"Teacher Dekaras?" Young Edwin Odesseiron gave his teacher an imploring look "Can I ask you a question?"

Vadrak Dekaras, the Odesseiron House Assassin and tutor raised his head from the paper he was currently marking. "Yes?" he said. "What is it?"

The small boy blushed a little, obviously embarrassed by something, but he persisted. "Well…you remember that we went to visit Poppy down at the Assassin's Guild the day before yesterday? And you had to step out for a while to do something? Well…she told me…that is…she said…"

"Out with it, boy", the assassin said, not unkindly. "I haven't got all day, you know. What did Poppy say?"

Edwin bit his lip, obviously gathering his courage. "She told me that you once killed a man using only a spoon!" he blurted out, his dark eyes glowing with admiration. "Is that true? Is it?"

A spoon… For a moment the assassin felt as if a cold wind had blown through the room as he remembered. Oh yes, he remembered that spoon, as well as the rest of it. "Poppy sometimes talks too much", he said shortly, his sharp face even more emotionless than usual. "But yes…it is true." And he remembered. Remembered things he usually tried not to think about at all.

The target… Yes, that was it. That target… In a way, that was where it began. But of course, it also started much earlier…back before.

Thunk * A near miss. * Thunk * Just a graze this time, a mere flesh-wound. * Thunk * Went completely wrong, ended up stuck in the wall. * Thunk * A hit, but only just. There was a target on the wall, a target painted in the shape of a human being, with fatal areas marked in red. A fully trained assassin should be able to hit one of those nearly every time. The current score wasn't quite so good. A few throwing daggers were stuck in the target, but mostly in the wrong places, and quite a few others had ended up in the wall instead. Just one more left. Oh, what's the use, thought the boy standing in front of the target and glared angrily at it. I'll never be any good at this anyway. This…isn't what I wanted. His small form tensed up like that of a wild beast hearing hunters approaching. Black eyes turned slightly unfocused as he recalled other, happier days, an entirely different kind of training. Before. Before them.

Magic. Singing in the blood, entwined with the soul. A melody always present, a gentle warmth around the heart. As much a part of him as arms or legs, and taken as much for granted. But that was before. And now it was after. No more music. No more warmth. Just an emptiness, a deep hole, filled with nothing but darkness and bitter cold. I was good, the boy thought, squeezing his fists tightly shut. They all told me so. I would have been more than good, I think. One of the best. But not now. His hand was feeling warmer now…almost the way it had at times when he cast a spell, back before. It felt good. He wanted more of it.

"Dek! Hey, Dek!" The voice was loud and annoying in his ears, the hand on his shoulder an intrusion, a threat. The boy swiftly turned around, snarling at the intruder.

"What?" he snapped. Leave me alone. Why can't you all just…leave me alone? I could almost feel it again…

It was Rujo, a freckled and snub-nosed boy about his own age, and a fellow apprentice. "M-master Gorbia wants to see you", he said, sounding rather alarmed at the violent reaction his greeting had got him. "I think you're in trouble again…" Then his eyes widened and his face paled. "Your hand! Bhaal's Buttocks, look at your hand! Are you crazy?!"

What's he going on about? There's nothing wrong with my…hand… The black-haired boy looked down at his hand, and then he, too, turned white as he saw the steady trickle of hot blood dripping from his lacerated palm and onto the cold stone floor. He hadn't even felt the throwing dagger bite into his skin as he held it in a death grip. Just that pleasant warmth. And here I almost thought it was the magic come back, he thought. Stupid me… Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he felt his conscious thoughts slip away.

Luca Gorbia, head of the Surthay Assassin's Guild, sighed deeply and looked at the child sitting in front of him. Gorbia was a man in his sixties, still fit and hale, his iron-gray hair only now beginning to grow thinner at the top. He looked a bit like somebody's kindly uncle, a fact that he had always found most useful. He hadn't risen to the head of the Guild simply because of his skills with blade and bottle, he always prided himself in knowing how to handle his underlings . But he'd be damned if he could figure out how to handle this child. If child, he could still be called. Not even the street-children the Guild frequently recruited usually had eyes like that, not if you found them early enough.

