He already towered over the Flea, and, as though to emphasize both his words and his height, he took a step closer, stabbing a finger into the Wing leader’s chest. It was the last thing they needed. Long Fist was out there somewhere, driving his blood-mad horsemen across the Black, and here they were, wrangling with the head man of some no-account town on the puckered asshole of the empire. Worse, it seemed as though half the town had turned out in the central square to see the huge bird land and watch the ensuing showdown.

“We’re more’n capable of taking care of our own up here”—poke—“so why don’t you fly on south”—poke—“back where you came from.”

The Flea didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. “ ’Sides,” the mayor went on, puffed up with his obvious success, “don’t know what shit-eating bureaucrat decided it was a good idea to let women do the fighting, but I’ll tell you one thing and I’ll say it once so listen hard.”

“I’m listening,” the Flea said quietly.

Larch frowned at the tone, then raised his voice loud enough that the whole crowd could hear. “I’ve been running this town twenty-three years, I don’t take orders from anyone, and certainly not,” he concluded, stabbing a thick finger at Gwenna, “from some wench half my age who thinks carrying a sword makes her a man.” He chuckled at the thought. “I’d fuck her maybe,” he said, spreading his arms, getting some chuckles from the crowd, “but not follow her.” He turned back to the Flea, poked him in the chest again. “You got that?”

The Flea nodded, then stabbed him in the neck.

Larch dropped like a sack of rocks, blood spattering the dirt of the central square. Gwenna could only stare. There had been no warning, no escalation. Just stillness followed by death followed by stillness. Then Pyrre started laughing.

“All right,” she said, “maybe we could learn to work together.”

The people of Andt-Kyl took a few more heartbeats to believe what they saw, and then another man, this one shorter but even broader than Larch, came at the Flea with a long knife and a roar.

The Flea killed him, too.

Gwenna reached over her shoulder for her blades, but Newt stopped her with a firm hand.

“Don’t make it a fight,” he murmured.

Gwenna stared, first at the Flea, then at the Aphorist. “He’s the one doing all the killing,” she hissed.

“Killing isn’t fighting,” Newt replied. “These poor folks, they’ve never seen anything like this. Don’t know what to make of a man on a bird stabbing their mayor. Don’t know how to respond. If we draw, though . . .” He pursed his lips. “Starts to look like a brawl, and in these log towns, if there’s one thing they know, it’s brawling.”