One more heartbeat, then Valyn let the blade drop. He hated the woman, hated her for what she was, for the fight she’d so casually caused, but now the fight was on, and Annick was right, they needed her. The exchange had taken only a few moments, but moments were everything when the arrows were flying.

“Stay close,” he told the assassin. “If you fall behind, I’ll leave you for the Flea.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply, turning instead to the open doorway, running the options. The Flea was bottled in the room, but he wouldn’t stay bottled for long. Chi Hoai was still out there somewhere, but that was just tough shit; there was no time to go inching down the hallway looking in every room.

“They’re regrouping,” Annick called, ducking back behind the doorframe as a flatbow bolt skittered off the stone where her head had been.

There would be no more chances, that much was clear. Not with Blackfeather Finn’s blood smeared all over the floor. There were only three possibilities now: they could run, they could kill, or they could die.

“Gwenna,” he said, grabbing the woman by the front of her blacks. “Two starshatters in the doorway.”

She shook her head. “They’ll bring down the whole ’Kent-kissing place.”

“Do it!” he bellowed, digging in his belt pouch for the Kettral whistles. There was no way to know if the birds were still circling, if they were still alive, even, but sometimes you had to roll the dice. If they could win free of the building, if they could get out on the ledge, they’d have a chance. Blind grabs were risky; a bird without a flier was less precise, less predictable. A blind grab from a cliff ledge in the darkness was near madness, but even madness seemed preferable to going toe-to-toe with the Flea’s Wing now that they’d had a chance to regroup.

“Talal,” he said, glancing over, “can you screen the door?”

The leach was panting, and sweat poured off his forehead. For a moment Valyn thought he hadn’t heard the question; then he nodded.

“All right,” Valyn said. “Gwenna—smokers in the room. Talal, throw the shield. Gwenna, starshatters here. Then we go. I’m going to bring the bird in hard. It’s gonna be a goat fuck, but we’re getting out of here.”

He took a ragged breath. The flatbow bolt tore at his shoulder with each movement, a bright bar of pain through his flesh, but it was only two levels down to the ledge. He’d lived through Hull’s Trial; he could make it down a couple flights of stairs.

“Bringing the bird in hard sounds very exciting,” Pyrre said, “but I worry it might pose problems for those of us who are . . . less experienced.”