Skif made an inarticulate sound of protest, but it was weak, because this was all he’d seen at Exile’s Gate, this was the way the world as he had always known it worked. Not the way it was taught in the Collegium. Not the way those sheltered, idealistic Heralds explained things—

“And there is no faith either,” the Guildmaster continued, in his hard, bright voice. “Faith is for those who wish to be deceived for the sake of a comforting, but hollow promise. Think about it, boy—think about it. It’s shadow and air, all of it. Cakes in the Havens, and crumbs in the street. That is all that faith is about.”

The priests—oh, the priests—how many of them actually helped anyone in Exile’s Gate in the here and now? Behind their cloister walls and their gates, they never went hungry or cold—they never suffered the least privations. Even the Brothers at the Priory never went hungry or cold. . . .

Skif’s heart contracted into an icy little knot. Alberich’s eyes were closed; he seemed to be concentrating on getting what little air the Guildmaster allowed him.

“Throw your lot in with me. I won’t deceive you with pretty fictions. You’ll obey me because I am strong and smart and powerful. You’ll learn from me to be the same. And maybe some day you’ll be good enough to take what I’ve got away from me. Until then, we’ll have a deal, and it will be because we know where we stand with each other, not because of some artificial conceit that we like each other.” He laughed. “The smart man guards his own back, boy,” the insidious voice went on. “The wise man knows there is no one that you can trust, you take and hold whatever you can and share it with no one, because no one will ever share what he has with you. Hate is for the strong; love is for the weak. No one has friends; friend is just a pretty name for a leech. Or a user. What do you think Bazie was? A user. He used you boys and lived off of your work, kept you as personal servants, and pretended to love you so you would be as faithful to him as a pack of whipped puppies.”

And that was where the Guildmaster went too far.

Bazie, thought Skif, jarred free of the spell that insidiously logical voice had placed on him. Bazie had shared whatever he had, and had trusted to his boys to do the same. Bazie had taken him in, with no reason to, and every reason to turn him into the street, knowing that Londer would be looking for him to silence him.