“Good day to you, Saghad fer Landreg,” the redheaded man said casually.
Ambros looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Bidis fer Holm. Saghad fer Haugh.” He directed the glare that went with the Saghad title at the oldest newcomer. For the youngest of them, Ambros spared only a sniff of disdain. He spoke to Sandry, though his eyes never left the men in front of them. “Behold the least savory of the so-called nobles who haunt your borders in search of easy pickings. Saghad Yeskoy fer Haugh is uncle to Bidis Dymytur fer Holm and father to that young sprig of a rotten family tree.”
“Ah, but Dymytur is your eternal slave, fair Clehame,” the redheaded man said, bowing mockingly in the saddle. “Now, which of you wenches would that be? Please tell me it’s not the fat one, Ambros. Fat redheads always spell trouble in our family—look at my mother. I suppose I could cut this one back on her feed, get her a little less padded.”
Tris sighed and leaned on her saddlehorn. “I wouldn’t touch you to kick you,” she told him rudely, her brain working rapidly. Ambros must think I’m worn out from the river, she thought. Oh, dear. I suppose a little surprise won’t hurt him. He really ought to know that Sandry isn’t a helpless maiden. Now seems as good a time as any for him to learn.
“You’re going to try that thing, aren’t you?” demanded Sandry, her eyes blazing. “You’re going to try and kidnap me and force me to sign a marriage contract so you’ll get my wealth and lands.”
“Oh, not try, dearest, wealthy Clehame,” Dymytur assured Sandry. “We’re going to do it. Your party has eight swords, and we have twenty.”
“Isn’t that just like a bully,” Sandry replied shortly. “You think you have a sword, so you don’t have any vulnerabilities. Out of my way!” she ordered the guards.
They hesitated long enough to infuriate Sandry. Before she could shout at them, Tris said, “Do as she says, please.”
The guards flinched at the sound of her voice. When they looked at Sandry and met her glare, they reluctantly kneed their horses to either side to open a passage for her. Ambros lunged forward to grab Sandry’s rein and missed. “Are you Emelanese mad?” he demanded coldly, his cheeks flushed.
“No, we aren’t,” Tris told him quietly. “We know precisely what we’re doing.”
Sandry rode forward until her mount stood between those of two guards.
“I’m not going with these people,” Sandry replied, her blue eyes fixed on her would-be kidnappers. “I can’t abide men who don’t dress properly.”
Tris saw the billow of silver fire that passed from Sandry to strike the three nobles in front of them. It spread to their followers, jumping from man to man, until it formed a ring that passed through them all. For a moment it seemed as if nothing had happened. The only sound was the wind over the grasslands around them.
Then a man yelped. He wore a leather and metal plate jerkin over his heavy tunic. Now the tunic collapsed into pieces, squirmed out from under the leather, and fell to the ground. Another man in Tris’s view grunted as his breeches fell apart at the seams and wriggled off. The tunic under the youngest noble’s breastplate also went to pieces and crawled away, while the cloak tied around his neck disintegrated into a heap of threads. Yeskoy hitched his chin, as if trying to adjust the shirt under his armor. Instead, a cloud of threads trickled from his sleeves and the hem of his armor, like milkweed down.
“Maybe if you had women you didn’t treat as slaves, your clothes would hold up better,” Sandry continued, her hands white-knuckled on the reins. “Oh, but look. Your leather workers don’t do very well, either.”
Now the stitches on the leather tunics gave way, as did the stitching that secured each metal scale to the leather beneath it. Leather breeches came apart at the seams; boots fell to the ground in pieces.
“I doubt their saddlers like them, either, Clehame,” remarked one of the guards.
All the stitchery in the saddles, tack, and saddle blankets was unraveling. Men slid to the ground, reins in their hands, stumbling as they landed in piles of leather and cloth. Their belts gave way as Sandry’s thread magic called to the stitches that held the buckles in place. Leather-wrapped weapon hilts came apart in their owners’ fists. By the time Sandry was done, twenty naked men surrounded them. Only a few still held the better-made swords. Even the binding that secured the double-headed ax to its haft came apart, leaving Dymytur to scrabble for the sheathed sword that lay among his belongings. The horses fled, unnerved by the feel of things coming apart on their sensitive backs.
“I’d surrender if I were you,” yet another of Sandry’s guards advised. “She’s been nice. She hasn’t asked the redhead to look after you. The redhead isn’t at all nice.”
“I’ve been working on it,” complained Tris.
Ambros looked at the ring of naked men. “Do you know, I would have thought that, for a mission to kidnap a young girl, you’d all be better…equipped.”
“That’s why we needed her, curse you!” snarled Yeskoy. “A plumply dowered heiress—do you think one of the imperial pretty boys will serve you any better, Viymese Clehame?” Although he was covering his private parts, he still managed to look fierce. “You’d best get it into your head, magic or no, you’ll be married soon enough. You won’t hold your nose so high when you’ve a belly full of brats and you’re locked up in someone’s country castle while he prances for the empress!”