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Damn it, but he needed to piss. Always did, at a time like this.
“I’m not upset that you tried to kill me. But to make such a pathetic effort at it? We’re professionals, Morrow. It’s an insult, that you thought this might work.” “I’m hurt,” muttered Severard. “Wounded,” sang Vitari, chain jingling in the darkness. “Deethly othended,” grunted Frost, herding Morrow back towards the pen.
It was like the feeling of victory at the Contest, only it had involved considerably less work, and was that really such an awful thing? What harm could it do? Ninefingers and his humility be damned. Jezal had earned the attention. He plastered a radiant smile across his face. He lifted his arm with self-satisfied confidence, and began to wave.
You can never have too many knives, his father had told him. Unless they’re pointed at you, and by people who don’t like you much.
Most of us would rather have things stay as they are, than risk an uncertain future.
“I could have found a good man, but I chose you. I should have known better.” She reached up and touched his face, rubbed a tear from his cheek with her thumb. Just as she had when they parted before, in the park, in the rain. But then there had been the hope that they would meet again. Now there was none.
“Give me a reason not to do it.” The tears welled up and ran down the sides of his bloody face. “My birds,” he whispered. “Birds?” “There’ll be no one to feed them. I deserve it, sure enough, but my birds… they’ve done nothing.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Birds.
Their words tickled at his ears. “It’s him.” “Ninefingers.” “The Bloody-Nine!” A circle of fear, with him at the centre, and they were wise to fear.
You can have enemies you never really meet, Logen had plenty. You can kill men you don’t know, he’d done it often. But you can’t truly hate a man without loving him first, and there’s always a trace of that love left over.
“Just once. Just once I’d like to get the help before I’m at the point o’ getting killed.” “Better’n after.”
“Did you have to?” asked the Dogman. Logen shrugged. He hadn’t wanted it, but he was leader now. Always a disaster, but there it was, and a man in charge can’t have men putting questions. Just can’t have it. They come with questions first, then they come with knives.
A man can be fearless on his own doorstep, against enemies he understands, but take him long miles over the salty sea to strange places he never dreamed of, he’ll take fright at every empty doorway. And there were an awful lot of those, now.
Ferro Maljinn felt no fear, of course. But these were poor odds.
A pointless sort of a death, a long way from home. Not for anything he’d believed in, or understood, or stood to gain from. Nothing more’n a waste.
