out the pattern.” The man walked inside, unafraid, nodded to Roth, and then went to the table and started to eat without haste.
“Of course, he could tell the others and save a few lives. But then I might change the pattern, and he’d lose his edge. He’s a survivor, Gwinvere. Survivors are willing to make sacrifices.” Roth handed the arbalest and the glove to a servant and regarded Momma K. “So, the question is, are you a survivor?”
“I’ve survived more than you’ll ever know. You have your vote.” She’d kill him later. There was no showing weakness now. No matter how she felt. He was an animal, and he would sense her fear.
“Oh, I want more than a vote. I want Durzo Blint. I want the silver ka’kari. I want . . . much more. And I’ll get it, with your help.” He smiled. “How’d you like the braised peasant?”
She shook her head, distracted, looking blankly at her empty plate. Then she froze. In the garden, servants were collecting the bodies and bringing them inside.
“You did say ‘pheasant,’” she said.
Roth just smiled.
31
W ell, if you don’t look like the south end of a northbound horse,” Logan said as he intercepted Kylar in the middle of the Drake’s yard.
“Thanks,” Kylar said. He stepped past Logan, but his friend didn’t move. “What do you want, Logan?”
“Hmm?” Logan asked. He was a picture of innocence, at least, if a picture of innocence could be so tall. Nor was he able to get by with the big-oaf routine. For one thing, Logan was far too intelligent for anyone to take a dumb act seriously. For another, he was too damn handsome. If there were a model of perfect masculinity in the realm, it was Logan. He was like a heroic statue made flesh. Six months a year with his father had lined his big frame with muscle and given him a hard edge that had more than just the young women of Cenaria swooning. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, and of course, ridiculous amounts of money that would be his when he reached twenty-one—in three days—filled out the picture. He drew almost as much attention as his friend Prince Aleine—and even more from the girls who weren’t interested in being bedded and then dropped the next day. His saving grace was that he had absolutely no idea how attractive he was or how much people admired and envied him. It was why Kylar had nicknamed him Ogre.
“Logan, unless you were just standing in the yard, you came out here when you saw me come in the gate, which means you were waiting for me. Now you’re standing there rather than walking with me, which means you don’t want anyone to overhear what you’re about to say. Serah isn’t in her regular place two steps behind you, which means she’s with your mother shopping for dresses or something.”
“Embroidery,” Logan admitted.
“So what is it?” Kylar asked.
Logan shifted from one foot to the other. “I hate it when you do that. You could’ve let me get to it in my own time. I was going to—hey, where do you think you’re going?”
Kylar kept walking. “You’re stalling.”
“All right. Just stop. I was just thinking that sometime we ought to pull out the old fisticuffs,” Logan said.
Fisticuffs. And people expected that someone so big to be dumb.
“You’d beat me black and blue,” Kylar said, smiling the lie. If they fought, Logan would ask questions. He’d wonder. It was unlikely, but he might even guess that it hadn’t truly been nine years since they’d last fought.
“You don’t think I’d win, do you?” Logan asked. Ever since Logan had been humiliated in the fight at the stadium, he’d gotten serious about training. He put in hours every day with the best non-Sa’kagé sword masters in the city.
“Every time we’ve fought you slaughtered me. I’m—”
“Every—? Once! And that was ten years ago!”
“Nine.”
“Regardless,” Logan said.
“If you caught me with one of those anvils you pass off as your fists, I’d never get up,” Kylar said. That was true enough.
“I’d be careful.”
“I’m no match for an ogre.” Something was wrong. Logan asked him to fight about once a year, but never so strenuously. Logan’s honor wouldn’t allow him to push a friend who’d made a decision clear, even if he didn’t understand why. “What’s this about, Logan? Why do you want to fight?”
Lord Gyre looked down and scratched his head. “Serah’s asked why we don’t spar with each other. She thinks it would be a