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likely to be
    willful as that of any other seven-year-old.
    Now, for instance, a ball of phosphorescence bloomed in the cup of the child's hand, lighting her way past the dying
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    man despite the caravan master's warning that illumination—
    magical or
    otherwise—
    would be more risk to them than benefit, at least until they got out of the Maze.
    Star put a foot down daintily, just short of the victim's outflung arm, then skipped by in a motion that by its incongruity made the scene all the more horrible. The ball of light she had formed drifted behind her for a moment. Its core shrank and brightened—
    from will o' the wisp to firefly intensity—
    while the
    whirling periphery formed tendrils like the whorl of silver-white hair on Star's head.
    The child turned back, saw the set expression on Samlor's face, and jerked away as if he had slapped her physically. The spin of light blanked as if it had never been.
    "Is he ... ?" asked Khamwas as he stepped over his mind's image of where the body lay. "One of those we—
    met a moment ago?"
    "The gang who came after us with chains, sure," said the caravan master as he followed with a long stride. The passageway was wide enough for him to spread his arms without quite touching the walls to either side; in the Maze, that made it a street. It held only the normal sounds of feral animals going about their business and, from behind shutters, bestial humans. "They're all dead, the two who ran off as sure as the one who didn't. Turn left here."
    "The House of Setios is more to the—
    "
    "Turn fucking left," Samlor whispered in a voice like stones rubbing.
    "Do not be a hindrance, lest you be cursed," said Tjainufi on the Napatan's shoulder. The manikin bowed toward Samlor, but the caravan master was too angry to approve of anything.
    Mostly he was angry at himself, because he'd killed often enough during his life to know that he really didn't like killing. Especially not kids, even punk kids who'd have dished his skull in with weighted chains and raped Star until they sold her to a brothel for the price of a skin of wine. . . . Sanctuary might be incrementally better off without that particular trio, but Samlor hil Samt wasn't Justice, wasn't responsible to his god for the cleansing of this hellhole.

DAGGER
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    If he really wanted to avoid killing strangers, he should have kept out of Sanctuary, and he surely should have avoided the Vulgar Unicorn, even though it had looked like the best place to learn what he needed to know. There were many cities where merchant guild offices would supply information to a stranger. In a few there were even licensed municipal guides. But this place. . . .
    "All I wanted was a guide to the house of Setios," the caravan master said.
    "Khamwas will take us there, Uncle," said Star. Her voice was falsely bright to suggest that she didn't remember having disobeyed Samlor a moment before. She tucked her hand into that of the Napatan scholar.
    The exchange frightened Samlor, because he hadn't meant to speak aloud.
    "First," the caravan master said to his companions now that they could walk abreast, "we're going to get out of the Maze. Then we'll worry about a safe route to where we want to be."
    Khamwas murmured assent. Star, glad to be included, patted her uncle's arm. Samlor should have explained sooner instead of snarling orders and expecting to be obeyed because—
    because, in unvarnished truth, he was a dangerous man in a foul mood, and the long knife in his hand had killed at least once this evening. Maybe he did belong in Sanctuary.
    Or dead.
    "What would you do without me, hey, kid?" the caravan master said cheerfully to his niece. His left hand tousled her hair beneath the hood. "Hope the legacy Setios's keeping for you's worth the effort."
    Hell, Samlor didn't want to die. And the rest, well—
    he'd worry about innocent
    bystanders, but he wouldn't lose sleep over punks who'd known the rules of the game they lost.
    "Ah, legacy?"