“I wasn’t there last time,” Blackfeather Finn interjected in his deep, urbane baritone, “but a precise observer would be obliged to note that you’re not exactly armed in this situation.” The Flea’s sniper sat reclining against the doorframe, flatbow cradled in the crook of his arm. He might have been the Flea’s opposite—tall, olive-skinned, clean somehow despite the rigors of the mission, and almost preposterously handsome. He smiled apologetically, teeth white in the lamplight. “Annick and Valyn are the only ones actually holding weapons—for which I commend them—and even Valyn is missing one of his blades.”

“Who else is here?” Valyn asked, ignoring the sniper, trying to see the whole picture, to formulate some kind of plan. “What other Wings?”

“There’s a few looking,” the Flea acknowledged, “but this is a big range of mountains. Guess we’re the only ones that found you.”

So it was five against five if it came to a fight. The sudden brightness of the lanterns dazzled, and Valyn squinted, trying to make sense of the room. No sign of Chi Hoai Mi, the Flea’s flier. So five on four, maybe, giving Valyn’s Wing the numbers, not that the numbers were worth a steaming pile of shit, not when you were pinned down and exposed. Not when you were fighting other Kettral.

Slow down, Valyn reminded himself. No one’s fighting yet.

The Flea sucked something out of his teeth and nodded toward Annick again. “So. About putting down that bow . . .”

“You understand,” Valyn said, studying the other Wing leader for any hint of his intentions, “that it’s a risk. You’ve got the drop on us as it is. If you’re lying . . .” He shook his head. “You’re asking me to take an awful chance. To put my Wing in danger.”

The Flea pursed his lips as though considering this. “Thing is,” he replied finally, “there are the chances you take because you want to, and those you take because you have to.”

The Aphorist nodded. “Seeing a door is not the same as unlocking it.”

“And please,” the Flea went on, “tell Talal not to do anything dumb. Usually, we’d knock out a leach right away, but I’ve left him conscious as a courtesy. A gesture of good faith. We all know what he’s capable of, and if he gets twitchy, someone’s going to have to shoot him.”

Talal met Valyn’s eyes. Sweat glistened on his bare scalp. Though the night was cool, Valyn’s own blacks were likewise drenched, and his heart battered at his ribs. Kettral lore was filled with stories of Wing commanders in similar situations—outmaneuvered, overmatched, caught wrong-footed—who somehow managed to string together a series of desperate gambits to save their Wing. Only, Valyn was all out of gambits.