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through armor by sheer momentum. An arrow from a longbow, as Malden had seen, could cut through it like paper.
    And then there was Acidtongue, the sword at his belt. If he could strike one solid blow with it, the sword could cut the knight in half.
    Yet that might be the stupidest thing he ever did. Atop the plate, the knight wore a long white tabard that hung down to his knees. Painted on the cloth was a golden crown. This wasn’t a knight errant like Croy, but a knight in full estate, a champion of the king of Skrae. Most likely he was the captain of the watch, superior in rank to all the Scars and Halberts in Helstrow.
    If Malden got lucky and cut the man down, he would be pursued unto the ends of the world. You did not kill a nobleman and get away with it, not ever.
    He could, of course, run away. The knight seemed agile enough, even weighed down with so much steel, but Malden knew he would undoubtedly be fleeter and the chase would not go far. He turned around, intending to do this very thing, only to find he had hesitated a moment too long.
    Coming down the street from the other direction, a pack of kingsmen were advancing on him steadily. Their weapons were all pointed straight at his belly. They held their ground, not advancing with any kind of speed—clearly they intended to let the knight handle him. Yet there was no chance of getting past that wall of blades. His only possible escape was to get past the knight.
    Malden wasn’t the type to pray, even in extremity, but he called on Sadu then. Sadu the Bloodgod, the leveler, who brought justice to all men in the end, even knights and nobility. Then he drew his magic sword, and wished he’d bothered to learn how to swing it correctly. Or at least to hold it properly. Acid dripped from the eroded blade and spat where it struck the dusty cobbles.
    The knight swore, his voice echoing inside his helmet. “By the Lady! Where’d you get that treasure, son? Did you steal it from Sir Bikker?”
    Malden’s eyes narrowed. How could the knight know who had first owned Acidtongue? “Bikker is dead,” he said.
    “But yours wasn’t the hand that slew him, I warrant. You’re no Ancient Blade.”
    For the first time, Malden looked on the knight’s own sword. No jewels decorated the pommel, and the quillions were of plain iron, though well polished. The blade was not even particularly long. Yet vapor lifted from its flat to spin in the air, and patterns of frost crackled in its fuller.
    “Do you recognize my sword?” the knight asked.
    “Judging by the fact I’m still in one piece, I think it’s fair to say I haven’t made its acquaintance.”
    The knight laughed. “This is Chillbrand,” he said. “You’d know that, if Acidtongue was rightfully yours. No Ancient Blade is handed down to a new wielder until he’s been trained by the man who wielded it before him. He’s taught its proper use, and about the history and powers of all seven. None of us would ever let one of the swords fall into the hands of one who didn’t appreciate their traditions.”
    “I’m still being trained,” Malden said, which was true enough.
    The knight shook his head, though. “If you don’t know Chillbrand, you have no right to bear Acidtongue. I must assume you stole it from Bikker—or looted it from his dead body. Put the sword back in its sheath now and lay it gently on the ground. That’s a good boy.”
    Malden’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he roared as he ran at the knight. He brought Acidtongue up high over his shoulder—vitriol pattered and burned holes through his cloak—and then swung it down hard.
    The knight laughed, and easily batted Acidtongue away with Chillbrand.
    “It’s not a quarterstaff, son,” the knight said, taking two steps to Malden’s right, forcing Malden to whirl around to face him again. “Don’t swing it around like a stick. That’s a waste of its strength. Cut with it. Like you’d chop the head off a fish.”
    “You’d teach me