“To what purpose?” I sensed the trap but not its shape, and so reined in the way an outrider might ahead of his column, the horse frightened by the stink of men lying in ambush. But the question was itself a game, and there was no danger in it. “To win.” Gibson slapped my leg with his cane, as though he were a grandmother and I an unruly boy. “Kwatz!” He scowled. “Winning. Nobody wins for long. You need something better.”
