“Not all that much,” I responded.
“We don’t really know how long this is going to take me, though,” he went on. “Supposing it drags out a bit? Or supposing something happens to really slow me down?”
I gave him a quick glance.
“Like, what have you got in mind?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’m just supposing. Okay? I like to plan ahead. Say we get delayed on this attack…”
“All right. Say that,” I said, as we neared my door.
“What I’m getting at,” he continued, “is, what if we get there too late? Supposing we arrive and your brother has already undergone the ritual that turns him into hell on wheels?”
I unlocked my door, opened it, and held it for him. I did not like entertaining the possibility he had just described, because I recalled my father’s stories of the times he’d encountered Brand and faced that uncanny power.
Luke stepped inside. I snapped my fingers and a number of oil lamps came to life, their flames dancing for a moment before settling to a glowing steadiness.
Jasra was there in plain sight before him, holding a number of my garments on outstretched arms. I was concerned for a moment as to what his reaction might be.
He halted, studying her, then advanced, his speculations concerning Jurt forgotten. He regarded her for perhaps ten seconds, and I found myself growing uncomfortable. Then he chuckled.
“She always like being decorative,” he said, “but to combine it with being useful was generally beyond her. You’ve got to hand it to Mask, even though she probably won’t catch the moral of it.”
He turned away and faced me.
“No, she’ll probably wake up mean as cat piss and looking for trouble,“ he reflected. Then, “She doesn’t seem to be holding that cloak you mentioned.”
“I’ll get it.”
I moved to an armoire, opened it, and fetched out a dark fur one. As we traded, he ran his hand over it.
“Manticore?” he asked.
“Dire wolf,” I said.
I hung his within and closed the door while he donned mine.
“As I was saying when we came in here,” he offered, “supposing I don’t come back?”
“You weren’t saying that,” I corrected.
“Not in so many words, “ he admitted. “But whether it’s a small delay or the big one, what difference does it make? The point is, what if Jurt goes through with the ritual and succeeds in obtaining the powers he’s after before we can do anything about it? And supposing I’m not around right then to give you a hand?”
“That’s a lot of supposing.” I said.
“That’s what separates us from the losers, man. Nice cloak.”
He moved toward the door, glanced back at me, at Jasra.
“Okay,” I said. “You go down there, Dalt cuts off your head and uses it for a football, then Jurt shows up ten feet tall and farting fire. I’m supposing. How does that separate us from the losers?”
He stepped out into the hall. I followed him, snapping my fingers again, leaving Jasra to the darkness.
“It’s a matter of knowing your options,” he told me, as I secured the door.
I fell into step beside him as he headed back down the hall.
“A person who acquires that kind of power also picks up a vulnerability, by way of its source,” he said.
“What dows that mean?” I asked.
“Specifically, I don’t know,” he told me. “But the power in the Keep can be used against a person who is empowered by the Keep. I learned that much in Sharu’s notes. But Mom took them away before I read them all, and I never saw them again. Never trust – that’s her motto. I think.”
“You’re saying…?”
“I’m saying that if something happens to me and he comes up a winner in this game, I believe she knows some special way of destroying him.”
“Oh.”
“I’m also pretty sure that she’ll have to be asked very nicely.”
“Somehow, I think I already knew that.”
He gave a humorless chuckle.
“So you tell her that I’ve ended the vendetta, that I’m satisfied, and then offer her the citadel in return for her help.”