knives on his right arm is dangerous, and left-handed. And with a name like
Shadowspawn …!’
His name was not Shadowspawn, of course. True, many did not know or no longer
remembered his name. It was Hanse. Just Hanse. Not Hanse Shadowspawn; people
called him the one or the other or nothing at all.
He seemed to wear a cloak about him at all times, a thoughtful S’danzo told
Cusharlain. Not a cloak of fabric; this one concealed his features, his mind.
Eyes hooded like a cobra’s, some said. They weren’t, really. They just did not
seem directed outward, those glittering black onyxes he had for eyes. Perhaps
their gaze was fixed on the plank-sized chips on his shoulders. Mighty easily
knocked off.
By night he did not swagger, save when he entered a public place. Night of
course was Hanse’s time, as it had been Cudgel’s. By night … ‘Hanse walks like
a hungry cat,’ some said, and they might shiver a bit. In truth he did not. He
glided. His buskins’ soft soles lifting only a finger’s breadth with each step.
They came down on the balls of the feet, not the heels. Some made fun of that
not to Hanse – because it made for a sinuous glide strange in appearance. The
better-born watched him with an aesthetic fascination. And some horripilation.
Among females, highborn or otherwise, the fascination was often layered with
interest, however unwilling. Most then said the predictable: a distasteful,
rather sexy animal; that Hanse, that Shadowspawn.
It had been suggested to him that a bit of committed practice could make him a