“Killed three, took three prisoners, no losses. You are so depressingly straightforward sometimes, de Stafford.”

Though my methods had substantially more downside risk. You roll the dice ...

The nobleman made a disgusted sound as he took the blade again and sheathed it, before replying, “The ones who attacked us all had their tongues cut out. Which would render them useless for interrogation, and even more so on dates. I doubt even the Lady Regent’s experts could do much with interrogation via sign language. Or in epistolary form.”

“Ours had oral circumcision too. But remember who we work for now, Rigobert. Matti’s guy? The one with the magic sword?”

“Ah!” A slow smile, and one which echoed hers. “Yes, there is a point to that observation. A point with an edge to it.”

“I mentioned it to him, and he seemed rather upset.”

“Good. I’m not looking forward to telling Jurian’s family how he died.”

“Dead’s dead, Rigobert, tonight or next week from an arrow or a lance head. And”—she poked a finger at the scratch on his armor—“I don’t think you were leading from behind.”

He shook his head. “I still don’t like it, we shouldn’t have had losses when we were expecting them. Let’s go call on our host.”

They clattered down the staircase towards the family quarters—though in fact the Countess was now in a hidden safe room, not the chamber she usually shared with her husband. Apparently the Count’s father had been a firm believer in having a secret passage out, of which Tiphaine heartily approved; Todenangst was riddled with them. A household knight met them before they reached the landing, panting and looking a little wild-eyed.

The freckle-faced young man stopped and started to salute with fist to breastplate, then realized he was holding a red-running long sword in that hand and brought the hilt up before his face instead.

“My lady Grand Constable, my lord de Stafford.”

“Is the Count your master unharmed?” she snapped.

“Yes. That is . . . this way, please!”

She exchanged a glance with her second-in-command. Their own swords came out, and sped up to a trot; silent with her party, and a ramming clank from de Stafford’s, there was no way to move fast and quietly in armor. They went past the guard detail, who, she was pleased to see, were keeping their eyes front, and not turning around to look behind them except for a designated cover man—there were any number of classic misdirection ploys which relied on the natural impulse to focus on the place the noise was coming from.