Croy could only stare up at the massive warrior. “I might ask you the same.”

“I live here. This is my city,” Bikker snarled.

“I meant—”

“I find myself in no position to answer your questions, Croy. But I will have answers to mine. I say again, what are you doing here? You were banished from Ness, never to return. I remember it well, since I was the one tasked with riding you out of the city gates on a rail.”

Croy remembered that moment himself. The rail had been tied to the back of Bikker’s horse at the time. He had been left bruised and abraded ten miles north of the city with nothing but his swords—even his clothes were ruined by the rough treatment.

“I returned for Cythera, of course,” Croy said. “Once I have guaranteed her safety and her freedom, and once I take care of a few other standing engagements, I’ll leave in peace. You have my word.”

“Doubtful,” Bikker said. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I know you’re telling the truth. I also know that by ‘standing engagements’ you mean me. You mean my death. And since that’s not likely to happen, well . . . Never mind. Tell me what you’re doing here, tonight. Your presence is most inconvenient to my plans.”

In the courtyard something crashed to the ground with a thud that shook Croy’s teeth in his skull. He tried to rise and see what had happened but Bikker just pressed him down again.

He decided the best way to recover his feet was to answer Bikker. “I came to get my swords back. The Burgrave took them from me when he sentenced me to death. I imagine you were there at my hanging—surely you wouldn’t have missed that.”

“I had to leave early,” Bikker said. He wasn’t looking at Croy, but at the ruins of the tower. “I hear it didn’t end well.”

“Oh?” Croy asked.

“You got away. Croy, please do me a favor and keep reaching for the hilt of Ghostcutter. Please, please, try to draw your sword. It will give me the excuse I need to hack you to pieces right now.”

Croy opened his hands wide and stretched them out at his sides. He had known Bikker for a long time. He was quite certain the man was willing to stab him where he lay on the ground, to take his life without the slightest shred of honor or dignity. And yet . . . he hadn’t so far. He had every opportunity but still let him live. Was it just because Bikker wanted information? Or was it possible there was something still alive in Bikker, some shred of the honor he’d cast off like a stained tunic?

“Surely Hazoth didn’t send you here to kill me,” Croy said. “He could not have known I was here—unless he has been following my movements with a spell.”