Cider by Candlelight

[Cherny]

The conversation moves from introductions to questions to banter, and the boy can't help but grin as he translates the rat's reply.

"He s-says that's for d-dogs. And th-that..." A pause, listening, choosing his words. "...his w-wives like his s-smell very much."

That cinnamon stick is grasped with dextrous paws, sniffed and tasted and finally found acceptable as an offering. The messenger gone to his errand, Cherny can only shrug at the girl's unspoken question - and then sober at the one she does ask. The rat-captain's reply is extensive, and the boy frowns in concentration as he attends, as he does his best to translate.

"H-he says they... oh." The rat straightens, sitting upright with head held high, proud. "He says h-he killed them. Th-they.. they're other rats, not... f-from his den." Going by his hesitation it's clear that this is news to the squire as much as it might be to the seamstress. Forzo, meanwhile, gestures to a nick in one of his ears, to the healed and healing cuts that mark his hide at shoulder and flank.

"He s-says he fought them and k-killed them b-because there, there's t-too many... too many r-rats and not enough f-food. So now th-there's less rats and, and enough f-food."

Another pause as the great rat calls to another of his - what, attendants? Lieutenants? - who scurries down one of the angled timbers from above, some gleaming, narrow thing clasped in his jaws. This one approaches - with a bow for Forzo, for Cherny, for Gloria - and an exchange takes place - the cinnamon-stick traded for this new item, the spice carried away, and as the rat-captain holds up his prize for their inspection its purpose is immediately clear.

Two inches of bright metal - the broken tip of a fillet knife, perhaps, long and thin and wickedly sharp - fastened to a further two inches of bone, bound about with sturdy thread to serve as a handle. Not merely held in those pink paws but wielded, brandished with quick motions that reenact the death-blows inflicted upon the rat-captain's foes. Not enough weight to hack or chop, but sharp enough that it might easily cut and stab . A paw pressed to the back of the blade as it is drawn across an imaginary opponent's flesh; the point angled upwards with a thrust and vicious twist at the end. Here and there a stance the boy recognises from his fechtbuch - though the rat's posture is lower, leaning further forward with his tail providing balance.

Cherny is quiet, pale-faced throughout this demonstration; once it is done he holds out a hand in silent demand. Forzo surrenders the little blade without hesitation, and the squire examines it closer between finger and thumb, turning it this way and that so that Gloria might also see.

"I d-didn't know about th-this." Puzzled; curious, certainly. But by no means alarmed.

[Rance]

"And perhaps my husbands, Forzo, like my odor just as much."

If someone had asked her a day ago if she believed today she'd be having conversations with rats, she'd have either giggled or scoffed at the absurdity of it. Tonight, however, it was a matter of the commonplace, a young woman and a younger man huddled over the King of Vermin as though they were sharing tea to thin the lines between warring borders. The cinnamon stick vanished; when bows were needed, she tilted her head forward as though she were some mountain of peace agreeing to unspoken terms of exchange and appeasement.

An answer, beneath the safeguarding flicker of the triple-candle lantern, was given. Cherny reiterated, and the softness in the boy's voice told all that was necessary -- he'd not known, perhaps hadn't wanted to. Upon the boy's other knee, opposite the one where Forzo perched like a warrior being held in tribute before adoring masses, she placed a bandage-wound hand and applied a squeeze.

I d-didn't know about th-this.

Eschewing austerity, preferring gentleness -- and had anyone ever received such commodity from her, except Cherny? -- she said, "Civility is hard to expect. It's easier and more rewarding to be belligerent. Friends they may be of yours, of ours, that doesn't make Forzo or the rest of his kin peaceful by nature. His fur and -- and his little scars say as much. Difficult as it is for us to survive, imagine being in -- in Forzo's place. Small, disdained by most humans, protective of his family.

"Outside of this loft, Forzo has to fight. It's how it works."

It's how it worked in Jernoah.

This moment of foreign understanding, however, was short-lived. When she turned away from Cherny, what she saw before her captured the breath from her lungs and stole -- pierced, strangled -- a heartbeat.

