheltering traitors under your roof.” The leader wiped his dagger on the dead prisoner’s back and turned to face Hobbins as he sheathed it.
    The soldiers prodded the other prisoner out the door. This one, not surprisingly, offered no resistance at all.
    Hobbins gulped, his thin neck bobbing, but he found some small reservoir of courage to continue talking. “Traitors? Now, you didn’t say nothing about no traitors here. You said criminals. I know nothing and less about no traitors.”
    “Then you best learn how to tell, and learn quickly. Dangerous times, old man. These are certainly not the last.” He walked toward Hobbins, who took two quick steps back. “Pray we have no cause to visit your inn again.”
    Hobbins nodded weakly and looked around the room at the rest of us suspiciously, as if the Brunesmen might have left a traitor or two behind as some kind of test. He looked at the blood again and yelled for Syrie. She came out from the kitchen, having anticipated his order, carrying a pail of water and a thick-bristled brush.
    He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the puddle of blood. “Hurry up now, it’s soaking in.” Then he looked around