The boy was sitting quietly in one of the large armchairs facing Gorbia, his thin legs dangling over the edge, his hand neatly patched up by the local healer. If it pained him, he didn't show it. He simply sat there, his face devoid of all emotion, now and then kicking against the expensive leather of the armchair. Gorbia didn't doubt that he did it on purpose but chose to ignore that for now. His bushy gray eyebrows drew together as he gave the boy a stern look.

Thin, yes. Small for his age. Not unhealthy though, even if he was a little paler than a native Thayvian. Thick black hair that kept falling into his eyes so that he had to push it out of the way. Narrow face, again reminding Gorbia of a street-waif. Expressionless like a mask. The boy had been here a year now, or thereabouts, and in all that time Gorbia had never seen him smile. He'd hardly seen him display any emotion at all. Boredom at times. And on a few very rare, and for the environment memorable, occasions, anger. And then there were those eyes… Black eyes, far too old for a child, even for a regular orphan or beggar boy. Most of the time they were as expressionless as the rest of the boy, like they were thick steel doors barring the way to everybody trying to get past. But occasionally, very once in a great while, the doors would open a little, and there was terrible suffering behind them, shut in so that nobody would see.

Yes, Gorbia thought, this child was in pain, and the wound to his hand was a trifle compared to the wound in his soul. A wound which the Guild Master didn't understand and of which the child refused to speak. Ha, for the whole first month he had been here he had refused to speak at all, and he was hardly sociable now either. And yet Gorbia somehow had to try to get through to him, or the boy would surely be dead before another year had passed.

"So", the leader of the Assassin's Guild said. "Young Dekaras. Here again. What is it, fifth time this week? Want to explain what all of that was about?" He pointed at the boy's bandaged hand.

The boy simply shrugged, looking as if he had almost forgotten his wound already. "This, sir? I don't know. I guess I just…forgot myself."

"Forgot yourself."

"Yes, sir." The boy kicked at the chair again, harder than before. It was pretty obvious what he was doing. Trying to provoke the Guild Master into punishing him, or at least sending him out of the room. Anything rather than having to answer questions. Gorbia didn't take the bait.

"You must have been thinking about something very important then", he said. "Care to share it with me?"

"Share, sir?"

"Yes. Share." The Guild Master leaned forward, staring into the child's eyes. In the end he looked away, annoyed with himself for doing so. "Do you know what your teachers have all been telling me?"

"Sir?"

"They tell me that you have talent. And not a small one either. And yet you never seem to excel in your classes. Why do you suppose that is?"

"I don't know, sir." Again, that damnable shrug. "Perhaps they are mistaken?"

"I don't think so. No, I don't think so at all. What I think is that you are holding back. You hardly even try; half the time it seems you aren't even present except in body. Where is it that you go, I wonder?"

"Sir?" By now the child looked poised to take flight if pressed further. Gorbia sighed inwardly and decided to try something else.

"Your sponsor is getting worried about your performance", he said, hoping to evoke some form of response. "You do remember him? Suryal Odesseiron? Red Wizard?"

"Yes, sir. I remember him."

"Good. And do you know what he told me about your problems?"

"No, I don't. Sir." The last word was almost spat out as a curse, and for the first time there was a flicker of brief emotion in those black eyes. Rage. Rage and humiliation.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

There was the faintest hint of relaxation to those thin shoulders as the boy sagged down a little in the armchair, allowing himself to close his eyes briefly, even forgetting to kick at the chair for a moment. "Good", he whispered, his voice almost inaudible. "He promised he wouldn't tell…"

"Apparently so", Gorbia agreed. "Though I wish that one of you would consent to telling me just what your problem is. The Guild takes care of its own, and believe it or not, I happen to care about whether one of my apprentices is self-destructing in front of me."

"Why, sir", the boy said, his voice heavy with cynicism, "as assassins I didn't think we were supposed to care."

The Guild Master finally found himself provoked beyond control. "I'm an assassin", he growled. "You may become one, but right now you're a brat with a tongue too clever for his own good. I don't know what is wrong, but if you refuse to tell me I order you to listen to me now. Whatever happened to you, whatever or whomever it was that you lost, you will get through it or so help me, I'll hound you through the Abyss itself until you get your act together and become what you are supposed to become. This is your life now, if only you would see it. Now get out of here and think about what I've said."

"Yes, sir", the boy said respectfully as he crossed the floor. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Sir? You really oughtn't to bother. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it." He slipped out the door before Gorbia had the chance to say another word.

