Conash gazed across the desert, which the sunset's ruddy light burnished. Somewhere out there, across the sea of sand, was the verdant land of his birth. He sensed it, as if some remnant of his cat traits lingered, and he could almost smell its rich fecundity. After four years, it was a distant memory, tarnished and dim. The longing to return was the only thing that touched him now. The humiliation, beatings, endless insults and sneers did not touch him. There was nothing to touch; his heart was dead. Most of it had died with Rivan and his parents, the rest had perished with his sisters and younger brother.
A moon-phase after Ryana's death, Shinda had performed the same hopeless dance and fallen to the hot sand to lie still. A tenday after that, he had been given Orcal's body to bury. Only Alenstra's fate remained a mystery, but he assumed that she was dead too. A year after he had recovered from the fever that had killed his younger siblings, Sharem had sold him for a golden, as a salted slave. Now he belonged to a drunken reprobate named Arlec, who treated him far worse than Sharem had. He had not thought that possible until Arlec had bought him.
The sub commander was a cruel man who delighted in inflicting pain and humiliation. Several times, he had forced Conash to lick his boots clean, and twice, in drunken furies, he had thrown the boy down and threatened to kill him. Cotti men scorned buggery, but took immense pleasure in humiliating the Jashimari slave boys in the camp.
At sixteen, Conash was a willowy youth, and clearly the Cotti men found him attractive, especially when Arlec dressed him as a girl and paraded him at the gatherings. Conash always won the competitions, and had become a popular sport boy, forced to sit on the soldiers' laps and endure their lecherous pawing. Several men treated him with a good deal of kindness, gave him wine and stroked his hair. Although there were plenty of broken-down whores in the camp, none of them were especially pretty.
Sharem and Arlec had protected Conash's looks, since they profited from them, and he still had all his teeth. Arlec had purchased a pretty dress, and used water bags to fill the bodice, perfecting Conash’s costume. Newcomers were, at times, fooled by him, to the vast amusement of the veterans. His hair hung to his waist in a straight, silken fall, which Arlec insisted that he keep clean and brushed.
During the day, it was braided while he dug fresh latrine pits, carried stores, ran errands and polished armour. Arlec hired out his services to other officers, and a pile of tarnished armour always stood ready for him. In the evenings, he stood at Arlec's side and filled his wine cup, brought him meat from the fire and water to wash his hands. Most of all, he was Arlec's whipping boy, there to vent his anger upon whenever the urge took him. On those occasions, Conash would crouch and cower while Arlec punched, kicked and spat on him.
Arlec also enjoyed slapping Conash's face for the slightest excuse, and sometimes for no reason at all. The Cotti's big, rough hands hit hard enough to make Conash yelp and his eyes sting, the only time he ever cried out. Which was, he reflected, probably why Arlec enjoyed it so much. The powerful slaps made his skin burn for time-glasses, and now he flinched whenever anyone touched his face, a reaction that had become instinctive.
Conash stumbled forward when Arlec tugged on the thin chain, his conversation with another officer, which had caused him to stop, over. They were on their way to a gathering, and Conash wore the dress, his hair loose about his shoulders. New boys were brought to every gathering to compete, but as yet none had beaten him. After about two years of complete dispassion, Conash had rediscovered hate, and it fuelled his will to live, which had faded with the deaths of his sisters. He hated Arlec and Sharem, but then, he hated all of them. His mother's words rang often from his memory, and he treasured them. He had hardly spoken in four years, and was not certain he still could.
Arlec led him into the light, and the men greeted his arrival with mutters of admiration and derision. The fire was smaller than usual, and Conash surmised that there was a shortage of wood. The Cotti stole it from the borderlands, but it was precious.
One of his admirers came over and gave him a sip of wine, stroked his hair and pinched his cheek.
“You're going to win tonight, pretty boy,” he murmured. “I'd buy you, if only Arlec would part with you.”
Conash stared into the fire. Other boys were brought forward, and the competition began. He took no interest in it, although another of his admirers gave him several sips of wine when he won. The fire died down too soon, and the men grumbled. Arlec drank himself into a stupor and snored on the sand. Conash sat beside him, waiting to be taken back to the tent. A number of whores mingled with the crowd, and vanished into nearby tents every so often, to re-emerge dishevelled and battered.
