portray.
Looks, then, were not to be what he was remembered for. His eyes drifted to the far side of the table, to the bottle long drained. His preferences in alcohol, too, had broadened to “anything short of embalming fluid, providing nothing else is at hand; past that, it’s all fine.”
He would not be remembered as a handsome man, then. Nor a man of liquids or songs. What else was left?
The glistening of steel answered. He looked at the blade, its edge everythinghe wasn’t: sharpened, honed, precise. An example, three fingers long and with a polished wooden hilt and a taste for blood.
Killing, then
.
“Are we doing this or what?” a growling voice asked.
That, he thought, and a way with women
.
He tilted the knife slightly. She was still there. He had hoped she wouldn’t be, though that might have been hard, given that she was bound to the chair. Still, less hard considering what she was.
Indeed, it was difficult to see how Semnein Xhai was still held by the rawhide bonds. They might have bit into her purple flesh, they might have been tied tightly by hands that were used to tying. Her arm might have been twisted and ruined, thanks to Asper. But that purple flesh was thick over thicker muscle, and his hands were shakier these days.
She stared at him in the blade, her eyes white and without pupils. Her hair hung about her in greasy white strands, framing a face that was sharp and long as the knife.
And looking oddly impatient
, he thought. Odder still, given that she knew full well what he could do with this. The scar on her collarbone attested to that. The fresh cut beneath her ribcage, shallow and hesitant, gave a less enthusiastic review.
He had been wearing a different mask that day, that of a man who had a better legacy than him, a man who was less good at killing. But he would do better today. He had people counting on him to find out information. That was a slightly better legacy.
Still killing, though
, his conscience said
.
Or did you think you were going to let her go after she told you what you wanted to know? Pardon, if she tells you
.
Not now
,
he replied
.
People are counting on me
.
Right, right. Terribly sorry. Shall we?
His face changed in the blade. His mask came back on. Dark eyes hard, jaw set tightly, twitching mouth stilled for now. Hands steadied themselves. He smiled into the blade: knife-cruel, knife-long.
Let’s
.
He held up the knife and regarded her through the reflection of its steel. Glass was fickle. Steel had a hard time lying. He knew what he was doing. He knew this should have been easier than it was.
One look into her long, purple face reminded him why it wasn’t. No fear in her reflection. Fear would have been easy to use. Contempt, too, would have been nice. Lust would have been passable, if weird. But what was on her was something hard as the rest of her, something impatient and unimpressed.
That was hard to work with. That hadn’t gotten any easier.
Not impossible, though
.
“And?” she grunted. “Any more questions today?”
“No,” he replied, voice as soft as the sunlight filtering through the reed walls. “I want to tell fairy tales today.”
No reply. No confusion or derision. She was listening.
She was also fifteen paces behind him.
“Old ones, good ones,” he whispered. “I want to tell the stories that mothers make crying children silent with. Handsome princes—” he paused, turned the blade, stared into his own eyes, “—ugly witches—” he ran his finger along the blade, felt it gently lick his flesh, “—pretty, pale princesses with long, silky hair.”
He shifted the blade, looked at her again. Three paces to the left.
“Was a quiet child,” he continued without turning around. “Mother didn’t tell me stories. Never cried. I had a friend, though, cried a lot. Probably why he didn’t think he was too old for fairy tales. Made him cry once … twice, maybe. Heard his mother tell him stories. All the same: evil
Looks, then, were not to be what he was remembered for. His eyes drifted to the far side of the table, to the bottle long drained. His preferences in alcohol, too, had broadened to “anything short of embalming fluid, providing nothing else is at hand; past that, it’s all fine.”
He would not be remembered as a handsome man, then. Nor a man of liquids or songs. What else was left?
The glistening of steel answered. He looked at the blade, its edge everythinghe wasn’t: sharpened, honed, precise. An example, three fingers long and with a polished wooden hilt and a taste for blood.
Killing, then
.
“Are we doing this or what?” a growling voice asked.
That, he thought, and a way with women
.
He tilted the knife slightly. She was still there. He had hoped she wouldn’t be, though that might have been hard, given that she was bound to the chair. Still, less hard considering what she was.
Indeed, it was difficult to see how Semnein Xhai was still held by the rawhide bonds. They might have bit into her purple flesh, they might have been tied tightly by hands that were used to tying. Her arm might have been twisted and ruined, thanks to Asper. But that purple flesh was thick over thicker muscle, and his hands were shakier these days.
She stared at him in the blade, her eyes white and without pupils. Her hair hung about her in greasy white strands, framing a face that was sharp and long as the knife.
And looking oddly impatient
, he thought. Odder still, given that she knew full well what he could do with this. The scar on her collarbone attested to that. The fresh cut beneath her ribcage, shallow and hesitant, gave a less enthusiastic review.
He had been wearing a different mask that day, that of a man who had a better legacy than him, a man who was less good at killing. But he would do better today. He had people counting on him to find out information. That was a slightly better legacy.
Still killing, though
, his conscience said
.
Or did you think you were going to let her go after she told you what you wanted to know? Pardon, if she tells you
.
Not now
,
he replied
.
People are counting on me
.
Right, right. Terribly sorry. Shall we?
His face changed in the blade. His mask came back on. Dark eyes hard, jaw set tightly, twitching mouth stilled for now. Hands steadied themselves. He smiled into the blade: knife-cruel, knife-long.
Let’s
.
He held up the knife and regarded her through the reflection of its steel. Glass was fickle. Steel had a hard time lying. He knew what he was doing. He knew this should have been easier than it was.
One look into her long, purple face reminded him why it wasn’t. No fear in her reflection. Fear would have been easy to use. Contempt, too, would have been nice. Lust would have been passable, if weird. But what was on her was something hard as the rest of her, something impatient and unimpressed.
That was hard to work with. That hadn’t gotten any easier.
Not impossible, though
.
“And?” she grunted. “Any more questions today?”
“No,” he replied, voice as soft as the sunlight filtering through the reed walls. “I want to tell fairy tales today.”
No reply. No confusion or derision. She was listening.
She was also fifteen paces behind him.
“Old ones, good ones,” he whispered. “I want to tell the stories that mothers make crying children silent with. Handsome princes—” he paused, turned the blade, stared into his own eyes, “—ugly witches—” he ran his finger along the blade, felt it gently lick his flesh, “—pretty, pale princesses with long, silky hair.”
He shifted the blade, looked at her again. Three paces to the left.
“Was a quiet child,” he continued without turning around. “Mother didn’t tell me stories. Never cried. I had a friend, though, cried a lot. Probably why he didn’t think he was too old for fairy tales. Made him cry once … twice, maybe. Heard his mother tell him stories. All the same: evil
Similar Books
