reckoned.”
“The only way in or out unless you’re a bird or wildbuck.”
He nodded, then squinted. “We might not get that four days,” he said.
“Ilshvic,”
Leshya snarled. He didn’t know what she’d said but could make a pretty good guess.
A line of mounted figures was coming through the pass, a lot of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
P ROPOSITION AND D ISPOSITION
T HE BROADSWORD cutting toward Cazio was moving almost too fast to see, and he suddenly understood the nasty grin on the monk’s face. Cazio reacted from years of training, jabbing his lighter but longer weapon out in a stop-thrust that should have pierced the man’s sword wrist. It didn’t, though, because—impossibly—the monk checked his swing. He stepped back and regarded Cazio for a moment, just out of measure.
“Interesting,” he said. “I’ve never met a swordsman like you. Are you from Safnia?”
“They have butchers in Safnia,” Cazio panted, trying to both watch the man and check his peripheral vision. Sounds of battle were everywhere. “But the only swordsmen in the world come from Vitellio.”
“I see.” The fellow grinned again. “Vitellio. Home of the father Church.”
The man had gray eyes, darkish skin, and an accent Cazio couldn’t place.
“Tell me,” the man went on. “Why do you follow this heretic queen, you a man from the very birthplace of our faith?”
“I like the color of her hair,” Cazio replied, “and the sort of people she associates with.”
“When I move next,” the man warned, “you won’t have time to see the cut that kills you. Lay down your arms and you will be well treated.”
“I’m already well treated,” Cazio replied.
“You know what I mean.”
Cazio sighed and relaxed his guard.
“See there,” the man said. “I knew you looked sensible.”
Cazio nodded and lunged, throwing his front foot forward and pushing with the back.
The monk blurred toward him, and as Cazio let his lunge collapse into a forward duck, he felt hair shaved from the top of his head. The monk ran onto his rapier so hard that the hilt slammed into his solar plexus and the grip was wrenched from Cazio’s hand. The monk fell, hit, rolled, and sprawled, eyes glazing and blood pumping.
“As long as I can draw you into attacking when and where I want,” Cazio informed him, “I don’t need to be able to see you.”
The monk jerked his head in affirmation. Cazio could see that his spine was broken.
“Come get your sword,” the monk suggested.
“No, I’ll wait a moment,” he replied.
“You don’t have a moment,” the man pointed out.
Cazio followed his gaze and saw that he didn’t. Two of the man’s brethren were rushing toward him.
Grimly, he started toward the fallen broadsword, only a yard away.
Then he felt something like a thousand spiders racing across his skin. His windpipe closed, and his heart shuddered, stopped, and started again, faster than before. He gasped and fell to one knee but fought back up.
But there was no need. His attackers were sprawled motionless on the ground, their corpses twisted unnaturally.
He turned and found Anne two kingsyards behind him. Her eyes were green ice, looking somewhere he couldn’t see. Her body was taut beneath her black and ocher riding habit, like the string of a lute tightened almost to breaking.
She shifted her gaze to him, and his heart suddenly went strange again.
Then her face softened and she smiled, and he swallowed as the pain in his chest eased. He started to say something, but he saw she wasn’t looking at him anymore but instead studying the grounds of the monastery.
“That’s it, then,” she said softly. “That’s all of them.”
“That’s what we thought before,” Cazio said, lifting himself to his feet. “Before these fellows came up from behind.”
“True,” Anne murmured. “I miss things still. They just arrived, I think—from the forest.”
“And there could be more. Anne, you ought to get inside. Your
“The only way in or out unless you’re a bird or wildbuck.”
He nodded, then squinted. “We might not get that four days,” he said.
“Ilshvic,”
Leshya snarled. He didn’t know what she’d said but could make a pretty good guess.
A line of mounted figures was coming through the pass, a lot of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
P ROPOSITION AND D ISPOSITION
T HE BROADSWORD cutting toward Cazio was moving almost too fast to see, and he suddenly understood the nasty grin on the monk’s face. Cazio reacted from years of training, jabbing his lighter but longer weapon out in a stop-thrust that should have pierced the man’s sword wrist. It didn’t, though, because—impossibly—the monk checked his swing. He stepped back and regarded Cazio for a moment, just out of measure.
“Interesting,” he said. “I’ve never met a swordsman like you. Are you from Safnia?”
“They have butchers in Safnia,” Cazio panted, trying to both watch the man and check his peripheral vision. Sounds of battle were everywhere. “But the only swordsmen in the world come from Vitellio.”
“I see.” The fellow grinned again. “Vitellio. Home of the father Church.”
The man had gray eyes, darkish skin, and an accent Cazio couldn’t place.
“Tell me,” the man went on. “Why do you follow this heretic queen, you a man from the very birthplace of our faith?”
“I like the color of her hair,” Cazio replied, “and the sort of people she associates with.”
“When I move next,” the man warned, “you won’t have time to see the cut that kills you. Lay down your arms and you will be well treated.”
“I’m already well treated,” Cazio replied.
“You know what I mean.”
Cazio sighed and relaxed his guard.
“See there,” the man said. “I knew you looked sensible.”
Cazio nodded and lunged, throwing his front foot forward and pushing with the back.
The monk blurred toward him, and as Cazio let his lunge collapse into a forward duck, he felt hair shaved from the top of his head. The monk ran onto his rapier so hard that the hilt slammed into his solar plexus and the grip was wrenched from Cazio’s hand. The monk fell, hit, rolled, and sprawled, eyes glazing and blood pumping.
“As long as I can draw you into attacking when and where I want,” Cazio informed him, “I don’t need to be able to see you.”
The monk jerked his head in affirmation. Cazio could see that his spine was broken.
“Come get your sword,” the monk suggested.
“No, I’ll wait a moment,” he replied.
“You don’t have a moment,” the man pointed out.
Cazio followed his gaze and saw that he didn’t. Two of the man’s brethren were rushing toward him.
Grimly, he started toward the fallen broadsword, only a yard away.
Then he felt something like a thousand spiders racing across his skin. His windpipe closed, and his heart shuddered, stopped, and started again, faster than before. He gasped and fell to one knee but fought back up.
But there was no need. His attackers were sprawled motionless on the ground, their corpses twisted unnaturally.
He turned and found Anne two kingsyards behind him. Her eyes were green ice, looking somewhere he couldn’t see. Her body was taut beneath her black and ocher riding habit, like the string of a lute tightened almost to breaking.
She shifted her gaze to him, and his heart suddenly went strange again.
Then her face softened and she smiled, and he swallowed as the pain in his chest eased. He started to say something, but he saw she wasn’t looking at him anymore but instead studying the grounds of the monastery.
“That’s it, then,” she said softly. “That’s all of them.”
“That’s what we thought before,” Cazio said, lifting himself to his feet. “Before these fellows came up from behind.”
“True,” Anne murmured. “I miss things still. They just arrived, I think—from the forest.”
“And there could be more. Anne, you ought to get inside. Your
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