“Oh ho,” Bryony said, faking a laugh. “You expect me to believe—” It was a sentence that was never meant to be completed, and as soon as she felt the slackening of his guard, she sidestepped to the left. The moment the pressure of the blade vanished, she dove hard in the same direction, hearing the sounds of his recovery and advance even as she was carried back to her feet, blade already in hand and then—

Faces inches apart, their exhalations swirled together. Her dagger was at his throat. Again. And his was against hers. Also again. It might’ve been almost comedic if she wasn’t so annoyed by him having bested her once and matching her now. It had been a long time since anyone had done either of those things, and she wasn’t used to it. (Of course, she wasn’t counting Farrow, as their last meeting had been less about combat and more about, well, something else.) This truth sat heavy in her stomach like a bad meal.

“What is it you want from me?” Bryony asked.

“Same as you. Answers. For example, what happened to your hand?”

“That’s the question you wish to ask first?” She knew he was aware of her false leg, and yet he was more interested in a minor injury to her hand?

“Yes.”

“A horse bite, if you must know.”

“You’re not supposed to put your hand in the beast’s mouth when you feed it, you know.”

“Cute. I know how to handle a horse. It happened just before I reached Lostwood. Something about the forest spooked her and she lashed out at me. The previous owner told me she was friendly.”

“If memory serves, she wasn’t the only one afraid of the forest.”

Bryony seethed. Like her horse, she had the sudden urge to bite someone.

“Infected?” the man asked.

“Mildly.”

“Who trained you?”

She snorted at the abrupt change of subject. She knew the tactic. Her guild had trained her in the art of questioning. Still, she considered the inquiry, as well as the motivation behind it. The false inquiry, meant to keep her distracted and off-balance. Anyone as skilled with the blade as this man ran in certain…circles. “If you want to learn something, you should ask questions you don’t already know the answers to.”

“You’re admitting that your belt—or should I say your serash?—wasn’t always black?”

She wasn’t pleased that he knew the true identity of the band wrapped around her waist, but she kept her expression neutral and disinterested. Bored even. “No more than you’ll admit you’re not really a royal surveyor.”

The man seemed to chew on that for a moment. “What business do the Crimson Daggers have so far away from court? I always thought your purpose was the slitting of throats belonging to those with sacks of gold, not drunkards and paupers.”

“My business is personal.”