That’s it? He tried to talk but could not. The expression he dragged across his face said it. You think what, you think what ?

What do you think I am? Think I’m so cut off from them as I’ve fought and travelled and fucked with that I’d go, leave them for you ? For your money crusade? All your religiose dung comes to this? This was a recruitment speech ? You want me on your team? Because I know the way? Because I’ve done this? You want me on your team? What do you think I am?

He was melted with disgust, standing in his whisper-hexed stillness, his hands by his side.

"What do you say?" Wrightby said.

Deep in Cutter’s ear came Drogon’s voice: "Speak."

"Fuck you," said Cutter instantly. Wrightby nodded, waited.

"Get away from my fucking train. You bastards, you turncoat bastard, Drogon, you’ll never get away from us-" He breathed in to scream and Drogon silenced him again.

"We’ll not get past you?" Wrightby said. He looked quizzical. "I’m not sure. Really, I think we will. We’ll go now. I will be in the yard. When the train comes in. I’ll be there, waiting. Come if you want to, if you change your opinions."

Drogon whispered again. Cutter was agonied by cramp. The whispersmith indicated a way through the hills, led Weather Wrightby away. He looked back and whispered to Cutter again.

"Just so you know," he said. "I can’t see as it’ll make a spit of difference. But just in case. Because it has to finish now. Your mirrors are broken. Just to be sure."

Weather Wrightby looked Cutter in the eyes. "You know where to find me."

And they were gone, and Cutter was straining. Why didn’t you kill me, you fuckers?

His arm came up. It did not matter. He was no threat. What they had told him did not matter. The militia are waiting -he had said that for weeks. Everyone knew he thought that. However suddenly certain he was, it was what he had always said. Why would this change the Iron Council’s messianic plans?

There was another reason Drogon and Wrightby had left him alive. They still thought he might turn. They thought he might get out, leave the Council as it steamed toward its carnage and its end, and join them. And he hated them for that but also thought, What am I? What am I that they think that of me?

He cried some. He did not know if it was the effort of breaking the hex, or something else. He saw himself as Drogon must have seen him: his sneers and loneliness making him seem a traitor in waiting.