Viktor grimaced. Taking the proffered hand, he rose. “Something’s wrong.”

“I’d worked that out.” He shot a glance over his shoulder. “What can I do?”

The matter-of-fact tone banished a little of the cold gnawing at Viktor’s thoughts. Nothing forged friendship as readily as a common enemy. If only that enemy had not also once been a friend.

“Have Sergeant Brass take you to Malachi Reveque. He’ll protect you.” He offered a wry smile. “I don’t imagine you can expect a warm welcome from my father.”

The corner of Josiri’s mouth curled. His eyes shifted restlessly. “Your friends thus far inspire little confidence.”

“If you return to the Southshires, Makrov will seize you as a fugitive. You can’t help Calenne or Anastacia if you’re dead.”

“Nor can you.”

“They’ll want a confession about the witchery. That will take time.” Viktor eyed the provosts. He knew too much of their reputation to believe it would take much time. “I imagine it will hurt, but I’ll survive.”

“See that you do.” He offered a lopsided smile. “With Calenne and Ana gone, who else will I quarrel with?”

Viktor nodded. Wrists held out before him and heavy heart weighing his steps, he approached Rosa’s line. The provosts hurried forward, robes trailing in the dust, and bound his hands with silver rope.

Forty-Six

Forty-Six

The cottage door creaked open. Warmth howled out into the miserable afternoon and the crisp scent of rain rolled in. Kurkas set his hand of cards on the table and drew his blanket tight. The motion pulled on the torn flesh of his gut, lending irritation to breathy words.

“Close the bloody door, would you?”

Halvor heaved it shut and set the latch. “So he’s still in a foul mood?”

Across the table, Ardel grinned and ran a calloused hand through thinning hair. “Can’t help that he’s losing.”

Kurkas glowered at one, and then the other. He sighed and flipped his cards face up. The Queen in Twilight, the Soldier, the Three of Moons and the Eight of Ravens. Worthless hand anyway.

“I don’t like being cooped up. I’m not poultry.”

Halvor shook off her cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door. She didn’t look right without the battered phoenix tabard. Kurkas knew a thing or two about divesting parts and pieces of one’s body. A missing arm or eye should have trumped a scrap of ratty old cloth, but Halvor just didn’t seem whole.

“Any word on Lady Trelan?” asked Kurkas.

A small, sharp shake of the head. “No. Either she’s lying low, or . . .” The words faded into a weary growl.

“How is it out there?” asked Ardel, all levity gone from his weathered face.

Halvor pulled out a chair. “Granfield’s a mess. Soldiers on the streets. Door-to-door searches.”

“What’re they looking for?”