matted, dark hair, doing nothing to improve it.
“Name,” he demanded when she stood still again.
“Cythen.” Her voice was remarkably pleasant for one so callused.
“You use a sword?”
“Well enough.”
“A lad’s sword, not a man’s, I suppose.”
Cythen’s eyes flashed from the insult. “I learned the sword from my father and
my brothers, my uncles and cousins. They gave me theirs when the time came.”
“And Jubal?”
“And you,” she stated defiantly.
Walegrin was impressed by her spirit-and wished he could hire her relatives
instead. “How have you survived since Jubal’s death-or don’t you think he’s
dead?”
“There’s not enough of us left for it to make a difference. We always had more
enemies than friends. The hawkmask days are over. Jubal was our leader and no
one could take his place, even for a few weeks. Myself, I went to the Street of
Red Lanterns-but it’s not to my taste. I was not always like this.
“I saw your man face down a Stepson-so I’ve come to see you and what you’re
worth.”
A man shouldn’t look at his prospective officer that way-not that she was
flirting. Walegrin felt she was trying to reverse their roles.
“Jubal was smart and strong-maybe not as smart and strong as he thought he was;
Temp us got him in the end. I put a high price on my loyalty and who I give it
to. What are your plans? It’s rumored you have hard steel. Who do you use it
for?”
Walegrin did not reveal his surprise; he just stared back at her. He had far
less experience than the slaver, fewer men and far less gold. Ranke, in the form
of Tempus, had brought Jubal down-what chance, truly, did he have? “I have the