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I drove the point into Ferret’s shoulder and he too fell to the ground, but with considerably more screaming.
“Brilliant,” Brasti said, clapping his hands. “The caravan market—and I thought I was supposed to be the dumb one.” “Don’t worry,” Kest said evenly, “you still are.” “I thought you didn’t tell jokes.” “I don’t.”
“Now boys,” Brasti said, drawing back his bowstring, “if I see your friend with the pistol so much as hold his breath I’ll end him.
If Kest ever becomes a Saint, the transcendent expression of an ideal, he’s going to be Saint Kest-who-never-fucking-learns.
Unfortunately, my need to live up to his expectations of me has always been slightly stronger than my desire to punch him in the face.
I’m not sure if I killed the tavern master or not. It’s hard to say. There were so many people to kill, after all.
She was a beautiful woman, but beauty had long ago lost its hold on me.
I looked around and saw several nobles trying very hard to light me on fire with their cold stares.
“You go,” Brasti said, raising a cup in the air. “If I can’t take the Duke’s life then at least I can drink enough of his wine to make him hurt a little.”
The King walked over to me and put a hand on the side of my face. People always seem to do that when they want me to shut up and do something I don’t want to do.
I said that Lorenzo was outstanding with the blade, and he was. He’d likely never been beaten by anyone, ever. Well, I’ve been beaten plenty of times and there’s something to be said for it: it’s how you learn what’s truly at stake. The world isn’t a romantic stage play; it’s not all love or glory. And a sword fight isn’t always about skill or strength; sometimes—maybe even most times—it’s about who’s willing to take a blow just to make sure he delivers a worse one to his opponent.
“Everyone shut up,” I ordered. “Now, if you’re truly friends, you’ll do as I say. If you’re not, let’s get this over with. I haven’t killed anyone for several hours and I’m getting a cramp.”
I tried to reassure him that you were almost certainly dead, but for some strange reason he seems convinced that you’re unkillable.
“I have to be honest with you, Falcio,” he said softly, almost soothingly. “I used to look up to you—but now all I see is a man who is a little too old and a little too soft for this kind of work. I don’t think you have the fire in your belly anymore.” “Hey, Cunien,” Brasti called out. “I don’t suppose you have an ax, do you?” “What?” “Never mind.”
