Paedrin was struck from behind, feeling a blade slice into his shoulder. There was no pain at first, but he ducked, feeling the wet blade whistle over his head. Spinning around, he downed the man with a kick to his kneecap then swirled away from a blow aimed straight for his head. Blood oozed into his shirt, mingling with the sweat. He thrilled at the act of battle, ducking low and then inhaling to rise above his enemies, causing two to crash into each other as they attempted to tackle him. He moved liked a wisp, darting back and forth.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hettie strike a man in the groin with her dagger hilt and then his ear with her fist. She kicked out, moving in a form he had taught her days before, slipping between soldiers like a silk shadow. Paedrin seized another man’s wrist, arched it up and plunged his fist into the man’s armpit, watching the man’s grimace of pain. As he torqued the wrist and the blade clattered to the deck, he realized the fight was already over.

“Off with your hauberks,” the Cruithne ordered, kicking one back down who still had some fight in him. “You’ll soon be joining the fishes. You heard me. Off!” He sheathed his swords and grabbed one soldier by the collar and tossed him overboard. The others scrambled to remove the hauberks as one by one they were tossed over the side. There were twenty in all, and all were still alive, though some were unconscious. It was the Bhikhu way.

Paedrin stared at the giant of a man, feeling a dull ache in his shoulder blade. He was impressed with the Cruithne’s quickness as well as his size. It was a rare combination in someone so big.

“Let me see that gash.” He turned Paedrin to the side, frowning subtly at the wound. “Lucky blow. He only glanced you. A few stitches and you will be fine.” He marched over to the ladder leading up and climbed it quickly. Paedrin floated up to it effortlessly.

Hettie climbed up the ladder next. The Cruithne took the helm and barked a few orders to douse the fire on the deck and then started rubbing the wood of the wheel absently. She marched up to him, her expression wary. “You got us safely away, but that is just the sort of trick we might expect from the Arch-Rike. He has used us before. Let me see your fingers.”

Baylen held up one hand at a time, wagging his fingers at her. “No Kishion rings. But you are wise to be cautious. The Arch-Rike is the most cunning man I know. I also knew that I would never catch you two in time before reaching Shatalin. I did tell the Arch-Rike that you two had come to the Towers again, looking for something. I said I tracked you down to the Bhikhu temple and learned that you were heading for Lydi. I asked if I could help hunt you down. All true. He thought it would be useful having me on his side. He thought I wanted a reward. He should have looked into my motives more because I have always been loyal to Tyrus. I set up the trap in a way that suited our needs. That way, we can get to the Shatalin temple and back before word reaches there. As I said, it can only be approached by sea and we’re the first boat headed there. Not even the Paracelsus know where Shatalin is, so no one can go there by Tay al-Ard. Is my presumption correct that Tyrus is leading another group into the Scourgelands and not a revolt?”

Paedrin and Hettie looked at each other.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling. “You say more with your eyes than most people do with their lips. Now what I don’t understand is why you are going to the Shatalin temple. I would think that is the last place you would want to go.”

Paedrin looked at him quizzically.

“It is not far from here,” Baylen said. “What I don’t understand is why Tyrus would send you to the place where all the Kishion receive their training.”

“It was said by an ancient philosopher, Augour the Wise, that the purpose of all wars is peace. I wish I could believe that is true. History is rife with conflict. The wars and tumults of men are interrupted occasionally by the devastations of the Plague. Thus perhaps the purpose of all Plagues is peace.”

—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Inside the confines of the captain’s cabin, Hettie completed sewing the cut on Paedrin’s shoulder. He felt the tug of the needle, but he did not flinch from it. The soldiers had done their best, but it was not enough. The three of them had scattered twenty men like leaves.

She clucked her tongue. “I’m surprised he cut you.”

“One was bound to get lucky,” he replied. “Are there any Romani quips about that?”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “Ah yes. A blind chicken finds a grain once in a while.”

Paedrin chuckled with enjoyment. “So true. The Romani are very wise in their way.”