Damn that child, the Guild Master thought as he rubbed at his temples, feeling a splitting headache approaching. He did it again. Manipulated me into terminating the conversation as soon as I was about to get through to him. I am right about him, I know it. He will be one of the great ones. Assuming he lives past his tenth birthday, that is.

The boy made himself walk slowly and with dignity until he was certain nobody could see him. Only then did he break into a run. A few hours later he was lying on top of the roof of the Guild, watching the stars. He'd always liked climbing. Even before. It was strange, he mused. He remembered what crying used to be like. He used to do it sometimes, before. Not very often, but it happened. Not now though. Not since after. He didn't think he could anymore. That should have been good, shouldn't it? But he had learnt that not crying meant being forced to cope with a burning pain in his throat, and an equally bad one behind his eyes, and his stomach twisting into a knot until he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry his eyes out. Well, not where anybody could see of course. But he couldn't.

The boy tried to remember what things had been like before. Parts of it were already hazy, but he could remember his parents well enough. Gentle hands. Kind eyes. He'd really believed that they cared about him. Were proud of him. Loved him, even. But they couldn't have. Not really. If they had, they wouldn't have lied to him, would they? Wouldn't have told him that everything would be all right. Wouldn't have given him to them. To the Witches. Wouldn't have given him up to the darkness and the cold, and the spectral claws tearing at his soul until death would have been a mercy rather than to have to feel the pain of it for one more moment. Tearing part of him out forever. No, if they had loved him, they never would have done that. So obviously they couldn't have loved him. It was only logic, after all. And parents were supposed to love their children, everybody said so. So if hisparents didn't, that meant there had to be something very wrong with him. Again, simple logic. Something wrong and evil that they'd never told him about. And now it's worse, he thought. Now I'm not even good at anything anymore. I'm completely useless, aren't I? I can't even hit a stupid target with a stupid dagger. I…might as well be gone. I'm certainly no good to anybody around here. They don't want me around anyway. I just creep them out.

The thought made the boy sit bolt upright. Gone… He crawled over to the edge of the roof and looked down. It was a very long way down to the street below. Actually, it was more of an alley, a dark and narrow alley, paved with stones. Very hard stones. I could jump, he thought, feeling a sort of sick fascination. It would be so easy… He crept a little closer to the edge. I wonder what it's like being dead. I wonder if it hurts very much. But it couldn't hurt any worse than…that. I wonder if anybody would miss me. He shook his head. Probably not. Just a little closer. Just to look a little further. And then his foot slipped on a loose tile, and he gasped with surprise and fear as he slid over the edge, scrambling desperately for another foothold, not finding it, and then…falling. Automatically he tried to remember a spell to slow his fall, before his brain recalled that all of that belonged to before, and not to after.

If it hadn't been for the assassin shaking the dust out of his cloak through a window two stories below the boy almost certainly would have died that night. As it was, he somehow managed to clutch at the garment as he tumbled past the window, snatching it out of the surprised man's hands. The cloth caught the wind, slowing the child's fall, and though the landing was rather undignified and cost him a twisted ankle, at least he survived it. After a minute or so he managed to sit up, still holding on to the cloak. His head was spinning, his heart beating furiously within his chest as he realized that he was in fact still alive. The loud cursing of the assassin above him was like heavenly music to his ears, and he knew that no matter what, he really didn't want to die after all.

I guess I'm in trouble again, the boy thought as he heard the terrible oaths drift down towards him like falling rain. His fingers shaking slightly, he pushed his black hair out of his eyes and looked upwards. The man really sounded upset. And then a thought came to the boy. He didn't have to go back. He was outside of the Guild. He could go anywhere he wanted. Perhaps…even home? He pushed that thought down as soon as it crossed his mind. No. Not home. It's not home anymore, remember? They don't want you anymore. And they'd want you even less now, now that you aren't even good for anything anymore. And not after what you did to get here. But he could go somewhere else. He didn't have to decide at once. Limping slightly the boy stepped into the shadows at the bottom of the alley, passing deeper into darkness.

It was ten days later. The black-haired boy huddled in another alley, staring at the object in his hands. It was plump. It was fat. It was almost juicy. It was probably nutritious. Unfortunately, it was also a rat. A raw rat freshly killed. He had twisted its neck himself only minutes before. Couldn't be fresher. And he hadn't eaten anything in…what was it? Three days? Food was hard to come by on the streets, as he had known it would be. He had managed to steal some, but he didn't dare approach the street vendors too often, for fear of discovery. The alternative was…well…hunting.

