Whiskeyjack lifted a trembling hand to his forehead. In the days and nights ahead, people would die by his command. He’d been thinking of that as the fruition of his careful, precise planning—success measured by the ratio of the enemy’s dead to his own losses. The city—its busy, jostling multitudes unceasing in their lives small and large, cowardly and brave—no more than a gameboard, and the game played solely for the benefit of others. He’d made his plans as if nothing of himself was at stake. And yet his friends might die—there, he’d finally called them what they were—and the friends of
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