“Oh yes, I should think we’ll be in a great deal,” Count Janel said, still grinning. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it out to Ninavis as the woman hobbled out into the main area. “You have a little something on your chin.”

Ninavis blinked as she took the cloth. “You’re not turning me in?”

“Oh no. It’s not safe here.”

“Huh.” Mare Dorna stood from where she’d knelt, looking at the guard. She raised a hand so they all saw the gray greasy makeup smearing her fingers. “Methinks the girl ain’t the only one with a little something on her chin.”

Ninavis rested against the wall for balance while she used her other hand to clean her face. She resembled a flamingo, balanced on her one good leg, doing it with far more skill than Brother Qown could muster. “I’m thirty-five years old. It’s been a damn long time since anyone had the right to call me girl.” She focused on Dorna’s hand. “Is that paint?”

Brother Qown knelt next to the guard and rubbed at the gray leopard spots shading the unconscious man’s chin.

His fingers also smeared the makeup.

“Why would a guard fake their coloring?” he asked.

“The same reason so many hulking guards around here don’t understand a fireblood, I imagine,” Mare Dorna said. “’Cause they ain’t Joratese.” She shut one eye and squinted as she studied his features. “This one’s Yoran, or I’m still an acrobat in a traveling tournament show.” She patted the soldier’s pockets.

Count Janel spared the man a cursory glance before she turned back to Ninavis. “Where are your people?”

“The guards took them to the tourney.” A sour, angry look stole over her expression. “I thought those bastards would make all manner of fuss about leaving me behind when they saw I couldn’t walk, but they laughed and said the baron wanted even numbers, anyway.”

Brother Qown finished examining the prone guard. He had a concussion for sure, but the priest couldn’t do much for him with an audience. Qown stood. “Why would they bring prisoners to the tournament? Why wouldn’t they just leave them here in the dungeons or send them off to a proper jail before their trial?”

The count looked startled. “What? Oh no. There’s no trial. Not in the sense you mean.”

“Excuse me?” Brother Qown felt a moment’s sharp outrage. Even in the Capital, trials were standard. It might have been a twisted and warped pretense, favoring those with money and connections, but by the Eight, there would be a trial.