They were still waiting to see if Idrashan would pull through.

Her mouth clamped. By the Holy fucking Mother, if that horse dies . . .

Boots on the stair.

She turned from the window, crossed the small square room, and went out onto the staircase. Faileh Rakan came around the turn below and looked up at her, eyes a little smudged with being up all night, tiny scrape on his temple where one of the tougher suspects had inadvisedly put up a fight. He stopped in midstep when he saw her standing there.

“Milady,” he said, and inclined his head. It was an automatic deference but one, she thought, that was wearing rather thin.

“How’s my horse?”

“It’s, uhm—there’s no change, milady. I’m very sorry. It’s not that. There has been a fresh development.”

“Ah. And what’s that?”

“Well, the village administrator tells me his militia have arrested some boat thieves. They found them asleep and run aground on the meander below the village. The boat is without oars, so it’s the usual thing.”

Archeth shifted impatiently. The village administrator, name of Yanshith, was a miserable tub of guts, the depths of his incompetence matched only by the size of his belly and his self-importance.

“Yes? And this concerns us because?”

Rakan cleared his throat. “Well, it also seems that these boat thieves claim to have been fleeing from uhm, magical beings that live in the swamp. And one of them carries a Kiriath blade.”

HORSESHIT.

She muttered it to herself a couple of times at least as they went down the stairs and out into the street, because there was an inexplicable pounding in her chest that she didn’t want to be there, and she didn’t know which scared her more—to be wrong and disappointed once again, or to be vindicated in her fears.

Horseshit, a fucking Kiriath blade. It’s going to be some half length of scavenged scaffolding iron, ground to a ragged edge and wrapped around at one end with cord to make a grip. Seen it enough times before.

But it wasn’t.

They reached the combined boathouse and storage shed at the other end of the village, where the thieves were apparently being held. On approach, she saw the confiscated weapons piled up between a pair of unkempt militiamen apparently detailed to keep the door. The thunder in her chest went up a notch at the sight: dirk, hand ax, a Majak staff lance and dragon-tooth ceremonial dagger, and there, dumped unceremoniously on top of everything else, the layered gleam of an An-Monal battle scabbard and the woven hilt of the broadsword it was clasped lovingly around.

She stopped dead and stared at the weapon. It gleamed back at her like an old and slightly smug friend, first meeting for years and suddenly made good beyond all expectation.

And then the drawling voice from within, faint through the door’s wood but unmistakable. The soft over hard, slightly absent tone and the outrageous disrespect it accorded the tightly bound syllables of the Tethanne it spoke.

“You know, Sergeant, you really must have better things to do with the next few hours of your life than trying to stare me out. Like get a shave, for instance? Or just write your last will and testament. You can write, I take it?”

She almost took the door off its hinges going in. It banged back against the wall with a flat crack, bounced back again, and she had to catch it on her forearm, which hurt.

“Ringil?”

“Well, now.” But behind the mannered monosyllables, she saw her shock mirrored back to her in his eyes. He leaned back a little on the upended rowing boat where he sat. Pause, recovery, all on the turn of a second. “Archeth Indamaninarmal. Enters dramatically, from center stage. The Powers really are getting their act together, it seems.”

“Told you,” grunted the man at Ringil’s side, and then she recognized him as well. “Didn’t want to believe me, did you?”

“Dragonbane? You here, too?”

“Hey, Archeth.” The Majak grinned at her. “Why so formal? No one calls me that anymore.”

“Well, now you know how I feel then,” muttered Ringil.

There were four halberd-equipped militiamen in the room, weapons now drooping, faces gaping at this incomprehensible exchange between visiting Kiriath nobility and the three boat thieves they’d herded into the corner. Faileh Rakan said it for all of them.

“You know these people, milady?”

“Yes, I do. Well, this young woman, no, but—”

“Sherin Herlirig Mernas,” supplied Ringil, with a courtly gesture, while the woman at his side stared in silence with hollow-eyed fatigue and wonder. “And this is Egar, son of Erkan, of the Majak clan Skaranak, known in your part of the world, perhaps rather grandiosely, as the Dragonbane.”

Archeth watched Rakan’s face change. In the whole Empire, there were perhaps twenty men honored with the title Dragonbane. Most had died earning it. The Throne Eternal captain took a short step forward, put fist to right shoulder, and bowed his head briefly at the Majak warrior.

“It is an honor,” he said. “I am Faileh Rakan, commander first class, the Throne Eternal.”

“Rakan.” Egar frowned and scratched an ear. “You the Rakan who led that charge down the flank at Shenshenath fields back in ’47, that time they had to dig Akal out of the ditchwork?”

“It was my honor to command the action, yes.”

The Majak’s face split in a grin. He shook his head. “Then you’re a fucking madman, Faileh Rakan. That was the most insane thing I’ve ever seen. Not one soldier in a hundred I know would have run that risk.”

Rakan’s mouth twitched primly, but you could see he was pleased.

“Not one soldier in a thousand is chosen for the Emperor’s guard,” he stated, as if reciting it. “It was my duty, nothing more. The throne of Yhelteth is eternal, life in service to it must reflect that eternity in honor. Death is a price that must sometimes be paid, like any other honorable debt.”

“Glad to hear that,” said Ringil breezily. “Very uplifting. Hang on to that attitude, you’re going to need it.”

Rakan turned a frosty eye on him. “We have not had your name, sir.”

“Oh, I?” Ringil raised one hand to mask a sudden, jaw-creaking yawn. “I’m Ringil of the Glades house of Eskiath in Trelayne. You may have heard of me as well.”

Rakan’s face changed once more. It became abruptly impassive.

“Yes, I have heard of you,” he said shortly.

Ringil nodded. “Gallows Gap, no doubt.”

But the Throne Eternal captain shook his head. “No. That name is not familiar to me. What I have heard is that Ringil Eskiath was a traitor to the imperial peace in the northern provinces, a corruptor of youth, and a faggot.”

Egar bounced up off the curve of the upended boat back, face darkening. Archeth saw Ringil’s hand fall on his arm, and felt a pang of relief. The distribution of weapons in the room did not invite brawling.

“Fascinating, Eg,” Ringil’s tone was light and soft. Only someone who knew him well would have spotted the steel edge sheathed in it. “Don’t you think? What they must be teaching in history books down south these days. I’ll bet we find the Empire won the war against the Scaled Folk all by itself. And that the good people of Ennishmin and Naral were so grateful they spontaneously vacated their homes to allow imperial settlers to live in them.”

Rakan lifted a finger. “I will not hear you—”

“That’s enough, Rakan.” Archeth stepped between the Throne Eternal captain and the others. “Gil, Egar, you told the militia you were running from dwenda, is that right?”

Ringil and Egar exchanged a glance. Ringil looked grim.

“Actually, I wasn’t that specific,” he said quietly. “What do you know about the dwenda, Archidi?”

The pounding in her chest seemed to be subsiding, settling to something colder and more patient that she recognized from the war years.