“You can try,” Lucien said, and there was a pause. They stood there like that for a long moment, Vance Baburn holding the knife piercing the Red Monk, Lucien facing away from the man he sought, trying to control his rage, telling himself again and again that he needed this man alive, needed to question him, find out where the boy had gone. After a sufficient pause he made his move. “Or we can go to your home,” he said, “and talk about this sensibly.”

“I won’t talk sense with a madman,” Vance hissed.

“We’re not all mad. Some of us are more obsessed than others. Like mad old Carfallo who found your nephew’s village.”

“He didn’t find it, he slaughtered it.”

“He killed some there, I admit, and for that I offer no apologies. But not all of them. A few militia, and some men who attacked him. Rafe—your nephew—escaped before Carfallo could kill him.”

“You admit you want to kill him? Why? And what makes you think I can’t push harder now, cut those words right out of your putrid body?”

“He’s a danger to everything!” Lucian said, trying to rein in his anger.

“He’s just a farm boy, what danger could that be? And he said the whole village was dead.”

“A young farm boy’s exaggeration. I’ll not lie to you, Vance Baburn, I do seek to kill him. But I can make it easier on you, and your nephew. And easier on the people of Pavisse. Because we know he’s here somewhere, and I’m not the only Monk searching these streets.”

“Then we’ll slaughter you all! I’ll start with you right now, and the militia will clean up the rest of you like rats’ bodies rotting in the streets!”

“Militia like those I just saw being tattooed by Cantrass Angels?”

“They’re not all like that,” Vance said, but the desperation in his voice was obvious. He pushed a little more. The knife sank deeper, and Lucien tensed, slipping the sword from his belt. The moment hung like that, ready to go either way. Lucien’s instinctive rage could take full control, flushing him with the bloodlust and madness, spinning him around and slicing this man in two. Then he would slaughter those who watched; he sensed them hiding, terrified and fascinated. Or the men would part and go to Vance’s home, and maybe Lucien would find what he sought.

“You can’t kill me like that,” Lucien said quietly, leaning back so that the knife penetrated even deeper. He heard Vance gasp as thick red blood gushed over his hand. “See? Nothing.”

Vance stepped back, withdrawing the knife.

Lucien spun around, his sword in his hand, and faced the man. Vance was looking around, seeking help or an escape route.

“Don’t make me run you down,” the Monk said. “Where do you live? Is it far?”