“I can’t hear you,” Katsa said.

He cleared his throat. “I have a family. I have a family to care for. Do what you will, but I beg you not to kill me.”

“You don’t want me to kill you, for the sake of your family?”

A tear ran into his beard. “And for my own sake. I don’t want to die.”

Of course he didn’t want to die, for three acres of wood. “I don’t kill men who steal three acres of lumber from the king,” she said, “and then pay for it dearly in gold. It’s more the sort of crime that warrants a broken arm or the removal of a finger.”

She moved toward him and pulled her dagger from its sheath. He breathed heavily, staring at the eggs and fruit on his plate. She wondered if he would vomit or begin to sob. But then he moved his plate to the side, and his overturned glass and his silver. He stretched his arms onto the table before him. He bent his head, and waited.

A wave of tiredness swept over her. It was easier to follow Randa’s orders when they begged or cried, when they gave her nothing to respect. And Randa didn’t care about his forests; he only cared about the money and the power. Besides, the forests would grow back one day. Fingers didn’t grow back.

She slipped her dagger back into its sheath. It would be his arm, then, or his leg, or perhaps his collarbone, always a painful bone to break. But her own arms were as heavy as iron, and her legs didn’t seem to want to propel her forward.

The lord drew one shaky breath, but he didn’t move or speak. He was a liar and a thief and a fool.

Somehow she could not get herself to care.

Katsa sighed sharply. “I grant that you’re brave,” she said, “though you didn’t seem it at first.” She sprang to the table and struck him on the temple, just as she’d done with Murgon’s guards. He slumped, and fell from his chair.

She turned and went to wait in his great stone hall for Giddon and Oll to return with the money.

He would wake with a headache, but no more. If Randa heard what she had done, he’d be furious.

But perhaps Randa wouldn’t hear. Or perhaps she could accuse the lord of lying, to save face.

In which case, Randa would insist she return with proof in the future. A collection of shriveled fingers and toes. What that would do for her reputation . . .

It didn’t matter. She didn’t have the strength today to torture a person who didn’t deserve it.

A small figure came tripping into the hall then. Katsa knew who she was even before she saw the girl’s eyes, one yellow as the squash that grew in the north, and one brown as a patch of mud. This girl she would hurt; this girl she would torture if it would stop her from taking Katsa’s thoughts.