Everson reached into the satchel and retrieved the Tinderbox.

Femera and Amali had drifted down to the horizon. Their ruddy glow was pervasive and painterly, making the air thick and lending luster to every detail. The moment became imbued with historic importance, like an antique painting depicting an armistice or the coronation of a king.

The Which could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She stood self-consciously still, as if pointedly aware that she was the focus of the tableau. She clenched her fists into tight little rocks to keep her hands from trembling. The soldier displayed the Tinderbox with a forced casualness as if it were nothing more than a mere souvenir.

The Which heard a derisive snort, and she threw a glance at her guards, annoyed that her magical moment was being sullied. The guards and the Leftist looked downright let down by the sight of the common object in the Indiran’s hands. They had not known what to expect from this clandestine vigil and likely hoped for something more impressive to justify them standing here all day waiting for this prisoner whom The Which insisted on treating like some esteemed ambassador.

What were they expecting? The Which groused to herself. Something with the subtlety of a bomb, probably.

“This obviously has power,” the soldier continued. “It’s connected to the DOGs in some fashion. I think that you think it controls the outcome of the war. Some secret weapon to defeat my people. I wouldn’t be a very good soldier if I surrendered that to you, now would I? I’ll hold on to it, if you don’t mind.”

The Which exploded. The verbal dance was over, and it was time to pay the piper. “I do mind! You are not in control here.”

“Am I not? I know that you won’t kill me. It doesn’t serve your purpose. And I will not become a puppet in your fairy-tale aspirations.”

“Then what do you want, soldier?”

The soldier fidgeted and cast a nervous glance to the guards and the Leftist. Killing him would go a long way toward comforting their offended sensibilities.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Time, I suppose. Time to figure out what I need to do.”

“Time is something that I do not have the luxury to give,” The Which said. “I’m afraid you’ve become confused by my politeness. I cannot kill you. But I can make you hurt.”

The Which turned to her guards and they straightened expectantly. “Take the box,” she ordered.

The two guards stepped forward, smiles curling into sneers as they finally had something to do. The Leftist moved his massive bulk behind them but without the same apparent glee. Instinctively, the soldier’s knees bent slightly, his center of gravity lowered, and his muscles went taut in preparation to fight or flee. The guards were just slipping their swords from their scabbards when The Which added, “Without killing him.”

The guards stopped, their hands still gripping their half-drawn swords, but their enthusiasm considerably dampened. The henchmen glanced blankly at each other and then back to The Which, who offered no addendum. Finally, the elder guard cautioned a suggestion in a tone both hopeful and helpful, “Can we cut him just a little?”