She’d taken two steps when a hand closed around her arm. “That’s against the rules, girl,” said Rust Beard. “Pay up.”

Kyra froze, forcing herself not to flinch at his grip. If she were alone, she might have been able to run for it, but not with Lettie. She fished around in her purse for a coin, trying to keep the resentment from her face as she handed it over. Rust Beard grinned as he pocketed it. His friend wandered away, seemingly satisfied, but Rust Beard scrutinized her. “Toll’s gone up,” he said. “There’s an extra charge for them that try to evade the first payment.”

He reached for her coin purse, clearly expecting no resistance, but she stepped back, jerking her purse out of his reach with one hand while she pushed Lettie behind her with the other. “Hands off, pig.”

She regretted her words as soon as she spoke. The Red Shield’s eyes narrowed, and Kyra barely had time to yell at Lettie to run before the Red Shield lunged toward Kyra, grabbing for her arm. He wasn’t as fast as he could have been, and Kyra stepped sideways, avoiding his grasp. As he stumbled, she pivoted away, scanning the streets for Lettie and feeling a rush of relief as she saw the girl disappearing into an alleyway. Before Kyra could follow, the Red Shield seized her elbow and pulled her backward. He caught her around the waist, pinning her arms. Kyra yelled and stamped down on his foot. His grip loosened, and she thrust back with her elbow. The man doubled over, and she squirmed out of his arms.

As she broke free, his friend closed in from the front and aimed a fist toward her head. Pain exploded on one side of her face and she fell hard onto the dirt. She gasped for breath, stunned and blinded. She felt a weight as one of them straddled her chest and pinned her left arm to the ground. Desperate, she jabbed at his eyes with her free hand. He swore and lifted his arm to deliver another blow. She raised her hand over her face and turned away.

There was a thud, a yell of surprise, and then the Red Shield on top of her pitched forward. Someone pulled him off her, and Kyra dragged herself onto her elbow, breath coming in painful gasps. Both her attackers lay on the ground, unconscious. Above them stood a man who looked vaguely familiar.

“Filthy Palace scum.” Her rescuer spat on the ground. He was of average height, heavyset, and wore the coarse wool tunic of a commoner. Carrot-colored hair topped a freckled face marred by a scar over one eyebrow. He turned toward her. “James told me to keep an eye on you.”