No Quarter Read Free

Army's garrison was at Harack, on the coast. When I was eleven, we had to swim about five miles back to shore in the middle of the night.*
    *When you were eleven?*
    *Bannon was ten. The swim wasn't so bad, but the sharks were annoying.*
    *Sharks!*
    This time she did laugh as her head broke the surface, the water pulling her dripping hair back off her face. *I'm kidding about the sharks.* Bobbing up and down the swells, salt burning in the cut across her back, she turned until she could see the battle raging on the two ships. Although she thought she could hear the Fancy's armsmaster yelling orders, she had no way of knowing who was winning.
    *If the garrison was by the ocean, why didn't you know what a bowsprit was called?*
    *Because it wasn't important; we had too many other things to learn, and a ship has no throat to slit. I guess we should go back and…*
    Large hands closed around Vree's waist and dragged her under. Released her, grabbed her shoulders, and pushed her deeper. As the water closed over her head, she fought a heartbeat's panic, then pointed her toes and pushed up against the water, trying to go deeper still. It almost worked. Her attacker lost his grip on her shoulders but caught a painful handful of her hair.
    Taken by surprise, her lungs were nearly empty. She needed to breathe.
    Most assassins died after taking out their targets, success having made them careless.
    Her chest burned. A primal panic clawed at the inside of her mouth and throat.
    The sea closed around her ribs and squeezed, trying to force her to inhale.
    Through slitted eyes, she could see a huge, dark shape in the water above her.
    Facing her.
    Throwing the strength of arms and shoulders into a backstroke, she drew her legs up and, knees touching her own forehead, drove both feet past his arm and slammed them up under his jaw. Pulling herself over and around, she sucked in great lungfuls of air as her face broke the surface and finished the circle, coughing, gasping, with an unnecessary dagger in her hand.
    *I think you crushed his throat.*
    Forcing her breathing to slow, Vree sheathed the dagger and started swimming for the ships, ignoring the choking, thrashing pirate just over an arm's length away.
    *Aren't you going to finish him?*
    *He's finished. And I'd rather not put more blood into the water.* Arms and legs growing heavier with every heartbeat, all she wanted to do was get back on board the Fancy before the last of her energy gave out.
    *I don't understand why they're carrying on like this.*

    Through Vree's eyes, Gyhard watched as the crew of the Gilded Fancy celebrated by lantern light. The captain'd had two casks of sweet Imperial wine brought up on deck and most of the toasts drunk had been to Vireyda Magaly, the savior of the ship. Gyhard could feel her confusion and recognized its source. While any of the Seven Armies might rejoice at the removal of an enemy commander—for the lack of a battle no lives were lost—they'd been trained to make no fuss over the assassin who, after all, had only been doing her job. But Vree was no longer in the Imperial Army and she'd just done the impossible. *You've never worked with an audience before. Usually, the people who see you don't survive the experience.*
    She shifted uneasily. *So?*
    *So, you do impressive work.* He remembered the first time he'd seen her kill; by the time he'd thought she should start moving, it was all over. Her concentration, he'd just discovered, was as complete as it appeared—nothing got in her way. Fueled by that concentration, her speed was terrifying. If he ever took control of her body, the difference would be night and day, her deadly grace lost. If he ever took control of her body ... He buried the thought as deeply as possible, lest she feel it.
    He'd wanted to remind her back when she'd been worrying over how assassins couldn't feel, that she wasn't an assassin any more. Except that only an Imperial assassin with years of brutal training both mental