Dradin hesitated, weighing the risks. Where might the dwarf lead him?

Dvorak cursed. “Then do not come. Do not. And take your chances with the Festival.”

He turned to leave but Dradin reached down and grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” Dradin said. “I will come,” and taking a few steps found to his relief that he did not stagger.

“Your love awaits,” Dvorak said, unsmiling. “Follow close, sir. You would not wish to become lost from me. It would go hard on you.”

“How far—”

“No questions. No talking. Follow.”

6

Dvorak led Dradin around the back of the Drunken Boat and into an alley, the stones slick with vomit, littered with sharp glass from broken beer and wine bottles, and guarded by a bum muttering an old song from the equinox. Rats waddled on fat legs to eat from half-gnawed drumsticks and soggy buns.

The rats reminded Dradin of the Religious Quarter and of Cadimon, and then of Cadimon’s warning: “It’s not safe for priests to be on the streets after dark during Festival.” He stopped following Dvorak, his head clearer.

“I’ve changed my mind. I can see her tomorrow at Hoegbotton & Sons.”

Dvorak’s face clouded like a storm come up from the bottom of the sea as he turned and came back to Dradin. He said, “You have no choice. Follow me.”

“No.”

“You will never see her then.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Dvorak sighed and his overcoat shivered with the blades of a hundred knives.

“You will come with me.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Then you will not come?”

“No.”

Dvorak punched Dradin in the stomach. The blow felt like an iron ball. All the breath went out of Dradin. The sky spun above him. He doubled over. The side of Dvorak’s shoe caught him in the temple, a deep searing pain. Dradin fell heavily on the slick slime and glass of the cobblestones. Glass cut into his palms, his legs, as he twisted and groaned. He tried, groggily, to get to his feet. Dvorak’s shoe exploded against his ribs. He screamed, fell onto his side where he lay unmoving, unable to breathe except in gasps. Clammy hands put a noose of hemp around his neck, pulled it taut, brought his head up off the ground.

Dvorak held a long, slender blade to Dradin’s neck and pulled at the hemp until Dradin was on his knees, looking up into the mottled face. Dradin gasped despite his pain, for it was a different face than only moments before.

Dvorak’s features were a sea of conflicting emotions, his mouth twisted to express fear, jealousy, sadness, joy, hatred, as if by encompassing a map of the world he had somehow encompassed all of worldly experience, and that it had driven him mad. In Dvorak’s eyes, Dradin saw the dwarf’s true detachment from the world and on Dvorak’s face he saw the beatific smile of the truly damned, for the face, the flesh, still held the memory of emotion, even if the mind behind the flesh had forgotten.