‘Not a horse or a dog, Fitz, no. I’d never think of you that way. No. You’re a sword. So you were made to be, by me, a weapon to be wielded. And he thinks you fit his hand the best.’ The old man snorted in contempt. ‘The man is, still, a fool.’ He looked at me and nodded. ‘You were wise to tell me of his plans. It is good we shall be leaving him behind.’ There seemed nothing to say to that.
