‘Greater than seventy strides.’

‘Against armour? Say, that breastplate of yours?’

Matil and the bent woman conferred for a moment. ‘Depending on the quality of manufacture, still lethal at twenty-five strides.’

Kosh’s smirk was uncontainable. ‘Have our effects been brought up, yet? I would like to show you something.’

***

With the crossbow and sundries from the cart came Lemon, Foss ambling in her wake, as curious and amused as Matil. Chel was glad to be back on the plaza, the fierce breeze cooling his cheeks and blowing the sweat from his neck.

‘Oh, aye, crossbows, is it?’

Kosh ignored her, collecting only her exhibition piece. Lemon continued to chatter, following along. ‘As it happens, I have an invention of my own, a highly-functional piece for the warrior outnumbered in the field. It uses two—’

‘Thank you, that will be all.’ Matil waved a hand, her attention solely on Kosh. ‘Your servant is quite outspoken. My mother would have her whipped.’

Kosh’s smirk broadened, but she said nothing. Eyes wide and nostrils flared, Lemon stomped over to Chel and Foss, making a sort of hissing sound.

‘That steam coming off you, friend?’

‘Servant? Servant? Fucken hells, man.’

Matil summoned a house guard, who then paced out twenty-five strides. Kosh gestured, and he paced five more. Then another ten. Then another ten, with increasing disbelief. From the workshop’s darkened arch, the chief artificer watched proceedings through scrunched eyes of deep distrust.

The house guard stopped at sixty-eight strides, only because he had run out of room. The pillared balustrade pressed against his back, the only barrier to the drop to the winding streets below. The man set down a marker, then stood, looking nervous.

Kosh nodded to herself, pleased. ‘Who is the best bowshot in the city?’

‘Perhaps I am,’ Matil said with a mischievous smile.

‘Perhaps you are. Your breastplate, please?’

Matil looked down in surprise, one hand on the armour, protective.

‘Come, what do you have to fear at that range?’

The tall woman hesitated a moment, then started on the straps. ‘What indeed?’

The relieved house guard propped the breastplate on two stacked barrels at the balustrade, then withdrew. Matil raised one of the bows from the workshop, aimed, and held, waiting for the wind to drop. After several moments, it did, the constant whisper of the distant trees and snap of the city’s silken trails falling suddenly quiet.

Matil fired. The bolt streaked from her bow, whistling in a flattening arc across the plaza. It struck the base of the breastplate with a clang, rocking it on its perch. It teetered for a moment, then fell back against the barrel, little to show for the impact bar a faint smudge. With a rueful shrug, Matil passed the weapon back to a guard, who relayed it past the glowering chief artificer.

‘A good shot,’ Kosh said with affected indifference.

‘Wasn’t it? Your turn, I believe.’