She drew a breath and spoke before she lost her nerve. “The armor we took from the armory raid…I was trying to remember what style it was.”

“We took several different kinds.” His face gave nothing away.

“But most of it was leather, wasn’t it? With metal studs.”

James gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s a common type of armor. Why do you ask?”

Kyra blinked rapidly, once again seeing the Demon Rider in the marketplace, clad in his oddly familiar leather armor. “No reason,” she said. “I just like to remember what I take.”

“We took many sets of armor that night. I’d have to check the records to get the specifics. Any other questions?”

She flushed red, unsure as to whether she imagined his mocking tone. “No, that’s it.”

“Good. Come back when you’re ready.”

“They had armor this time. Leather-studded armor.” Tristam leaned over Malikel’s desk, emphasizing his assertion with a firmly planted palm.

“You’re sure it’s from the armory raid?” asked Malikel.

“I spoke to Nels. It matches his description of what went missing. It’s just too much of a coincidence. They must be getting help from the Assassins Guild.”

“And now you’re thinking…”

“Maybe they had help avoiding the patrols.”

Malikel nodded his agreement. “Go check. I’ll join you in a couple of hours.”

Tristam rubbed the bruise on the back of his head as he walked to the archive room. The Palace healer had lectured Tristam about facing enemies without reinforcements, and as much as he hated to admit it, she was probably right. Tristam owed his life to that girl who’d thrown the stone at the demon cat. He’d combed the streets after the attack, hoping to thank her, or at least find out if she’d survived. But there had been no sign of her.

The archive room was empty, and Tristam went straight for the far cabinet, pulling out the parchment on which he’d recorded the barbarian raids since the first farm attack. He had a feeling he was close to the answers he needed about the Demon Riders. He just needed to look in the right place.

He slid his fingers down the left side of the paper, scanning the dates, looking for any clue, any hint of a connection. The attacks were spaced out unevenly but had averaged about one or two per week for the past four months. The barbarians’ first engagement with Palace troops had been in May, when he and Jack had stumbled across that fateful farm raid. Over time, encounters had trickled off, and in the past three weeks, they had evaded troops completely.