Hunter cracked open the inn’s front door and peeked out. The innkeeper hadn’t lied about the soldiers or the swordsmen. There were a dozen pikemen in the street, with old blue imperial jackets under shabby winter cloaks. They had iron caps, and he assumed they had mail under their jackets. There were a dozen swordsmen of the School of Harmonious Blades, all decked in their crimson tunics and black hats and other shiny accouterments, as crisp and clean as if they were parading in their gymnasium in Roundoin.
“Come out, warlock!” shouted one of the Schoolers. He had a black sash instead of yellow, and an ugly black bruise across his face.
“It’s your old friend Tavin,” Hunter said over his shoulder.
“Hooray!” Chekwe chortled. They’d bought a pair of shields at a blacksmith’s the day before