The boy glanced down at Arlec, who gripped the end of the slender chain in a meaty fist, and it was also tied around his wrist. He needed to use the latrine, but Arlec was not going to be of any use in that regard. One of his admirers sat close by, and Conash edged over to him and touched his shoulder. The officer looked around, and Conash mimed his need. The man glanced at Arlec and grimaced, then put aside his wine cup and rose. Freeing the chain from Arlec's limp hand, he led Conash towards the nearest latrine pit.
While the boy was busy, a scream made the officer turn, then head towards the fire. Remembering Conash, he stopped and looked back.
“Stay here. Don't try to run, boy, you won't make it very far. I'll be back soon.”
The officer dropped Conash's chain and trotted towards the ruckus, which had escalated to shouting and the clash of weapons. The boy gazed across the undulating dunes, turning in the direction in which he was certain Jashimari lay. What did it matter if he died? It would be better than continuing this hopeless existence. It was, in fact, what he craved. What did he have to live for? Why did he persist in living? His heart was already dead, and bitterness and loathing steeped his spirit. The lure of his homeland drew him like a magnet.
Conash picked up the chain and walked into the desert. The night was moonless, so his tracks would be invisible. With Arlec comatose, no one would bother to hunt him. They knew he could not walk all the way to Jashimari.
The boy crawled. His legs had long since lost the strength to carry him. The sun cooked his back, and sweat dripped onto the sand in front of his face. The water in the bags that had filled his bodice had run out a day ago. His hair dragged in the sand, and the dress was worn to rags. The thin chain, which he had wrapped around his neck, weighed him down. The sand burnt his palms and clogged his nose. His arms were red and blistered and his breath rasped in a dry throat. He moved a hand forward, then a knee. One hand, one knee. The other hand, the other knee. The sand crept past his face.
Conash became aware that he was toiling up another dune. One of many. Countless, endless, unrelenting dunes. He hated dunes. He hated sand. He detested the desert and the Cotti and the dress in which he was clad. There was nothing he did not hate. He loathed the daytime heat and the cold at night. Everything deserved his fury. No one had helped him or cared about his fate. No one had saved him. He would save himself or die trying. How far had he crawled? How many man-lengths? How many days?
The pain of his burning palms and blistered skin goaded him. The agony of his raw throat and shrunken belly gave him strength. He could not lie down and die, the sand was too hot. He could not slake his thirst, there was no water. One hand, one knee. Dragging, sliding, burning. One hand, one knee. No one had helped him. He hated them all. They would all rot in Damnation. He crawled.
The sand crumbled under his palms, and he tumbled down a slope. Sand filled his mouth, but he could not spit it out, he had no spit. Pain flared from his raw skin, abraded by the sand. He rolled onto his stomach and levered himself onto his hands and knees. Crawl. One hand; one knee. Where was he going? He had forgotten. Somewhere. Anywhere. So much pain; so much hatred. It was all he had left. He was dead; his body just had not received the message yet. Soon it would, and then the pain would end. Rivan was waiting. Why did he struggle onwards?
The cat gazed at him from his memory, golden eyes aglow. A set of paw prints appeared in the sand before him, and he frowned at them. He raised his head. Rivan sat in the sand ahead, waiting for him. He crawled faster. Hand, knee, hand, knee, hand, knee. Flee flee flee flee. Why had he not listened? Rivan waited for him. He would reach the cat, then he would die in his familiar's warm presence. Rivan stood up and walked away.
Conash tried to call his familiar's name, but only a hiss came from his parched throat. Crawl faster. Hand knee hand knee hand knee. Move! Rivan waited ahead, watching him. Wait for me! I'm coming, Rivan. I'm coming. Soon. I'll get there. Hand knee hand knee. The cat rose and walked away. Conash gazed at him in despair. Wait! He could not go any faster. Wait for me. Harsh breaths came to him. His own. Rivan purred, and his warm vibrations gave Conash strength, but not enough. His arms buckled, and he ploughed into the sand. It filled his mouth. He shook it out, his tongue rustling.
Rivan walked back to him and flopped down. Conash reached out and touched the cat, his burning fingers sinking into soft, cool fur. He sagged with a sigh. He could die now, Rivan was with him. A shadow. A shadow cat. A ghost. Rivan had come for him. He was shadows. Cool, calm, dead. Like Conash. The boy who had been Conash, but was no longer. Dead boy. Dead Son. Born dead in a river of blood under a Death Moon in a blizzard, and given a grave-name. How many ill portents were needed for one boy's birth? He was not even a boy anymore. He was nothing. He was death.
