‘Did Ath’s grace, or pity bring you back?’ ‘Neither.’ With clinical efficiency, Lysaer began to work the fisherman’s cloak into a sling. ‘There had better be a gate.’ Arithon stared up into eyes of cold blue. ‘Leave me. I didn’t ask the attentions of your conscience.’ Lysaer ignored the plea. ‘I’ve found water.’ He pulled the sword from the ruined flask and restored it to the scabbard at Arithon’s belt. ‘Your life is your own affair, but I refuse responsibility for your death.’