An agile Forzo, wielding a weapon, bone-and-point whipping through the air with all the skill of a miniature combatant. Had there been anything but the air, there might have been gore. Forzo leaned forward, applied morbid efficiency with the blade, his mimicry almost too astute and perfect to be believed. An

unforgiving thrust, a

relentless forward strike, a

practiced cleave to an imaginary throat, and she saw it, she saw it though it wasn't there: blood, a gaping smile in a tiny neck, red, red wax, and--

"Less rats, more food," she whispered to Cherny, never taking her gaze away from Forzo. "And what then, when the population is leveled, and the food is plentiful? Do the little weapons rust for lack of use?"

A pause. To perceive it. To tell herself this was not an illusion.

"Good Forzo," the seamstress said. "Who taught you this?"

[Cherny]

The rat-captain's blade is a new development; something unexpected, for all that he should have anticipated it, or something like it; he's watched Forzo studying stances from the fechtbuch, has playfully sparred with him on occasion. This is just final confirmation of what he ought to have suspected all along, the rat only doing what he must to survive - to ensure the survival of his wives and offspring.

More explanations as Gloria advocates for the rat-captain, for his butchery of those other rats who must be removed if Forzo's tribe is to prosper, and the squire doesn't protest. Cherny's rats are clever; he has taught them tricks, and they have heeded his instructions, his warnings. Go unseen; leave no trace; take no more than you need. These others - dull, brutish creatures by comparison - threaten to draw human attention by their thoughtless gnawing and stealing and fouling of food.

The boy cannot disapprove.

"Inside th-the stables, mostly." Translating a fresh burst of rat-speech, the creature nodding in ready agreement to the seamstress' explanation. "His p-people have th-the loft; the others live b-below - they, they've got t-tunnels." Tunnels too dangerous to be explored - for now, at least - so instead he fights a running battle, each day hunting and slaying those others who dare venture from their lair. With this blade, this sliver of sharp metal the boy tests cautiously against his thumbnail.

"When th-there's enough food... there won't b-be too many rats any m-more." An uncertain tone, not entirely taking the rat's meaning, but the next question is easily answered.

"I've a b-book that shows it - h-how to fight with, with swords. How t-to stand and m-move and all th-that." Forzo nods in agreement, chirps a suggestion, and abruptly the squire grins, turning to take up a couple of lengths of straw; one of them he passes to the rat, the other he holds between forefinger and thumb. A glance to Gloria to be sure she pays attention, and he lifts his straw towards the rat-captain - who lifts his own stalk to meet it in the manner of a duellist crossing blades with an opponent.

What follows is an agile little fencing display, the rat's hindpaws scratching for purchase on the boy's knee, tail flicking this way and that for balance; Cherny does his best to remain on the offensive, but his jabs and prods are readily turned aside by Forzo's greater mobility, with hoarse little laughs each time a blow nearly hits its mark. The rat, meanwhile, favours a wide grip, paws spaced apart for the sake of leverage, and chatters excitedly as their straw blades clash.

Abruptly the rat jumps, scrambling up Cherny's blanket-draped shoulder even as the boy yelps accusations of cheating, pursuing the rodent's sleek form with ill-aimed jabs. Within a span of instants the boy finds himself with his foe perched on his head, a sharp-ended stalk pricking at his brow.

"Ugh, f-fine." His weapon is cast down in mock disgust as the boy concedes the fight, though he cannot help a note of pride at Forzo's mastery of such a clever trick. He reaches to carefully lift the rat down from his head, transferring him to his shoulder instead; the metal blade he still holds in his off hand, apparently forgotten for the moment as his gaze returns to Gloria. "S-so. Like that. 'S how h-he learned it."

[Rance]

Advocacy was a fleeting value; wariness, however undisclosed, turned her eyes into stones.

When th-there's enough food... there won't b-be too many rats any m-more.

