Keeper jabbed a fist against Torvald’s shoulder, rocking the Daru back a step. ‘Wise choice, lad. I think I can get along with you, though I’d feel better if your silent friend said a thing or two.’

Rubbing at his shoulder, Torvald turned to Karsa.

The Teblor bared his teeth. ‘I have nothing to say.’

‘I like men with nothing to say,’ Keeper said.

‘Lucky for you,’ Karsa growled. ‘For you would not wish me as an enemy.’

Keeper refilled his cup. ‘I’ve had worse than you, Teblor, in my day. Uglier and bigger and meaner. Of course, they’re mostly all dead, now.’

Torvald cleared his throat. ‘Alas, age takes us all, eventually.’

‘That it does, lad,’ Keeper said. ‘Too bad none of them had the chance to see for themselves. Now, I expect you’re hungry. But to eat my food, you’ve got to do something to earn it first. And that means helping me dismantle the roof. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.’

Karsa looked around. ‘I will not work for you. Digging up bones and putting them together is a waste of time. It is pointless.’

Keeper went perfectly still. ‘Pointless?’ He barely breathed the word.

‘It’s that woeful streak of Teblor pragmatism,’ Torvald said hastily. ‘That and a warrior’s blunt manners, which often come across as unintentionally rude—’

‘Too many words,’ Karsa cut in. ‘This man wastes his life with stupid tasks. When I decide I am hungry, I will take food.’

Though the Teblor was anticipating a violent reaction from Keeper, and though Karsa’s hand was close to the grip of his bloodsword, he was unable to avoid the blurred fist that lashed out, connecting with his lower ribs on his right side. Bones cracked. The air in his lungs exploded outward. Sagging, Karsa staggered back, incapable of drawing breath, a flood of pain darkening his vision.

He had never been hit so hard in his life. Not even Bairoth Gild had managed to deliver such a blow. Even as consciousness slipped from him, he swung a look of astonished, unfeigned admiration on Keeper. Then he collapsed.

When he awoke, sunlight was streaming through the open doorway. He found himself lying in the stone chips. The air was filled with mortar dust, descending from above. Groaning with the pain of cracked ribs, Karsa slowly sat up. He could hear voices from up near the tower’s ceiling.

The bloodsword still hung from its straps on his back. The Teblor leaned against the stone leg bones of the skeleton as he climbed to his feet. Glancing up, he saw Torvald and Keeper, balanced in the wood framework directly beneath the ceiling, which had already been partly dismantled. The Daru looked down.

‘Karsa! I would invite you up but I suspect this scaffold wouldn’t manage your weight. We’ve made good progress in any case—’