Come on, the boy reproached himself. Don't be such a baby. You've eaten worse on the way from…from home, remember? Out on the plains? When the hunters were after you?

Well, actually I don't, he answered his own question. I've tried very hard to forget about that, thanks very much. Especially those…grubs.

Do it. If you don't, you'll die. He stared at the rat again. Its beady little eye seemed to stare back at him.

But I hate eating food that looks back at me.

So don't look at it. Just…pretend it's something else. Like…chicken. I'm sure it tastes exactly like chicken.

The boy closed his eyes and brought the rat closer to his mouth, trying very hard not to think about exactly what he was doing. And then a strange voice caused his eyes to snap open with surprise.

"What have we here? A pretty little street-rat, is it? Should fetch a nice price…" There were three men blocking the alley-mouth. Regular ruffians, large and burly, with eyes as glittering and hard as those of the dead rodent and smelling much the same. The boy immediately privately named them 'Squint', 'Rot-nose' and 'Slobber', going by their most distinguishing features. It was Squint who had spoken, and he was the one who seemed to be their leader.

I can't fight them, the boy thought. There's three of them, and they're far too big. Besides I'm not even armed. His impromptu exit from the Guild had meant that he didn't have even a single weapon on him. Some assassin. Have to run then. Talking them to them would probably do no good. Whatever they wanted with him it wasn't going to be pleasant, and they weren't likely to refrain from it simply because he asked them to.

The boy cautiously weighed the dead rat in his hand, trying not to seem to obvious about it. Then he threw it, as hard as he could, and this time he struck true, hitting Squint directly on the nose. The man recoiled and the boy dodged to the side, trying to avoid the two others as they reached for him. He very nearly managed it, but not quite. A meaty hand struck him across the mouth, making his head ring and his mouth bleed, and then they were all on him. Heavy hands all over, grasping for him, trying to hold him down. It was them all over again, the Witches with their berserkers, twice as large as other men. The memory exploded in his head, filling it with red fury and panic.

No! Not again! Not…AGAIN! Kicking, hitting, even biting. Whatever it took to stay free. Taste of blood in his mouth, and he didn't know if it was his own or somebody else's. He didn't much care either. The rage was upon him and it wouldn't be denied. Everything hazy, like seeing through a red veil, flailing arms and legs hardly recognizable. Distant roaring in his ears, like the wind rushing across the plains of home. Home… And then a blinding pain exploded in his head and he knew no more.

Pain. Bad pain. That was the first thing he noticed. Not quite as bad as that other pain, the one that never quite left him, but bad enough. Eyes still closed, the boy tried to decide if there was any one spot of his body that didn't hurt. After a few minutes he decided that probably his left big toe was all right. At least he could wiggle it about without it feeling like it was to fall off. The same couldn't be said for his head. He bit back a small whimper as he tried to open his eyes. No, that wasn't a good idea at all. Time for Plan B. Right big toe. That seemed to work as well. Pity he hadn't quite mastered picking locks using only his toes yet. For there were chains on him, that much he could feel. Cold and heavy iron chains, linking his arms together, and a similar arrangement for the legs. Well, that was good. It meant he'd managed to do some damage. On the other hand, he thought, it also means I'm unable to move much. Which is not so good.

"Hey, are you alive?" The black-eyed boy finally managed to open his eyes to see who had spoken. When he did, he wished that he hadn't. He was in a cellar of some sort, cold and damp, with a rocky stone floor. Now that he thought about it, he could feel sharp edges cut into his already aching body, and it wasn't nice. It was dark too, or mostly so. Just one small torch, and that one was placed outside the bars. For there were bars, heavy iron bars closing off the cell. Cell. Not good. There were children all around him, a good dozen of them, boys and girls both, both older and younger. Dirty and ragged for the most part, and not looking all that well fed. Some of them looked scared, some indifferent. A couple simply lay on the ground, staring into empty space. The one who had spoken was a girl, about his own age, with long brown hair and eyes like dark holes in her too thin face. Her name was Irri, and it was she who explained exactly where they were.