Cherny and the rat fence, parry, deflect one another's blows with hollow stalks. The boy laughed, and she laughed too, but she found the sound somewhere in her throat, the diaphragm altogether absent of the same mirth. She knew the little display was a matter of play, and the rat -- at its conclusion -- was the victor, relishing the moment as he cast the final blow to the crest of the boy's brow. She was as stiff as a rusted nail throughout it, though she managed to bring her palms together in a celebratory clap.

Her gaze was distant, passing through them, seeing something just beyond their shoulders and their humor.

...and with him he bore his army, a Grand Army of Mykren's beasts, twisted and ruined into man-forms that bore, in their hands, the iron tools and cruel goads that had forced them, hurt them, murdered them and enslaved their children. Even now, over the dull Song that was a constant companion they made no noise, but fell upon the Hungry, as they always did; silently they slaughtered.

In a book it showed. How to fight with swords. How to stand and move. And all that.

Fingers drew her blanket off her just enough so she could lean forward and scrape at the flap of her hip-side satchel. From it, the seamstress procured a small, stout vessel of battered tin. She screwed the top from it to reveal what lay within: a few globs of acrid, green preserves, a mint reduction meant for spreading on bits of bread. Cane had hardened in flakes around the threading of the lid. She placed it down upon the floor beside Cherny's foot.

"A prize," she proclaimed, "for Forzo, the triumphant. A jam. A -- a little something for you and your warriors. And a request for peace. No more victims in the other boy's bed."

She couldn't help but smile at the rat. Then, she brushed the dirt from the knees of her skirts and started to stand, the folds and edges of the blanket beginning to pull away from her shoulders. She scraped a sleeve under her nose, then reached out for Cherny as she leaned expectantly toward the ladder.

"My legs are restless, t'oddah. Do you want to walk with me?"

[Cherny]

To the boy it is no more than a game - harmless play, fencing with straws to see who is the quickest, the most skilled. To the rat... it is hard to guess the thoughts that flicker behind those bright little eyes, shining with an inscrutable intelligence.

The gift - the tin - is accepted with a deep bow from the rodent, whiskers already quivering at the scent of preserved mint, sweet and sharp; by the time Gloria moves to stand the rat has already descended to investigate her offering more closely, and sparks of candlelight in the shadows betray the presence of other similarly intrigued watchers.

"Th-thank you." Gratitude on Forzo's behalf, the rat by now busy dipping pink paws into the jam and licking them clean again. When Gloria suggests a walk, though, the boy's expression is briefly quizzical; only for a moment before he too is moving to get ready, the little blade set atop an open book for safekeeping. He pulls on his tunic, stockings and boots, his coat and cap and scarf, until before too long he is well-armoured against catching his death. He holds the seamstress' lantern over the hatch so that she might safely go first, before passing it down and making his own descent.

Silent, for the most part, until they are clear of the stables' horse-scented confines; sidelong glances for his sister, though, an uncertain curiosity in his dark eyes.

[Rance]

They were bundled like fattened sacks of grain against the cold. Cherny was a small boy, a small body, but the thickness of the scarf, cap, and tunic gave him a breadth that rarely suited him. With his face poking out from amid all the fabric, he was more a child than she ever often remembered. He passed the lantern to her, and before they were out of the stables, she tightened the ribbon of her soot-stained bonnet beneath her chin. Her limbs, outside the extension of a lantern-holding hand, were mostly swallowed beneath the folds of her woolen cloak.

Occasionally, a gust of hard, testing wind blew across the lawns and kicked up a glistening spray of snow-dust. She gritted her teeth against the sting. They didn't walk far -- only enough until the stablehouse was nothing more than a black smear against the silhouettes of the distant trees, and all around them was a sea of white. The boy and his sister were two isolated mountains, a flickering lamp deposited on the ground between them.

"It's peculiar," the seamtress said as she pried a pair of blue gloves out of her cloak-pocket. Their hue was in opposition to every other shade she wore, belying the dusky grays, dirty bieges, and color-fallow patterns of cheap skirts and simple dresses that were her usual fare. She tugged each one on, covering the thin black glove that already adorned her left hand, hiding from view the bandages over her right hand's battered knuckles. "It's peculiar," she said again, "because while I'm inclined to be amazed at the tricks, intelligence, and improbability of it all?"

