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The dagger quivered with pleasure and fear; something
about that voice ... As the dagger moved, the surface of the
congealing blood broke, and fresh drops fell all the way to
the cross-piece. "Cross-piece," it thought uncertainly. "I
MUST be a dagger."
The voice, colder than goblin corpse, said, I HINTED
THAT YOU WERE NOT. MANY HAVE MISTAKEN YOU
FOR A DAGGER MORE TIMES THAN YOU CAN DREAM
OF. FOOLS HAVE DIED FOR THAT.
The dagger strained to hear more, its slow mind
uncomprehending. Movement was harder as the flesh
around it stiffened.
She went on, YOU LOOK LIKE WORN, HALF-
TAMISHED SILVER WORK. YOU HAVE A POMMEL
SHAPED LIKE THE HEAD OF A - she hesitated - A
SERPENT, FOR ONE THING. YOUR CROSS-PIECE IS A
PAIR OF TALONS, LIKE A FALCON'S OR AN EAGLE'S,
AND YOUR TAIL IS A SCALE-CARVED, SIX-INCH
BLADE. YOU FEED THROUGH THAT, NOT THROUGH
YOUR MOUTH. YOU ALSO DO . . . OTHER THINGS
WITH IT, PET.
She knows me, the dagger thought, and ever so slightly
wagged its tail. The cooling blood stirred again. The dagger
drank.
I KNOW YOU WELL. YOU ARE NOT METAL AND
WERE NOT FORGED BY ANY HAND, NOT EVEN BY
MY OWN. LONG AGO, YOUR RACE WAS COMMON.
YOU WERE BORN TO FEED ON THOSE WHO USED
YOU, OWNED YOU, OR HAD KINSHIP
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