The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger of his left hand. The Falconer screamed. ‘That’s Nazca,’ said Locke. ‘Remember Nazca?’ He swung down again; the ring finger rolled in the dirt, and blood spurted. ‘That’s Calo,’ said Locke. Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony. ‘Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little footnotes to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up – this one’s Bug. Actually,
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THIS IS SO SUPREMELY SATISFYING