It was rhetorical, answerless -- a statement unfinished and expressed as a harmless question and not a vibrant, forward sentiment.

"The knowledge of -- of swordplay doesn't naturally lend itself to the sensibilities of a creature like Forzo. Books don't simply open themselves up for rats," she said. "Do they, Cherny?"

[Cherny]

His sister ruminates on the nature of rats, and the boy absently turns his gaze to the darkness that surrounds their little circle of candlelight; a soft-edged horizon mere feet away, all else lost to sight. A glance to Gloria, though, at that first question, recognising the artifice of it, the oblique movement towards a point.

Ah, there it is.

Do they, Cherny?

It's a gentle accusation, meant to nudge him into something like a confession; his shrug is deliberately casual in reply.

"I sh-showed him - I w-was reading it, and he s-saw the pictures." Page after page of woodcuts, fellows in outmoded garb brandishing their blades like so and like so. "It's j-just a game - f-fighting with, with straws."

Or it had been, until that blade had appeared.

He hunches into his coat, hands deep in the pockets, feeling light and strangely vulnerable without the now-familiar weight of his mailshirt pulling at his shoulders and arms. A faint and nameless anxiety turns his gaze briefly to the invisible treeline.

"'S a t-trick, is all. And, and it's b-better if it's him and h-his rats in the stables, anyway. Th-they know to be c-careful, and not t-take too much food. They're n-not hurting anyone."

[Rance]

"The straws say it's a game," she agreed, because she'd seen as well as him the fun had at the expense of little bits of hay. "But that fierce little weapon he had says otherwise."

She turned to him, quartering against the gusts of wind. Her cloak and her rough clothes rustled as she lifted a hand, resting the width of her palm across his scalp. She drummed her fingers there was if he were the armrest of a thinking-chair, but then paused the cadence to leave her index finger pressing firmly against the bridge of his forehead, where Forzo's straw had been poised in victory and defeat.

"Animals," she said, "may learn language, they may communicate, and you may have a talent for understanding it. But -- but they're a vast deal more complex and volatile than we are. One deft blow with that clever blade, used the same way as a length of straw," and tap, tap, she left a smear of tarsweat upon his brow, "and they fell something twenty times their size. If Forzo's been using that weapon on rats, those victories come easy. Claws and teeth are nothing against swordsmanship.

"Awaken in someone their --their talent for a blade, you awaken in them a want to use it."

[Cherny]

The boy tolerates that touch - the hand upon his skull, the touch to his brow. From any but a select few he'd lean away from such a contact, quietly evade it. From his sister it's accepted, trusted.

"He has to f-fight, you said. To, to s-survive." Reminding her of her own words, for all that he understands that the addition of a metal blade makes things different.

"He'd not hurt p-people." Firm on that point, an article of absolute faith. "I, I've told him - if h-he hurts people, they'll h-hunt him and h-his rats and, and kill them. So he c-can't, not ever. Even if... if they h-hurt him or his f-family." Emphatic, perhaps hinting at some past debate with the rat-captain, an episode in which the idea was raised and the boy saw it entirely rejected. "They'd t-tear down the stables and, and d-dig up the ground, and k-kill every rat there. It's n-not fair, but it's true."

His cuff rubs absently at his brow in the quiet that follows that tapping finger before he drops his hand and shrugs again.

"Animals are s-simple. They want f-food. Somewhere s-safe to sleep. A, a mate." Basic needs, fundamental needs, but by no means as complicated and nebulous as those governing human action. "And if you're k-kind to them - if you give them f-food, and somewhere t-to live, and if you're c-careful not to scare them - they'll trust you and l-love you. That's all they n-need."

The wind shifts, and he turns to keep it at his back, where his collar might shield his neck and ears from the worst of it. Meeting the seamstress' gaze again, a quiet challenge.

