[narrative] but from what wound it wells so far i have not found
Just as he told his wife, Martel has no intention of going into battle - if it should become necessary, he's willing, but the Arums have an able commander already. He serves another purpose, and even if chafes at him to be cloistered in the ducal palace playing at diplomat when he could be on a horse with a sword drawn- that's not what he's there for, and he knows it. Nitral, the Duke, is unusually well-liked by Martel's closest Arum compatriot and he's along less because Koleika can't get along with him and more to save time and hassle all around. The iron-jawed chief had put it bluntly: "You like to talk, Martel. I don't. You can do the talking."
It's not terrible, anyway; the city is everything Koleika promised him that it'd be and when they're not translating Arum work ethic into something the rest of the Duke's command can actually understand, Martel takes the opportunity to acquaint himself with this brilliant architect conveniently born into just the position to indulge his passion. He can relate, and they're right, really; he has always liked the sound of his own voice. There's another reason he's here - to get a feel for how they do things, to get these people used to dealing with him - and the fact that they don't need to discuss that is just one of the reasons that Martel so admires his friend.
Wenos can't pay the high prices that the Arum clans demand for their soldiers, and Martel expects to be leaving the city in plenty of time to take care of the little problem he has Ewar keeping an eye on for him. It doesn't work out that way, of course; it never does.
Wenos may not be able to afford to pay for an entire Arum force, but they can find the funds to try cutting off the head of the snake; Martel is pacing his guest chamber in sleeping trousers when he hears the tell-tale choked gurgle outside in the hall, interrupting his reading. The guards are dead, he judges, and Nitral and his duchess lie sleeping across the hall. The decision to pick up the knife he'd been cleaning and sharpening earlier is an easy one to make, and he nudges the door ajar to get an idea of where they are before shoving it suddenly open with a satisfying crack against the back of the first man's skull.
The first one down draws the other two in his direction - it's a short, ugly fight and a kick in the back has Martel slamming face first into the wall unexpectedly. He and the assassin behind him simultaneously misjudge each other; the knife slices his back open instead of stabbing through his ribs when he pushes his hands against the wall and slams himself backwards, knocking the other man off-balance and snagging that knife in one, smooth movement-
-it embeds in the back of the last man's neck, bringing him down to his knees in front of Nitral's door even as Martel crushes the second man's windpipe under his bare foot, leaning hard- hard- harder, when he falls, his knees buckling underneath him as he realizes only belatedly, when the fracas in the hallway summons the Duke with his own sword out, that the sting of the blade hadn't been entirely the fault of the steel.
His vision swims and then, mercifully, he passes out.