SNIPS AND SNAILS

His tea had gone cold. It was past time to go. He dressed quickly.

He took his pack from the chest by the door. Still barefoot, Zevran began to sort through his belongings. Each one had a place in the worn leather, a natural home, established by time and habit.

Home. His lip quirked at the thought. He had rented rooms in Antiva city, paid for through next spring. The contents were spare. Once he had thought of filling it with lovely things. Rinna. And Rinna had had opinions about flowers, and windows, and the placement of picture frames. Poor preoccupations for an assassin to have.

Zevran's movements became more forceful. His mouth had thinned to a bracketed line. He emptied the pack onto the bed. The top was for clothing and money. Also bandages. Below that, a bag containing dried herbs. In small amounts (as recommended,) they were legal, and might promote health. But if one were to administer too large a dose, (perhaps by accident,) the results might be otherwise. Next to this, another bag. It held soaps and oils, and Zevran's whetstone. Even Crow daggers did not sharpen themselves. A leather apron filled the bottom of the pack. Even bold Crow assassins do not sharpen knives unprotected.

He settled himself with apron and stone. But there was one more item at the very very bottom. It was a torn bit of leather, softer and finer than the sturdy smith's apron. It was limp and stained with years of travel, it was also stained with very very old blood.

Zevran held it in his open palm a moment, and lifted it up to his face. He stroked the little scrap against his mouth and cheek and nose. His eyes closed, these actions were rote.

Once the bit of leather had been the finger of a glove, once the glove had been whole. Once, he assumed, it had been part of a pair. That had been before Zev got it.

He did not know, anymore if it really had been his mother's glove. He ad been small and helpless once. He had believed then that it was hers. (Knife-ears, son of a whore. Still are, Ariani, always will be.)

The leather was smooth against his face, now as always.

On the worst nights he had huddled in the dark, too frightened to move, as wetness soaked his legs and bed. Sammel had never complained of the piss. He had shared the narrow dirty bed with Zevran. He had been another skinny boy, 8 to Zev's seven. He, too had been given to the crows. He had not been as quick to learn. Zev had huddled in the dark on the night they took Sammel away. He had held the glove scrap to his face.

With a sigh, Zevran pulled himself back to the day. He set the talisman aside. He reached for the sharpening stone.

(Time to let the ghosts go now, time to go and join them.)