"I've n-no want to, to use a blade. It's f-for last resort and, and so's F-forzo's."

[Rance]

She let him speak, let him divulge every word until the punctuation of his eyes settled on hers.

"He has to fight," she agreed. "As rats fight. With claw, with teeth. But with a tiny sword? That's not fighting. It's slaughter. It's less survival and more carnage. Another boy," she lifted her hand away, then motioned to the expanse of snow and the woods beyond, motioning toward no exact spot, but to a greater generalization, an idea, "whose rats might desire the same thing? Food, safety for their families, prosperity? If his creatures haven't the insight to fashion a tiny sword or brandish it, then Forzo will skewer them.

"Their nature is to fight; he could just as readily level his blade--" she lifted her hand in the air out to her side as though lofting a rapier of her own, "--and they'd throw themselves into it for lack of knowing any better, for that they only know teeth and claws. When there's enough food, there won't be too many rats anymore. Culling numbers for the sake of a full belly?"

Her hand dropped to her side. She never took her gaze off her little brother.

"The fields are fallow and their yields are minimal; the animals wear the -- the prominence of their ribs and hips as though it is a fashionable state. Food is limited here, even for us. It would be the same if Marshall Emory were to drag us into the mud and slit our throats so -- so that those with greater importance could have full stomachs."

Now, she pulled her attention away from the boy. She scraped her foot through the snow and worked diligently at crushing a small lump of snow wither heel. It crunched, flattened down, and where the chunk of snow had once been, there was nothing more than white.

Animals are s-simple.

"If they're as simple as you say," Gloria challenged in return, pressing. "Tell me why you think Forzo put those corpses in Son's bed."

[Cherny]

His features set into the frown of one who prepares to be obstinate. A boyish expression from a boy who's learned over a fraught summer to guard his thoughts and smooth his expression, but who is able - here, in such company - to let his feelings show in his face.

"I know it's n-not fair." He struggles for the right words, aware of Gloria's education in rhetoric, and it has him pausing to gather his thoughts, to arrange them properly.

"But, but it's not m-meant to be. It's... he has to f-fight. And, and I'm n-not going to say, no, you have to f-fight with just t-teeth to make it fair. P-people don't f-fight wolves with their f-fists." A glance for the seamstress to see if she understands. "F-fair's for, for games, and stuff that d-doesn't matter if you l-lose. If you're f-fighting for real, you d-do everything you h-have to s-so you win. So y-you live."

A brutal philosophy, at odds with the gentleness he shows elsewhere. And he recognises it enough that he must explain himself further.

"You d-do what you h-have to. As m-much as you have to that'll l-let you live and, and n-not hate yourself after." There are limits. There are lines that must not be crossed, cannot be crossed without poisoning whatever might be won by crossing them.

Her comparison, the Marshall's imaginary cull, has him shaking his head impatiently.

"F-forzo knows there's n-not much food. So, so h-his rats are eating l-less. Just enough to l-live. The others, th-they'd eat all they could - they'd eat and, and eat until the f-food was gone, and th-then everyone starves." Rats. Horses. Humans. Only the crows would feast.

Gloria fidgets, scuffs her boots in the snow; the boy is still, sullen, hunched into his coat. Her question, her challenge earns a half-shrug as if the question is of only passing relevance.

"S-son skins things - s-squirrels and c-conies and things like th-that. Whatever he c-catches. They've p-probably seen him."

[Rance]

It was clear -- by the lines on her face, the stern set of her shoulders, the way her arms slithered up to cross underneath her breasts -- that she was uncomfortable. She pivoted at her hip, looked off into the distance of the gnarled, black-armed trees. Every few moments, she scratched at an exposed elbow or rubbed her wool-sleeved biceps to ward off the cold.

e sought out understanding, but her lips were set, cold, indomitable. Understanding was for someone less stubborn; understanding was for someone who cared less about him, but who would have been able to express it more thoroughly.

