She slipped her blade into the sheath along the inside of her left forearm as she walked through the doors into the other room. That one looked considerably messier; there was a triad of assassins lying just inside the windows. Two had been struck as they climbed over the sills—one had a leg still on his, with that spilled awkwardness that only the suddenly and violently dead could show. Both those two were riddled with crossbow bolts. At this range the armor-smashers buried themselves to the fletching, and one of the men had been pitched back and pinned upright to the wall like a butterfly in a display case. His body, limp and leaking on the tiles, slid off the shaft and struck the floor with a thump as she came in.

The third was three paces into the room, lying on his side with the killdagger just beyond his twitching fingertips, and, unfortunately from his point of view, still alive. The human body was astonishingly resilient sometimes. A single bolt had struck him, and his face was like a contorted carving of hardwood with blood seeping past his clenched teeth and out his nostrils in bubbles. Sound trickled out as well.

The sergeant of the crossbowmen saluted. “That one was clever, my lady,” he said admiringly. “He backflipped into the room, must’ve dropped straight down and caught the sill and bounced in like a rubber ball. We missed him clean, everyone except young master . . . except Squire Lioncel de Stafford, I mean, my lady. He nailed him good, right in the brisket, which ain’t easy when things go south and it’s all noisy and confusing, like.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said; it was astonishing how many bolts were used per hit in a combat situation. “Thank you, Sergeant. A very creditable job. A week’s pay bonus to your and your squad for losing a night’s sleep.”

The man grinned, and she nodded again. She’d meant it. Missing number three hadn’t been serious. A man with a knife wasn’t going to do much against eight with swords and bucklers and wearing three-quarter armor, no matter how good he was with a blade. Assassination and straight-up fighting were quite different things. And one thing she’d learned from Sandra was never to stint praise or reward where they were really due. Being a cheapskate that way always left you with the bill coming due at the worst possible time.

Norman was a bit of a niggard now and then. Sandra, I note, is still alive and still in power long after he’s dead.

Lioncel was staring at the dying Cutter, his crossbow still in his hands, motionless.

“Lioncel!” she said, and he started and seemed to come to himself.