“How dare you,” Haern whispered. His hood hung low over his face, and he shook his head to knock it back. He wanted Brann to see the fury in his eyes.

“You hold this city prisoner and yet ask me that?” said Brann.

Haern struck him in the mouth with the hilt of a saber. As Brann spat out a tooth, the children rushed through the door, surrounding them both.

“Stay back,” Brann said to them, and he grinned at Haern, his yellow teeth stained red with blood. There was a wild look in his eyes that made Haern uncomfortable. This wasn’t a man who cared about life, not his own, nor others.

“What game is this?” Haern asked, his voice a cold whisper. “Why the children? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“The others are scared of you,” Brann said, laughing. “But I know what you are. They think you’re as bad as us, but you’re not; not yet. Once the thief guilds find out, they’ll have your head on a spike.”

He gestured to the children, all prepared to attack. Haern didn’t want to imagine what Brann had put them through to achieve such a level of control.

“Kill me,” Brann said. “Do it, and they’ll swarm you. You won’t die, you’re too good for them, but you won’t escape without killing at least one. So what’ll it be, Watcher? Can you take my life if it means taking the life of a child?”

Haern looked at the twenty. Some were as young as seven, but others were maybe eleven or twelve. All it’d take was one lucky stab by any of them and he might go down.

His saber pressed harder against Brann’s skin. He leaned closer, so he might whisper into his ear.

“Nothing, Brann. You know nothing about me. You die, they go free. This was never a choice.”

Haern slashed, spilling blood across his clothes. Hoping to move before the children reacted, he turned and leapt, vaulting over their circle. They gave chase, not at all bothered by the death of their master. Haern rolled to his feet, his sabers crossed to block their weak stabs. A quick glance showed no exits except the door he’d come through. Doing everything he could to fight down his combat instincts, he shoved through the group’s center. His cloaks whirled and twisted, pushing aside feeble attacks.