Two thieves burst from the gate, focused on the departing wagon. Arvid cut one’s throat before he was even seen; the other whirled—his blade already out—and opened his mouth to yell. Arvid threw the serrated disk; it severed the man’s windpipe, but not before he’d let out the first sound, and as he fell, his sword, like the other man’s, clattered on the stones.

Arvid retrieved the disk, snatched up the two swords—no time to collect the other weapons or any place to stash them—and darted back to the scant cover of the low wall. He stuffed one sword, naked as it was, into his belt, held the other between his knees while replacing the disk in its pocket, then took the sword in hand.

Down the street he saw a couple of men staring, but nothing of the Marshal and a posse. The men stood as if nailed to the ground; then one of them turned to run away, and one walked toward Arvid.

People who watched someone kill two men and then approached were not necessarily allies.

“Look out!” the man yelled, flinging up an arm.

Or maybe they were. Arvid jumped sideways, and the man on the wall, already jumping down where he’d been, stumbled on landing, off balance. Arvid made use of the sword, running it between the man’s ribs before he could get up. Another man was on the wall now; Arvid backed away from it. The man who had yelled to warn him was now calling for help, and others appeared from doorways. The man on the wall snatched a small crossbow from under his cloak; the bolt, Arvid knew, would be poisoned, and this close the bow had power to penetrate.

Arvid threw the sword—a bad throwing weapon but a visual distraction—and then his wrist knife.

The thief got off one shot, badly aimed, and the knife slashed the side of his neck. He dropped the bow to stanch the rush of blood, then jumped back off the wall on the inside. Someone else, Arvid knew, would pick it up and use it better.

“They’ve got Regar!” Arvid yelled down the street. “They’ve killed Gorlin! Call the Guard!”

Now the street had come alive—more men came out of doorways, some armed. Far down the street Arvid could hear the rhythmic thud of boots that he hoped meant either the city guard or Marshal Porfur.

He’d killed three and wounded one. He’d seen five. But on a mission to a distant city, after a known thief enforcer, would they send only five? Not likely. A minimum of two triads: six. So three were still alive, only one wounded. Where was the one he’d not yet seen? Where were Regar’s children? His heart contracted at the thought of the thieves taking those children.