She started to raise the tankard to her lips once more, and then Gwenna’s knife was out, stabbing toward the Skullsworn’s throat in pure, unpremeditated fury. There were plenty of little knife fights back on the Islands, cadets and vets settling scores by squaring off and fighting to the first blood. This wasn’t that. Gwenna put her whole weight behind the thrust, pivoting with the blow, twisting her wrist to feather the blade as it sunk into the flesh . . . only there was no flesh to find. The blade clattered against something, and Gwenna’s wrist jammed with the impact. She tried to slice sideways, but the Skullsworn had caught the knife inside her tankard. Gwenna yanked it back, trying to pull it free, and Pyrre stepped into the open space, hammering up with the heel of her hand, slamming Gwenna’s mouth shut so hard that her teeth throbbed and her neck snapped back as she tumbled to the mud.

The whole thing had taken less than a heartbeat. Most of the loggers hadn’t even noticed, and by the time they looked over, Pyrre was extending a hand to Gwenna, her smile broad, her eyes hard.

“Careful, sir,” she said, echoing Bridger’s deference. “The footing through here is treacherous.”

Gwenna glanced over at the curious archers, shackled her pride, and took the woman’s hand. Pyrre’s grip might have been hammered from steel. When she yanked Gwenna to her feet, she pulled her close enough to murmur in her ear.

“I came here to kill Urghul, which means that, in theory, we are on the same side.” She paused, allowed Gwenna to regain her footing and pull back. “Am I wrong?” she asked, voice sickeningly mild.

“No,” Gwenna growled. “You’re not wrong.”

“Excellent!” She smiled. “The thing is, I’m good with the killing, but not all that great when it comes to the tedium of tactics and strategy, so maybe you could”—she waved a hand toward the logs piling up in the river—“think through all that sort of thing. In the meantime,” she held the empty tankard aloft, “I seem to have spilled my beer.”