Thieves World 5 – The Face of Chaos by Asprin, Robert

browed eyes. Haunted, yes; long habituated to terrors.

The commander indicated a chair and the one-time hawkmask limped to it and sat

down, staring at him from those dark eyes. The

nose was broken, scarred across the bridge; the fine mouth remained intact, but

twitched at times with an uncontrollable tic that might be fear – not enviable

was Mor-am’s state, nowadays, among latter-day Stepsons.

‘There’s a man,’ Dolon said at once, in a low, soft voice, ‘pinned to the White

Foal bridge tonight. How would this go on happening? Shall I guess?’

The tic grew more pronounced, spread to the left, scar-edged eye. The hands

jerked as well, until they found each other and clasped for stability.

‘Stepson?’ Mor-am asked needlessly, a hoarse thin voice: that too the fire had

ruined.

Dolon nodded and waited, demanding far more than that.

‘They would,’ Mor-am said, lifting his shoulder, seeming to give apologies for

those that had ruined him for life and made him what he was. ‘The bridge, you

know – they – h-have to come and go -‘

‘So now we and the hawkmasks have a thing in common.’

‘It’s the same t-thing. Hawkmasks and Stepsons. To t-them.’

Dolon thought on that a moment, without affront, but he assumed a scowl.

‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘it’s the same thing where you’re concerned. Isn’t it?’

‘I d-don’t t-take Jubal’s pay.’

‘You take your life,’ Dolon whispered, elbows on the desk, ‘from us. Every day

you live.’

‘Y-you’re not the same S-Stepsons.’

Now the scowl was real, and the moment’s sneer cleared itself from the man’s