The knifeman ignored the flurry of blows and thudding sounds from behind him. He wrenched the knife free and came over the bed in a silent rush, the blade held low and reversed with his thumb on the pommel and the blade jutting out from the right side of the fist.

Somewhere in the Cutter lands there’s a school not entirely unlike the one I attended, she thought as she backed easily, moving with soft sure strides, the weight on the balls of her feet.

He didn’t waste time; this wasn’t a duel, not even the ghastly slashing frenzy of a knife fight, where the winner went to the healers for six months. The two knights would be on his back in instants. A feint high, a backhand slash to the face, and then a stab towards her thigh, aiming for the great vessel that ran up the inside towards the groin.

Fast, she thought. But he’s relying on it and I’ve got a third of a second on him.

Her body sank and turned before the thought was complete, her hips swaying aside. Her own knife cut, upward, under the armpit, she couldn’t chance whether he wore a mail vest. Cloth parted, and something else between; a spray of blood went up in the night, black drops in blackness. The arm went limp and the knife fell from it. The man hissed with a gobbling undertone and snatched at the weapon with his left, his fingertips touching the dimpled bone hilt before it struck the floor.

He never grasped it. She fell across him in a diving body check, and the breath wheezed out of him as his ribs hit the floor with her on his back. She drove her left elbow down into the base of his skull as they landed, the hard thud sending a shooting pain up her arm.

“Light,” she said, shaking her hand and working the fingers.

The man wasn’t quite limp, but he was twitching and moving with the vague undersea slowness of someone who’d had his bell truly rung. The lamps flared. Both the other assassins were down and bound, ankles and wrists lashed together and good thick gags in their mouths; she wanted no more fanatics biting out their tongues and drowning in their own blood before they had every scrap of information wrung out of them.

“See to this one,” she said as she rose, kicking his knife aside and wiping hers on the man’s hair. “Don’t let him bleed out. Pity about the rug.”