“A mirror is a woman’s strength. I do not give away my strength.” Kirit glanced first at Marit and then at the other woman. “You two do not display your woman’s mirrors.”

Something mattered here, something that eluded Marit.

The woman brushed a hand over the writing box. “Not all need mirrors.”

“In the mirror, I see truth. Why do so many bad people walk in the land? You march with an army. Cannot you stop the bad people from what they do to hurt people?”

“It is our goal to restore order.” The woman’s voice sharpened. “It is our intent to be sure that none need ever fear for the safety of her own existence.”

“We are already dead,” said the girl.

“No, we are not dead!” The woman rose, paced to a canvas wall, and back to the desk, crouching to pick up the writing box. “We are Guardians, bringing justice to the land.”

“I kill them,” said the girl. “The ones who are bad. You also? You kill the bad ones?”

A gaze flashed between Lord Radas and the woman. He pulled the arrow to his chest. She stood with the writing box tucked under a sleeve, and then, as an afterthought but very smoothly, she picked up the dagger and the stick and after that she took one step backward so she was standing in her soft leather slippers across the haft of the spear that lay on the carpet.

“Perhaps you would like to rest, young one. What is your name?”

“I am Kirit,” she said proudly. “A Water-born Red Crane. I am orderly in nature. I am ruthless in the quest for justice because I cannot rest where injustice is done.”

“What is your companion’s name?” asked the woman, indicating Marit with an elbow.

The girl looked at Marit, pale eyes cold.

The hells, thought Marit. I’ve been careless. She’d told the envoy her real name, within the hearing of this demon child. She shifted the sword on her thighs. Maybe she couldn’t kill them, but she could hurt them badly enough that she could run.

“Maybe she doesn’t have a name,” Kirit said to the woman. “Do you have a name?”

The woman said nothing, and Kirit went on. “For a long time, I had no name. But this white-cloaked one has a cloak, a bowl, a light, and a horse. Only she has no staff. Why not?”

Why the hells not?

It got so quiet that Marit noticed distant sounds: the neighing of a horse, the rumble of cart wheels, the rhythmic clash of sticks as men trained. A faint gasp as lungs caught air, and feebly sucked it in. Was that Hari, breath returning to his body?

“Most of the staffs were lost,” said the woman.

Marit knew she was lying because as a reeve Marit had learned to suss out liars, the way their jaw twitched up in defiance or their eyes did not blink as the weight of the lie held them open.