Daja eyed the noblemen, who looked as if they would be glad to leap on Briar at this very moment. “Wagers, gentlemen?” she asked coolly.

She carried a small tablet and a stick of charcoal in a holder in an inner pocket of her tunic, in case she got the urge to design something. She used them now to record wagers, making sure each man wrote his name down clearly.

They were almost ready when she heard a familiar voice snap, “What is going on here?”

She looked up. It was that fellow Shan, the one who was the empress’s current lover.

Olfeon, who had stripped off his coat and was rolling up his sleeves, glared at the newcomer. “Not your affair, fer Roth.”

“Do you think she’ll be gratified if you kill her pet gardener?” Shan demanded. “She’ll be livid.”

“For all I know, she’ll be vexed with me if I dent one of her playtoys,” Briar said.

“Silence, clodhopper!” snapped Olfeon.

Briar looked at Daja and sniffed. “He’s so mean,” he said plaintively.

Daja tucked her tablet and the charcoal holder away. “I noticed that. You should be very offended and hit him first.”

As they had meant it to—it was how they’d have played it in the old days, when they were bonded—this exchange brought Olfeon hurtling at Briar, hands outstretched. Briar let him get almost close enough to touch, then twisted to the side and smashed his knee into Olfeon’s belly.

Daja watched with interest as the fight continued. He learned a lot while he was away, she thought as Briar used new throws and twists to slam Olfeon to the ground time after time.

He knew better than to let the bigger man get both hands on him. Then Olfeon would use his superior weight and height to drag Briar down. Instead, Briar aimed for nerve points he had studied for medicine, added to his old street fighter’s arsenal of tricks. At the end of the fight, Briar’s foot rested on Olfeon’s neck, pressing the right side of his face into the grass as Olfeon flailed wildly. When he tried to grab Briar’s leg, Briar pressed harder. The Namornese collapsed at last, starved for air. Daja made the final tally. Briar had a black eye, several cuts, a split lip, ripped clothes, bruises, and perhaps a sprained knee. Olfeon had facial cuts, a sprained wrist, a broken nose, ripped clothes, and his own collection of bruises.

“Pay me by the end of today,” Daja called to the losing bettors. “I won’t take signatures in place of real coin, and I’m cross when people think to cheat me.” She looked around, about to call for Sandry to fix the clothes, when she saw her sister being handed down the stairs by Shan. Quenaill followed Sandry, a scowl on his long face.

As they approached, Shan said to Briar and Olfeon, “Did you think I’d leave you both to face Her Imperial Majesty in this condition? Clehame Sandry will see to your clothes, Quen to your wounds.”

You just did it for an excuse to have Sandry hold you by the arm, Daja thought cynically. I bet you couldn’t care less for Briar or the other fellow.

Sandry glared at the two battered young men. “What was this about?”

Briar glared back. “Namornese sheep,” he retorted. “He claimed Namorn breeds sheep that think for themselves.”

“We fought over his right to wear that medallion,” said Olfeon. “Right, lads?”

The young men nodded. Through their magical connection Daja told Sandry, It was over the empress. I suppose she would be vexed with Olfeon if she knew.

Sandry shook her head. As if I would believe they would have a fistfight over Briar’s right to wear the mage medallion. They must think I drink stupid potion for my morning pick-me-up.

She walked briskly over to Briar. “I didn’t make those clothes for brawls,” she told him irritably. “I didn’t think even you could find a fight at the court of Namorn.” She set her hand on the ripped seam that had once joined sleeve to shirt. A rough tear over Briar’s knee was already starting to weave itself back together as grass and dirt stains trickled off his clothes.

“Well, you’re forever underestimating me,” Briar told her. “If there’s a fight about, it’s nearly guaranteed I’ll be in it.”

Sandry looked over at Olfeon. “You were lucky,” she said sharply. “He could have ripped you to pieces with thorns if he wanted.”

“No, no,” protested Briar, his eyes warning Sandry to be silent. “Blood’s horrible for grass, and there’s always some thorns left after. Don’t mind her,” he told Olfeon. “Girls have no appreciation for the rules of combat.”

Olfeon spat on the ground in disgust, then winced as Quenaill set to work healing his wounds. “Hold still and be silent,” Quenaill said, frowning. “The quicker this is done the better, unless you want to spend the winter in a log cabin on the Sea of Grass.”

“She says if we have that much spirit we can use it to fight the Yanjing emperor,” Shan explained to Sandry. No one doubted that “she” was the empress. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked Briar.

“Everywhere,” Briar replied, grinning at the tall huntsman. “And isn’t it a good thing for me?”

A tap on the back made Daja turn. Some of the men who had bet against her waited to pay their wagers.

They spent the rest of that week riding between Sablaliz and Landreg, attending social occasions with the imperial court. Finally, one night after a late supper at Landreg, Sandry looked at Ambros and Ealaga, then at her exhausted companions and guards, who wearily picked through their meals.