Instantly the cloth atop the pole fluttered out in the wind. It was a flag—the standard of the County: a red rose on a white background.

“Why?” I asked Grimalkin. “Won’t that draw attention to us?”

“We will draw attention whatever we do, because we are strangers to this place; there will be a pecking order here. No doubt someone will soon be along to apprise us of the fact. We will be at the bottom of the pile until we demonstrate otherwise. Leave your staff here, but wear the sword at all times. We may need to defend ourselves.”

My mind was buzzing with questions, but before I could speak, there was a roar of voices from farther along the riverbank.

“Come!” Grimalkin gestured in the direction of the hubbub. “We are only just in time. Look to the needs of the horses and guard the camp, girl!” she ordered Jenny imperiously.

Jenny opened her mouth to protest. I knew that she’d be as curious as I was to see this Shaiksa assassin. But the witch was in charge here, and moments later I was walking along the river at her heels, while Jenny was left behind.

The farther west we went, the more crowded the bank became, and Grimalkin had to push her way through the throng. They were a motley bunch, armed with blades, spears, or bows. Some wore partial metal armor, mostly stained and rusty, or jerkins of toughened leather. But all reacted in the same way to the forceful advance of Grimalkin.

They turned angrily, death in their eyes. But then they met the eyes of the witch assassin.

Her mouth was open, so maybe it was the sight of her pointed teeth, or perhaps some subtle magic. . . . Whatever it was, they instantly lowered their gaze and turned away, all thought of confrontation forgotten.

Eventually the press of bodies became too dense for us to make any further progress. However, by good fortune we found ourselves on a raised bank and could see over the heads of those who stood between us and the fast-flowing water. The river was shallow here; this was the ford, and the water rushed west, bubbling furiously over the stones.

The human champion waited on this side of the river. He was bareheaded but wore a gleaming metal breastplate and a diagonal sash of purple and gold silk. He carried a short sword and a small round shield.

“He is the champion of the Princeling of Shallotte,” Grimalkin hissed into my ear. “A better class of opponent than Kauspetnd usually faces—although I fear it will make precious little difference to the outcome.”

“You seem to know a lot about the situation here,” I observed.

She nodded. “I’ve made it my business to learn as much as I can—not only about the Kobalos, but also about the human kingdoms that oppose them.”

I looked across the river and got my first view of the assassin waiting on the far bank. His face had the same elongated jaw as the haizda mage back in Chipenden; there was something feral and wolflike about it, especially when he opened his mouth to reveal his sharp teeth. His head was bare, and his hair was braided into three long black pigtails. His arms were also bare, and extremely hairy, like the hide of a beast.