his mouth, a fading hint of the fragrant, herb-rich pasta he must have had for dinner. "I love you."
Arata twined around him, his dark brown eyes shiny. "I love you more."
"Impossible," Carac said, pressing their temples together, heart fit to burst.
Behind them, Brom coughed quietly. "You should probably be on your way; it's only luck no one has noticed either of you is missing and raised a cry."
"Brom, dōmo for everything." Arata hugged him tightly. "We couldn't have done this without you. I promise if we can ever repay the favor, you've only to contact us—and we'll send you that information the moment we have it."
Smiling, Brom gripped their shoulders and shook them gently. "I know. Get on, now."
Carac gave him one last hug, then took hold of Arata's hand and led him to the horses. He was just about to mount when the smell of steaming buns reminded him. "Hold on one moment! I was going to buy us some buns for the road."
Old man Janshai kept his tavern open at all hours, so those who worked early and late would always have somewhere to eat. During the day, his children and in-laws ran it, but in the quiet hours it was just Janshai, occasionally the old woman down the road that he kept company with.
Darting inside, Carac pulled out coins as he approached the counter. On the other side of it, Janshai was already pulling freshly steamed buns out of the reed steamers and packaging them up. "Saw you out there, thought you might be coming this way," Janshai said, and took a pull on his long pipe, the fragrant smoke wafting through the tavern, as ingrained as the smells of buns, beer, and saké.
"Dōmo, Janshai-san." Carac slid a single yinn across the counter, well over what the buns cost. "I hope you have a quiet night."
"Farewell, Cara-don." Janshai lifted a hand, then went to work folding more dumplings and placing them in steamers.
Carac carried his package outside and tucked it into the saddlebag of his horse. With a last wave to Brom, he led the way out of the courtyard, reluctant to mount and ride until they were further from the city and the noise wouldn't draw as much attention. Horses plodding along in the night were one thing—farmers arriving late to attend markets in the morning, merchants going to and fro. But riding was largely done only by nobili, and people would remember that.
They hadn't gone far when a figure darted out of a dark, narrow alley. The heavy tang of bad iron shivered through Carac's blood. "Ciao, Tani-san."
The stranger didn't reply, save to lunge forward. Carac's blood was all the warning he had before he saw the blade, and he flung himself out of the way. The blade sank into the chest of his horse, which screamed and reared up. Carac threw himself out of the way of its hooves—but that gave the stranger time to attack him again.
Carac threw up his hands in a panic, and screamed as the blade plunged through the center of his hand.
His blood sang with the feel of iron and burned hot.
The man turned away as Arata bellowed and tackled him, sending them both to the stone-paved road with pained cries.
Choking back bile, Carac grabbed the hilt of the blade in his palm, braced himself, and yanked it out with another scream.
It was a mano sinistra—a bad one. But a bad blade was still a blade, as his father loved to say.
Carac was a Ferro, however, and there was no such thing as a bad blade in a Ferro hand. Summoning all his magia, fledgling but strong, Carac expunged the impurities and hardened the iron, sharpening it as best his magia permitted.
His nose dripped blood as he surged forward—just as the attacker threw off Arata and started to stand.
Bellowing, Carac slammed into him and thrust the dagger downward. It took the man's finger off right at the bottom and punched into his shoulder.
Then the man bucked him off and came up swinging with his good hand, slamming a fist into Carac's face, shattering his nose and sending him toppling from surprise and pain.
Voices filled the street, and the man rose and ran off. On the street, Carac could see his severed finger lying in a pool of blood.
Arata. Where was Arata?
Carac looked jerkily around and let out a sigh of relief as he saw Arata lying nearby. "Arata!" He swooped in and turned him around—and wailed. "No, Arata! Arata!"