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He woke slowly, the one good eye opening with all the speed of a glacier, the bad eye trying to open from habit and failing to do so entirely. His blurred vision revealed a cramped bedroom in dismal repair, with a ruined gauze-like fabric over the window and walls streaming with vertical water stains. The floorboards were dusted with soot and sand.

Walt sat up. The wound in his left shoulder blazed to life with hot, insistent pain; he laid down again. It occurred to him that he was naked to the waist, barefoot, and unarmed. Adrenaline shot through his system again at the realization and he felt ill from it. His bad eye itched. He reached up with his right hand and tried to adjust the patch, but it was gone, replaced by a layer of heavy bandages. He looked at his shoulder and saw that it had been given the same treatment.

"Sonia," he said, knowing now where he was. A halfhearted rain thumped against the window. A minute passed and then she was there in the doorway, casual, as if she were only stopping by on her way to some other place.

"You know, Waltz," she began, "most people get smarter as they get older."

As a counter-example, I submit dementia, he thought, but couldn't manage to say the words aloud. All that came out was, "Urgh."

"That bein' the case, by all rights you ought to be the smartest sonofabitch this side of a dark elves' den, but I ain't seein' it," she said.

He didn't answer. She leaned against the door frame, sighed. She was older, with medium brown hair and dark, appraising eyes. Her complexion was tawny, the skin very good for her age. It was probably fair to describe her as a little heavy. She was looking at Walt as if she wanted to slap him.

"You passed out. Gutter on the left side of some no name street in the old town slums 'bout an hour south and east from here afoot. You're goddamned lucky I happened to be in the area."

"I've killed Ederud," Walt said. He rolled onto his right side, turning his back to the door and the woman and the better part of the filthy bedroom. He thought of what Vivienne would think of him for murdering an insignificant crook like Ederud, and suddenly it seemed like it might be quite nice to die.

Sonia snorted. "Gonna be a lonely service."

"Very much so," he said, into the mattress. "I killed the help, as well."

"There weren't no need for that," she said, her voice quiet. "You didn't need to tell me that."

"No, I don't think I did need to. I'm sorry."

He heard the ancient floorboards creak and knew Sonia was shifting her weight from one foot to another and back again, as was her habit when she was upset. He saw in his mind her long, powerful dancer's legs as they used to be when she was young-- before her injury, when she was gifted and wild and hidden from the world by the shadow and grime of Durem's underworld.

Back then Sonia had been the prize of a middling lieutenant of the Kuros, until she made the mistake of expressing a desire to leave him. She did not dance again.

The rain paused for a moment, sputtered to life, ceased. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up into a sitting position with his right arm, letting it carry the whole of his weight. The left shoulder throbbed regardless. He tried to flex the fingers of that hand and quickly regretted it.

"Looks like you overdid it, alright."

"Too much spellcraft this past week," he explained. "Too many injuries."

"Your clothes are all ruined from blood," she said, sympathetically. "I'm assumin' you know where the rest of your things gone to."

"Stolen," he said, and she confirmed it with a nod. He cursed the loss of his sword, but felt grateful that he hadn't been carrying anything more important with him.

"Left your pants on on account of we're not screwin' anymore," she continued, grinning. "Seemed courteous."

He remembered the scars from where the Kuros had broken her legs, remembered the thrill of first seeing the marred flesh on her beautiful body. The pathos. He'd felt quite monstrous afterward. She was not like Vivienne; he had never loved her, and he was aware that was something a human would feel guilty about. Presently she noticed him staring-- at her prominent hips, the skirt draping from them, the ankles and bare calloused feet-- and misunderstood. She said, "I'd ask if you wanted to start again, but I don't hardly think you could handle it just now."

The last was a kind thing to say. It permitted him to change the subject.

"This arm will be dead weight for a time," he agreed.

She nodded, graciously dropped the affectionate vulgarity. "Bullet went clean through. I tidied it up as best I could, but you know I ain't no doctor."

"It'll mend."

"I reckon so. Oh, and it was me who took your eye patch," she said. "Won't ask how you lost the eye. It don't look good, though. Fair amount of pus."

Walt scratched at the bandage over his eye. "It's not pus."

"I know. I remember. Don't know what else to call it, though."

He wasn't certain what to call it himself; the infernal word for it had no counterpart in any human tongue he'd learned. "It's not like when your human wounds get infected," he assured her. "It means it's mending."

"This about a woman, Walter?" she asked, and smiled a small sardonic smile, as if daring him to lie to her. But her eyes were hard.

He did not know how to answer. It had been too long. He'd written her and dropped by to visit her and had taken her out from time to time, to casual events; these were attempts at showing gratitude, maintaining platonic friendship, a way of apologizing for no longer being attracted to her. They always seemed to leave her faintly disappointed. How old was she, now? When he really focused on her face and her hands worn with labor he thought she must be at least fifty; and if that was so, it had been more than twenty years since they'd parted ways, in romantic terms. Their last fight escaped his memory. He couldn't recall any longer if she preferred truth or kindness. "No," he answered at last. "It's nothing to do with any woman."

"Well, then. That'll do it. Your principles for your women were the only ones you ever had; I reckon you're free as a bird, now, free to ruin and maim whosoever you want, and take all they've got for your own, if it pleases you."

He could tell from her tone that she was angry. She disappeared from the doorway and her footsteps receded, hesitated, and approached again; when she reappeared in the doorway she was holding Walt's bloodstained clothing. She threw it at him, stormed off, returned once more. "Walter," she said, "I don't give a good goddamn whether or not you want me any more. All I care about is that you want somebody. You're rotten-- you're made that way. I've seen it. And the only time you're any good at all is when you care if some gal or another thinks you're as rotten as you really are."

"I just killed four people," Walt said. "That's today. I don't think many humans would agree that either love or desire excuses that."

"Should've left you in the gutter," Sonia muttered, as if he hadn't said anything. She walked off to some other room of the apartment and slammed the door. Walt sat for a moment, thinking she was probably right. Then he pulled on his shirt-- slowly, and cursing the pain in his shoulder all the while. He looked at his vest and cravat and overcoat and decided they weren't worth the effort, and left them on the floor beside the bed when he went.