Rivan rose and walked away, and the creature that had been Conash followed. Paw prints marked the sand, leading him on. Leading him where? Hand knee hand knee. What was he now? What was left of him? Only hatred, bitterness and fury. His dead familiar had returned to lead him out of the desert, or was he dead, and this was Damnation? It looked a lot like Damnation. It was certainly hot enough. The creature that had once been Conash chuckled. It came out as a rustle.
Soon his body would realise that it was dead. The sooner the better. He did not know how much more crawling he could endure. He had been crawling for centuries. Ages had come and gone while he had been crawling through the desert, and still there was no end to his torture. This was his punishment for being born dead. For betraying his people. For bringing death through the pass. He had unleashed it, now he would suffer it. The ages turned, now the Age of Plants, then the Age of Elements, now the Age of Beasts.
Rivan walked ahead, his tail twitching. He had such a long tail. Conash had spent many happy time-glasses playing with it. As a child, as a boy, when he had been alive. Now he was dead, like Rivan. He followed the paw marks in the sand. Hand knee hand knee. He would get there, wherever Rivan was going. It was all he wanted now. He had to find his dead familiar. Dead boy. Dead cat. So much blood. He crawled.
The sand ended. He stared at the rocks under his palms. The tracks had vanished. Rivan's tracks. He raised his head. A tree stood two man-lengths away. A real tree? It had shade. A scent came to him, and he glanced around at Rivan, who sat on a rock a man-length away. Conash could smell water. Was there water in Damnation? Or trees? What was Rivan doing in Damnation? He crawled towards the cat. Rivan waited, purring, his long tail twitching. A trickling sound came. Conash crawled faster. Water. Real water.
The boy struggled over rocks and splashed into a tiny pool. His hands burnt and his throat was on fire. He thrust his face into the water and sucked. Sand washed down his throat. He gulped. It was cool, and real. He coughed and choked, sucking it down. His stomach clenched, and he vomited, then drank again. His thirst emptied the pool, and it filled again. Water trickled into it from a higher place. A mountain. A whole line of mountains. A stone barrier that guarded a verdant land. Jashimari. He was home.
Conash flopped down. His stomach gurgled, and tears ran down his cheeks. Now he could die. He had made it. Rivan had brought him home. He raised his head, searching for the cat. Rivan had vanished.
“Rivan,” he whispered.
Darkness slammed down like a closing door.
Conash woke in darkness. Cold bit through the ragged dress, chilling his skin. He turned to the pool and drank until his burning thirst was quenched. His stomach gurgled. He tried to stand up, and fell over. His legs wobbled and his arms shook. The cold froze him, eating through his skin to his core. There, it found more frostiness. The dead place inside him shivered. Frozen. Dead. The cold drove him to move, or he would die. He chuckled, for he was already dead. His body was cooling, soon it would stiffen, then it would rot. Why was he still in it? He crawled. He was mad.
The insanity ate into his brain, baring its bones to the chill wind that whistled through his ears. It howled within his bones and blew down the veins that had once carried his blood. When had he ever been alive? It had all been a lie, a cruel dream. Rivan appeared ahead of him, luring him up the slope. Did he have to climb a mountain now? What did he care? What was a mountain to a corpse? It was an ant hill, and he was invincible. The dead felt no pain, no remorse, no anguish. They felt no despair, no desolation, but they did feel hatred, and rage. That was all he had left. No sorrow. Just hatred. Endless, sweet hatred. This was good.
The cat led him up a trail, faint amongst the stones, walking slowly and pausing to chirp every now and then. Conash longed to feel his familiar's soft, warm fur again. Catch the cat. Climb the mountain. A corpse could do many things that a man could not. It could not die again, for one thing. Crawl. Keep crawling. Never stop crawling. The Ages turned, centuries passed.
Light warmed him as the sun rose. Rock passed beneath him, a faint trail. Rivan waited ahead, purring. The mountain was behind him now, and he crawled downhill. More centuries passed, and the sun moved over him. His fingers touched grass. He gripped it with his blistered palms and clung to it, weeping. Jashimari. His broken wails were offensive to his ears. How pathetic. Stop it. You are not a child. You are not even alive. Hungry though, and thirsty again. Exquisite misery. Crawl.
A dead bird. Had Rivan brought it? It looked fairly fresh, although ants ate it. He stuffed it into his mouth, feathers, ants and all. It fed him, although the feathers almost choked him, and someone growled. It filled his stomach, but now he was thirsty again. Rivan led him on, and he smelt water. A stream. He drank. Trees rustled overhead, stirred by a cool wind. There were frogs in a pool downstream; he could hear them croaking. He crawled towards the sounds. Little green frogs. Too slow to evade his grasping, bloody hands. He stuffed them into his mouth, the portal through which sustenance passed. His teeth crushed tiny bones, and cold blood oozed from slimy flesh.
