The dining hall is huge. Three chandeliers hang above the table at the two ends and the middle. All of the merchant observers sit in chairs, some servants standing between, at the edge of the room, and there’s still enough space for a three-across shield wall to march between the table and them.

  The Fisher says nothing. He begins twirling his net, avoiding slapping the table and observers with the weights at the end of the heavy rope. His face looks heavy, the skin drooping slightly, weighed down by time, and his classic turquoise-gold scale mail is now worn. But a part of me still wants it. Which feels wrong.

  But I get paid to do the wrong thing.

  I have a major advantage over the Fisher: I’ve seen him fight a half dozen times. And I know that he feints with either a net throw to nudge you into his spear, or vice versa. And that he’s a weak swordsman. If I can avoid his net, I will win.

  But this is a man who has made a living for decades ensnaring opponents in his ropes. I need to take him seriously.

  I unsheathe my longsword.

  “What are you waiting for? Let’s see you steel up, kid.” His throat sounds like it's full of gravel, his throat scarred from a wound. He has a light mace at his side, an abnormal weapon for him.

  They were planning for that. Hoping for it. Get me slower and in metal, netted, and then beat me like a tin can.

  Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Steel skin? That’s impossible,” I grin.

  The Fisher makes the first move, a step forward, a fake launch of the net. I honor the move, with a retreat backwards. I’m willing to toss my sword into the oncoming net if it will stop it.

  He lunges at me with his spear, and rather than step into the open space toward the wall, I roll under the table and pop up on the other side. The Fisher has a lot more fighting experience than I do, but I’ve had to fight in the chaos of the real world more, whereas he’s been in the open space of an orderly arena.

  And now, he was going to wear soup.

  I reach over the table to a giant bowl of scalding-hot, creamy, vegetable soup and, with no time to appreciate the aroma, flip it toward the Fisher. He manages to step slightly to the side, but his spear-side arm and leg are covered. Steam drifted up into the air.

  “You little scatling!”

  I rip off a drumstick from a small roasted bird, take a big bite, and toss the remains at the Fisher.

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  Some of the merchants laugh.

  The inefficient, cocky, unfocused fighting is unwise. But in this room are some of the richest people in Midway. This fight is as much about future business as it is the current contract.

  But now I’d pissed off a savy vet.

  The Fisher jumps onto the table and swings his net in an aggressive way, using the weights at the end like a flail of blunt weapons. Between the swinging net and the length of his spear, it’d be impossible for me to get in close.

  I need space.

  My father’s voice: Never leave your feet.

  Well, this time, I hope it’s acceptable to break that rule.

  I grip onto Riptide’s coin.

  Vashar.

  I push off the ground, as if swimming underwater, up to the wall, then again off the wall and over to the chandelier. I sheathe my sword, retrieve my bow.

  Gasps fill the hall. Some cheers.

  But Fisher just looks up at me with hatred.

  Let’s see what emotion he can express with an arrow between the eyes.

  I fire one, two, three arrows, quick, without even seeing if I hit anything.

  The Fisher spins his net so fast in front of him that each arrow buries in the tangle of ropes, none coming out of the other side.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” the Fisher says. Then, in a blur of beige, the net flies up at me at the chandelier, covering me like a spiderweb.

  As I struggle to free myself, his spear flies through the air right toward my gut. I’d rather not be spearfished.

  Jumping to the side, I don’t fall straight down, more like a float as the weights bring me toward the floor. I can’t free my longsword under the mesh, but my dagger is in my hand just in time to meet the Fisher, both his short sword drawn.

  The thick ropes would protect me from slashes, but not from his pierces. One arm comes through, but I shift just to the side, grab his wrist, and pull him in. He’s in this mess with me now. My dagger finds an opening in his side. Once, twice. He pulls away, falls to his knees, grabbing his midsection, my blade having found the gaps in his scales.

  I escape the netting, finally pulling it off of me over the top of my head.

  “Mercy!” It’s the leader of the Drowned House. Yes, he would want mercy, to protect his investment.

  But would they offer it to me? I think not.

  “No,” I say.

  My dagger makes one last cut across the Fisher’s throat. And if there’s any mercy, it’s that he died in just a few moments.

  Back at the Blood Coin headquarters, Uncle Thorne is all smiles.

  “We’ll be swimming in contracts soon,” he says.

  “It’s true,” I say. I add the contract earnings to the small amount on the ground. I also remove Riptide’s coin from my necklace, and replace it with my father’s again.

  A loud thumping comes through the vault door. Only Ulfgar could step so heavily.

  He has a black eye, and fresh cuts across his face. “Don’t forget about mine. Fresh coins straight from Malakar’s fingertips.” His coins jingle as they add to the pile.

  “What happened to you?” I ask.

  Ulfgar smiles with a gap between two teeth that wasn’t there before. “Oh, just out there making friends all across Midway. What else?”