he sat shaking by the locked well-mouth while the slime of the tunnel dried on
his skin. A stray pickpocket, passing by, made the sign against madness and
scuttled away. He heard a whistle and then the clink of a sword as a Hell-Hound
passed the mouth of the alley, but he supposed he looked like nothing human,
crouching there.
“Limner, are you there?”
Lalo jumped, hearing the voice so close to him. The wood of the shaft-top
shuddered as it was struck from below, and Lalo leaned on the bar. Hanging from
the rungs by one hand, there was no way Zanderei could gain enough leverage to
break free. That was what Lalo had heard in dark tales whispered by childhood
friends, and later, overwinecups in the Vulgar Unicorn. If he lived, he too
would have a tale to tell. …
“Assassin, I am here and you are there and there you will stay,” croaked Lalo
when the dull hammering finally stilled.
“I will give you gold-I have never broken my word . . . You could establish
yourself in the capital.”
“I don’t want your gold.” I don’t even want to go to Ranke, his thought
continued, not anymore.
“I will give you your life…” said Zanderei. “Coricidius won’t believe you,
you know, and the Hell-Hounds will have your skull for a drinking bowl. At the
very least they will strike off your hands …”
Involuntarily, Lalo’s fingers clasped protectively around his wrists, as if a
bright blade were already descending. It was true-surely he had lost all he had
ever gained. Better to meet Zan-derei’s knife than to live without being able to