Bless ’em for having sense and feeling empowered to make tough calls.

At the sight of the night mares and the Mighty, Kip’s men moved back.

Kip went to stand before the columns. “Conn Ruarc Hill, is it?” he asked.

“So I am. And you are?”

“Really?” Kip asked.

The man licked his lips. He looked well fed, though he had bags under his eyes. His men looked starved.

Kip didn’t judge him for that, though. A starving leader could make bad decisions, so when numbers were large, it was a pretentious suffering to starve alongside your men. He did judge him, however, for being an asshole to men whose weapons were still bloody and bloodlust high—men who were here to rescue him, no less.

“Glad you came to greet us, but you didn’t need to bring all these men,” Kip said. His own men had been smart enough to stop the column before it got out of the gates. If Conn Hill was going to attack, he was going to have a bad time of it.

“We came to help clear the heathen Blood Robes from the field of battle and hunt down those who’ve fled.”

“You have no cavalry,” Kip said. “The Blood Robes are well fed and have a good lead on your men. Hard to hunt those who are faster than you.”

“Perhaps, then, we could help with those tasks that are nearer the walls,” Conn Hill said.

“Ah, you mean the claiming of slaves and plundering the camp,” Kip said. “The meager rewards for the blood my men have spilled while you sat safe behind your walls.”

The man went red. Desperate, then, perhaps not entirely an asshole.

The conn said, “We have a claim to the takings here. We have suffered. You fought them for one morning. We’ve fought—”

“Go back into your city, Conn Hill, and—”

“This is outrageous! I am conn of the most revered city in Blood Forest, and you are what? A bastard son with a few soldiers? I demand—”

Nope, not just desperate. Also an asshole.

“Conn Hill! Let me remind you…” Kip interrupted.

The Mighty’s rage had been fading like the last thrumming notes of a lute’s battle song. But impudence and insolence and insult to their Kip threatened a reprise of their favorite bloody verse.

Kip walked close to the man and lowered his voice so none could overhear it. The man himself had to bend over in his saddle to the unmounted, vulnerable Kip. Kip sometimes liked subverting power dynamics. “Let me remind you, there’s more than one way to liberate a city.”

Then Kip turned his back on him. He didn’t look back, but he was no fool. He looked at Cruxer’s eyes. They would signal of an impending strike.

None came.

Kip turned and mounted one of the great elk gingerly.

“Go back into your city!” Kip shouted. “Go talk it over with your elders or just take a good long drink of water, and come back here and try again. Think about flies and vinegar versus honey. Oh, and one thing, Conn Hill. My army is many things: bold, unconventional, fierce, fleet, frightening… oh, and not least, victorious.”

The Nightbringers within hearing roared at that.

“But one thing we are not, and this is very, very important: we are not heathens.”

Conn Hill snarled and sawed on his reins savagely, nearly making his horse trample his nearby men. The rest of his threadbare army withdrew behind the walls with him.

“What was that last little bit?” Cruxer asked. “Not heathens?”

Kip said, “Dúnbheo is actually where the Chromeria got the idea of voting in a promachos in times of crisis, except they call him a conn, a chief. Ordinarily the city rules itself through a Council of Divines—a title they take seriously—and they only appoint a conn for limited tasks. Conn Hill was appointed until ‘the heathens were banished from before our walls.’”

“So you just stripped him of office.”

“Oh, only the Council of Divines can do that,” Kip said with a grin.

“But you made it irresistible for them to do so.”

“He was a dick.”

“There’s more than a little Andross Guile in you, isn’t there? You’re changing, Breaker,” Cruxer said.

“And not only in good ways,” Kip said.

“The old Breaker never would have made an enemy for no reason.”

“Not for no reason,” Kip said. “Sometimes the quickest way to make friends is to make the right enemies.”

“You’re not telling me this was all part of some grand plan?” Cruxer said.

“Not grand. Not even really a plan. I just saw an opportunity. And he was being a flesh protuberance.”

“That’s my old Breaker,” Cruxer said with a smile.

“This’ll be a few hours,” Kip said. “Have the men keep a watch. Ghosts, you can dis-integrate. Mighty, with me, I’m afraid there’s a bear we need to help bury.”

Chapter 67

‘Iron White’? What a load of shit. She ought to cross that one off her list right now. Karris didn’t even dare lift her teacup, lest Teia see her trembling. The debriefing about the assassinations and Ironfist’s fury had left her more fragile than her own porcelain. Ironfist!

Ironfist, either dead now or made an enemy. Either was unspeakably terrible. Ironfist’s brother Tremblefist had, before all his training with the Blackguard, once killed five hundred men in a night and earned the moniker the Butcher of Aghbalu. Ironfist had bested that man in single combat. Him, as an enemy?

Yet how could Karris hope instead that one of her best friends had been killed in the tumult she’d triggered in Paria?

For Teia’s part, the young woman sat with her legs crossed like a lady, back straight, daintily holding her cup without a hint of nerves. Before, Karris swore she’d always sat like a man, legs planted wide, ready to launch into action. Now she’d figured out that presenting oneself as a lady is simply another game, and she was playing it as a mock.

A mockery of Karris herself? Or was it the more innocent mockery of the fine furniture and fine porcelain and, yes, even fine tea?

But the young woman’s eyes were terrible. Teia was changing before Karris, a shaking chrysalid, and Karris guessed that both of them feared what was going to emerge from that black cocoon.

“You can be mad at me for fucking up,” Teia said. “I did. But don’t you dare—don’t you dare—flinch after what you had me do.”