She looked me over again, her eyes lingering on my arms, the spurs on my elbows, my fists, and all the fights carved into my red leather jacket. "I thought you might be the sort of man who had killed before."

Locking my gaze to his jaundiced eyes, I made a silent inventory of my weapons: riffle scrolls before me, the Shadowless Sword at my hip, and Arnisant at my feet. Yet for the moment, my most powerful weapon might be a sharp tongue. "Prince Kasiya of Osirion."

He sneered, probably thinking I couldn't hear his buddies creeping up behind me. When I told the boss I was going out for some exercise, this wasn't what I had in mind. The swordsman looked me in the eye. "Varlet."

At my side, Arnisant growled a warning. The instant I touched the Shadowless Sword, a gloved hand covered mine in a gesture doubtless intended to reassure me. Instead, the unwelcome touch raised the hairs on my neck. My pulse remained calm, however, a reminder of the strange transfiguration of my lately sundered heart.

He awoke in a cold spray of brackish water. The Hellknight who'd roused him drew back the half-empty bucket, then brought it forward again for another go. This time, Tarrant inhaled half the putrid stuff and gagged. "Is that really necessary?" he coughed.

Humming anxiously under his breath, Tarrant watched as the last cart of treasure arrived from the docks as the sun set. This time was always torture and ecstasy for him: he could hardly stand the waiting, and yet he could not help his excitement for the game to come. Tarrant shadowed the cart from the docks to Hawkthorne Tower, then slipped around the back.