“Well, I met him in the pub.” James was laughing. “He told me he dealt in exotic snakes. How was I supposed to know what he meant?”

Loneliness cramped her stomach. Stupid, charming James. Stupid, dumb, rich, fancy, ridiculous—

“So . . .” Brella materialized beside her. “Nice sheath.”

It was an attempt, and not a great one. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Brella scoffed. “Make this harder why don’t you?”

Scratch studied the woman. Brella’s shoulders were set, her arms straight with locked elbows. She radiated effort.

“We don’t have to talk.”

“Might make for a more pleasant trip,” Brella said, unconvincingly.

You want to keep an eye on me, Scratch thought, her blood fizzing at the thought of working through this new puzzle. Why?

“Do you . . .” She searched for some tact. It was scant out here. “Do you generally not get along with people?”

Brella turned quickly, her braids whipping around after her. “I get along with people just fine.”

“Not me, though.”

“Forgive me,” she said stiffly. “I don’t know many people in the Kings Guard.”

That was odd. According to most people, being in the King’s Guard was the least objectionable thing about Scratch.

“We’re regular people,” she explained. “Just, with helmets.”

“Sure.”

“And swords.” She fingered her knife. “Generally.”

“Yes. I gather.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Brella smoothed her hair. It held the pattern of tight waves, even tied in two braids. Scratch’s hair was thick and ropy, but when she brushed it back into its daily bun, it lay obediently flat. “There’s no problem.”

“Really? Because you look like you’re about to pop a vein.” She gave Brella a once-over. “Or crack a nut.”

“Soldiers,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“You certainly aren’t poets.”

She wasn’t sure if that was an insult. Regardless, she didn’t like it. “Would you have us be?”

“Poets have a great deal of empathy.” Brella shrugged. “Makes the poems better.”

Tension crept along her spine. “For?”

“Reading, I suppose.”

“No, I mean, who am I supposed to have empathy—”

“I know what you meant.” Brella shoved her hands into her pockets. “I heard about your octagon.”

Scratch didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended. Brella had said “octagon” like a curse.

“Yeah.” She cast around for words. “It . . . worked.”

“So it did.”

They walked in stiff silence. The chatter from the lads up front fluttered back like mockingbirds caw-cawing in Scratch’s temples. The borrowed pants were a touch snug around her thighs, but they fell at perfect length—a trifle humiliating, since their previous owner was an eleven-year-old boy. And, not that it should matter, of course, but they were, well, ugly. Stripy brown and white linen with too-large pockets and a tie at the waist that flopped like old carrots. It was a testament to the circumstances that James hadn’t mocked her for them yet.

Still, they were comfortable. And, crucially, in one piece.