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Clover nods to the mangy animal and whispers, “Someone else doesn’t approve of the late-night visit.”

The man shoos the cat away and sets his lamp on the table. When he turns back, we get our first good look at him. He’s tall, practically nothing but skin and bones, with only a few wisps of long hair covering his balding head and a gray tinge to his skin.

He’s a necromancer, I have no doubt.

Pretending not to notice, I offer him Camellia’s message.

He turns the letter over, inspecting the seal before he breaks it, casting us a suspicious look. He then scans the contents, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t have much of this in stock. Live blood rats are hard to come by this time of year. And I sold the last of my bitterbark last night.”

“How long will it take you to gather what she requires?” I ask, cringing at the thought of what all that might entail.

“A week,” he says with a grunt.

I should have read the message before we handed it over as Clover suggested. “I will inform Her Grace.”

I press my hand to Clover’s back, directing her out the door. She hurries down the steps without question, both of us relieved when we reach the street.

“Blood rats?” she exclaims in a whisper. “What exactly does Camellia plan to cook up?”

“I’ll see if I can find out. But for now, let’s return to the castle.”

We’re halfway back when Clover turns to me. “Why doesn’t Camellia look like that?”

“She must be using a tambrel stone to contain the ill-effects of her magic.”

“So, there’s a chance she’ll blow herself up?”

“The stones are known to be unstable,” I say.

Clover flashes me a wicked grin. “Do you think we could be so lucky?”

I’m about to answer when a shadow behind Clover catches my attention. Acting on instinct, I yank her behind me and pull my sword from its sheath.

I barely block the blow in time.

Like us, our attacker wears a dark cloak, but I recognize the blade—it’s army issued, the kind gifted to swordsmen when they gain their blue-stripe pennant. I have one just like it at home.

I fight on instinct, drawing on years of training, but I’m a little rusty after so many months without practice.

“Who are you?” I demand, putting my full force behind a strike to shove the man back.

“You seem to fight well enough for a wounded man,” he says from the shadow of his hood. “I’m sure Camellia will be interested to hear you’ve been lying to her.”

Before I can answer, another man appears. I kick the first in the stomach, sending him flying onto the cobblestones, and meet the second man’s attack.

“Henrik!” Clover cries as a third shadow appears. I whirl around, ducking as the man swings his sword too high. The second two aren’t swordsmen like the first, and their attacks are clumsy.

I hear a yell from behind me, and I barely have time to register the dagger sticking out of the man’s chest before the first pushes himself off the ground and makes a lunge for me.

“Clover!” I holler when I see the other man heading her way.

“I’ve got it!”

My opponent fights hard, and his hood falls back in the fight. I recognize the swordsman, though I don’t know his name.

He fights well, though, and I’m already growing tired.

I wait for him to make a mistake, trying to reserve my energy. But I’m worried about Clover. What do these men want?