“It makes me warm and fuzzy inside every time I think about Nydein’s reaction to me not being dead,” Ash said.

Warrior’s eyes darted between the pair. “I thought we weren’t supposed to share our names with anyone?” He looked at Ash. “Or do you have two Night Rider names? Can we do that?”

Ash threw his head back and laughed. “When you’re as old as I am, you can afford to ignore a rule or two. Even his. Call me Ash.”

“I’m confused.”

“So’m I.” Ash’s eyes slid to Shade. “I thought you didn’t take students these days. Not unless you wanted them dead.”

Warrior fidgeted. “That’s not—I mean, I’m not—he said—”

“Sit.” Shade slid into the chair across from Ash. “I was rather hoping you’d take him off my hands.”

Ash chuckled. “I thought as much, but no can do. My own special idiot is off seeing to nature. Should be back in a few.”

“You have a student?” Warrior perked up.

“Not quite as squeaky new as you.” Ash chuckled and then met Shade’s eyes. “I’ll tell you about her later.”

“Why not now?” Warrior blinked. “Oh. I don’t need to know, do I?”

“Well, you’re not stupid,” Ash said. “You might survive a bit.”

“A bit?”

“Enough, Warrior. He’s playing with you.” Shade sat back in his seat and listened to the music. It was an Olorian composition, of course—Rhona was far from stupid—but not half bad. There seemed to be some Evendarian influences, which meant this was probably composed after the Fall.

The same waiter approached and took their drink orders. Warrior ordered ale with wide eyes that said he wasn’t used to being in a hospitia without his parents. Ash ordered a brandy for himself and ale for his unnamed student. Shade ordered a bottle of wine and one glass, avoiding Ash’s knowing gaze.

Warrior looked like he wanted to ask when the bottle arrived, but Ash spoke up instead.

“Vicious should be back in a few. She’s a good girl, despite the name she picked. Got a decent head on her.”

“A girl?” Warrior’s jaw dropped. “You let girls be Night Riders?”

“Let?” an unfamiliar voice asked. “Just try and stop me.”

Warrior went beet red. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just didn’t—didn’t—”

“Didn’t think?” Vicious grinned. “Don’t worry. Most people don’t. Particularly the Olorians who end up with my sword up their gut.”

Ash chortled. “Damn right.”

Vicious plopped into a chair with no grace, swinging a leg over the back and almost kicking Warrior in the face. She shrugged when he glared.

She was a tall young woman of about twenty, with dark hair, darker eyes, and skin to match. Her smile was amicable, and she’d clearly been with Ash long enough to be riding the same mental horse.

Warrior looked at Vicious, wide-eyed. “You’ve killed people already?”

“Course I have. I’ve been with Ash for a couple months.” She grinned.

“When do I get to help?” Warrior turned those dish-sized eyes on Shade, who snorted.

“When you’ve ridden with a Night Rider for more than ten minutes.” He turned to Ash. “Who else is in the area?”

Ash sat back in his chair, thinking. “I saw Cynic a couple weeks back. She was out by Eltee. Didn’t have a student then, but that might’ve changed. Think this boy of yours can handle Cynic?”

“She’ll eat him for breakfast.”

“What, wait?” Warrior looked between the two. “You’re joking, right?”

Ash laughed. “Only if you keep that ‘you allow girls’ bullshit to yourself, kid. Cynic ain’t got time for stupidity. She’s been proving herself tougher than the boys since before you could walk.”

Probably longer. Shade let his eyes sweep over Warrior as he squirmed. He didn’t know Cynic personally, but he didn’t need to ask her name, either. Shade kept track of every Night Rider’s name, and Instance told him who Cynic was after he spent half past a week training her before setting her loose on the world.

Once, Cynic had been Bessia Servic, one of the rare female centurions in the Evendarian army. Women weren’t technically prohibited from joining; tradition and custom simply discouraged them. A few did, anyway. Shade had known several, though he only knew Cynic by reputation.

She was one of the best, good enough to survive when the Northern Army fell to Olor early in the war, leading what was left of her legion in a guerrilla campaign that slowed the Olorian advance until the Southern Army got in position to engage them. They’d need people like her in the future…assuming she didn’t get herself killed.

Then again, he could say the same for Ash. Vicious has potential.

Jury was still out on Warrior.

“Can I get you a little something after dinner, silver eyes?” A hand landed on Shade’s left shoulder as the barmaid whispered in his ear.

Tension ripped through him like lightning. Shade’s right hand immediately snapped back, fingers closing around the hilt of a dagger before conscious thought even flickered through his mind. It was halfway out of the scabbard before he stopped himself, stopped his right foot from shifting under his body so that he could twist left and stab up, catching the unsuspecting barmaid under the chin with the dagger.

“I could use a refill on the ale, honey.” Ash’s voice was deceptively friendly, but his eyes were on Shade’s right hand. “And I might take you up on that desert.”

Her hand lifted; Shade forced himself to relax. Ash, eyes on the barmaid, grinned.

She beamed. “I’m sure we could work something out, handsome.”

“Oh, ew.” Vicious made a face.

Shade eased his dagger back into its scabbard as the barmaid leaned in to take Ash’s empty glass, popping a kiss on his cheek.

“Find me after,” she whispered.

“Can I room with you?” Vicious turned to Warrior and Shade, her eyes pleading. “I’m not sharing with him if he’s shacking up with her.”

The barmaid and Ash both laughed. Shade let out a quiet breath and cursed his reflexes, pushing old memories down as hard as he could.

He would not think of that now. Not here.

The brand on the back of his neck burned.

Miles away, south of the Bridge, another Night Rider used the cover of darkness to their advantage. Bridgetown’s square was quiet; Olorians viewed the evening as time to be spent with family, even those who tortured others for a living. It so happened that the Proctor of Bridgetown—the Olorian mayor—had two torturers in her employ. Both went home after leaving the body on display the day before.

No Evendarian would dare touch it, of course. Not after the display the Proctor’s men put on. The townspeople had been forced to watch, as they always were when a Night Rider was tortured to death.

She arrived two days too late.

By now, the guards were growing lazy. They wanted to go home to their families, too, and they judged Bridgetown’s Evendarians properly cowed. Tomorrow, they’d bully Evendarians into burying the body just to drive the sacrilege home. But tonight? Tonight was boring. One by one, the eight guards left until one remained alone.

He died with a knife buried in the back of his neck, never knowing what hit him. Cynic left his body for the Olorians to find; they’d bury him soon enough.

Instance was her concern. Dry-eyed, her movements made quick with fury, she cut him down and stole his body away. She burned him near dawn, miles away in the wilderness.

Then Cynic headed northeast, a plan forming in her mind.