He howled in pain, releasing his hold enough so that she could drag in a breath. Then he slammed her head against the wall. She saw stars.

“I despise northern women,” he said, giving her a shake. “You’re harlots and whores, all of you. I’m going to show you how we treat harlots in the south.”

And he smashed his face against hers in a drunken kiss, using his body to hold her upright against the wall.

He pressed his hands to either side of her face, holding it steady. She gripped the pinky finger on his right hand and snapped it back, breaking it. He screeched and staggered backward, cradling his injured hand, and she slammed her foot into his kneecap. Now he crumpled to the pavers, rolling back and forth and baying in pain.

Raisa knew she was lucky that drink had slowed Tourant’s reactions; she knew she should just run away, but she couldn’t help herself. All the anger and frustration of the past weeks came due. She drew her knife and pressed it into Tourant’s throat.

“When they told you about northern women, did they mention that they carry knives?” she said.

Tourant shook his head. Carefully. “No,” he whispered.

“You touch me again, you arrogant Ardenine swine, and I swear on the blood of Hanalea the warrior, I will geld you. Do you understand?”

Tourant nodded violently, sweat beading on his forehead. Raisa backed away from him, turned, and ran down the alley toward the street.

Someone was standing in the entry of the alleyway, a tall figure silhouetted against the streetlights. Raisa’s heart sank. Was this one of Tourant’s Ardenine cronies, come to pitch in?

“Get out of my way,” she warned, striding forward, “or you’ll get the same treatment as him.”

“Including the gelding?” he said in Fellsian. “I’ve heard of thieves dropping a glove, but that’s severe.”

Fear turned to confusion. He was Fellsian. Not Ardenine. “Dropping a glove?”

He made a chopping motion at his wrist. “The queen’s peculiar justice. Makes it hard for a thief to earn a living any other way.”

Recognition shivered over her. She squinted into the darkness. “Who are you?”

“Me, I’d never cross a northern girlie. I know all about the knives.” His voice was familiar, but his features were still hidden in shadow. “I meant to yank that bacon-faced dirtback off of you, Rebecca, but I guess you didn’t need my help.”

Her steps slowed to a stop while her heart accelerated to a pounding cadence. “Alister?” she whispered. And then, louder, “Alister, is that you?”

“Come out into the high street and see.” He took two steps back so the light from the lamps washed over his features.