“What of your brother?”
“Old Ilsigi family.” Raif’s voice was quiet and small. The place, his “best” hideout, was cool, but Cade could smell the sweat on the boy. “That’s why I talked to you.” A pale hand waved in the strange light of the room. ‘The warbraid, I know it. I remember what it means. Not many left who do.”
“Your brother.”
“PFLS. Thought, well, we’re an old family.” The boy shrugged. “He beat up my father real bad when they sold my sister. He and I left. He didn’t make anything fighting, but we were fed. I ran errands. We worked Downwind, but my brother was due for a promotion.” The light reflected off the boy’s knife as he shifted to make himself more comfortable.
“The Sharp Side broke off when the Rankan god-warrior pressured Zip. Things split. My brother stayed loyal. Sharp Side slit his throat.” He leaned back on the wall behind him and waited.
Cade could think of nothing to say. How old was this boy? Fourteen? Fifteen? They aged fast in Downwind; Cade knew that well enough. His whole story told in quick, short sentences. No explanation, no anger, no nothing. Just a story. The same story as always. The tale of the damned.
“What was your brother’s name?”
“No name. They’re all dead.” And Cade knew that the boy included all his family in his statement. Cade sat unmoving. Behind him he heard the slow drip of water, the sound loud and monotonous. Time. It was time. Melting this pathetic refuge away. Until the boy was left standing in the sunlight. Alone. Sacrificed to the madness men thought of as life.