There were eight in a normal Olorian patrol. Nine men, however…nine men chased him here.

“Yeah. The one at the bar’s removed his hood. He looks Evendarian.” Instance’s voice went tight.

Shade shifted slightly, gathering his feet under himself and resting his weight on the balls of his feet. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

“They’re wearing schiavonas, too.” Instance scowled.

The schiavona was the traditional sword of an Evendarian, with a blade heavy enough for chopping but light enough to wield in one hand. Centuries of Evendarian legionaries carried them in victorious battles, right up to the Fall, where they lost everything. Shade sighed.

He did not want to kill Evendarians. Not his countrymen, not when there were too few to protect Evendarians against the harsh hand of Olor. He chose to run rather than harm them, hoping the fools would find Night Riders too difficult prey and give up. I swore to protect them once. Must I now kill them?

A softer man might weep.

“Whatever he’s asking, Gunstrum’s shaking his head—but one of them’s noticed us,” Instance said. “He’s pointing.”

“Damn.”

Shade loosened his schiavona in her scabbard, his left hand nudging the swept basket hilt while his right found a dagger, drawing it half out of the sheath. The Night Riders’ eyes met, neither turning, even as approaching footsteps drew close. One advantage both had was that they were in an Evendarian hospitia. No venator would wish innocents harm, not even to earn a fat bounty.

At least he hoped not.

Counting footsteps, Shade took the last sip of his ale and watched Instance settle back in his seat. Both were seasoned fighters, had been since before the Empire fell. More importantly, they knew one another. They also knew that, for a pair of Night Riders, nine trappers were no threat, especially in a raging storm only a fool would venture into. A fool…or Night Riders who knew the weather would wash away their tracks. They only had to escape, not win a battle.

“Excuse me.” The voice that came from behind Shade had an accent like his own, clipped and Imperial. Where had this venator come from that he’d fallen so far?

Instance answered in his country twang. “What do you want, boy?”

“My friends and I would like to speak to you outside.” The courteous words were not a request.

“About?” Shade didn’t turn; he watched the shadows on the wall behind Instance. Two were larger than the others; the speaker brought a friend, but the others hung back.

The hospitia had a porch, not a large one, but shelter all the same. Nine against two, in a crowded area; would the trappers disarm them and go for the capture, or would it be death? He really didn’t want to kill Evendarians today.

“Does that matter?” The youthful voice was harder now. Impatient.

Shade let out a breath and then nodded to Instance. Both rose, keeping their hands well away from their weapons. No need to frighten the children yet. He met the leader’s eyes. “I suppose it does not.”

The leader wasn’t as young as his voice sounded; he was at least thirty, old enough to remember a different and better Evendar. But he was well-fed, even a little overweight—uncommon, in a world where Evendarians were legally slaves. And yes, his clothes were finer, too. This one makes a living pleasing Olorians. Shade fought back a snarl, keeping his face blank. He still did not want to kill the arrogant traitor.

The other trappers were nicely garbed, too, and wearing swords. That was illegal unless an Evendarian had a special permit. This was not their first time working for Olorians, and anger swirled through Shade as he wondered what other tasks they might have done. Hunting escaped slaves? Bullying taxes out of poor Evendarians? Worse?

Under the watchful gaze of the venatores, the Night Riders exited the hospitia. Shade paused only to nod reassuringly at Gunstrum, who stood behind the bar, wringing a dishtowel this way and that in his hands. Common Evendarians saw Night Riders as heroes, as those who dared do what others only dreamt of—but not to Olorians. . . or their minions.

I will not hunt you, my countrymen, but nor will I allow myself to be taken and turned over to Olorian torture.

The doors slammed shut behind them, with three of the trappers behind the pair and six ahead.

The wind, already howling harder than when Shade arrived, picked up his cloak and tore it right, trying to plaster his hood into his face. Shade did not move, staring ahead, his mind racing behind blank eyes.

Ten horses stood outside Gunstrum’s, still saddled and ready to ride. They only expected one. Their leader wanted to take no chances; braving the storm must seem safer than trying to keep a Night Rider pinned up for the night.

Not a bad plan.

Except for one thing. Now there were two Night Riders. What did the leader plan to do? Greed said to take them both, but could he hold two?