A pack of hooligans was one thing. Highly trained soldiers were another. This would require a different form of persuasion. Petronio wished he could use his trump card. The son of High Councillor Grasp would be treated with instant deference. However, his business had to stay secret. Any of these men could have mouths bigger than their brains. The sergeant had to be played carefully.

“You know, I think your superior would be most disappointed to learn that his guest had been treated in so rough a manner. Indeed, if Commander Flint were to later find out that a certain opportunity had been missed because” — he paused and stared straight into the man’s pockmarked face — “an inferior officer had decided to act on his own initiative … well, I’d hate to be in your shoes, sir.”

The sergeant came to a halt in front of Petronio, doubt clouding his face. It was enough. The seed was planted.

“Full of yourself, ain’t yer?”

“No. But I suggest you wake him, just for safety’s sake? Yours, not mine.”

The sergeant had happily skewered a few radicals on the end of his sword over the years. Now a fourteen-year-old was giving him orders! What was the wood coming to?

“Fine. Let’s wake Commander Flint out of his well-earned slumbers and see what he does with you!” The sergeant looked around. “And I dunno what you lot think this is. Get back on duty!” he barked.

The other soldiers grumbled as they drifted back to the gatehouse. Fighting was in their blood. All these years of peace were seriously bad for their health.

“Before I take yer to see me master, we need to do a little search! You can make it easier by ‘andin’ over any weapons, yer know, catapults and other toys. Wouldn’t want the master attacked by a trained kiddie assassin, would we?” The sergeant had to have his moment of satisfaction.

“Absolutely!” said Petronio. One second, he was unarmed and the next, there was a knife in his hand that in no way resembled a toy. The move was so sudden, it forced the sergeant to step back. “I do understand. Can’t be too careful these days!” The knife flipped over until its carved bone handle was offered to the sergeant.

“Yeah. Right. Well, then. Anything else?”

Petronio was loath to walk around this dangerous place without any backup, but he didn’t fancy the sergeant’s greasy hands dirtying his fine clothes. After a minute, the sergeant’s hands held a small but deadly pile — throwing knives, a slingshot, and two sticks with a chain between that had garotted a few cats when Petronio had been practicing. The sergeant briefly disappeared into the gatehouse with the booty, then stepped back out.