Apparently Squint, Rot-nose and Slobber all worked for the same man, a slave-trader who went by the name of 'the Peddler'. And what he peddled was slaves. Children slaves, to be more precise. They were easy to procure compared to adults, and there was a particular market, catering to men of particular…tastes. The Peddler shared those particular tastes, to the degree that he usually sampled some of his wares before selling them on. Which neatly explained those children who refused to look at or speak to anybody, and sometimes even to eat. Not that they got much food. Bread and water. A little porridge now and then. Porridge, the boy thought to himself, feeling a certain dark humor despite the predicament. Does it get any worse than this? I'd rather have had the rat.

"You put up quite a fight", Irri said with a certain grudging admiration. "You almost killed one of them when you bashed his nose in."

"Almost is no good", the boy said, and then he groaned slightly as he accidentally moved his head.

"It won't do you any good anyway. That's why you're chained up, see? So you can't do anything like that again when they come to get us. The Peddler said…" She broke off, not looking at him.

"What?"

"That…'a little talk with the whip will be enough to tame the wild one, if the beating isn't'." She shrugged apologetically. "Sorry."

A whip. How wonderful. I guess it does get worse than porridge. If only by a little bit.

The whip he had to wait for, but the porridge arrived the very next day. Served in a large wooden bowl, a single one for all the children, with stout wooden spoons. Yes, the boy thought to himself as he struggled to force down a bit of lumpy gray mass that reminded him uncomfortably of brains. I would rather have had the rat. He twisted the spoon around and around in his hands, his mind drifting. The handle had a good grip to it, it was hard and strong, smooth and well-balanced. Almost like…almost…

And then the young Vadrak Dekaras opened his eyes and his mind, and he saw. Something clicked into place, something that had been waiting to fill that empty void, at least partially, and his mind was racing, the blood quickening in his veins. Not the song of magic this, but the song of blood, slow and insidious, but no less beautiful. And the rocks on the floor…they were sharp enough. They couldn't be yanked loose to be used as a weapon, but they would do for what he had in mind. Slowly, methodically, ignoring the chains biting into his arms, he started modifying his spoon.

The Peddler came the next day. He was a surprisingly ordinary-looking man. He looked to be in his forties or so, with thin brown hair and a very ordinary face. Nobody would have looked twice at him in a crowd. He was rather pleased with himself this day. The current batch of children would be sent south the next day, earning him a nice profit. But before that he intended to have just one more sample of the wares. "Hello there, my lovelies", he said, raising his torch to beam at the children in an almost kindly manner. "Are we feeling friendly today?" There was no answer. "Come now. Doesn't even one of you want to play a little with your friend?" Still no answer. "No? Then I suppose I'll just have to pick one of you instead…" He paused, savoring the moment. There was one brown-haired girl close to the bars who was rather pretty despite the dirt on her face, watching him with the huge and frightened eyes of a doe. "How about…you?" The girl whimpered.

"How about me?" said a quiet voice from the corner of the cell. The Peddler turned his head. Ah, yes. The wild boy. The one they'd had to chain up to keep him quiet. He looked quite a bit more docile now, sitting very still on the floor, a large bruise still darkening his cheek. "Suppose I want to play?" he said, cocking his head to one side, watching the Peddler as if he was an interesting puzzle to be figured out.

"You?" The slave-trader thought for a moment. It was tempting. The boy was quite a pretty one, in an untamed way of course. "But you didn't play very nice before, did you, my little one?" He pointed at the chains.

The boy shrugged gracefully. "I just got scared", he said. "But I can be nice, if I want to. Besides, what can I do with these chains?"

The Peddler nodded. That was true enough. "Come out then", he said, unlocking the cell door. "Come out to play with old Peddler." The boy obediently got to his feet and followed the slave trader out of the cell, keeping his chained arms folded in front of him.

The Peddler's bedchamber wasn't particularly opulent. It was only the one he used for his 'samples' after all, not the one he had at home. There was a bed, a dresser, a chair and a table. That was all he needed. Especially the bed. He motioned for the boy to sit on the bed, and the child obeyed without question, still watching him intently with those black eyes of his, the only hint of life in the pale face. "That's a good boy", the Peddler said approvingly. "Now let's see a smile for old Peddler." Slowly, ever so slowly, the boy's mouth quirked upwards in a wide and delighted smile. The slave-trader sat down on the bed, leaning in more closely towards the child. He just had time to recognize the fact that the boy's eyes weren't smiling at all. They were intensely focused, like those of a predator, not like those of prey. Ancient. Cold. And pleased.

