Tool growled. “Soldiers have been looting and burning for generations. Perhaps they burned the town because of you, or perhaps they did it because they disliked the whiskey. Soldiers kill and rape and loot for a thousand reasons. The one thing I am certain of is that neither you nor I did this burning.” Tool reached down and turned Mahlia’s gaze to meet his own. “Do not seek to own what others have done.”

Mahlia knew that Doctor Mahfouz would have disagreed with everything Tool said. She could practically see the doctor shaking his head at the creature’s words.

Tool seemed to wall himself off from any responsibility at all. Like nothing he did mattered. Doctor Mahfouz would have said that every action connected to every other action, and that was why the Drowned Cities was the way it was.

The Drowned Cities hadn’t always been broken. People broke it. First they called people traitors and said they didn’t belong. Said these people were good and those people were evil, and it kept going, because people always responded, and pretty soon the place was a roaring hell because no one took responsibility for what they did, and how it would drive others to respond. Mahlia wanted to argue with the half-man, but he suddenly stiffened. His ears pricked up and he sniffed the air.

“It’s time we were on our way,” he said. “I smell more villagers returning.”

“I still can’t find Mouse,” Mahlia objected.

“No. And you will not.” The half-man paused, regarding her. Seeming to consider his words. “There are tracks on the far side of the village. Not just the boots of soldiers. Bare feet, too. Sandals. All sizes. They took prisoners.”

Mahlia felt a sudden rush of hope. “So you think they took Mouse? You know where they went?”

“He is an ideal age. Big enough to carry a gun and use it well, young enough to train and fanaticize.”

Understanding dawned on Mahlia. “You think he’s recruited? You think he’s gone soldier boy?”

“With the proper stimuli, anyone can be turned into killer.”

“A killer like you?” Mahlia asked, but Tool didn’t seem offended; he just nodded. “Very much like me. I was bred to kill, but I was trained to do it well.”

“But Mouse isn’t a soldier boy,” she said. “He’s not like that. He’s good. He’s kind. He…”

He likes dumb jokes, and he likes to catch snakes and eggs, and he’s always up for a trip into the jungle, and he can’t read books for the life of him, and he’s scared of sleeping inside at night, and when you’re feeling like hell because you’re a castoff, he comes around and sits with you. And when the Army of God’s got you by the hair, and you got one hand already lying on the ground, he steps up and saves you.