One thing was certain. He would permit no one to ever again abuse his virtues-even those few that remained, in their dishevelled state. They were not currency, not things to be measured, weighed against gold, gems, property or power. If the bastards wanted all that, they could sweat their own sweat and bleed their own blood to get it.
Take me as a knife and I will turn in your hand. I swear it.
‘You are smiling,’ Nimander observed. ‘It pleases me to see that alive and well.’
Skintick glanced at him. The legacy of Bastion remained in the stains of old blood beneath the salt that now caked moccasins and leggings. No one had both-ered cleaning their gear, so desperate was the need to leave that city. Something had changed in Nimander , however, beyond the horrors of saemenkelyk and the Dying God’s altar. As if his sense of purpose had taken a fresh beating, like a new seedling trampled underfoot. How many times, Skintick wondered, could Nimander suffer that, before some fundamental poison altered his very nature? The vision he had of Nimander’s final demise was dependent upon a certain sanctity of spirit’s remaining, something precious and rare that would drive him to that last act of despair. If it was already dead, or twisted malign, then Nimander’s fate would become truly unknown.
Has he found ambition? Is the poison of cynicism awakening in his belea-guered soul?
This could change things, Skintick realized. He might become someone I could choose to follow-yes, down that nasty path and why not? Let someone else suffer for our gains, for a change. Topple them into the dirt and see how they like the sweet reversal.
Is he hard enough to play that game?
Am I hard enough to make use of him?
They had found a horse for Clip, but retained the wagon, at least for this jour-ney northward along the edge of the dying salt lake. Nenanda was seated once more on the raised bench, reins in one hand, switch in the other. Aranatha sat with her legs dangling off the end of the wagon, eyes on the row of broken teeth that was Bastion’s dwindling skyline, hazy and shimmering above the heat waves. Desra lounged in the wagon’s bed, dozing among the casks of water and bundles of dried goods. Kedeviss rode flank off to the right, almost thirty paces away now, her horse picking its way along the old beach with its withered drift-wood.
Clip rode far ahead, emphasizing his impatience. He’d not been much inter-ested in hearing the tale of their doings since his collapse at the village-a failing on his part (as he evidently saw the suggestion) that he refused to entertain, al-though this clearly left a mysterious and no doubt troubling gap in his memory. He was, if anything, even more evasive than he had been before, and more than once Skintick had caught suspicion in the warrior’s eyes when observing the rest of them. As if they had conspired to steal something from him, and had succeeded.