The wagon rocked on its remaining wheels as Zyll battered against its walls like a caged tornado.
Staysha began to forge through the stream toward her and Fern squeaked and scrambled down Bucket’s opposite side, dropping into the water and just managing to maintain her footing. She drew Breadlee and stared at him blankly, then glanced up at the dwarf from under Bucket’s belly.
“Remember when you said you’d never stabbed anybody before? That’s an oversight we can fix now,” said Breadlee cheerfully.
“I don’t want to fix that oversight!”
“Good,” said Staysha, moving to circle the horse. “Because I don’t mind making thismyfirst time. What do you think you’re going to do with a breadknife, anyway?”
“Breadknife?” cried the knife. Then to Fern in a low voice, “Remember the torch? You got this, I know it.”
Fern blinked as the chill water dragged at her cloak and numbed her toes.
Then she dashed forward, underneath Bucket, directly toward the bard.
Staysha’s mouth opened in an O of surprise as she raised her belt knife to defend herself. Fern gave an inarticulate cry and slashed with Breadlee, cleaving the blade of the dwarf’s weapon off neatly above the hilt.
“That’sBridgewreckerto you!” bellowed Breadlee.
The shard of metal pinwheeled off into the shallows.
“Nowyou can stab her!” finished the Elder Blade.
But Fern didn’t, staring in frank disbelief as the Silver Sparrow staggered backward, dropping the useless hilt of her knife and casting about for another weapon.
The dwarf moaned when she saw her waterlogged lute but seized it by the neck and came at Fern again, brandishing it dripping over her head like a misshapen axe.
“Now!” shouted Breadlee, and Fern slashed a second time. A sharp, discordant twang erupted from the neck of the lute as the Elder Blade sliced it, too, in twain, leaving Staysha holding half of a ruined instrument and wearing a look of befuddlement.
“You . . . you . . .” stammered the dwarf.
Fern tackled her, and they both went down in the stream.
Her red cloak tangled around them both, sopping and heavy. She lost her hold on Breadlee as Staysha battered at her side with a fist. Suddenly Fern had a mouthful of water and she was choking, then she was above Staysha, staring at the dwarf’s face where it grimaced at her from beneath the surface.
The bard bashed her again in the ribs, and Fern fell to her side. Their positions reversed again in a smear of light and nausea. She held her breath and gazed up through silvery ripples at the Sparrow’s distorted face as the woman scrabbled for the bookseller’s neck. Staysha found purchase and squeezed, bearing down with all her might as Fern tried fruitlessly to pry the fingers away.
Oh fuck, this is where I drown, and Viv is never going to know what happened to me, and Potroast is going to think I forgot him. Neither of them will ever forgive me. And this bitch will probably write a fucking song about it.
Staysha’s face suddenly disappeared, as did the hands around Fern’s neck.
She gasped and inhaled a huge glug of snowmelt.
Then she was yanked from the stream and hauled into the grass, spitting water as somebody pounded her on the back.
She blinked away mud and silt and stared up into Astryx’s face, which instantly broke into an expression of exhausted relief.
“There you are, little squire.”
“Sounds . . . too . . . cute,” mumbled Fern.
“You can’t leave me here,” said Staysha.
The Silver Sparrow sat on the shore with her forearms on her knees, soaked through and muddy, glaring at them all with burning green eyes. Her jeweled hair clip was lost in the stream, along with the remains of her lute.
“We could let Zyll have her way with you, instead,” replied Fern, cleaning mud from Breadlee with a sodden corner of her cloak.
It had taken her several minutes of searching to locate him in the stream, but he’d gurgled helpfully to get her attention until she spied the cold flash of silver through the running water.
