Seregil was expecting the assassins this time, and heard them coming. There were four of them. Either Laneus had engaged them before he knew Alec had been taken ill, or he wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

It put him in a bit of a quandary; if Lord Seregil single-handedly took down four trained Rhíminee assassins, it would cause unwanted talk. The question was nearly decided for him when one of them grabbed for Cynril’s bridle and another tried to drag Seregil from the saddle. Seregil clung on with one hand and grappled the man with the other, going for his eyes. He missed and caught him by the throat instead. His fingers tangled in something and he felt a tug when he managed to push the man off. Another assassin grabbed his foot and tried to pull it from the stirrup, but Seregil kicked Cynril into a gallop, rode down the man in front of him, and hurtled like fury as an arrow whined past his ear. He was halfway to Wheel Street before he realized that he was clutching something in his right hand. Reining in under a street lantern, he unclenched his fist from around a small bronze disk on the remains of a slender chain. He must have pulled it from the man’s neck during his escape. On one side he could make out the stamped outline of Sakor’s flame; on the other was the flame-and-palace emblem of the City Regiment.

Alec was quite pleased with himself when he arrived back at the Stag and Otter before Seregil did, and little worse for wear beyond a torn shirtsleeve and a bruised elbow. He hurriedly washed away the sweat of the night’s labors and just had time to settle on the couch with a book when he heard Seregil on the stairs, taking them two at a time and quickly muttering the passwords. The door swung open and Alec caught a fleeting look of relief on Seregil’s face before the other man managed to cover it. Seregil sauntered in as if he hadn’t just run up the stairs.

“You must have been having a good time,” Alec noted over the back of the couch. “I’ve been here for ages.”

“It was rather amusing, dining with people who want you dead,” Seregil said with a crooked grin as he sat down beside Alec.

He smelled a bit of horse sweat, Alec noted, and the legs of his trousers were damp around the knees, as if he’d lathered Cynril coming home. “Everything all right?”

“I met up with a few more fellows bent on doing me mischief—”

“You what?” Alec demanded in alarm, looking for wounds.

Seregil fended him off, laughing. “Lord Seregil took to his heels and made it home in one piece, as you can see. But I did come away with this.” He flipped Alec the bronze disk. “What do you make of that?”