“Good night and good sleep, young sir.”
Young sir. The peephole closed and a tight small smile came to the ex-slave’s
face; a fox’s smile. He stepped briskly off the porch with a light swirl of his
russet cloak and a wink of his sword-hilt in the starlight.
“Gods,” Stilcho said, “the ring- the ring, man-“
“Ah,” Haught said, pressing a hand to his breast. “Damn. I forgot it.” He looked
back at the door. “I can’t call them back-that wouldn’t impress them at all.”
“Dammit, what are you up to?”
Haught turned and extended a forefinger, ran it gently up the seam of Stilcho’s
cloak, and dragged him a safe distance from the door. “You forget yourself, dead
man. Do you need a lesson here and now? Cry put and I’ll teach you something you
haven’t felt yet.”
“For the gods’ sake-“
“You can be with me,” Haught said, “or you can resign this business here and
now. Do you want to feel it, Stilcho? Do you want to know what dying can be
like?”
Stilcho stepped away from him, his eye-patched face a stark pale mask under
black hood and black fall of hair. He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to
know.” There was a flash of panicked white in the living eye. “I don’t want to
know what you’re doing either.”
Haught smiled, not the fox’s smile now, but something darker as he closed the
distance between them a second time. He caught Stilcho’s cloak between thumb and
forefinger. “Do me a favor. Go to Moria’s place. Tell her expect one more for
dinner tomorrow; and wait for me there.”
“She’ll kill you.”
Moria was not the She Stilcho meant. There was terror in the single eye.