The look of shock on Windy's face was almost worth the trip. It wasn't my words alone that did it, the fire daemon was proof of who I was. Hikami was something that should have only existed in stories, a fully visible spirit. Windy ordered the guards to back off and the Baker carefully handed over a limp Paulson.

We all went into the house and they plugged up his cracked nose, washed his face, and watched him come to after about ten minutes. Windy filled him in while the Baker and I waited in the sitting room.

Paulson was moving stiffly, and he stood in front of a smoldering fireplace instead of joining us at the table. His eyes were already bruising and beginning to swell.

"You've wronged me," he said, anger barely under control. "You've decieved me. "It's only out of respect for you husband-to-be that I leave either of you alive. You will stay here until he arrives and we come to agreement about the consequences. As for your pastry chef," he pointed at the Baker without addressing him, "he can face me in an open duel or he can die like a boar on my soldier's spears."

"Agreed," the Baker said, but Paulson expected an answer from me, because the Baker was my responsibility.

"That seems equitable," I said. If I was Thomas's wife, I'd have outranked Paulson myself, and I could have been making the ultimatums. As it was, I was still legally bound by the contract I'd signed with him. Any deference he showed wasn't for me, it was for Thomas. I didn't know what would happen if the Baker had to fight Paulson fairly, but my bodyguard didn't show any sign of being afraid.

Obviously, none of this was the outcome I'd wanted. Revealing myself meant that I'd have to deal with Thomas directly, and I didn't know what that would mean for my quest. We could try to run away again, but Paulson went into detail expressly forbidding any part of a possible escape and that meant he would be well within his rights to cut my head off no matter who I was getting married too if I broke with our contract again. I didn't think he would behead me, but he might take it out on the Baker or my other friends, whom he could safely harm without drawing Thomas's ire. From what I'd experienced of him, Thomas would probably be on Paulson's side about all of this anyway.

The few hours remaining until dawn passed fitfully for me. I let Hikami pool in the window, there wasn't a need to hide him anymore, and his warm golden light was comforting. A knock on the door woke me, and I dressed and washed and went downstairs for breakfast.

Beth and Anne were amazed by Hikami, and wouldn't stop exclaiming how beautiful he and I were. They knew my identity, and paid me every courtesy and attention a princess could deserve and more. I'd actually preferred them before they'd known.

Paulson didn't make an appearance, taking breakfast in his room, preventing any awkwardness while I ate. The oatmeal had fruit mixed with it, of which I heartilly approved. There was also cow's milk, which had a slightly sour, not unwholesome taste but didn't agree with my stomach.

The duel took place at noon.

Beth, Anne and I we provided with wicker chairs and elaborate paper fans, while Windy and at least ten spear carrying house guards stood at attention to one side.

I was nervous. The baker had made short work of Paulson before but he'd surprised him and taken him to the ground where his prized sword was useless. Paulson would engineer a situation where he had the advantage.

The Baker came out in bare feet and a plain tunic without a belt, which meant it hung off of his belly like a short dress. He was the antithesis of Paulson, who wore his tailored white suit and polished leather shoes complete with a wide brimmed hat.

"This is my manor, and I am the offended party, so I will be setting the terms."

The Baker shrugged.

"The first man to make three cuts is the victor, and there will be no yield." This meant either one of them could die from their wounds before the match was finished. The Baker acceded to this with his usual emotionless mien.

They stood ten paces apart, swords sheathed at their hips. Windy clapped once for them to begin.

Paulson took a wide stance and gripped his hilt without drawing before taking a bow-legged pace forward. The Baker casually drew his broad sword and advanced. The sanso blade is a particular make of weapon forged only in old Kanto. It's over two feet long, lightly curved by a process of folding and refolding the metal that makes it sharper and more durable than other swords. When Paulson drew, he extended the unsheathing into a wide swing that utilized the force of his entire body. The Baker moved back as if he'd been expecting this, and he held up his weapon in one hand to block. The sanso pushed it aside and scored his belly. White showed, and then blood welled from a cut as long as my hand.

"One," Windy shouted with relish. Then the match began in earnest.

Their reach was nearly even, the Baker was much taller but his blade was stubby compared with the sanzo. Paulson was fighting with a two handed grip, his attacks the outermost edge of the circles he painted with his blade.

