The parley pavilion stood in the white middle of the valley, a hundred paces from either camp. Its poles were stitched with pale oath-thread that hummed faintly whenever the cold wind brushed softly past.
"If he breathes wrong I am cutting him," Juna muttered, one moon dagger already loose in its sheath.
Vella smoothed her coat with the serene air of a woman walking into a tea party. "Wolf, we are guests, and guests do not stab the host before the cake arrives."
"We're hostages with better coats," Hajin said, flexing his stitched shoulder as the cold gnawed at it.
Hans walked them to the gate, one hand clamped on Hajin's shoulder as the portcullis rose. Beyond it the snow ran flat and blinding to a tent the colour of old bone.
"Walk back, boy," the old bell-keeper rasped, "that's the whole trick of it."
"Winning is the trick, Hans, walking is just the method."
"Walking is the method that lets you try winning twice."
