BETSI WOULD NOT START. A WERERAT MECHANIC took one look under the hood, mumbled something about the alternator, and pointed me toward the stables.

Before we left, I popped Betsi’s trunk, untied the strings holding the long oiled-leather roll and pulled it open, displaying swords and daggers secured in leather loops. The moonlight silvered the blades.

“Wow,” Derek said.

Men and swords. My father said that if you put any able-bodied man, no matter how peaceful, into a room with a sword and a practice dummy and leave him alone, eventually the man would pick up the sword and try to stab the dummy. It is human nature. This young wolf was no different.

“Choose a weapon.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Whatever you want.”

He examined the row of cutlery, his face thoughtful. I thought he’d go for a leaf blade, but he ignored it and his fingers strayed toward Bor instead. It was a good sword, especially for a beginner, with a thirty-two-inch blade and an ash-sheathed hilt just under eight inches long. It had a straight steel guard with sharp tips pointing downward and a no-nonsense steel pommel. Like all weapons I owned, it had a superb balance.

Derek held it upright.

“It’s light!” he said. “I went to a sword fair once, and the swords there were way heavier.”

“There is a difference between a sword and a swordlike object,” I said. “What you saw at the sword fair were mostly reasonable imitations. They are pretty and heavy and they make you slower than a slug on vacation. This one only weighs two pounds.”

Derek swung the sword in a practice slash.

“It’s a working sword,” I said. “It won’t break and it doesn’t send a lot of vibration back to your hand when you strike a target.”

“I like it,” he said.

“It’s yours.”

“Thanks.”

I grabbed my utility bag and we were ready to go. Derek made some sniffing noises at the bag. “I smell gasoline.”

“You smell right,” I told him and left it at that. Explaining that I carried a large canteen filled with gasoline in my bag in case I spilled some of my blood and had to clean it up in a hurry would’ve been too complicated.

THE PACK LENT ME A MARE. HER NAME WAS FRAU. The stable master swore that while she wasn’t the swiftest beast in the stables, she was obedient, strong, and steady as the rock of Gibraltar. So far, I had no reason to doubt him.

Derek’s dun gelding was perfectly content to let Frau take the lead. The kid rode with the stiffness of a moderately trained rider who had never got quite comfortable with horses. Some shapechangers rode like they were centaurs. Derek wasn’t one of them.

Neither of us had spoken since we left the shapechanger keep fifty minutes ago.