Everyone in the bar was watching them, speechless. Nadine leaned forward over the bar—the private marsh in question was her property, and so were the ducks that swam in it. The ducks she raised from eggs and sold at the market in order to pay the taxes on her bar.

“That ain’t none of your business, you slick fuck,” the marshjack spat. “What’s your business is that my Petunia’s dead because of your painted-up hippo bitch.”

He swung his arm. Houndstooth registered the glint of metal.

What happened next happened very quickly indeed.

Houndstooth dropped forward out of his chair and into a crouch, and the knife sailed over his head.

The marshjack’s momentum carried him forward and he stumbled, his leg brushing Houndstooth’s shoulder as he put out a hand to catch himself before he could hit the ground.

Houndstooth straightened, fitted his right fist neatly into his left hand, and used his full weight to drop the point of his elbow onto the back of the marshjack’s skull.

There was a crack like a branch snapping. The assembled crowd in the tavern made a collective “ooh,” and the marshjack fell onto his face. By the time he managed to roll over onto his back, Houndstooth was standing over him. He twirled the marshjack’s long, ivory-handled knife in his hand as the marshjack’s eyes eased open.

“Well, old chap,” Houndstooth said in a carrying voice. “Seems you tripped and dropped your knife.” He flipped the knife in the air and caught it without taking his eyes off the marshjack. “Not to worry, I’ve caught it for you.” He tossed it again; caught it again. The marshjack’s eyes followed the spinning blade.

Houndstooth crouched over him. “Now, here are some things you ought to know. One: Ruby is not painted. She’s a Cambridge Black hippo, and I’d guess that’s why she was able to sneak up on your dear departed Petunia. Bred for stealth, you see, but she can be territorial. I’m not surprised that she ‘et’ Petunia, if the dog was in her waters.” He tossed the knife from hand to hand as he spoke, almost lazily. “Two: Her tusks are plated in gold, not brass. It’s my gold. I took it, chum, from the type of men who like to steal ducks. So you see, it is my business why you were in that marsh, because my Ruby-roo can always use more accessories.” The marshjack tried to track the knife, but one of his pupils was dilating and he seemed to be struggling to follow the movement.