“Mama’s here,” someone gasped from the fog, their deep voice trembling.

“No, she ain’t,” another snapped, though he sounded as confident as a lad asking his crush to have dinner with him. Over a dozen unique, panicked voices drifted to Lapis, their words indistinct, hazy, and she assumed several more accompanied them.

Sir Armarandos must inspire terror, indeed, for so many to gather to take him out.

Nevid quickly looked over his shoulder, while the men flanking him looked at one another then scattered into the fog. Lapis always believed stouter souls entered the guard. Did all the wealthier guardhouses have similar cowardly lots? Patch held disgust for most of them, arrived at by hard experience. His larger stakes required that he turn them in at a house with a richer safe, and if this represented the quality he encountered, she understood his disdain.

Six men slunk into view, taking the place of the unfaithful guards. Guttershanks all, in various states of ratty dress and unkempt appearance. They held knives, nothing more, and she noted two clenched the handles so hard, they shivered.

Shouts and denials and a louder voice trying to intercede in what sounded like a growing dispute. Lapis hoped so; having guttershanks fight among themselves rather than target her and the knight would give them a chance.

“Predi, what’s going on?” Nevid called.

Predi? Lapis curled her fingers tighter into her palm. Predi was a chaser, not a guttershank, with the distinction in name only. He took nasty stakes no official guardhouse would accept, ones that made it to the underground bookers. Patch had run into him a couple of times; the last incident left the other man with half an ear, time in a jail cell, and seething hatred for his better equipped and prepared rival.

Sir Armarandos glanced at her. “You know Predi?” he asked quietly.

“My partner’s tangled with him. He’s an underground hunter, usually takes death stakes.”

A jumble of men stumbled through the fog, crazily swinging short knives at their buddies, screaming as they slashed and cut. Lapis smiled; good. Let them take each other out. Let them bleed enough, Mama Poison got curious and nosed about.

They barreled into one of the men behind Nevid, knocking him to the ground in a flail of arms and legs. He leapt up, pissed, slashing at them himself. “Yous all gonna pay, Piteaters!” he shouted. One of his fellows smacked him on the shoulder, annoyed, and he whirled, enraged. He shook off the touch and punched him in the side of the head; his buddy fell and meekly thrashed about before he rolled over onto his side.

Racing footsteps preceded a guttershank running out of the fog, intent on her. Two others targeted Sir Armarandos. Her opponent raised his knife, holding it with the blade pointed straight down. She met the strike with her weapon, hitting the side with enough force it flew from his hands and whipped through the air a couple of times before landing in the dirt near the walkway. He stared, hand still held out, and she kicked him in the gut. He gurgled and went down, clutching his stomach. She nailed him in the chin, hard, with the tip of her shoe. His head rocked back, and he stopped moving.

Good.

Several men who followed in the fight’s wake noticed their unconscious buddy, then looked expectantly at the two attacking the knight. His nightstick flared bright, and his attackers jerked about and fell without catching themselves. They reacted moments too late to help their stricken companions, and rushed her and Sir Armarandos, racing around Nevid, who stared stupidly at the men sprawled at his superior’s feet. Could he not process what just happened? Or did he realize his bid, despite the numbers he brought with him, had evaporated?

He truly expected to be rewarded for taking out a knight. Idiot.

The guttershanks wielded knives, though their expertise varied greatly. Some dropped them as they overextended their inelegant slash while others flipped them about, intimate with their chosen weapon. Lapis did as she trained to do when outnumbered; she struck weapons from hands when she could and kicked them away, slashed fast and hard enough to drive the bodies away from her, and if she had to engage closer, jumped about to avoid the blows, always moving.

A few enemies tried to retrieve their blades, which proved difficult in the dense fog and rain. They slapped the earth with their hands, showering water and mud onto themselves, and groped about. Only two found them, and the handles were slick enough they had difficulties gripping them. They slipped out of their fingers and stuck in the soggy soil. She did her best to take advantage of their distraction and throw one of her small knives at them, striking them in the head or temple. They fell and remained down, holding their injuries.

One man snagged the back of her shirt; she twisted and struck, drawing a long line of blood from his right collarbone to his left waist. He howled and let go, and she knocked his feet out from under him. He thumped into the ground, his head knocking back. Another leapt at her but lost his footing and hopped on one foot around her; she pushed him, hard, and he tumbled back and into a growing puddle.

She set her heel and spun, her blades jutting out. The men surrounding her backed up, away from them, and glanced at each other. They did not speak and continued to back away.

