it. They had slipped them off and set them there a pint of sweat ago, to
practice with blades alone. Now Hanse turned and drew and threw all in one
motion fluid as a cat’s pounce, arm going out long and down in fellow-through,
andthunk one of his damned knives appeared in Niko’s shield. It stood there,
quivering like a breeze-blown cat-tail.
Hanse pounced after it, all wiry and cat-lithe and dark.
He retrieved the knife, giving his wrist the little twist that plucked forth an
inch of flat blade from bossed wood capable of withstanding a good ax-blow.
Almost distractedly he slipped it back into its sheath up his right arm.
Hanse half-turned to flash teeth at his teacher-at-arms but not at knife
throwing, and he saluted. Then he turned and faded around the building and was
gone, although the sun was still orangey-yellow and the late-day shadows only
thinking about gathering to provide him his natural habitat.
“Shadowspawn,” Niko muttered, and went to retrieve his shield and seek out
Tempus. Deliver me from this insolent Ilsigi in his painful youth, Tempus? Take
away this bitter cup you have had me lift, and lift to my lips, and Irft?
Hanse moved away, wearing a tight little smile that really did not enhance his
looks.
He was proud. Pleased with himself. Too, he liked Niko. There was no way he
could not, and not respect him too, just as there was (almost, at least) no way
he could admit or show it.
He had let Tempus know he liked him while claiming to care about no one, and had
gone and got him out of the dripping hands of that swine, Kurd. Kurd the