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The bandit chief scoffed. “A Fyren? Not here for money?”

“You’re right to be cynical,” said Aurienne, “but this time, it’s true. Please believe me. Let us go.”

“The Fyren are good, but they aren’t gods, girl. He’s only one man.”

Mordaunt was still bent over beside Aurienne, fiddling with his boot.

“What,” hissed Aurienne, “are you doing?”

“Got to keep things sporting,” said Mordaunt. He pulled a bootlace free. “Besides, I don’t want to dirty my knives. You stay here and clutch your pearls.”

“Clutch my—don’t kill them,” said Aurienne, stepping in front of him. “They’re idiots—utterly lacking in judgement. We must give them a chance.”

“You’ve already given them a chance,” said Mordaunt. “Besides, they threatened to kidnap you.”

“And?Youthreatened to kidnap me.”

“Exactly: onlyIcan do that. You can’t tell me this lot will be a huge loss to the world.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Death is a normal part of life,” said Mordaunt.

“You can’t play god and accelerate it,” said Aurienne.

“Tss.You play god and slow it down; how’s that different?”

“Because it’s for Good.”

“They aren’t Good.”

One of the bandits, having tired, apparently, of this theoretical exchange, whipped a throwing axe towards Aurienne and Mordaunt. Mordaunt caught it as it spun between them (reflexes, admittedly, impressive), turned to the bandits, and commented at large, “That was a mistake.”

He dropped the axe. He moved towards the bandits, armed solely with his bootlace, with such nonchalance that if Aurienne had been a bandit, she would’ve been offended.

The bootlace dangled. The glove came off. The red tacn glistened like a bloodstain.

There was a shudder among the more intelligent members of the mob at the sight of the hellhound’s skull. Then there were rallying shouts about how the lady was worth millions, and this was Only One Man. He couldn’t take them all on; obviously—obviously—it was all forshow, intimidating, like; the tacn probably wasn’t even real—what was he going to do, kill them all?

Mordaunt twirled the bootlace as he advanced.

“Arrogant bastard,” said the bandit chief.

“Can’t argue that,” said Mordaunt.

“Run, you idiots,” said Aurienne, her hands pressed to her mouth.

“You’re going to learn some lessons today,” said the bandit chief.

“I think the teaching will be mutual,” said Mordaunt.

The bandit chief gestured his myrmidons forward. Their strategy, such as it was, consisted of swarming Mordaunt, who, for his part, turned to Aurienne and, with another of his odious winks, said, “Self-defence.”

A strange melee ensued, during which Mordaunt, with an air of roguish enjoyment, strangled men left and right with his bootlace, while they drove their blades towards him and gutted one another instead. He was vastly outnumbered, and yet with his every balletic step, two or three bandits collapsed, and his tacn glowed its diabolical red, and bodies hit the ground, and he had shadow-walked behind his next victim. He was, indeed, very good at what he did. The problem was that what he did was Very Bad.

It was going to be a wholesale single-bootlace massacre until the bandit chief, wielding a spear, hit Mordaunt with a glancing blow over the shoulder. Then Mordaunt grew serious, plucked the spear from the chief’s hand, and skewered him and the two men behind him into a grotesque bandit brochette.

All forty died.