Blood ran from his hands, and he licked it off. It tasted better than frog, and he sucked his palms, biting his skin to make more of the warm, salty fluid flow. Pain jolted him. He was eating himself. That was really stupid. Find more frogs. Drink more water. He was a hunter with a sleek, lithe body and sharp claws. He was a cat. Bonded to a dead cat. The bond sustained him and gave him strength. Rivan's strength. A cat's lithe form, its sharp senses and supple grace. He would hunt and eat. Nothing else mattered. Rivan would come back soon.
The pond had a lot of frogs in it. Too many. Conash ate them all, and still his hunger gnawed at him. He found eggs in the reeds and ate them. A duck tried to defend its nest, and he pounced. His legs were stronger now. The duck struggled, and he snapped its neck, ripping off its feathers with quick, deft, bloody hands. Rivan watched him with gentle approval. The boy tore the raw meat with sharp fangs. His claws gripped it while he snarled and spat. He had regressed to a cat, or progressed. The heavy slave chain around his neck annoyed him, but he could not free himself of it.
Darkness came, and he slept, then woke when the light returned. He found more frogs, and another nest. A drake fell afoul of his swift pounce and ripping claws. The pond mud stank, and he smeared himself with it to hide his scent. He prowled around it, a feline hunter, ready to kill whatever he could, and eat. Darkness returned, and he slept, shivering. Another day passed as a cat, then another, until he lost count. Ages passed again. He hunted and ate, growing stronger. He was a strong corpse now, although he smelt like a rotten one.
Conash the cat was eating a frog when a clatter of hooves alarmed him, and he slipped into the reeds. A man rode up on a broad bay mare and dismounted. Conash sniffed the air, scenting tobacco, dried meat, and blood. The horse sucked at the water, and cat Conash watched it with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was a little too big. The man was smaller though. Would his claws and teeth be enough? Perhaps a rock would help. He found one, just the right size, and smooth. Madness filled him. He was going to hunt a man.
The plump man sat on the pool's bank and paddled his pink feet in the water. Conash looked down at his own feet, which were black. He squatted. A steel spring coiled inside him. It had been growing stronger, hunting frogs and ducks, this cold spring that was his new core. Hunter. Killer. Drinker of blood. He hefted the rock. The man's skull was like an eggshell, it would shatter. He hated men. Conash stood up for the first time since he had become a cat and sprang at the man. The fat merchant goggled at him, and Conash slammed the rock down on his sneering head. It cracked, and the man slumped.
Conash sat down and stared at the dead man. Blood ran from the corpse's head in a steady stream. The boy's eyes burnt. He had killed a man. Now he would eat him. No. Rivan appeared before him, and snarled. No eating men. Conash rocked, shivering. What had he become? A corpse that needed to eat. A survivor. Frogs tasted bad, ducks were hard to catch. His ribs protruded. He must find more food.
Rising to his feet, he went to the horse and searched the saddlebags, finding a treasure trove of food. Dried meat, pastries, jam, bread, spiced meat and pickled potpears. He stuffed them into his mouth, and they tasted far better than ducks and frogs. A little sanity seeped back into his brain, and he looked down at the ragged dress and mud that covered him. He was a boy, not a cat. Setting down the food, he went over to the dead man and stripped off his clothes. A warm coat, trousers, a fine shirt, a knife and a money pouch. The shoes were too big, so he left them on the corpse's feet, then rolled it into the pond. He had committed a crime. He was a killer. That is what it took to stay alive.
Conash waded into the pond and washed off the mud, scrubbing it from his hair, then braided it and hacked it off with the knife. With a leather thong from the saddle bags, he tied the braid around his neck over the slave chain. He donned the clothes, which were several sizes too big. Replacing the rest of the food in the saddle bags, he mounted the bay horse. It set off through a forest, and he let it go where it wanted. It seemed to know the way. It found a road and followed it. At dusk he stopped it and slid from its back, tying it to a tree. He ate more food, then slept.
Two tendays later, Conash rode into a vast city. The horse had brought him here, following the road through forests and fields, past villages and towns. He did not know the city's name, but it would do. At a livery stable, he sold the horse for thirty silvers and went to the market. A new set of cheap clothes cost a few coppers, and the dead merchant's purse remained heavy. His hunger drove him to a vendor's stall, where he bought a bowl of hot ryelen for a copper. Many people thronged the streets, and they made him nervous. Surely they could tell that he was a killer? He stank of it.
