“Ah, no,” the boy said. “Not likely.” He was tall, nearly as tall as Amon, though more slender in build, with brilliant blue eyes. His face bore evidence of a recent beating. His right eye was blackened and there was a blue-and-yellow bruise over one cheekbone. His right forearm was splinted, but he didn’t favor it. He seemed to be trying to keep his face turned away from them, as if he were embarrassed by his injuries.

This must be one of Jemson’s students, Raisa thought with a rush of sympathy.

“What happened to you?” she asked, moving closer so she could examine his face at close range. She touched his arm. “Who did this?”

Hanson flushed. “Wasn’t nothing. Just…my da. Gets mean sometimes when he’s in his cups.”

Just then Amon’s hand snaked forward. He gripped the boy’s splinted arm and raked back his sleeve, exposing a wide silver cuff. “So, Hanson,” he said. “I think we have met after all. You ever go by the name Cuffs?” he said.

Cuffs? Raisa looked from Amon to the other boy. Wasn’t that the gang leader who’d killed all those people?

Then it seemed like everything happened at once. The boy slammed his free fist into Amon’s face and twisted away with the ease of long practice. Amon drew his sword and stepped between the boy and the door, yelling for the other cadets. And then the boy called Cuffs grabbed hold of Raisa, drawing her back tight against him. She felt the prick of a blade at her throat and tried hard not to swallow.

“Hanson, no!” Speaker Jemson shouted, pale with horror.

“Now then,” Cuffs said, close to her ear. “Back off or I cut the girlie’s throat.” His voice shook a little—with fear or nerves or excitement, Raisa couldn’t tell.

Raisa thought of the six, dead in the street. Tortured, they’d said. Done by this pretty blue-eyed boy holding the knife.

“Please,” Jemson pleaded. “In the name of the Maker, let her go. You don’t know who—”

“No.” Averill raised a hand to shush the speaker, his eyes fixed on Raisa. He wouldn’t want Cuffs to know who it was he held captive. “Listen,” he said to the boy, “perhaps we can make some kind of trade.”

“Here’s a trade,” Amon said, stepping away from the door. “Let her go and leave, and you’ll stay alive.”

“With all you bluejackets snapping at my heels?” Cuffs snorted. “I’d not make it far as the bridge.”

Amon’s face had gone stony hard, his gray eyes like chips of granite. “If you hurt her, I swear on Hanalea’s blood and bones you’ll regret it.”

By now the other Gray Wolves had arrived and were clustered in the doorway, gawking.

“You, there,” Cuffs said to the new arrivals. “Get over with the others.”

“Do as he says,” Amon ordered.