She almost wished it were broken, just so Tristam could deliver the news to Willem. Tristam peeled her hand away from her shoulder and probed it with his fingertips. She drew a sharp breath when he pressed on the bruise. Though truth be told, he was being very gentle—his brows furrowed in concentration, his eyes going frequently to her face to check if he was hurting her. These days, she didn’t know what to think of Tristam. Moments like this tempted her to let down her guard, but then he’d do something—lie to her family about her death, act as Willem’s mouthpiece—to lose her trust. Kyra’s legs started to cramp, and she realized it was because she was still trying to back away from him into the barn wall. She scowled and forced herself to relax.

“It doesn’t feel broken.”

She reluctantly raised her arm. “I think I’m all right.”

Tristam exhaled in relief. “We’re going to have to find some other way. Wait here,” he said, motioning to Kyra and Martin. “Stay out of sight.”

Kyra retreated into a corner, relieved to escape the homicidal horse. Martin leaned against the wall. She picked straw off the floor and broke each strand into pieces, making no attempt at conversation.

“You were really part of the Assassins Guild?”

Kyra looked up to see Martin looking at her with friendly curiosity.

“I was,” she said, slightly taken aback.

Martin grinned. “I’m relieved to find you normal looking. With all the stories flying around, I was half expecting you to be ten feet tall and have three arms.”

His smile was infectious, and Kyra found herself reluctantly smiling back. “It’d be hard to climb if I was ten feet tall.”

Martin shifted his weight, and Kyra noticed the crimson F embroidered on his tunic.

“You’re a Red Shield,” she said. For some reason she’d assumed he was a stable hand. She tried to suppress her automatic disgust at that emblem.

Martin blinked at the change in her tone. “Aye,” he said cautiously. “And my da and brothers as well.” When she didn’t respond, he continued talking. “It in’t a bad life. The coin is decent. I’m lucky, since I’m a dog talker. There’s enough commanders who want dogs, so we get to choose.”

“You picked Tristam?”

“Sir Malikel, actually. But Sir Tristam is a good sort too. Sir Malikel attracts a friendlier type.”

Kyra supposed that Tristam wasn’t cruel, but she wouldn’t exactly have categorized him as friendly.

They were interrupted by Tristam’s voice outside. The two of them came out to see Lady hitched to a horse-drawn cart—the kind used by servants to carry firewood.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

“It’s this or get your brains kicked out. Trust me, Lady is just as unhappy about this as you are.”