Jason Weiser

By the time she made it downstairs and across the garden, the cloaks had long since melded back into the shadows, and Pedro lay alone, his breathing relaxed at the sight of her face.

Doña's tears mingled with the blood on the edges of his mouth as it curled into its final smile.

The manhunt was underway, Doña's father tried to tell her, to comfort her.

To her eyes, though, he could hardly hide his elation that the problem of the previous day had been dispatched in the night by what seemed to be two common thieves.

Manhunt was a strong word.

It was obligatory that the governor would demand justice for this family of lesser nobility, but Pedro's remaining relation, an elderly uncle, didn't have the power or sway necessary to compel any posse to confront the two armed assailants or the cash on hand to reward them if they did.

Pedro's line was over.

and his house would be devoured by one of the others, a sad tale underlining the necessity of knowing your place in this world.

Dunya was inconsolable for one hour.

Her parents had found her in the garden and raised the alarm, sending word of the murder to the authorities.

Afterward, Dunya told her parents she would go to her room, and they agreed that that was best.

She did go to her room, but not straight there.

She went to the cellar, to her father's old chests, from his soldier days.

Well, his officer days.

Men of his station weren't in the press of fighters, dodging lances poking through shields or bullets raining from a smoky hilltop.

Instead, he sat on a horse and yelled orders to the men who yelled orders to the men on the ground.

The sword, as such, was pristine.

The only mark on his cloaks and accoutrements were moths and rust.

Finding his blunderbuss, she scraped together enough rounds that, should she get in a fight, ammunition wouldn't make the difference.

Grabbing a cap from the closet, she made her way back to her room.