Conash found sanctuary in a sordid alley choked with litter and home to rats and stray cats. Urchins hounded him, pelted him with dung and shouted insults. He retaliated in kind, and they soon learnt to leave him alone. He had no past. He had been born in the pond with the ducks and frogs.
The silvers bought food for two moon-phases. He slept in the gutter under an abandoned box, with the rats and cats. Food was expensive in this city. When the coins ran out, he slipped through the crowds and filched purses from pockets. He was fast, but one day he was not fast enough. A man grabbed him and beat him, leaving him bruised and battered. A tenday later, he was caught again, and barely escaped with his life. Thieving was a risky business, apparently. He still had not spoken to anyone, and did not intend to. No one cared about him, and he cared about no one. That was the way of the world.
The third time he was caught lifting a purse, the man beat him with a stick, and it hurt. He was not a good pickpocket, but perhaps he was a better killer. The fat merchant had not complained. Conash armed himself with a smooth stone, like the one he had used to bash out the merchant's brains. It worked well, and he killed a luckless, drunken man in a dark alley, taking a fat purse. The man had no familiar with him, so it was probably a goat or sheep locked away in a pen while its friend went drinking. Killing was easy, especially for a corpse. He had not seen Rivan for a long time, and he missed his dead familiar.
The coins from the drunkard's purse fed him for several tendays, but he had stopped marking the time. He survived, and that was enough. When the coins ran out, he hung around an alehouse's kitchen door. The cook's helpers threw out scraps, and he fought with the stray dogs for them. Fishing bread out of the gutter seemed like a perfectly good way to find food, after eating frogs and ducks. Several times, drunkards who staggered past singing raucous songs disturbed his slumber under his box in the gutter.
One night, the gentle fall of warm liquid on his face woke him, and he smelt urine. Conash sat up, his hatred consuming him. His stone came to hand, and he brought it down on the surprised urinater's head with a satisfying crunch. The man’s purse yielded only a few silvers, and Conash had to find a new box in another gutter to sleep under. The coins fed him for a tenday, then it was back to the alehouse to fight for scraps with the dogs. Apparently the alehouse's cook did not like wild boys eating his scraps, however, for he stopped throwing them out for the dogs.
Conash's hunger gnawed at him, goading him to feed it. He needed money. His stone filled his palm again, and he crept down a dark, refuse-choked alley in search of another urinating drunkard. They deserved to die, since one had pissed on him. No one had the right to piss on him. A man entered the alley, and Conash the killer followed him, waiting for him to urinate. He almost escaped, but Conash emerged from the shadows like a hunting cat, the rock raised.
The man spun around, and the rock swished through air. It cracked into Conash's shin, and he doubled over to clasp his leg with a grunt. Something hit him on the side of the head, and everything went black.
Talon studied the girl who lay in the gutter, dressed in ragged men's clothes. She looked no more than fourteen, frail and innocent. Shoulder-length black hair straggled over her cheek, and thick lashes fanned her milky skin. He squatted, noting her sunken cheeks and skinny neck, her slender hand lying in the filth. Starvation must have driven her to try to knock him out in order to steal his money. Dirt caked her cheeks and rimed her neck, and she stank.
Talon glanced around at his familiar and stroked Myren's head. The girl's approach had been uncannily silent, and, if not for the wolf's warning, she would have succeeded. Myren always followed a few paces behind, and tended to stay in the shadows. Evidently the girl had not noticed him. There was no sign of her familiar, but he searched her clothes just in case a deadly viper or scorpion hid in them.
The retired assassin bent and scooped her up, shocked by how little she weighed. A fragile waif, probably abandoned by uncaring parents, or left behind by a murdered whore mother. He headed for his apprentice shack, deep in the slums, whence he had just come. Halfway there, he slung the child over his shoulder to ease his arms, for it was a fair distance.
At the shack, he placed the girl on the narrow cot and lighted two lamps, bringing them to the table to cast light on his smelly prize. He sat beside her and pulled off her ragged coat, surprised by the breadth of her shoulders. The worst of the stench came away with the coat, which he threw outside. Beneath it, she wore a coarse, patched man's shirt with most of the buttons missing, and a long chain was wound around her neck.