"I don't care for fair," she admitted. "But this isn't a matter of fair, Cherny. You trust an inhuman creature to make human calls of judgment; you gave him the knowledge to make a weapon. Today, one sword. Tomorrow, ten. A week? Thousands. Forzo won't stop when his belly's full. The food will be gone from your pocket, first. Then from your store. Then from -- from the Broken Dagger.

"More food, more little rats, more hands to fill with two-inch blades. His family becomes a kingdom; his kingdom suffers innumerable losses at the heels of furious farmers. Fair gets turned back against him. Forzo's vast empire suffers angry heels, burning, massacres by the hundreds.

"If you're fighting for real, you do everything you have to so you win. So you live," she repeated, finally looking at the younger boy, wielding his words against him. And while she observed him, she couldn't help but feel distant, elsehwere; this hadn't been the first time they'd disagreed, and with such fervor, in weeks. They'd never further discussed the matters of Elliot Brown and Elliot Gahald, their disagreements, their selfishness; it had simply faded, trickled like an oil between the cracks of their friendship, affection, and adoration -- and here, that flotsam lubricated this, a wholly divergent argument rooted in the same discomforts and dissimilarities.

What, in weeks, in months, had changed? Had she? Had he? Did it matter?

"Forzo would kill you," she said, "if it meant the survival of his family or the continuation of his kingdom. The difference is that rats won't hate themselves; Forzo, if he must, wouldn't think twice if he felt it necessary to make you bleed."

Because beasts were beasts, and Cherny? Cherny was a boy, gleaming, noble, all measures of right and wrong, too young and perfect to know much better--

S-son skins things - s-squirrels and c-conies and things like th-that. Whatever he c-catches. They've p-probably seen him.

Her chin tucked down against her collar. Her face was hidden by her rumpled bonnet. She kicked at the snow until it leaped up from the tip of her boot and sprayed with a hiss into the midnight wind.

"Forzo left the bodies there to mark his territory. To intimidate another beast. To show dominance. And Forzo knows you'd disapprove. All the better," the girl said, "to justify not telling you."

[Cherny]

"It w-won't be like that." Quiet denial of the future she describes. One sword - ten - thousands. Another shake of his head, gaze turned back towards the stables, towards the tavern.

"I've th-thought about that. He's g-got wives and, and th-they've had babies. B-but there's too many - I t-told him about h-how there's not enough f-food, not f-for people, not for r-rats. And if people f-find rats they'll k-kill them." A flat statement, no judgment on the fairness of the situation, just explaining how it is.

"So I've t-told him - he's g-got to be careful. They've got t-to stay hidden, make it so n-no one knows they're there. No gnawing on th-things, no droppings where p-people'll find them. No m-more babies, not 'til there's more f-food for everyone. Enough for people and r-rats, so they won't h-have to fight."

He's thought about it; he's understood the dangers, especially in such a lean winter. He's made plans, come up with ways to avoid the conflict his sister seems to view as inevitable. He's not stupid, not blind.

And then she says that.

"H-he wouldn't." His voice a hoarse rasp, outraged at the suggestion. "He w-wouldn't. He'd not h-hurt me, and he knows I'd n-not hurt him." Defending the rat against Gloria's accusations with every bit as much devotion as he's defended Ser Catch, defended her for that matter.

She kicks at ice-crusted snow; he stands still, stubborn, fists clenched tight in his pockets.

"You d-don't know that." Flat, angry refusal to think ill of his rat, his friend. "Maybe h-he left them there as a, a g-gift. Or so h-he'd not skin them. You don't know. You, you only j-just met him."

[Rance]

A part of her wanted to turn around, all the way around, and scream at him--

But they were fighting over rats, vague possibilities, philosophies of nature. To any others, it could have been laughable -- they're having a row over talking, sword-swinging rats! -- but her lips were dry, stiff, drawn into a firm line that dared not betray her stance on the matter. And what did she know of rats? She knew more of needles and back-stitches, of embroidery and brocade, than she knew about vermin. Her hands wrung wrinkles into her skirts and cloak-folds, squeezing them until the rough fabric left creases in her palms.

