Page 129

Joran changes his grip at the final instant, circles beneath my blade, and redirects his momentum toward my weapon arm. The attack comes from below rather than the exposed side I anticipated.

I see it.

I parry too late.

His blunted edge strikes the inside of my right forearm. It catches the narrow gap between the bracer and glove.

Leather splits.

Pain follows.

I knock his blade away and step back.

Blood runs across my palm.

Joran lowers his weapon immediately. “I misjudged the angle.”

“No.”

I pull off the damaged bracer. The blade opened a clean cut along the forearm. It is not deep, but the edges separate when I flex my hand.

“My parry was late,” I say.

“The blade found a gap that should have been covered.”

“The armor performed as designed. You exploited the opening.”

“In a practice bout.”

“An enemy would have used steel.”

Anger rises, but none of it belongs to Joran.

I saw the feint. I understood the change in direction. My attention remained divided between the blade before me and a market exchange already completed.

The lapse is mine.

Joran retrieves a clean cloth from the wall cabinet and offers it to me.

I wrap the forearm and pull the knot tight with my teeth. Red spreads through the linen.

“The household healer can close it,” he says.

“The cut is minor.”

“Minor wounds still scar.”

The blade struck near the tendons controlling my hand. The movement remains sound, but swelling could reduce it. Infection would be more troublesome than the original injury.

I know a healer whose judgment I trust more than the Zagfer physician’s.

That fact no longer irritates me as much as it once did.

“You intend to find Fiona,” Joran says.

“She can prevent lasting damage.”

“And you can ask what she bought in Lowtown.”