The Peddler's pain was intense as the by now very pointy handle of a wooden spoon rammed into his eye with a soft and popping sound, penetrating all the way to the brain. He opened his mouth to scream, and all that came out was a gurgling moan as the spoon-handle stabbed into his throat at precisely the right spot, ripping the artery open. In the last few seconds before his soul departed his body his one remaining eye turned towards the child in front of him, still holding the spoon in both chained hands. The boy must have had it hidden up his sleeve all the time. He was still smiling, and that smile was the last thing the Peddler ever saw.

"You didn't have to do that, you know", Irri said as she stepped out of the cell along with all the other children. Fortunately, the Peddler had kept the keys to both chains and cell-door on his person, as well the added bonus of a heavy money pouch.

"What?" the young Dekaras asked. "Kill him?"

"No, silly. You know what I mean. Offer to go instead of me."

The boy shrugged. "Actually, I did", he said. "I was the only one who had a chance to kill him. I had to try."

"All the same…" The brown-haired girl smiled. "It was a very nice thing to do."

He smiled in return, a genuine smile this time, one that made his face light up from within, despite the traces of blood that still dotted it. If felt odd…it had been very long. "I suppose", he said, "I finally realized that some people need killing. And somebody needs to do it. Might as well be me. I seem to be pretty good at it."

"What are you going to do with the money?"

The boy deposited it in Irri's hands. "Here. You keep it. I'm just an apprentice, it wouldn't be right for me to charge you."

"But it wasn't my money…"

"I said to keep it." He smiled again. "This one's on the house."

Five days later…

* Thunk * In the throat. * Thunk * The heart. * Thunk * The eye.

"Very impressive", Guild Master Gorbia said as he stopped behind the young apprentice practicing by the target. "I'm happy to see you are finally applying yourself to your studies."

"Thank you, sir." A fleeting smile crossed the child's face, startling the Master Assassin almost as much as those blank stares had done previously. "I finally figured out what I was doing wrong before."

"Oh? What was that?"

"I was trying to use the wrong weapon, sir. I just needed to adjust a little."

"But you're still using daggers…oh never mind." The Guild Master shook his head. "Nevertheless, I'm very pleased to have you back with us. Very pleased."

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad to be back as well." Gorbia nodded again, and then moved on. The young Dekaras watched his retreating back for a moment before he turned his attention back to the painted target. He could see the target properly now; he knew exactly how to aim. He had a feeling his other skills would start to pick up rapidly as well. It was exactly as he had told the Guild Master, though the man hadn't understood. I was still trying to use the magic, he thought, even though it's gone. And that kept me from doing what I had to, kept me from finding a new focus. But now I can. Maybe he didn't have the magic anymore, but he had his body, he had his mind and that was good for plenty. The void was still there, but now it was at least partially filled with something else, the slow black fire of the stab in the back, of silent feet moving unheard, of the song of dancing shadows. The boy looked about himself at the chattering apprentices hard at work with their practices, at the senior assassins passing now and then, maybe on their way to or from an assignment.

I'm home, he thought, smiling again, basking in the black fire. I might have been something else, might have been really good at it, but that was before. This is after, and this is what I will be. And I'm going to be the best.

"Teacher Dekaras? Won't you tell me how it happened? With the spoon?"

The assassin came back to the present with a small jerk, feeling slightly disoriented for a moment as he stared into the wide and innocent eyes of the small child in front of him. "No", he said. "That's not a story for children. Poppy should have known better than to mention it." He reached down and pulled a slim wooden object out of his black boot. "But I suppose there's no harm in showing you this."

"Wow…" Edwin said, gaping. "That's the actual spoon?"

"Yes. I've kept it around as a sort of…memento I suppose. Besides, you never know when a good spoon might come in handy." The assassin shrugged. "I don't think I will be using it to eat porridge any time soon though."

"But you hate porridge…"

"Yes. I do." Dekaras gave Edwin an enigmatic smile that had the boy wondering for a good few hours afterwards. "Now, run along", he said, his voice a little wistful. "You're a child. Do what children are supposed to do. Go and play."