Traitor's Moon

obscene simplicity to that sensation. How was it that it took less effort, less strength, to stab the life from a person than to carve one’s mark in a tavern tabletop?
    With that thought came the old unanswerable question: What had made him draw steel against another when he could just as easilyhave run away? With a single stroke he’d taken a life and changed the entire course of his own. One stroke.
    It had been almost nine years before he killed again, this time to protect himself and the Mycenian thief who’d taught him the first rudiments of the nightrunner’s trade in the dark stews and filthy streets of Keston. That killing had been fraught with no such doubts. His teacher had been pleased, said she could make a first-class snuffer of him, but even under her questionable tutelage he had never killed unless driven to it.
    Later still, when he’d killed a clumsy ambusher to protect a young, recently met companion named Micum Cavish, his new friend had assumed it was Seregil’s first time and made him lick a little of the blood from the blade, an old soldier’s custom.
    â€œDrink the blood of your first kill and the ghosts of that and any other can’t haunt you,” Micum had promised, so earnest, so well intentioned. Seregil had never had the heart to confess that it was already far too late, or that only one death had ever haunted him, one that galled enough to pay off all the others.
    A glint of light ahead as he rounded a corner broke in on his thoughts. He’d been striding along without thought of direction, or so he’d imagined. A grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he realized that his wandering feet had taken him deep into Haman tupa.
    The light came from a large brazier, and in the compass of its flickering glow he saw the men gathered around it. They were young, and drinking. Even at a distance, he recognized a few of them from the council chamber, including several of Nazien’s kin.
    If he turned now, they’d never know he’d been there.
    But he didn’t turn, or even slow.
    Take what the Lightbearer sends—
    With a perverse shiver of excitement, he squared his shoulders, smoothed his hair back, and strolled on, passing close enough for the firelight to strike the side of his face. He said nothing, gave no greeting or provocation, but he could not suppress a small, giddy smile as a half dozen pairs of eyes widened, then tracked him with instant recognition and hatred. The tightness in Seregil’s chest returned as he felt the burn of their gaze between his shoulder blades.
    The inevitable attack was swift, but strangely quiet. There was the expected rush of feet, then hands grasped at him out of the darkness. They slung him against a wall, then threw him to the ground. Seregil raised his arms instinctively to cover his face but made no other move to protect himself. Boots and fists found him again,striking from all directions, finding his belly and groin and the still tender arrow bruise on his shoulder. He was picked up, shoved from one man to another, pummeled, spat on, flung down, and kicked some more. The darkness in front of his eyes lit up momentarily in a burst of white sparks as a foot connected with the back of his head.
    It might have gone on for minutes or hours. The pain was crude, erratic, exquisite.
    Satisfying
.
    â€œGuest slayer!” they hissed as they struck. “Exile!” “Nameless!”
    Strange how sweet such epithets sounded when flavored with the dry lilt of Haman, he thought, floating dreamily near unconsciousness. He’d have thanked them if he could have drawn breath to speak, but they were intent on preventing that.
    Where are your knives?
    The beating stopped as abruptly as it had begun, though he knew without uncurling to look around that they were still standing over him. A muttered order was given, but he couldn’t make out the words over the ringing in his ears.
    Then a hot, stinging stream of liquid struck him in the face. Another fell across his splayed legs and a third hit his chest.
    Ah
, he thought, blinking piss from his eyes.
Nice touch, that
.
    Giving him a few last disdainful kicks, they left him, tipping over the brazier as they went as if to deny him the comfort of its warmth. They could just as easily have emptied it onto him.
    Noble Haman. Merciful brothers
.
    A low chuckle scraped out of his chest like a twist of rusty wire. Oh, it hurt to laugh—he