He’d pulled on his spare tunic, with sleeves that covered his forearms. As he’d pointed out last night, he could never be certain just how welcome Gavril Kitsune would be.

Three guards had come out at first—two from the towers, and one from inside. Now, the gates opened and four more approached. And when they did, Moria knew something was wrong. A town without a garrison would likely not have seven warriors in the entire community. Also, these new men were not warriors. Yes, they dressed in plain tunics and breeches, and they were clean-shaven, as required of warriors in service. They also wore the traditional blades hanging together on their left side, the dagger above the sword. But there was a food stain on the collar of the smallest man. The large one—a bald, copper-skinned desert dweller—had a tiny tattoo on the side of his neck. A third had shaving-blade nicks along his chin, as if he’d recently cut away more than mere stubble. Small things, which would go unnoticed by anyone who hadn’t grown up scampering through a garrison.

Daigo began to growl. Not loudly, but she could feel the vibration. Gavril started to step in front of her before stopping himself. He moved behind her instead, so close she could feel his sword hand on his hilt, brushing her back.

The big bald guard waved at the gates. “Come, Keeper. Fairview welcomes you.”

“No,” Gavril said. “We’ll not be stopping. The Keeper wished merely to greet Fairview and bless it. We’re pressing on to Riverside.”

The smallest man stepped forward. “Fairview wishes to welcome the Keeper. This is a rare honor, and we would like to celebrate.”

“I fear that is not possible,” Moria said. “I beg the forgiveness of Fairview’s spirits, but we have urgent business in Riverside.” She dipped her head. “I’ll take my leave.”

She turned, Gavril and Daigo moving with her. The small man lunged into their path, sword drawn. Gavril swung around her so fast she didn’t realize he’d even moved until she heard the clang of steel. Gavril’s sword knocked the small man’s hard enough that Moria swore she heard the man’s wrist crack. He held his blade, though, smacking it back against Gavril’s, both stepping forward, swords crossed.

“Lower your weapon, Kitsune,” the biggest man rumbled. “I know who you are. My scout spotted you before you hid your ink.”

The others surrounded them, blades drawn, all pointed at Gavril. Moria’s hands flexed on her sheathed daggers, and she felt Daigo tense. Seven armed men against one young warrior, one even younger Keeper, and a wildcat. In a fight for their lives, the odds would be worth taking, but until then . . .

Her hands relaxed on her blades and she whispered, “Gavril . . .”