SAID LOCKE. “Did you—” “It was me,” said Jenora, hoarsely. “He tried … he tried …” “He tried to tear her gods-damned clothes off,” said Jean, putting his arms around Jenora. “He was on the ground before I got here.” “I didn’t mean to hurt him, but … he’s drunk,” said Jenora. “He put his hands on my neck. He was choking me.…” Locke crouched warily over Boulidazi and slid the baron’s knife from its sheath. The heaving, bleeding man made no effort to stop him. Locke had seen bloody lung-cuts before, from duels at Capa Barsavi’s court. This was near-certain death, but it wouldn’t be quick. Boulidazi could have the strength to do them real harm for some time yet. So why wasn’t he fighting back now? His gaze was distant, his pupils unnaturally wide. Blood bubbled around the makeshift weapon still jutting from his chest, and this seemed to be causing him startled bemusement, not mortal panic. “He’s not just drunk,” said Locke. “It must be whatever you gave him.”
