hair, lengthy and lengthy of legs, and smoothshaven as a pair of doeskin
leggings. Hanse did not take his dark-eyed gaze off the Hell Hound, while his
dark hand moved out to close on the (black-bracered) wrist of the other young
man.
‘What colour would you say his beard is, Athavul?’
Athavul moved his arm and proved that his wrist would not come loose. His
arrogance and mask of cocky confidence fled him faster than a street girl fled a
man revealed poor. Tempus recognized Athavul’s chuckle; nervousness and sham.
Tempus had heard it a thousand or a million times. What was the difference? He
reflected on temporality, even while this boy Athavul temporized.
‘You going blind, Shadowspawn? You think myself is, and testing he and I?’ With
a harsh short laugh and a slap with his other hand on his own chest, Athavul
said, ‘Black as this. Black as this!’ He slapped his black leather pants – self
consciously.
Tempus, leaning a bit forwards, elbows on the little table, big swordsman’s
shoulders hunched, continued, to gaze directly at Hanse. Into Hanse’s eyes. His
face looked open because he made it that way. Beardless.
–
‘Same’s his hair?’ Hanse said, and his voice sounded brittle as very old
harness-leather. His eyes glittered.
Athavul swallowed. ‘Hair…’ He swallowed again, looking from Hanse to Tempus to
Hanse. ‘Ah … he’s your, ah, friend, Hanse. Let go, will you? You twit him
about his … head if you want to, but I won’t. Sorry I stopped and tried to be
civil.’
Without looking away from Hanse, Tempus said, ‘It’s all right, Athavul. My name