Nevid rushed in, holding the sheath over-tight while he frantically jerked at the hilt of his sword. He had not drawn it by the time he reached her; she sliced the hand that clutched the weapon and he howled, dropping it. The sheath’s tip rocked backwards and tangled in the legs of one the shanks who followed him. The shank stumbled into his back, driving him forward.

She stepped to the side and slammed her knee into his abdomen; he grunt-squealed and fell, choking, while his buddy landed on top of him. The shank rolled off and struggled to regain his feet; she kicked his head, and he nose-dived into the gravel.

Four men surrounded her, but oddly, did not throw a weapon; rather, they waved them about slowly, waiting for a chance to strike. She whirled, and they jumped away from her blades, far enough to keep themselves out of harming distance.

Red light zapped through the fog randomly, missing all marks, and the men yelled and scrambled backwards. The yard held no place to hide from the hidden assault. She could escape into the guardhouse or flee, putting as much distance between them as she could. Before she decided, Nevid leapt at her, grabbing wildly for her left arm.

She sliced the palm of his hand with her right blade, whirled and struck his upper arm with her left; he shrieked and grabbed the bleeding appendage, red pouring from between his fingers. He had not worn his uniform; the sleeves, chest, and pants had rougher leather protections for just such a thing. Instead, his well-made, thin Dentherion shirt provided no resistance, and since he wore no gloves, she had bloodied both hands. Why not wear protection? Or had he assumed that numbers would do the knight in, and he could sit back and watch without proper preparation?

More red light lit the surrounding fog; their attacker could not see them, but he could hear Nevid, and did not seem to care who he hit with his random strikes. The ex-guard superior was making enough noise to bring Mama in from half a city away to see about the commotion, so standing near him was not safe. If she tried for the guardhouse door, the light at the portal would make her more of a target. Did the enemy stand close enough to see the entrance? Should she chance it? Had other shanks hidden inside? Probably, and she did not want to deal with them.

She did not see Sir Armarandos, but she knew he still lived. The muffled prattle and screams about her would possess a different tone if they had taken him down. She caught a flash of light, too quick to focus upon, and smiled. The fog made a head shot nigh impossible, and he wore armor. Lucky him.

Lucky them. She did not understand why their enemy attacked during a night of low visibility. Why not choose another time? Or did Nevid think a Mama Poison walkabout would provide the perfect cover for an attack? Feeding the knight to her would hide the evidence of murder, and most would consider the unlucky circumstance an accident. Good thing, neither Mama nor Sir Armarandos were so accommodating.

Her neck hair prickled, so she jumped to her right side and then spun; her left blade struck something, then sliced through hard resistance. The man screamed as she faced him; the guttershank held his shoulder, sobbing and drooling, the rain making the blood run faster. A jerry-rigged breastplate made from wood protected his chest, and her weapon had left a deep line across it. Cracks ran from her cut, and she doubted it would hold under a protracted assault. She raised her blades, prepared for a confrontation.

She did not have to worry. The red light struck him, at the edge of the plate. Splinters showered about him, and he shrieked as the acrid smell of burnt flesh reached her nostrils. She fought not to puke; those memories, the ashy scent wafting from the remains of her family, her home, had to wait.

“Stop shooting at us!” a shank called, his tone strained and furious. The shot that immediately went his way proved his buddy did not care for the castigation. If they fought among themselves until help arrived, the better for her. Who knew, maybe the ragged support would leave, unwilling to die in a hail of friendly fire for this particular stake.

A shank edged towards her, hand out with a knife, but he trembled badly enough she guessed he did not want to attack. Had he joined this little outing, thinking the others would easily dispatch their targets, and he would get a bit or two for just being there? She completed a whirl to double-check for his buddies, but he stood alone. He stopped and refused to come closer, keeping the weapon pointed at her, his lips pulled tightly over clenched teeth. Would he convince himself to take another step?

Something whizzed past his back, a ball of shimmery yellowish light. It impacted the side of the guardhouse with a cracking crash. Bits of wood and stone flew out of the fog. She hunched down and covered her head as debris smacked into her; luckily, the pieces were small and not sharp enough to tear her clothing, though they stung her skin.

The guttershank fled, shrieking, quickly disappearing into the mist. Others shouted, their voices shaking, receding; the hired help vacated for safer pastures. So should she; attempting Patch-cool in stressful situations worked well enough, but the unknown tech broke her concentration and her mind desperately wished to chatter nonsense at her.

