went on. ‘I came to buy information from you,’ Samlor said, and he slurped a
mouthful from the bottle.
The mask did not move. An index finger lifted minusculely for the chopping
motion that would have ended the interview. Samlor spat the fluid in his mouth
across the desk, splattering the topmost ledger and the lap of the seated man.
The hawk-masked leader lunged upward, then froze as his motion made the lamp
flame gutter. There was a dagger aimed at Samlor’s ribs from one side and a
long-bladed razor an inch from his throat on the other; but the Cirdonian knew,
and the guards knew … and the man across the desk most certainly knew that,
dying or not, Samlor could not be prevented from hurling the bottle into the
lamp past which he had spat so nearly.
‘That’s right,’ said Samlor with the bottle poised. ‘Naphtha. And all I want to
do is talk to you nicely, sir, so send your men away.’
While the leader hesitated, Samlor hawked and spat. It would take days to clear
the petroleum foulness from his mouth, and the fumes rising into his sinuses
were already giving him a headache.
‘All right,’ said the leader at last. ‘You can wait below, boys.’ He settled
himself carefully back on his stool, well aware of the stain on his tunic and
the way the ink ran where the clear fluid splashed his ledgers.
‘The knife,’ said Samlor when the guard who had disarmed him started to follow
his fellow through the trap. An exchange of eyes behind masks; a nod from the
leader; and the weapon dropped on the floor before the guard slipped into the