The third-floor roof sloped out several feet beneath the four-floor windows, and Sothe hit it and rolled across the wooden shingles. The edge was just ahead—from there, it was an easy twenty-foot drop into an ornamental shrubbery, and then a quick run to the stables. She popped to her feet, jumped—

The next knife intercepted her in midair. No, no, no. Nobody is that precise. Not possible. It was a perfect shot, a kill shot, just under her left breast and in between the ribs to find the heart. Sothe caught the hedge at an awkward angle, tumbled, and sprawled spread-eagled in the dust of the yard.

She felt no pain, though the cuts on her side and face were a spreading agony now. But I don’t feel dead. Her heart, leash slipped now, pounded hard and strong in her chest.

Cautiously she brought one hand up and found no blade embedded in her ribs. She brushed herself where she’d felt the impact, and nicked her finger on a shard of glass. When she sat up, more pieces cascaded off her.

Part of the window must have lodged in my clothes. Right there, over her heart, right at the spot where—

Lucky. For a moment, it felt as though she didn’t dare breathe, or the world would collapse on top of her.

Then she was in control again, up and moving, more glass falling away from her. There were horses in the stables, and arrangements with inns all along the road to Vordan City. This was not a completely unexpected result, though she’d been thinking more in terms of a small army than a lone intruder.

Either way, the game is up. Raesinia has to be warned.

*   *   *

THE DIRECTORY FOR THE NATIONAL DEFENSE

The President of the Directory for the National Defense, who was also in his person the Minister of War, looked across his desk at General de Ferre and saw a dead man looking back at him. De Ferre had always carried a few extra pounds, but his recent ordeal seemed to have left him half-melted, his face loose and jowly and his stomach sagging. His uniform, in contrast, was polished and immaculate.

Maurisk picked up the glass from his desk and tossed back the bit of wine that remained. Vordan might have run out of brandy, but wine it had in plenty, and with the blockade strangling the export trade even the finest vintages were being dumped on the market for whatever they would bring. This had come from a particularly dusty and distinguished-looking bottle, but it might as well have been paint thinner to Maurisk’s numbed palate. He drank it anyway.

“He let you go,” Maurisk said after he set the glass down.

“Yes, sir,” de Ferre said.

“Why?”