The crunch and squeak of heavy, wet boots on gravel caught her attention. A man slowly waltzed into view, holding a weapon like the one the guttershank at the Eaves deployed; red Dentherion tech, shaped like an extremely short, round boomerang, and no obvious trigger. He dressed in brown leather, with thicker chest, upper arm and thigh pieces sewn into them. Predi? Wet hair plastered the sides of his head, so she could not tell if he had half an ear. He wore hunter attire, though, and considering Nevid called out to him, he likely was.

She raised her weapons, her attention on his tech. Red normally meant cheap, unreliable Dentherion crap, but if this weapon shot the red lights, it posed too great a danger to disregard.

He pointed it at her. “Who in the Pit are you?” he asked calmly.

“Who’s asking?”

His immediate grin tightened her stomach. “Play all you want. I owe your partner, you shit.”

She jumped to the side and rolled. He missed with his first shot, and she heard an odd sizzle behind her after the second. She raced into the fog, weaving back and forth, rolling through a puddle. Dammit. Better that, than burnt flesh. The red light continued to shoot, but nowhere near her.

How had the underground found out about Patch? Or did he just assume she had a male partner and made a ploy?

She stumbled over an object low to the ground. Dammit, she needed to pay better attention than that. Her life depended on it. She crashed to the ground and jumped back to her feet as the object teetered about, but did not tip over. It looked like a small cannon but made of much lighter material, with a long red lever along the top. Red streaks lined the barrel, matching the weapon Predi boasted. What happened to the person manning it? Or had that been the hunter, and he took his murderous intent into his own hands?

She skirted the edge of the gravel and grass until she saw flashes of light from Sir Armarandos’s nightstick. She headed that way, not certain what else to do, mulling why the enemy divided their attack and gone after her, instead of concentrating solely on the knight, their true target. His stick gave him away, and the cannon shot could have taken him out without being particularly accurate. Did they assume his marching shirt kept him safe? If they meant to provide support for Nevid, the guttershanks and Predi should have focused on the knight. But so should have Nevid. Instead, both targeted her. The ex-guard superior even called her a snitch. Orinder must have said something, and they decided to get rid of a problem, despite their initial intent.

She knew better than to sneak up on a combat-primed person. “It’s me, Lanth,” she said before she neared enough to see him. She heard a meaty thump before he appeared through the mist, drawn by her voice.

“They have some sort of cannon tech,” she told him. “Blew a hole in the side of the guardhouse.”

He hissed through his teeth. “I don’t know whether to thank the fog or not,” he told her. “I believe their misses and general ineptitude result from it, however. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I am. Saw Predi. He has a tech weapon, like the one the guttershank at the Eaves had.”

“Interesting.” He paused and listened. Lapis stopped at his side and stilled, but noticed nothing.

“The ones attacking me fled after the cannon shot missed and hit the guardhouse,” she whispered. “Predi’s still here, though. There were a lot of men around, and I doubt all of them were so cowardly as to run.”

“True,” he replied in a very quiet tone. They heard the over-loud creak of chains, an unexpected, grating sound. “Come,” he told her.

She followed him to the stable, which stood empty but for a few piles of hay and two troughs. The air was clearer within, though wisps of haze still floated about. They pressed against the rough wood just inside the large sliding door, straining to detect any sound. Sir Armarandos peeked around the corner, then shook his head.

“There were a few moments, when I thought Mama was here,” he told her. “Her odor was powerful. The guttershanks fighting me fled at one point, and I think they thought she had arrived.”

“There were a lot of shanks, far more than Nevid needed to take you out.”

He laughed silently. “But they have not done so, have they? Perhaps they needed more.”

She admired his brass. “Point taken.”

“I’m not familiar with most of them,” he told her. “I regularly look through the stake books and have personally dealt with my fair share. I doubt they’re clean, but they must be bit shanks from the Stone Streets who have never drawn attention to themselves. It’s interesting that Nevid is using them. He’s not one to find much of worth in those less fortunate than himself. They must be on loan from someone else, and since Seft works with Hoyt, I assume he is the underboss Nevid propositioned. Hoyt certainly has enough sway to frighten a few desperate shanks into completing this stake.”

“It might explain Predi’s presence, but he came after me. He said he owes my partner.”

The knight raised an eyebrow. “Does he, now?”

“Their last encounter wasn’t friendly.” She took a deep breath. “He shouldn’t know who my partner is,” she admitted. “We keep it quiet on purpose. He’d never tell, and I haven’t said a word.”

“Predi may have lied, to rattle you,” Sir Armarandos said. “We will find out.” He peeked around the corner again. “I dislike hiding, but I see few options,” he murmured. “We have an unknown number of enemies, some carrying tech, prowling the fog. Help will arrive, but I’m uncertain when.”

