Whiskeyjack startled everyone by surging to his feet. 'I'm not convinced,' he said, throwing Quick Ben a glare that told Tattersail there had been countless arguments over this issue. 'Sorry likes killing, and having her around is like having spiders down your shirt. I know all that, I can see it and feel it the same as any of you. It doesn't mean she's some kind of demon.' He turned to face Kalam. 'She kills like you do, Kalam. You've both got ice in your veins. So what? I look at you and I see a man because that's what men are capable of – I don't hunt for excuses because I don't like to think that that's how nasty we can get. We look at Sorry and we see reflections of ourselves. Hood take it, if we don't like what we see.'

He sat down just as abruptly as he had risen, and reached for the wine jug. When he continued his voice had dropped a notch. 'That is my opinion, anyway. I'm no expert on demons but I've seen enough mortal men and women act like demons, given the need. My squad's wizard is scared witless by a fifteen-year-old girl. My assassin slips a knife into his palm whenever she's within twenty paces of him.' He met Tattersail's eyes. 'So, Hairlock has two missions instead of one, and if you think Quick Ben and Kalam are correct in their suspicions you can walk from all this – I know how things go when gods step into the fray.' The lines around his eyes tightened momentarily, a replaying of memories. 'I know,' he whispered.