real sword-slinger: he was a natural. Employment, a uniform … Hanse was not
interested. Indeed he sneered at soldiers, at uniforms. And now he hated them,
with a sort of unreasoning reason.
These things Cusharlain learned, and he began to know him called Shadowspawn.
And to dislike him. Hanse sounded the sort of too-competent young snot you step
aside for – and hate yourself for doing it.
‘Hanse is a bastard!’ This from Shive the Changer, with a thump of his fist on
the broad table on which he dealt with such as Hanse, changing loot into coin.
‘Ah.’ Cusharlain looked innocently at him. ‘You mean by nature.’
‘Probably by birth too. A bastard by birth and by nature! Better that all such
cocky snotty stealthy arrogant bravos were stillborn!’
‘He’s bitten you then, Shive?’
‘A bravo and a lowborn punk he is, and that’s all.’
‘Punk?’
‘Well … perhaps a cut above punk.’ Shive touched his mous-tachioes, which he
kept curled like the horns of a mountain goat. ‘Cudget was a damned good thief.
The sort of fellow who made the trade honourable. An art form. A pleasure doing
business with. And Hanse was his apprentice, or nearly, sort of … and he has
the potential of being an even better thief. Not man – thief.’ Shive wagged a
finger made shiny by wax. ‘The potential, mind you. He’ll never realize it.’ The
finger paused on its way back to stroke one moustachio.
‘You think not,’ Cusharlain said, drawing Shive out, pulling words from a man
who knew how to keep his mouth shut and was alive and wealthy because he did.