“And it’ll be hard to tell friend from foe,” Lapis said. “How many did you take out?”

“Over a dozen,” he said. “I injured far more who have fled.” He held up the nightstick. “My father insisted I train in its use. I’m grateful he demanded it. And you?”

“Those I took out might not stay down for long. I tripped them, kicked them, booted their weapons away. They didn’t seem easy with their knives. I’m betting you’re right about the bit shank part. They thought they’d get some easy coin without putting forth much effort, and when they realized they were wrong, ran away.” She paused and heard it again. The warble of a nighthawk. Rin?

She warbled back. Sir Armarandos glanced at her but waited patiently as they heard the creak of boards on the roof. A moment later a faint whisper floated from outside the door.

“Lady Lanth?”

Guard Superior Fyor.

“We are here,” Sir Armarandos whispered back. The man slipped into the stable, Ciaran and Rin with him.

The rats had made it to the Eaves and the Lells Guardhouse. She relaxed, thankful they met no harm. She would yell at Rinan later, for putting himself in needless danger by returning. He did not need to involve himself in this sorry business.

They hid to the side of Lapis. Ciaran touched her shoulder, and she patted his hand, relieved. “Raban didn’t make it back?”

“He beat the rats there,” he whispered. “Apparently Orinder’s house was the meeting place for the leaders of this attack. He said the man was pretty pissed when he realized what the shanks were using his shack for, but they threatened him and he went and hid. He knew the nearest guardhouse was this one, and he figured you’d come here with your info. The rats met us on the way and confirmed it.”

“We were ready, though it surprised me that Scand brought the news,” Fyor told them. “We encountered a few shanks on the way, the only citizens on the streets that we noticed. One had burns, so we figured someone used tech. We heard nothing when we got here, though. Our men have circled the house, and your friends are quietly looking about, Lady.”

“I’m certain some are still here,” Sir Armarandos said. “We must be cautious. An underground hunter named Predi is among them. He has a weapon similar to the one the guttershank at the Eaves possessed, and it is functional.”

“There’s also a cannon tech I stumbled over,” Lapis said. “It blew a hole in the side of the guardhouse. It’s on the gravel, but I’m not exactly certain where.”

Rin’s eyes widened while Fyor and Ciaran looked grim.

“It seems that Nevid has thrown his lot in with Hoyt,” Sir Armarandos said. “Ostensibly to overthrow me, but there must be more to it. Nevid will never survive my father’s wrath, this guardhouse, to my knowledge, does not have a safe space for captured tech, and no one was in a cell. Why risk this for no obvious gain?”

“A warning?” Ciaran offered.

“Perhaps.” The knight smiled. “If so, Hoyt has greatly misjudged my support. My father took out the leader of the Minq Syndicate in Jiy, when he was old enough no one thought of him as a threat. Hand-to-hand combat and he won in a matter of moments. The larger underground organizations have not forgotten, and they are comfortable in leaving him alone as long as he returns the favor. That Hoyt is provoking him will upset them.”

“Is your father that powerful?” Lapis asked.

“Yes,” the guards said together. “He’s the most influential man you have never heard about,” Fyor continued. “He holds more sway in court than Gall, and while he demurs, I’m fairly certain he’s the richest noble in Jilvayna. He’s on speaking terms with the Lord’s Council, as well as the Minq terrboss Jo Ban and Double Catch, the Ram Syndicate’s leader in Jiy.”

“He gets around,” Lapis murmured.

“You’ve no idea,” Sir Armarandos said with a suffering sigh. “He gets bored. When he gets bored, he bookers agreements between the Minq and Taangis for tech. He chases petty thieves into the underground to face their underbosses. He meets with Krios for tea.”

Lapis congratulated herself for not dropping her jaw to the floor. He met with Krios for tea? She glanced at Ciaran, who did not react, but he had to feel shocked as well. Krios had limited contact with anyone from Gall’s court, considering he and the rebellion wished to retake his ancestral position and put him on the throne. He remained in hiding for a reason, and normally used his rebel name, Midir, when he appeared in public.

Did Sir Armarandos’s father have a rebel name?

“We must see if they are searching for something within the guardhouse,” the knight said as he peeked around the door again. “Lady Lanth, I thank you for your assistance, but since guards have arrived, I ask that you leave the rest of the clean-up to us.”

Rinan looked disappointed. She wanted to smack him. “Of course, Sir Armarandos.”

“Whatever your group finds, you can make a report,” Fyor told them.

Dismissed.