Any action, any attack, could only end in defeat and death. Even Annick’s arrow, so carefully trained on the Flea, would probably be swatted down by Sigrid’s strange powers before it left the bow. Valyn hated disarming, but, as the Flea said, you took some chances because you had no other choice. His elbow throbbed and his head ached. His throat felt too dry to speak, but the words came out clearly enough.

“Stand down. Talal, Annick, everyone just stand down.”

Annick hesitated a moment, then lowered her bow. Talal looked relieved.

“Sometimes,” Newt said, nodding in approval, “it is the fool who fights, and the fighter who folds.”

The Flea ignored him.

“Where’s the other one?” the Wing leader asked, “the woman with the knives?”

Valyn shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He hadn’t seen the Skullsworn since her boots had sent Triste running panicked through the gate and caused Gwenna to blow the floor. She should have fallen, just the same as everyone else, but Valyn could see no sign of her.

“ ‘Not sure’ makes me nervous,” the Flea said, flicking a sign toward Blackfeather Finn.

“She makes me nervous, too,” Valyn replied. “She’s not with us.”

“Sure looks like she’s with you. Don’t lie to me, Valyn. We’ve been watching. We know about the monks, about the girl. Where are they, all of them?”

Valyn hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. According to Tan, no one else could pass through the gate. Kaden was free. Safe. At least, that was the theory. Valyn couldn’t see any reason to put it to the test before he had to.

“I’m not sure where they are,” he said again.

The Flea’s lips tightened. His fingers darted through another two or three signs. Valyn didn’t recognize them.

“You’re playing games, Valyn,” the Flea said, “and there’s too much steel out for games.”

Sigrid and the Aphorist shifted to cover Finn’s position as the sniper rose to his feet. Flatbow leveled, he stepped into the dark hallway beyond the doorframe, paused, then groaned.

“What?” the Flea asked.

Finn turned back, his mouth open, gestured with one hand—a graceful, florid little motion, as though he were getting ready to take a bow—to the hilt of a knife plunged in his chest. He stood there a moment, blood flecking his lips, then fell. The Flea was shouting orders before the body hit the floor.

“Burn it, Sig. Newt—get hunting!”