The Merry Men Masquerade

22. Sir Porcelain

Funnily enough, Ronan's attention was so focused on Amir and his movement – he had stalked toward the carriage the moment the prince reached for the sword – that he noticed Amir's reaction before he registered the words behind it.

Except it wasn't funny at all, really.

Ronan watched as if in slow motion as Amir's whole body seemed to seize for a split second, watched the aborted half-turn of his head as if his first instinct was to glean Ronan's response to the revelation, and thought, belatedly,

Oh.

Of course.

Because it made sense. So much sense that when Ronan winced, it wasn't out of surprise, at least not the sort that came from learning something new. Instead, it was the somehow more familiar, somehow more shocking hurt of having been lied to.

Then he winced again, because Amir and the prince – Amir and his brother, Rainer and Nicholas, the prince and the prince – had skipped the formalities that Amir so insisted on whenever they sparred. Metal struck metal, and time sped back up.

An awful slicing sound tore through the early morning as the sword's downward arc caught against the curve of Amir's knife and the blades slid apart. Amir jumped back, but Nicholas followed him savagely, lunging into a thrust that just about stopped Ronan's heart. Amir barely sidestepped; the sword chased the movement.

Ronan knew at once that this was nothing like the last time he'd watched Amir raise a knife against a sword. This man was leagues above the guard they had faced the night of the Van Doren heist. The dagger Ronan had grown fond of, curved and wide with scratches in the steel, clashed with a broadsword he suspected bore the words SOW PRIDE, REAP PROSPERITY. And from where Ronan stood, it looked like the sword was winning.

Amir wasn't giving ground, but he wasn't gaining any, either. The disadvantage was clear: Nicholas had range on his side, and he was slashing too widely for Amir to get close. Grinning all the while, like this was still just a game and Amir stood no chance at all.

Ronan's blood boiled. He wanted to shout – at Nicholas for underestimating Amir, at Amir for going on the defensive–

A sharp clang harreled the fight into a half-second pause. Ronan saw his own shock mirrored on the prince's face as a new weapon entered the fray, seemingly from nowhere. He could have cried out his relief at the sight of a second knife in Amir's left hand, drawn from the opposite side of his belt without anyone noticing. Its blade was peculiar, split into three. A trident dagger, Amir had explained after their night at the castle.

With the sword caught between two of the prongs, Amir was able to slip in close, and the fight shifted.

With speed that had Ronan blinking out of focus, Amir darted in and out, launching quick jabs and slashes from his right hand and parrying on his left. Nicholas' smirk slipped with concentration, but the challenge only seemed to spur him on; his attacks became more precise and strategic. Immovable force, meet impenetrable wall.

Ronan struggled to track the movement, bracing himself each time the sword came too close for comfort, clenching his fists whenever the trident dagger clawed just right and he thought the prince would be disarmed.

All he could do was react.

Amir swiped at Nicholas' legs. Nicholas hissed and jumped back with little more than a tear in his pants. Ronan's fingers squeezed around the bag. Nicholas swung down; Amir crossed his knives to catch the blade before it could sink into his shoulder. Ronan tasted blood where he had bitten his lip. Amir landed a kick to the knee and Nicholas teetered off balance, but the prince recovered so quickly that Amir's follow-up almost landed a sword in his side. Ronan's lungs burned and he gasped out, realizing he'd been holding his breath.