to her senses, he was glad. They rode toward the soldiers.
'Who goes there!' one of them shouted.
'We have orders to cross the border,' said Ironfoot. 'A mission from the City of Mab itself.'
'Dismount,' said the foremost soldier, who was a lieutenant, and a young one.
'I don't have time, Lieutenant. Now get out of my way or I'll move you.'
The officer stood his ground. 'No one crosses the border,' he said. 'I have my own orders, and I don't care what yours are.'
Ironfoot looked at Sela, who was concentrating on the lieutenant. 'Who are you?' he said, looking at her.
'We're on a critical mission,' she said, her voice clear and distinct. 'Surely you understand that.' Ironfoot could see the tension in her gaze. The struggle.
'I don't know,' said the lieutenant, faltering.
Another of the soldiers approached. 'You heard the lieutenant,' he said. 'Dismount now, or we'll dismount you.'
Just Ironfoot's luck; the officer didn't have his men at all well in hand. In Ironfoot's army days he'd had a few such commanders. Smart infantrymen knew how to manipulate them to keep themselves from getting killed. Apparently the soldier now eyeing Ironfoot was one of these.
'We can't do that,' said Sela. She was trying, but she'd been through too much in too brief a time, and these were strong-willed, suspicious men.
'All right,' said Ironfoot. He dismounted and, with deep regret, drew the Bel Zheret's knife.
It was amazing, even to Ironfoot, how quickly he managed to kill them all. He whirled and struck, all of his anger and frustration flowing into his actions. All philosophy and higher thought evaporated. There was only motion and balance and cut. Blood and bone. Shriek and hiss.
There were ten of them, and the last barely had time to draw his sword before Ironfoot pierced his neck with the point of the Bel Zheret blade. If Ironfoot hadn't been a complete Shadow before, he was now.
He remounted, slowly, after wiping the Bel Zheret knife on the uniform of one of the fallen soldiers. They circled back and then took the wall at a run, the horses' hooves clearing it easily.
They must have spoken at some point during the long night ride to the Sylvan road, but Ironfoot couldn't remember saying anything. They stumbled on the road out of the forest at the break of dawn, and in less than two hours they were at Sylvan, having passed column after column of Seelie soldiers heading north.
When they returned to the City Emerald, in a fast carriage loaned by the Seelie Army, Paet was waiting for them at Blackstone House. He received the report of their mission-of the flight from Preyia, the Arami, the deaths of Timha and Silverdun-in silence, asking no questions. When Ironfoot was done speaking, Paet thanked him in a quiet voice.
'When will Silverdun's body be delivered to his family?' said Ironfoot.
'It won't. There will be no funeral.'
'Excuse me?' said Sela. It was the first thing she'd said since they'd arrived.
'Shadows don't get funerals,' said Paet. 'We're never so lucky.'
Ironfoot fumed, but Paet wasn't someone who could be argued with.
'I'll be gone for several days,' said Paet, standing. 'I expect you both to spend that time recovering. When I get back, there will be much to do.'
'Paet,' said Ironfoot. 'They knew we were coming. At every step along the way.'
'I know,' said Paet. 'And I have no idea who's responsible.'
'I want to get back to work,' said Sela. 'Now. I don't want to rest.'
'I agree,' said Ironfoot.
'Some things cannot wait,' said Paet. 'And some can. If you insist on working, Ironfoot, go over Timha's notes with a fine-toothed comb. The Unseelie couldn't figure them out, but perhaps you can.'
'In time for them to be useful?' said Ironfoot.
'You never know when something will be useful,' said Paet.
'I'd like to go through intelligence reports,' said Sela. 'From everywhere. Look for anything that might tell us who our traitor is. There are some leads I discovered before we left for the Unseelie.'
