Not just the Markreev’s people but also the duke’s men, all spread out in a search formation. They were moving from azhock to azhock as they hunted. Hoods were pulled back, hair swept away from eyes. They inspected each person, one by one. Eventually, they’d find the tent where Ninavis waited. Every few minutes, she put a hand on her bow, as if to remind herself it was strung and ready. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

The air smelled like fire from more than just the cooking pit, and the sky above the city looked like a dirty smudge.

Brother Qown didn’t recognize the other people inside the azhock, but they all wore red, presumably members of Mithros’s Red Spears. They held themselves with the tense air of soldiers waiting for the fight to start.

Then the ground began to shake.

Brother Qown didn’t know what the sound meant, but everyone reacted immediately. “Stampede!” someone shouted. People began running. Indeed, a large horse herd, gathered on the Green for the tournament, now ran in panic.

The azhock’s back panel moved, and Dorna stepped inside, holding a large bag hoisted over her shoulder. “There you are. Been looking for you.”

Brother Qown exhaled—she was alive. So Relos Var hadn’t been lying about Dorna at least.

“What are you doing here?” Ninavis snapped. “The Markreev promised he’d get you out of town.”

“I ain’t leaving without the rest of you. Besides, Mithros has a plan.” The old woman tossed a large bag down next to the fire. “Put that on right fast. Arasgon and Talaras can only keep the horses riled up for so long before another fireblood settles ’em back down again.”

“They’re arresting any Marakori they find, Dorna, and they have my description. What can you do about—” But she stopped talking as she finished opening the bag and pulled out Mithros’s black enameled helmet, armor, and raven feather cloak.

The Black Knight’s costume.

“Mithros swears it will fit you. He changed it up special. Now hurry.”

Brother Qown turned away as Ninavis stripped off her clothing. He instead watched Dorna wander about the tent. The old woman seemed healthy enough. She nodded to the Red Spears who hadn’t left to watch the stampede. While she walked, a variety of small, valuable items disappeared into her skirts, but never when anyone but Brother Qown was paying attention.

“Help me with this cloak, please,” Ninavis said.

The black armor hid her general size and gender, with sinister-looking pauldrons and a chest plate whose ornate design obscured her bosom.

A horse whinnied from outside; Brother Qown saw Arasgon’s red tiger-striped legs at the entrance to the tent.