“With training.” She shrugged. “There are classes. I took one once, learned how a small woman throws a big man.”
Martin doubled over first. Osbern clutched the rail. Wat collapsed onto the ground as if wounded. Even Hob, Hob who had seen battle and famine and Thomas in a temper, laughed so hard he had to brace one hand on the post.
Alyson, not entirely sure why everyone was laughing, but unwilling to be left out, giggled into her cake.
Amelia was starting to understand why Thomas scowled and stomped about.
“Oh,” she said. “So that’s the reaction we’re having.”
Hob wiped his eyes. “Forgive me, mistress. You took a class.”
“Yes.”
“In throwing big men.”
“Yes.”
“With what? Faery magic?”
“Leverage.”
“Leverage,” Osbern wheezed, as if she had said dragon feathers.
Thomas hadn’t laughed.
Amelia glanced at him and found him watching her with an unreadable expression, arms still crossed, head slightly tilted. Not mocking. Not exactly believing either. Assessing. That was worse.
“Let me understand,” Hob said when he could speak again. “A little thing like you was taught to throw a man like me.”
“Not like you,” Amelia said.
He looked smug.
“A man like you would probably require a follow-up maneuver.”
Hob put a hand to his chest. “She wounds me.”
“You’d survive.”
“Aye, but would my pride?”
“Unclear.”
Wat scrambled up. “Show us.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I enjoy having all my limbs in their current arrangement.”
Martin spread his arms. “You may throw me.”
Amelia looked him over. “Absolutely not.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes.”