The Baker seemed more comfortable with one hand free, and he wielded the broad sword about as gracefully as he did a rolling pin, which is to say he had a firm hand. There was a series of exchanges when each time I thought Paulson was going to gut him and the Baker barely escaped evisceration. He was completely on the defensive, and his few inexpert thrusts were disdainfully parried.

The contrast between their reactions was striking. While the Baker was fatalistic, lifeless, Paulson was becoming increasingly frustrated. His face had become an angry mask, and though he plainly had the advantage it wasn't enough. He'd wanted this over quickly. He wanted to show that the baker was nothing, and then to kill him.

The baker grunted when his shin opened, the sanso biting bone. He stumbled backward, blood pouring down his ankle, but he didn't fall.

"Two," Windy announced, his satisfaction plain.

Paulson showed his teeth, pressing forward with renewed intensity. The circles he painted with the tip of his blade now ended in thrusts, aiming for a kill.

The Bakers foot was slick with blood, and he slipped in the grass. Paulson was on him, knocking the broadsword to one side and plunging his sanso toward his heart. The baker's free hand grabbed the deadly blade and pushed it down so that it entered his abdomen below his rib cage.

The big man dropped.

"Three," Windy said. Beth and Anne had been clapping and oohing at every cut, and with this final stroke they gasped and screamed either in horror or delight.

"No!" I shouted, jumping up from my chair and running to Baker's side. Paulson was cleaning his blade with his back to his victim.

"Tend him as you like, but the gut wound will finish it."

My medicinal training was rudimentary at best, but it was enough to start.

"Get me clean linen!" I screamed at a hapless guard who'd been watching the display. He ran to do my bidding, and Paulson laughed, knowing it wouldn't do any good but allowing me to try.

The first cut had been superficial, it would need to be cleaned but might not require stitches. The second was deep and still bleeding, though not life threatening. I bunched up my scarf and pressed it against the stab wound.

The baker grunted again. "Check my back." He said, painfully anchoring himself onto his side with one arm.

There was nothing there, and I didn't initially realize what I was looking for.

"Did it go through?"

"No."

He lowered himself onto his back and lay still while I continued to apply pressure. This was the extent of my medical knowledge. The guard returned with fresh sheets.

"Rip them up," I said, "and I need someone to ride to the village where I came from and bring back my friends."

Paulson and Windy had gone inside to share a victory drink, and in the absence of their overriding authority the remaining guards were responding to my commands as readily as if I'd had the right to issue them. People in Kanto lived in a strict hierarchy, and I'd been born a princess. Being obeyed came naturally to me.

They helped me wrap his leg and his stomach, and I heard a horse gallop in the direction of the village.

"Mam, we've got a spot in the barracks for him," my original conscript said.

"Thank you, help me take him."

They brought out a gurney that was too small and four men used it to carry him around the house toward the barracks. The Baker said little through all of this, his forehead occassionaly wrinkling in discomfort. When I entered the barracks, the house guards gave me a lot of space, either because of who I was or because of the agitated flame demon that was crawling over my body. They tried not to look at him.

The Baker had been deposited on a bunk in what appeared to be their sick room. There were a few medical supplies and scrolls, nothing that would make me a better doctor. I took a wooden chair and sat beside him.

"The others are coming," I said. "Havella will know what to do."

The Baker lightly touched his gut wound, blood was already soaking through the bandage.

"Hand me a rag," he said, and I grabbed him one from nearby. He pressed it down hard over the bandage as if he didn't feel anything at all. His body was relaxed.

"Now water."

I found him a cup and poured it from a pitcher the guards had left. It looked awkward drinking laying down but he consumed it in a few gulps.

"More."

When he'd had his fill I sat again. There were dozens of diagrams that could aid in preventing infection and injury but nothing that could seal his wound or mend his insides. That wasn't what spirits did.

"Who are you?" I asked. It would be hard for me to say the Baker was a good man, but he was an honest one, and he might die for me. The least I could do was learn his real name.

"I'm more of a brawler than a swordsman," he said.

"Do you have a name?"

He was quiet a while. "Yes," he allowed.

"What is it?"

"Baker."

"That's your profession."

"It's my family name. They owned the shop before me."

I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't messing with me, but I could take him at his word. "What happened? How did you become the man you are?"

"What does it matter?"

"I want to know."

He seemed to consider the ceiling, as if it were the one asking him questions and he was evaluating whether it was worth the effort of answering.

