Well, it is his first, I think . . . yes, definitely. About the same age I was, at that. Of course, these Cutters didn’t intend to rape him before they killed him and eat his flesh afterwards. Still, it’s traumatic.

“We . . . caught them by surprise, my lady,” he said. “It all happened just like you said it would.”

“Good. And Lioncel?”

He looked at her, his blue eyes a little wild.

“They came to kill us in our sleep. If your mother or little sister were here, they’d have killed them. We were defending them. Fight knights like knights, and stamp on a weasel.”

He took a deep breath. “Yes, my lady.”

“And he’s too far gone for questioning. Finish it quickly. That’s your responsibility, whether it’s a beast or a man.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The boy was pale but steady as he drew his knife and did what was needful, and followed her back into the bedroom. The two knights had the Cutter she’d disabled in a chair, finishing up a field dressing and binding his arm before tying him up.

“Good,” she said; the Cutter was reviving, a vicious clarity in his eyes. “We’ll need this one for questioning. I think he’s one of the leaders on this mission, and we’ll have a nice little talk.”

The Cutter laughed, and then opened his mouth at her. Lioncel crossed himself, Armand swore, and even Tiphaine blinked. Only the stub of a tongue remained in the man’s mouth, and he laughed again, a thick odd sound. The wound was healed, but recent; this had been done deliberately by a surgeon and by the man’s own choice, to keep him from talking if he was taken.

Then Tiphaine smiled. At first because she was trying to imagine torturing a man into writing out his answers. And then because of another thought.

“Keep him very safe,” she said coolly. “Keep him for the High King. I think the Sword of the Lady can get secrets even from a tongueless man.”

The mad glee dropped off the assassin’s face, and he began to struggle and scream wordlessly. They were equipped for that; Rodard twisted open a metal canister, and held the damp pad of cloth within over the man’s face. The struggles died away as his eyes rolled up in his head.

Lioncel was looking revolted, but he had her sword belt ready. She buckled it on as they walked out into the hallway, twice around her unarmored waist; the corridor was dim, with only a few lanterns gleaming on the armor and weapons. Rigobert had just arrived, with blood on his naked sword and a scratch down the front of the breastplate lames of his full suit.

“We didn’t take any alive, and I lost a man, dammit,” he said, handing his blade to a squire for cleaning without looking around. “You, my lady ninjette?”