“Naw,” Skif denied, very much enjoying having the fearsome Weaponsmaster at a temporary disadvantage. “Just makin’ you be sensible. Ye see—” he continued, waxing eloquent, “there’s th’ difference between a Herald an’ a thief. Ye don’ have t’ make a thief be sensible. All thieves are sensible. A thief that won’t be sensible—”

“—a thief in gaol is, yes, please spare me,” Alberich growled.

But it didn’t sound like his heart was in it, and a moment later he glanced over at Skif. “That was one of your mentor—Bazie—that was one of the things he told you, yes?”

Skif nodded.

“And now, revenge you have had.”

True. Jass was dead, Vatean was dead; the two men responsible for Bazie’s horrible death were themselves dead. Skif’s initial bargain with himself—and with the Heralds—to work with Alberich because they had a common cause was over.

“Regrets?” Alberich prompted.

Skif shook his head, then changed his mind. “Sort of. There weren’t no justice.”

“But it was your own hand that struck Vatean down,” Alberich said, as if he were surprised.

It was Skif’s turn to bestow a sour look. “Now, don’ you go tryin’ that sly word twistin’ on me,” he said. “I know what you’re tryin’ t’do, an’ don’ pretend you ain’t. No. There weren’t no justice. Th’ bastid is dead, dead quick an’ easy, he didn’ have t’answer fer nothing an’ we ain’t never gonna find out a half of what he was into. I got revenge, an’ I don’ like it. Revenge don’ get you nothin’. There. You happy now?”

But Alberich surprised him. “No, little brother,” he said gently. “I am not happy, because my brother is unhappy.”

And there it was; the sour taste in Skif’s mouth faded, and although the vengeance he thought he had wanted turned out to be nothing like what he really would have wanted if he’d had the choice, well—

I am not happy, because my brother is unhappy.

That—that was worth everything he’d gone through to get here.

“Ah, I’ll get over it,” he sighed. “Hey, I get t’ boss you around fer a week, eh, Kantor? That’s worth somethin’.”

Once again, Kantor nodded his head with vigor, and Alberich groaned feelingly.

“This—” he complained, but with a suspicious twinkle in his eye, “—is putting the henhouse in the fox’s charge.”

“Rrrrr!” Skif growled, showing his teeth. “Promise. Won’t have too much chicken.”

“And I suppose you will insist on going into Whites, now that a hero you are,” Alberich continued, looking pained.