When Garrin was first learning how to use a sword, his tutor told him never to attack unless he had a plan. “Once you know more,” he’d said. “You can react from instinct. But until then, only move when you know what you’re going to do.”

Garrin had a plan when he swung at Othe, but it mostly amounted to try to hit him. He’d hoped his sudden movement would take them off-guard, and at first it seemed to. He hit Othe in the jaw with a punch that hurt Garrin at least as much as it had hurt his opponent. Othe stumbled, giving Garrin the chance to swing at the man beside him, and then the other two were grabbing his shoulders and wrestling him away. Garrin got one arm free long enough to undo the clasp on his cloak, then twisted out from under it so the men were left holding onto the fabric instead of him. He chanced another punch into the group and felt his knuckles connect with a nose.

He couldn’t see Arya. She must have gotten away, because all four of the men who’d stopped them were now surrounding him. And if she’d gotten away, he only had to keep this up for a few more minutes before attempting to join her.

A fist slammed into his ribs, doubling him over and driving the breath from his lungs. He gasped, scrambling to hold on to one of the men, and felt a boot drive into the back of his knee. An elbow struck him in the back of the shoulder, and he tumbled into the snow.

“Not bad, little bird,” Othe said, rubbing his jaw. “Umbren, go after the girl. Make sure she doesn’t—”

Garrin lashed out with his foot, catching Othe’s shin and knocking him back a step. It wasn’t enough to push him over, but it was enough to reclaim his attention. “Sell the cloak if you want money,” Garrin growled. “Or take me. Those are your only choices.”

“And how do you figure you’re going to stop us?” Othe asked.

Garrin pushed himself to his knees, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning as pain shot through his ribs. “I know the king,” he spat.

He’d hoped for hesitation—maybe a worried glance or two—but Othe only laughed. “Of course you do, dressed like that. But does the king know each of his nobles?”

“He knows me,” Garrin said. His eyes went to Umbren, who had paused at Garrin’s words. “And he knows the lady. If anything happens to us, he’ll—”

“Guards!” hissed one of the other men. “Listen!”

They stilled long enough to hear the tramp of feet and the clang of metal. Othe sighed. “It’s your lucky day, little bird. Come on, boys. We’ll try our luck elsewhere.”

Garrin climbed to his feet as they hurried away, breathing between clenched teeth and searching for his saviors. None came. The metallic clatter continued, but never seemed to get any closer. After a few moments, Garrin shuffled in the direction of the noise and turned into an alley, frowning as the sound amplified in the narrow space.

It wasn’t guards. It was Arya, stomping on a crate and banging two empty barrel lids together. The metal band around the lids was the source of the metallic sound he’d mistaken for armor, though looking at the scene now, he couldn’t imagine anyone had fallen for such a simple trick.

He slumped against the wall, arm wrapped around his ribs. “They’ve gone. You can stop now.”

“So sullen?” Arya asked, dropping the lids and stepping carefully off her crate. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed at having been saved by a woman?”

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He spat out a trickle of blood; he must have bitten his tongue during the fight. “What’s there to be embarrassed about?” he asked. “You’re the smartest person in the city—probably the country—possibly the continent. There’s no shame in being saved by someone like you.”

But he was ashamed. Not that Arya had saved him, but that he hadn’t put up a better fight. He’d taken more hits than he’d given, and even the ones he’d landed had hurt him in return. His knuckles were bruised, his ribs felt broken, and all he had to show for it was a princess who hadn’t needed saving.

Well, that part wasn’t so bad. Arya had faced the danger bravely and kept her wits about her, and rather than flee to save herself, she’d stayed behind to help him. Those were the qualities of a true hero. He couldn’t begrudge her for having them.

He only wished he had a few as well.

Arya’s eyes were still on him, so he cleared his throat and turned back to the street. “Let’s go. But I think we’ll take the main streets to the cemetery.”

She moved to join him and frowned. “You still want to go to the cemetery?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes.” She stared at him a moment longer and then stepped into the street, bending to retrieve his cloak. “I just want to see something.”

He did his best to settle it over his shoulders without wincing. “Check what?”

“A name.”

“What name?”

Arya settled the hood back over her hair, huddling into her cloak while Garrin adjusted his. “Just... a name. I’ll tell you if I find it.”

He sighed. “Fine. Come on, we’ll go this way.”

For once she didn’t argue as he led the way up the street, seeking out the center of the city and, more importantly, witnesses. The cemeteries were mostly located in the old town, but the paths leading to them were better traveled than the alleys and ruins they’d passed through. So much for my sense of adventure, Garrin thought bitterly.

He shook his head and forced the muscles in his face to relax. This wouldn’t do. One failed scuffle didn’t mean he couldn’t be an adventurer—it just meant he needed to train more before going off on his own. Or he needed to wear a sword when he came to Gillesport. Either way, it didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own, only that he hadn’t this time. There was still plenty of time to learn and prove himself.

What would his tutors do if he asked them to teach him brawling rather than swordsmanship?

“Here,” Arya said, leading him through an arched iron gate into a low-walled cemetery. Garrin followed her wordlessly, glancing at the gravestones with little interest. This was one of the old cemeteries, with graves dating back to Gillesport’s beginning. Arya moved between them as if she knew where she was going, striding without hesitation in a place that would have made most ladies cling to his arm as they passed.

After a few minutes of wandering, she paused before a flat stone pressed into the earth and almost completely covered with snow. Kneeling, she brushed aside as much of the snow as she could and looked up at Garrin, her expression masked. “Can you read the name?”

He leaned over her. “Anarya Ellysen. Never heard of her.”

“No,” Arya muttered. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Who was she?”

Arya stood and wiped her hands on her cloak. “Anarya Ellysen was one of the first Architects. That’s all I know about her. Just a name and that she’s buried here in Gillesport.”

“An Architect?” Garrin echoed. “Women can’t be Architects.”

“Not anymore,” Arya answered.

“But...” Garrin frowned as he studied the plain, overgrown gravestone. “If she was an Architect, she should have been buried in the castle grounds. Especially if she was one of the first.”

Arya crossed her arms. “Yes.”

“Then... why wasn’t she?”

A mischievous gleam sparked in Arya’s eyes, and a wave of foreboding crashed over Garrin. “You said you wanted adventure. Do you want mystery too?”

No. Not if it had captured Arya’s interest—whatever it was would only cause trouble. This mystery of hers had already left him bruised and battered, and it had only involved a walk into the city. He should turn his back on this whole affair now, while he still could.

And yet... a female Architect stricken from history, her grave abandoned and neglected... it wasn’t the kind of story Garrin could ignore. And judging by the look on Arya’s face, she knew it.

Well, he wasn’t about to make it easy for her. “I’ll think about it,” he said lightly. “And I’ll think about it more seriously if you help me with something first.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

“Help me find someone who can teach me to fight.”