Ana kicks the table hard. The man is just the right height to take the sharp corner to the crotch. He collapses, howling in agony, as the knife drops from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

His friends attempt to stumble into action, but it’s soon clear they are woefully unmatched. One catches my elbow to his nose. The cartilage gives a satisfying crack under the force of the blow. Another gets well acquainted with the heavy sole of my riding boot when I slam it into his groin. I grab the back of my chair and swing it into his face when he tries to get up. The wood smashes against his skull; my arms tremble with the impact.

With them down, I have the slimmest moment to admire the girl beside me. Ana whirls as she slips two daggers from the sheaths strapped to her forearms. The sleeves of the masculine frock coat she’s wearing—a deep emerald that complements her coloring—are perfect for hiding them but wide enough to make it easy to pull them when needed.

We both have swords, but knives are often far better suited to close-quarters combat like this. It’s a smart move on her part. Sometimes though … I prefer the flash of a sword to anything else, even if it’s not the most utilitarian choice. I draw the saber at my hip, baring my teeth in a snarling smile.

One of the man’s friends skids to a halt, his eyes darting from the gleaming steel to me and back again.

“Having second thoughts?” I ask. “Can’t say I blame you.”

The taunt makes something snap inside him. You’d be surprised how many men can’t handle a pretty young woman making fun of them.

With a pathetic excuse for a battle cry, he all but drives himself into the tip of my saber. I pull back so the blade doesn’t get lodged in his ribs. It takes only one time to learn how costly a mistake that can be.

I have the scars across my own back to show for it.

He melts to the ground as his legs go out from under him, the shock of the pain and blood loss rendering him completely useless.

Behind me, a faint whoosh of air disturbs the hair at the back of my neck. I duck, just in time to see a clay wine jug smash against the wall behind me.

“Oh, come now,” Ana calls over the fray. “That’s no way to treat perfectly good wine!”

Her shouting distracts this new foe long enough for me to sweep his legs out from under him with a well-timed kick. My foot snaps out as he tumbles to the ground to smash his kneecap as hard as I can.

That should keep him down for a good long while.