Shade sat back and studied her. “Unless it’s my murder, you might be surprised.”

Warrior squeaked out a gasp.

Cynic chuckled. “No.” She sat down and sipped her drink, a dark ale that was one of Gunstrum’s specialties. “Instance is dead. Killed four days ago in Bridgetown.”

“Damn.” Four days ago meant he led the venatores on a good chase; Shade last saw him two days before that. His throat felt tight.

“It was in the usual way. The proctor’s torturers did their work for everyone to see.” Cynic didn’t twitch, but Warrior gagged on his ale. “Then they left his body on display until I stole it and burned it. He’s at peace now.”

“You did well.”

“It was the least I could do. He was my mentor and my friend.” Her eyes burned with hatred. “I want to avenge him.”

“The people who caught him are already in the wind.” Shade’s chest was tight; he’d killed half the venatores, but damn it all if they weren’t his countrymen. He hated the idea of hunting them down almost as much as he hated the fact that they’d turned Instance over to Olorians in the first place.

“Those who killed him aren’t.”

“Are you talking about assassination?” Warrior whispered.

Cynic arched an eyebrow. “And who are you?”

“Warrior.” He swallowed. “I think he wants you to mentor me.”

“How charming. Do you have a problem with vengeance?”

“Um, should I?” Warrior glanced at Shade. “Do we do that? Is it murder?”

“Not when those who killed him are guilty of numerous other crimes against Evendarians—and will do so again if not stopped,” Shade replied. He met Cynic’s gaze. “You’re determined to do this?”

“Yes, but I’m not stupid enough to do it alone. They’ll expect that.” She smiled. “Your reputation, on the other hand…”

“I would normally counsel you to wait.” But Instance had died to protect Shade, to protect his secrets, and who was he to tell Cynic she should not avenge him? “But not today.”

“Good. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Bridgetown was an easy day’s ride away, along the aptly named Via Bridgefoot. Distracted by Cynic, Shade still didn’t get his damned bath, but he figured he could do that once he got Warrior off his hands.

“You’re not ready for this,” Cynic told Warrior as they slowed. Bridgetown filled the horizon with the sun setting behind it. The air smelled of salt, even from here; Bridgetown was right on Fiskell Bay.

“Then what do I do?”

“You stay with the horses,” Shade replied.

No need to mention that Vic and Cynic’s horse wouldn’t wander off; Warrior’s new and still nameless gelding probably would. At least he was quicker than Fanny.

“You can also keep watch,” Cynic said. Her tone was kinder than Shade’s, although not by much. “That will help.”

“All right.” Warrior swallowed. “I still don’t understand what you’re doing, though. Not really.”

“We’re stopping someone who likes to hurt others. And who killed a Night Rider.” Cynic’s lips curled in fury.

Shade could stay silent. He was a man of many secrets: his identity, his ultimate goals, and even his friendships were not things he shared. Yet Cynic deserved to know the truth.

All Night Riders needed to.

“Instance was caught by Evendarians,” he said. “They call themselves venatores, after the old government trappers. But they work for Olor.”

She twisted in the saddle to stare. “They what?”

“I expect they turned him over to the Proctor.” Shade pushed down his own anger, pushed down decades of knowing Instance—and knowing the man he’d been before he became a Night Rider, back before the war. “Eighteen of them chased me to Weltil. Instance and I met there; he was nailed with an arrow. We split up, and they caught him. The half that came after me, I killed.”

He did not mention the young venator he left alive. Maybe the boy bled out. Maybe not. Either way, he certainly was seeking a career change.

Cynic’s eyes narrowed. She was silent for several moments, like she was deciding who to blame. “Then you owe him.”

“I do.”

Evendar’s criminal justice system had never been focused on prisons; criminals paid fines, were sentenced to hard labor, or—on rare occasions—were executed. Incarceration was a temporary thing, reserved only for those awaiting trial and considered a danger to those around them.

Olor’s love of chains and imprisonment came as a rude surprise after the Fall. By now, thirteen years later, there was a prison in every town, as well as whipping posts in every forum. Torture was an accepted form of punishment in Olor, particularly for Evendarians, whom the law viewed as slaves. And some Olorian officials reveled in it.

Akhet vasAller, the Proctor of Bridgetown, was one of those. A minor member of the ruling family of Clas Aller, she was given Bridgetown as her private playground—and no one needed to tell Shade how she must have reveled in killing a Night Rider. Her reputation was dark. Evendarian slaves survived mere months in her employ; those who didn’t die were sold, maimed, to the guilds that sold stress relieving or “pain” slaves.

Evendarian citizens of Bridgetown frequently fared just as badly. Rumor said anyone good-looking or capable enough wasn’t permitted to leave the city, on pain of enslavement.

Bridgetown was a miserable city. Even slipping through it after dark made that apparent; there were too many echoing cries of pain and too many slaves chained outside doors for it to be anything else. Warrior opened his mouth to object as they passed a pair of scantily clad men being whipped, but Cynic shushed him.

Odds were that both those men had families who would suffer if they ran. And even if they didn’t, getting both away from Bridgetown in a hurry would be troublesome. Cold fury crawled down Shade’s spine at the thought of leaving them, at the thought of doing nothing, but they continued onwards, leading their horses between a pair of houses full of laughing Olorians at dinner.

“You have to choose your battles,” he told Warrior when they were out of earshot. Most new Night Riders needed to hear that at least a half dozen times. This kid would be no exception.

“But aren’t we supposed to save people?”

“They’re already done.” Cynic’s voice was as cold as Shade felt, hollow and empty. She hissed out a breath. “I guarantee you that’s not the first whipping those two have suffered. They’ll survive.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Shade said. “You choose the fights you can win. You choose the ones that matter. We can stop that whipping, but then they’ll know Night Riders are here, and we’ll never get at the Proctor. And we might not be able to save them, not if they have families.”

“Can’t we save their families, too?”

Cynic snorted. “The Proctor’s got hundreds of guards at her command. We can’t fight them all, and if we start digging for too many people, they’ll all come.”

Warrior bit his lip. “Oh.”

“Every action has consequences. You must learn to anticipate them if you’re going to be a Night Rider,” Shade said.

Cynic held up a hand, and they stopped. “This is where you stay,” she said. “That’s her house. The one behind the prison.”

“Of course it is.” Shade hadn’t been to Bridgetown since years before the Fall, but he could recognize the old Prefect’s villa, even with an ugly prison blocking his view.

“They say Akhet likes to listen to the screams.” Cynic’s face twisted into a snarl.

Shade smiled. “Let’s test that theory.”