A length of braided hair was tied over the chain with a thong, and he took it off. It stank of mud, and he almost threw it away, then decided that it might be a keepsake. He would have to wash it, though. She appeared to be prepubescent, and he revised his opinion of her age, although she was large for a twelve-year-old. Even with his lock-picking skills, he struggled with the rusted padlock that secured the chain for half a time-glass. The skin beneath it was callused, as if she had worn it for many years.
Talon patted her cheek, wondering if he had hit her too hard. She drew in a sharp breath and opened her eyes. For an instant they met his, and a jolt shot through him at the frigid fury in their pale grey depths. She sat up and swung a fist at his head. Talon ducked in the nick of time and grabbed her wrists, forcing her back on the bed. She struggled, giving a surprisingly deep-throated growl, but lacked the strength to fight him off.
“It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you,” he said.
She snarled and tried to bite his arm, but he kept it out of her reach.
“Stop fighting me, girl, I'm trying to help you.”
The child froze, looking startled, and he released her, then leapt away when she attacked him again. Talon almost fell over a chair, but grabbed her arms and pinned them, forcing her into the chair. She fought him for several minutes, ignoring his orders and assurances. Tiring of the struggle, he shifted his grip to her neck and squeezed with well-practiced precision until her eyes rolled back, and she slumped. Talon straightened and frowned at her, exceedingly puzzled. Her voice, judging by her growls, was too deep. The man's shirt had been pulled open during the struggle, revealing a chest padded with sinewy muscle, and definitely male.
Talon found a length of rope and bound the boy's arms to the chair, trying to estimate his age again. Fourteen, maybe, although his voice was too deep for a fourteen-year-old, but he was not big enough to be older. When the youth was safely trussed, Talon patted his cheek until he jerked awake. The retired assassin stepped back as the boy fought his bonds in a frenzy, growling like a wild animal. He was cat kin, Talon surmised, judging by his feline traits. Talon wandered over to the table and settled on a chair. Pouring a cup of wine, he watched the boy's frantic struggles.
The youth did not seem to realise the futility of his endeavour, and Talon pitied him. Once an assassin bound a person, there was no escape. It took almost half a time-glass before the panting boy gave up, his brow beaded with sweat. His wild, cold eyes sought Talon, and the assassin waited for him to speak. Silence clamped down, which only the boy's gasps broke.
Talon sipped his wine and frowned. “Are you mute, boy?”
His eyes flickered, and he looked away.
The assassin snorted. “All right, I'll assume that you are. So, you tried to knock me out, presumably to steal my purse. That makes you something of a fool, since I'm a retired assassin. Most would know better, and the fact that you don't makes me think you're not from the city. Clearly you're hungry. Would you like some food?”
The boy glared at the floor.
Talon sighed. “Right, you're not talking. I got that.”
Going over to the stove, he placed a pot of left-over stew on it, stoking the fire. Soon the aroma of goat meat and vegetables filled the shack, and the boy gulped.
Talon returned to his chair. “Hungry, boy? You can eat; it's free. I want to help, although God knows why. You don't deserve it, but you need it.”
The boy shot him a brief, suspicious glance, and turned his head away. Talon studied him, wondering where he was from, and what circumstances had led to his sad situation. He dished up a bowl of stew and brought it to the table, then sat and regarded the boy again.
“If you want me to untie you, you'll have to promise not to attack me, understand?”
The boy raised frigid, hate-filled eyes and snarled.
Talon sighed. “All right, then I'll have to feed you.”
The elder assassin scooped up a spoonful of stew and held it in front of the boy's mouth, waiting for him to open it. The youth glared at him with such venom that Talon swore the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. He put the spoon back in the bowl.
“If you don't eat, you'll starve. You want to starve?”
The youth looked away, his nostrils flaring with thwarted rage, and swallowed again. Talon found him extremely puzzling. Most waifs would jump at the offer of food, yet this one seemed to find it enraging, or perhaps humiliating. He wondered why he was so hostile, even to the point of refusing to eat when he was clearly hungry. It made no sense. He sighed and stood up.
“All right, you don't want to eat. I'm tired, so I'm going home. I'll be back tomorrow. Maybe you'll eat then, hey?”
The boy jerked at the ropes that bound his wrists to the chair arms, but Talon shook his head.
“No, I'm not letting you go. You'll stay tied to that chair until you agree to behave, and if you don't eat, I'll let you starve. You think I care if you do?”
The boy snarled and glared at Talon, but the former assassin headed for the door. “The only one you're hurting with your stupidity is you. I'll see you tomorrow.”