"When I was young, I liked the stories of Renardus. Do you know them?"

I shook my head, and he went on.

"Renardus is not the strongest, the richest, or even very brave, but he would always face enemies that were greater than him, and best them in the end." His eyes were searching out those stories in the ceiling plaster, in the bubbles and cracks.

"My parents were good people, diligent, and they had integrity. They worked all their lives to earn that building, that shop. But a rich man coveted it, wanted to build it higher with crowded tenements and a central atrium. Land is scarce in Kouros, and my parents had only been able to purchase it because of their relationship to the prior owner. They refused his offer, they loved the life they had. So he hired men to destroy the business. It was all legal, what they did, but it was enough to ruin us. We took shelter in the narrows, but my father could not find work. It had broken him. My mother was a resourceful woman, and she kept us fed, but our fortunes continued to worsen."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I wanted to be a man myself, and I took up with other lost children and we stole things. I was noticed because of my size, so I joined a group of smugglers when I was thirteen. They ran leaf, and many other things, and they needed a big child they could mold to be a tool for them. I learned to like fighting and was rewarded for it. I could take care of my parents, but they wanted nothing to do with me once they knew where my money came from." He paused, feeling the need to explain this.

"They didn't believe in Renardus like I did, that doing something was more important than how you did something. They loved Omius, who always followed the rules and got ahead by hard work. But Omius never lost his house."

"Years went by, and people learned who I was, the right people. I got to be important, and I was a fighter. I'd learned you didn't win by going straight at something." He gritted his teeth, and his huge neck visibly bulged as a spasm of pain passed through him.

"The rich man's name was Mobius, and he owned many buildings. I did not attack him with my hands, though I could have killed him that way it wouldn't have fixed anything. I worked hard, like my parent's taught me, and never lost sight of what I wanted. What I had to do was complicated, but in the end I framed him for murder. Then I bribed the jurors to be sure."

"That's terrible," I said.

"Is it? My father died in the narrows. He finally got work shucking oysters, got a small cut, and died from an infection. It was a stupid death, and I held Mobius responsible. It doesn't matter what the law says, what I did was justice. He was convicted for my father's murder, even if my father's name was not on the indictment."

"But you killed someone."

"My parent's building sold cheaply," he said, "Mobius hadn't renovated as much as he'd intended and his family needed money with him in a work camp. I reopened my parent's shop and my mother worked there until she died."

This monologue was more words than I'd had from the Baker than in all the weeks I'd known him. I understood him better now, and though I couldn't condone what he'd done I understood that too. In Euphoria, he would not have been considered a good man. But I thought that he was one, a good man who had done bad things, and he did not deserve to die, especially not for trying to help me.

He'd been talking so easily, and laying so still, I'd almost forgotten about his wound. Now blood was seeping out from under his hand, and he looked paler than ever.

"Havella is coming," I said.

He grunted, and closed his eyes. I saw his hand begin to slip, and I put my own over his, standing to press down.

"Don't," I said. "Don't."

With my mind's eyes I began drawing the diagrams of renewal and good health, knowing it was no use. I whispered the names of the signs one after the other, over and over again, as his breathing slowed.

Warmth flowed down my arms and out of my hands, flowed out of my body. The heat seemed to die in my center and the hollow chill it left behind spread to my limbs until I was shaking with it. My eyes blurred with tears, not because I was crying, but because it was suddenly too bright and the light had stung my eyes.

Hikami was changing, becoming a stream of pure gold, and flowing into the Baker's injuries and out of them again. The strength went out of my legs and I was on my knees beside the cot. His hand gripped both of my own, so warm it was like an iron pot that had been left out in the sun.

"Eff," he said, lifting me up and placing me on the cot where he had layed dying moments before.

He had to say my name before my eyes would focus. My teeth were chattering, and he wrapped me in a blanket. The men who'd been in the barracks were crowded in the doorway to the sick room, their mouths hanging open.

"She healed him," I heard them say, and it was ridiculous. Hikami was no larger than a candle flickering on my shoulder, his eyes tiny points of blue. It wasn't possible. Flame daemons did not heal people, even if they were very powerful. The diagrams did not align that way. But the baker was standing before me, peeling bandages off of his skin. Where he'd been stabbed there was an ugly pink scar. It looked like a burn.