Bueren touched Kerian’s arm. “Hush,” she whispered. “If you do the wrong thing, or even say the wrong thing, you could get her killed. Her, yourself, or the rest of us.”

Eyes on the Knights, the two hounds held their posts. The elf at the window and the two villagers shot glances at each other, looked away, and then quickly abandoned their tables with a skitter of coins. Like shadows, they slipped behind the Knights and their prisoner and out into the chilling night.

Bueren looked up, keeping her expression neutral, her voice level. “Sirs, can I get you food and drink?”

The tallest Knight flung back his visor and removed his helm. His bald pate glistened with sweat, and his scarred face was hardened by the habits of cruelty, eyes cold as stone and narrow, lips twisted in a sneer. He shoved his prisoner forward, so hard she fell to her knees. On elbows and knees, she stayed there, head hung, catching her breath. In her ragged breathing, Kerian heard low groaning.

Bueren gripped her arm, held her back.

The other Knights removed their helms, a dark-haired youth and a red-beard in his middle years. They wore merciless expressions. In another time, in the days before the Chaos War, the Knights of Takhisis admitted only the sons and daughters of nobility to their ranks. Men such as these would not have been allowed to muck out the stables of a Knight’s castle, let alone take a Knight’s oath. The Dark Knights had been hard warriors in the cause of their Dark Queen, dauntless in pursuit of her Vision, but they were Knights, and they had prized honor and all the noble virtues. In these dragon days, these godless times, the Knights of Takhisis-now the Knights of Neraka-must fill their ranks however they could. It was rumored- though no one in Qualinesti could imagine the rumor true-that in some places even half-ogres wore the black armor.

“Sir Egil,” Bueren said, striving to sound casual as she acknowledged the bald one. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Won’t you and your men take that large table in the middle there? I’ll bring drinks-”

“Ale!” snapped the dark-haired one, his voice cracking.

“Dwarf spirit,” growled the red-beard.

In the corner by the hearth, Stanach Hammerfell never budged, not even a twitch of his hand, but Kerian thought she saw the faintest flicker of scorn in his blue-flecked dark eyes.

Bueren jerked her chin at the woman on her knees. “What about her? You’re not going to just leave her there, are you?”

Sir Egil shrugged. He strolled past the prisoner, kicking her absently. The dark-haired boy did the same, though kicking with more enthusiasm. Red-beard grabbed the woman by the rope binding her hands and dragged her to her feet. He shoved her ahead of him to a small table near the bar and tied her by the hobbles to the chair. His eyes were small and mean, like a pig’s, when he narrowed them meaningfully at Bueren Rose.

“She don’t get nothing, that Kagonesti bitch. No water, no food. I won her, and she bit and cut me tn rne ngxii, so now I get to say. Ain’t no one goes near her, hear?”

The younger Knight wiped his drooling mouth with the back of his hand. Kerian’s belly shivered in disgust as he turned his gaze upon her.

Bueren poked her sharply. “You. Didn’t you hear? They want food.”

Kerian stared, Bueren gave her an impatient shove toward the kitchen. “Go on. Tell my father we have customers out here. Three plates, piled high.”

Kerian nearly stumbled over Bueren’s father as she went through the swinging door into the kitchen. She knew Jale as well as his daughter-a little deaf Jale claimed to be, but he heard most of what went on in his tavern. His face slick with sweat from laboring over the steam pots, spits and baking ovens, he handed her a laden tray.

“Out with you. Go feed them before there’s trouble,” he said in a low voice.

Kerian balanced the tray on her hands and turned back to the door.

“Wait!” Jale slipped her knife out of her belt, and threw a food-stained white towel over her shoulder-in all lands, dragon-held or free, the badge of a tavern waitress.

As she had seen Bueren do many times, Kerian managed the door with her hip, kept the burdened tray level, and returned to serve in the tavern. She put a plate of food before each of the Knights. Already boisterous with drink, the Knights filled the tavern with their shouted oaths and rough curses. Kerian bore the jostling and lewd comments. She managed to keep her temper when the red-beard’s arms encircled her waist, his hands sliding swiftly up. Eyes low, she wrenched away, hoping he would think her cheeks colored with embarrassment rather than anger.

The one called Sir Egil rocked his chair back on two legs, picking his teeth with his dagger. The dark-haired young man licked his lips.

“Come here, girl.” Red-bearded Barg’s eyes grew colder.

The boy snickered, rattling dice in the pouch. Spittle glistened on his lips, and he licked it away. Sir Egil yawned.

“Don’t,” groaned the prisoner.

Kerian turned.

Barg shouted, “Shut up, you!” in the instant before an empty pewter wine pitcher hit the floor with a clanging thud.

Swift as a rabbit out of the snare, Kerian leaped to retrieve the pitcher. Her fingers closed round the handle, and Stanach held up his right hand, showing broken fingers in the firelight.

“Damn thing just fell out of my hand,” the dwarf said, snorting in disgust. He glanced at two gravy-stained napkins piled on the table. His voice louder, his tone suddenly irritated, he said, “Clear this mess off the table, will you, girl?”

Kerian picked up the napkins, nearly dropped the long-bladed knife tucked between them. With wide eyes she made what she hoped were convincing apologies for neglecting the dwarf and his companions. “If I can bring you anything else-”

Stanach just turned away as though she weren’t there. Haugh leaned across the table to say something to him about how he was tired and would be going upstairs.

Kerian didn’t hear the rest and didn’t try to. In her hands now she held a weapon, at the back of the kitchen, she knew, was a door that promised escape. In their furtive way, the dwarf and his companions had told her they were with her, whatever happened next. Pitcher in hand, knife hidden, she now passed the prisoner, the bruised Kagonesti woman. She glanced at Bueren Rose. Her friend’s eyes widened slightly.

Like petals falling from her hand, Kerian let one of the napkins drop. She bent to retrieve it, and her cheek was right beside the prisoner’s knee. “Be still. Follow.”

Kerian grabbed the prisoner by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.

“Hey!” shouted Barg.

The woman’s knees went out from under her. Kerian pulled her up again as Sir Egil cursed and the dark-haired boy howled high, like a wolf. “Hey! Barg! Get ‘em!”

Steel flashed, silver glints and red, and chairs clattered, tumbling over as the Knights jumped to their feet.

Gripping the prisoner’s wrist, Kerian bolted for the side door. She sidestepped Nayla, a dog, and a startled Bueren Rose. A hand grabbed Kerian’s shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises. Barg pulled her back, a long knife in his hand. Flashing, his blade came up, ripping the sleeve of her blouse as she jerked away, scoring the flesh of her right arm.

The Knight growled low in his throat and grabbed at her again. Hard around the waist he held her, his mailed arm digging into her flesh. She smelled blood, her and his, and the crimsoned blade pressed against her throat.

Bueren screamed. Her father, entering the room, shouted, and the youngest of the Knights darted in close. “She’s mine! Give her over!”

Barg laughed. Kerian kept perfectly still. Against her throat pressed a blade with the taste of her blood still on it. In her hands, unseen and covered by gravy-stained napkins, she gripped another. Without moving, she tried to see the Kagonesti prisoner, spotted her sagging on the floor, looking worse than she had when she’d come in. Long elf eyes met, flashing. The woman had been beaten, surely worse, but she remained undaunted.