Skif looked up at the Weaponsmaster. As usual, his face was unreadable. “Depends on th’ man,” Skif replied soberly. “If you’re talkin’ in cold blood, I’d a took Jass down like a mad dog, just ’cause he killed m’friends, and I’d’a done it soon as I knew who his master was. In the dark. In the back. An’ if somethin’ happens, an’ his master won’t come up on what’s due him—mebbe I’d do him, too. If you’re talkin’ in hot blood, if I was come at myself—someone wantin’ me dead—aye, I’d kill him.”

Alberich nodded, as if that was expected. “So. When are you going to display these to your friends?” he prodded. It sounded casual, but it was prodding.

Skif shook his head. “These—they’re for serious work. Not for showin’ off. ‘Less you order me, Master Alberich, I ain’t even gonna wear these, ’cept t’ practice. That’s like balancin’ a rock over a door t’ see who gets hit. I ain’t got a hot temper, but I got a temper like anybody else. Losin’ temper makes people do stupid things.”

Death was a fight over nothing, and a lost temper, and blood where a simple blow would have served the same purpose. Over and over again, in the streets outside Exile’s Gate, Death came when tempers worn thin by need or hurt, anger or drink, flared and blades came out. Alberich, in his guise of the sell-sword, was one of the few in those taverns that Skif had ever seen who went out of his way to avoid killing—to avoid even causing permanent harm.

Alberich gave a brief nod of satisfaction, and went on to drill Skif in the use of his new weapons. He said nothing more as the knives went into the target again and again; he was satisfied that Skif was going to be sensible, and dismissed the question as answered. That was another thing that Skif had come to realize about Alberich in the last week. Where other people—even a few Heralds—were inclined to harp on a subject that worried them, Alberich examined the subject, asked his questions, made his statements, came to his decisions, and left it alone.

If he trusted the person in question.

And he trusted Skif.

That was a very, very strange realization. But when he had come to it last night, it had been the catalyst for his own decision this morning.

“Master Alberich,” he said, when the knives had been taken off and wrapped up in an oiled cloth to keep the sheaths supple and catches rust free. “I got a thought. Sooner or later some’un’s gonna let it slip what I was. An’ that’s gonna cause some trouble.”

Alberich gave him one of those very penetrating glances, but said nothing.