Drake looked pensive again. “That depends on what you see. Do you see crime, or sin, or simply feelings of guilt? If crime, do you see all crimes from murder to setting up a market stand without permission? If you’re in another country where an action that’s illegal here isn’t illegal, will a man crossing the border look different? If you see sin, you’ll have to figure out whose definitions of sin apply, because I guarantee that my God and the hundred gods don’t agree, or even Astara with Ishara. If what you see is feelings of guilt, does the madman without a conscience appear cleaner than the girl who believes that her parents died in an accident because she lied about finishing her chores?”

“Shit,” Kylar said. “How come everyone I know is smarter than me? Whatever it is, I see the unclean. I want to know if that implies that I have a duty to do something about what I see.”

“Trying to derive ought from is, are you?” Drake asked, smirking.

“What?”

“She may deserve to die, Kylar, but you shouldn’t kill her.”

“Everyone will be better off if I do.”

“Except you, and me, and my daughter, and Logan, and Momma K, and everyone who loves you.”

“What do you mean?” Kylar was caught off guard.

“Logan will put you to death, and losing you will hurt us deeply.”

Kylar snorted. Some loss. “Sir, thank you for everything you’ve done for me, and everything you tried to do. I’m sorry I cost you so much.”

Count Drake bowed his head and closed his eyes, leaning heavily on his cane. “Kylar, I’ve lost my wife and two daughters this year. I don’t know if I can bear to lose a son.”

Kylar squeezed the man’s shoulder, marveling how fragile it felt. He looked into the count’s eyes. “Just so you know,” Kylar said, “you pass.”

“I what?”

Kylar gave the man who’d once single-handedly introduced and abolished slavery in Cenaria a lopsided grin. “Whatever I see—guilt or whatever—you don’t have it. You’re clean.”

A look of stunned disbelief shot across Drake’s face, followed by something akin to awe. He stood transfixed.

“May your God bless you, sir. You certainly deserve it.”

48

Dorian and Jenine were sitting together in the garden. He had dismissed his retainers, and for a time, they had sat without speaking. “I’m sorry I killed that Vürdmeister,” Dorian said.

Jenine looked up, surprised. “Why? Because it upset me, or because it was wrong?”

After a moment, Dorian said, “I could have dealt with him in a manner less . . .  brutal.”

“He was responsible for those aethelings, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Dorian said.