The woman cursed and grabbed her leg, either hit by the bullet or faking it. Kip had no idea how badly it had wounded her. She threw the pistol at him, missed, and then attacked him with the short sword.

Her blade wasn’t a fencing weapon by any means. Short and broad, it was meant for stabbing the unsuspecting, and making sure that single stab was lethal. Kip’s blade was almost the same length, but narrower, sharper, and held by a much worse fighter and a much bigger target.

But the woman was hurt. Kip got into a knife fighting stance, trying to remember everything his trainers had ever said. The assassin might be feigning that her injury was worse than it was to lure Kip into doing something stupid.

Patience. If she was hurt, she’d do something reckless to try to end the fight quickly.

“People will be here any second,” Kip said. “You might as well—”

She lunged at him and he batted her short sword aside and punched her in the face with his ruined left hand. At least it made a good fist—and good contact. She staggered back, wobbling a bit on her injured left leg.

If he’d followed hard after that strike, he could have ended the fight there, but he was tentative, worried she was tricking him.

She recovered, nose streaming blood, weaving. Maybe exaggerating the weaving a little.

“Every guard captain in five blocks has been bribed,” she said. “And you hear that?”

Kip wasn’t sure what she was talking about. Oh, the thunder.

“That means no one who’s heard the shots will think anything of it. You’re going to die here, fire boy.”

“Why’d you do it?” Kip asked. Stalling. He could see a bloodstain spreading on her dark trousers. The ricochet had hit her.

There is no cheating in war; there are only survivors and victims. Trainer Fisk had pounded those lessons into his class. Blackguards weren’t taught to duel; they were taught to kill.

Kip was no knife fighter, but he was stronger than this woman, especially as the blood loss weakened her. Their slow circling had brought him back within reach of the stool.

“Orders,” she said. “And who the hell are you, so I can report who we killed?”

“Kip Guile,” he said.

“Guile?”

Kip hurled his knife at the woman. It was never a good idea to throw your knife, unless you know how to throw knives. Kip didn’t. But she wasn’t expecting it—and it hit her, right in her chest. Hilt first.

But she jumped back, cursing, and Kip grabbed the stool, swinging it with both hands in a great arc.

The assassin tried to move back farther, but she was right against the wall, there was nowhere to go. Kip connected solidly, all of his strength in the blow. She tried to block it, but he crushed through her defense, breaking one leg of the stool, leaving it an awkward weapon.

But he didn’t repeat his earlier mistake; this time he followed up his attack. The room was brighter than it had been earlier, and he could see that the assassin’s arm was obviously broken, but she still somehow held on to her knife. She was reaching over to grab it with her left hand when Kip crashed into her, smashing her against the wall with his lowered shoulder.

He heard the whoosh of her breath being crushed out of her, and then they were both scrambling for her dagger.

“Niah!” A voice cried out from the stairs. “Get down!”

Kip turned to see the other assassin—the one he swore he’d killed—standing there, pistol leveled. The assassin, Niah, tried to wriggle away from Kip and dive to the floor, but he held her, absorbed by the tiny orange dot hovering above the man’s pistol—a burning slow match. It slapped down into the pan.

Kip spun with Niah, face-to-face, abandoning all thought of the dagger between them.

A boom, and she snapped her head forward into his face. Her headbutt caught him in the nose and lip. His eyes instantly flooded with tears.

“Niah!”

Kip stumbled backward, tripped, fell on his ass. The assassin Niah dropped like a pile of meat, the back of her skull exploded. What Kip had thought was a headbutt was her brained skull snapping forward into him from absorbing a bullet.

He smacked his head on the wall as he fell, not so hard that it dazed him, but it still hurt.

I’m a moron. He reached into a pocket and snatched out his green spectacles.

The other assassin, Vox, was staring in horror at the shattered head of his partner, whom he’d just killed. But Kip’s movement made him spring into action, leaping forward and kicking Kip in the head.

Kip’s shoulder took most of the blow, and he rolled with the kick, putting as much distance between himself and Vox as he could. He saw the assassin snatching up Niah’s short sword. Kip staggered to his feet, unarmed, trapped in a corner of the room, just as Vox settled into a fighting stance. From the stance alone, Kip could tell he was a warrior.

Kip’s spectacles were bent but still in his hand. No time. He’d get them on his face about the time the sword ended his life.

Both he and the assassin lunged at the same time: Vox lunging for Kip, Kip lunging for the cards on the wall. Kip raked his hand down the wall, tearing off four, five, six cards.

A gush of flames shot straight out of the wall. If Kip had been standing in front of the cards, he would have been consumed. Instead, the flames made a wall between him and the assassin, who skidded to a stop. Kip pulled on his spectacles, bending them roughly into place and sucking in green. Vox saw what he was doing, and as the curtain of flame dwindled to nothing, they both threw up an open hand to fling luxin at each other.

The assassin was faster. His hand snapped out—and nothing happened. His palm was empty of color. He had one second to look down at his own hand, surprised. Then Kip’s green missile speared through his stomach.

The man fell to the floor and wailed. “Atirat! Atirat, come back. What have you done to me?!” he shouted at Kip. He wasn’t looking at his stomach. He wasn’t looking at his death wound. He was looking at his hands.

Kip coughed. The wall holding the remainder of the cards had caught fire. Some of the cards sparked and spat, like tree sap in the blaze. Others sat placid in the flames. The fire was spreading, fast.

A breathy, labored voice said, “Kip.”

It came from the corner. Janus Borig. She was alive.

“Get the knife, you fool,” she said.

“What?” Kip asked, like a simpleton. Oh, his knife. The one he’d thrown away during the fight. That knife.

Kip had to step over Niah’s body, her exploded head still leaking blood in an expanding circle. He looked away quickly so he didn’t vomit.

The other assassin was babbling something about being unclean, unworthy, ruined. He was weeping, gasping, but he didn’t seem like he had the strength to make any trouble. Kip found the dagger and stood up into the smoke just as he heard a scream.

He flinched, ducked low, and was in time to see Vox—who had taken off his cloak and his shirt for some reason—slash open the side of his own neck. Blood fountained out, and the assassin stared at Kip, his brown eyes full of hatred, for a single moment, then he slumped over, unconscious.

What the hell?

Kip ran back to Janus. “Cloaks, Kip.”

“We can get you a cloak once we get out of here,” Kip said.

“Stupid, wonderful boy. Their cloaks.” Her voice was weak.