He w-wouldn't.

"Why swords," she blurted out. "Why not peace, or -- or sense, or civility? Why don't you teach him how to brandish those things, rather than weapons?"

Her shoulders rose and fell, each with a vicious breath; eyes the color of melted lead stared through him, not looking at him, but at something else only she could see. A thought. A future. A possibility.

A Dream she'd never discussed.

"It's not natural," she said, those words only a few of those that she kept clenched behind her teeth or hovering in her throat. "What is it they say in chapel, in the songs, Cherny? That we ought not act like we are gods; that what we do, what we provoke, and -- and what we change, are things for which we are eminently accountable.

"Forzo is yours."

Finally, her gaze fell away from him and the lump in her throat dissolved. She stopped crushing her feet into the snow. Her hems fell still around her ankles. She lifted her hand up to scrape at the back of her neck, bending her neck forward enough to expose the half-moon of skin below her blackened bonnet rim and the crumpled hood of her cloak. Twice, three times, she dabbed the sweat off her skin and held her fingers up that she could see it glistening like an oil on the tips of her fingers.

Maybe h-he left them there as a, a g-gift. Or so h-he'd not skin them. You don't know. You, you only j-just met him.

"Why else do -- do you think they staked criminals out in the Glass Sands in Jernoah, Cherny? When -- when they were done scarring them, whipping the skin off their bones? Leave them out there for a fortnight after they were dead, just beyond the Capitol gates, after their guts were burst from boiled fluids and their skin was shriveled into rawhide? Why?

"Corpses send messages. To animals. To men. This is mine. This belongs to me."

[Cherny]

The boy groans as the seamstress advocates peace and civility - not protesting those things of themselves, but more his sister's apparent inability to understand.

"It w-was a game!" Exasperated, bouncing on the balls of his feet in frustration, head rolling back to explain to the cloud-smothered skies; perhaps they'd listen better. "It was s-sticks and, and straws! P-playing!"

He drops his chin to glare at her again, perhaps wondering if she's being deliberately obtuse.

"I, I t-taught him tricks. P-picking things up or, or c-climbing strings, or choosing the, the r-right shell. All s-sorts of tricks. I d-didn't think he'd get a, a sword - and even if h-he did, I've told him all the t-time that he m-mustn't hurt p-people."

It's not natural.

And there, a flicker of something like worry in his eyes, a thought he's done his best not to dwell upon. He's told himself that he's just taken the time to teach these animals - hounds, crows, now rats - that they're clever by themselves, he's just helped them, shown them some tricks. Except that it's more than that, something strange, and he secretly knows it - or at least fears that it might be so.

In the next breath she reminds him of chapel, of scripture, of responsility, and he huffs a great lungful of steaming vapour into the night air.

"I know. I'm not s-stupid, b'lettah."

Of all the people to lecture on the burden of accountability, she directs her preaching at him? With grisly tales of the Glass Sands, of acts of judicial brutality, of cruelties and outrages.

"We're n-not in Jernoah. We're not l-like Jernoah. Even th-the rats aren't as b-bad as Jernoah. And y-you, you're making th-things up because you're s-scared of a knife th-this big." Hand drawn from his pocket at last, forefinger and thumb a couple of inches apart, then thrust back out of the chill.

"F-forzo fights to k-keep his wives and ch-children safe. I f-fight to keep m-my friends safe. We fight f-for what we care about, not b-because it's fun." A last resort. Slow, deliberate breaths for a span, lips pressed together to keep him from hasty words; careful, always careful, particularly when emotions seethe and roil in his chest, in his gut.

Time enough to calm. Time enough to think. Reasoning. Reasoning and careful logic, demanding that the seamstress support her assertions as a rhetor should.

"Son's not t-tried to hurt Forzo. He's t-tried to make friends with him - with c-crumbs and things. So, so why w-would F-forzo leave d-dead rats as a w-warning? H-he knows Son's m-my friend."