kinds had jumped into the market. A few more months without rain, and three pounds for a loaf of bread would look like a bargain.
“This way, girl,” said one of her captors, nudging her gently to the left. “Stop dawdling.”
The Church, Niya realized. It must be. If the Queen’s people had identified her as Blue Horizon, they could simply have taken her on any given day in the Keep. But the Holy Father had offered one hundred pounds on the head of any proven ringleader, and her captors were moving her steadily east, toward the Arvath. Under the guise of discomfort, Niya flexed her arms lightly within the limited parameters of the manacles, stretching her back.
William Tear, guide my hand.
They came around Hell’s Bend—Niya recognized it because of the crying of old Maeve, who always set up her stall on the same southeastern corner and shouted, “Chickens! Chickens! Roasted chickens!” from sunup to sundown—and as they rounded the corner, Niya launched herself sideways at the man holding her arm, driving with her legs and crushing him into one of the sharp-edged brick moorings that kept most of the houses in the Gut from falling down. The man grunted in surprise, but the grunt cut off almost immediately, and Niya felt warm wetness splatter her arm and shoulder.
The other two were on her immediately, but not quickly enough to keep her from pulling off the hood, and once sighted, she was able to back away from them, giving herself a two-meter clearing to work with. The man she had sidelined was sprawled on the ground, blood streaming from his left arm, which had torn open at the bicep. From the way he curled on the pavement, Niya felt certain that she had sprung one of his ribs as well. In a quick blink, she identified her surroundings: the long, claustrophobic alley that backed between Hell’s Bend and Murderer’s Row. This early in the morning, the alley itself was empty; the pubs were closed, and even the cutthroats and independent pros had long ago found a bed. The Blue Horizon had no presence in the Row, nowhere to run to. Niya was on her own. Two on one was still poor odds, but—
But numbers don’t matter, the Fetch whispered in her head. Niya grinned at the memory, feeling the old glee slip over her now, stretching her muscles, giving her strength. Men always thought her merely a pretty bit of fluff, and Niya never tired of giving them an education.
“You’re up past your bedtime, lads. Run along now.”
Their eyes widened, and they shared an uncertain look. Each of them outweighed Niya by at least four stone, and both had knives . . . a fact they seemed to remember in that instant, for each drew. But Niya merely smiled, and the sight of that smile made them both pause again.
“If you kill me, there’s no bounty. Be careful.”
“Maleficos non patieris vivere,” one of them muttered, and both men crossed themselves.
“Thou shalt not suffer a sorceress to live,” Niya translated. Spotless Latin, and now she noticed a second fact as well: all three men were clean-shaven, without so much as a shadow of beard. Not simple mercenaries, seeking to collect a bounty; these were Holy Guards, of the Arvath itself. Despite the manacles on her hands, Niya felt her defensive instincts expand, twisting into something that was almost predatory. She hated God’s Church, hated it with every muscle, for beneath every injustice in the kingdom, every degradation of the powerless, one could always find a priest. When a parishioner emerged from the stables in the Creche, there was always a priest waiting, happy to take his coin and offer absolution. Frocks littered the Almont, holding Hell over the tenants’ heads, counseling obedience and patience. Without the bolster of the Arvath, the tenancy system would have collapsed long before. The Church might have snowed the rest of the kingdom, but the Blue Horizon was not deceived. God’s Church was anathema to all they fought for.
“Well?” Niya asked pleasantly. “Come on, then.”
They moved in warily, knives held too far out in front. The Fetch had always said that the Arvath Guard was just for show; the Caden, or even the Queen’s Guard, could have taken them easily. These two were frightened, Niya knew, and there was no greater liability in a fight. It was a lesson she had learned from her earliest years, fending off sots in the Gut. She had been afraid then, for