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. Son of" - he hesitated and said finally - "of
Loraine of Gravesend Street. She sewed funeral clothes."
The Mask nearly cracked for the first time in Moran's
career. "Loraine of Gravesend. A dark-skinned woman,
one-half my height, slender, red hair?"
Tarli shook his head. "Gray and red when they buried
her. It's been a year."
Moran felt as if the Mask were looking at him;
Moran's own sternness was piercing him. "We met. She
did work for ... a ... friend of mine." He added gruffly,
"You're holding my door knocker."
"So I am." Tarli turned it over in his hand, as if startled
to see it. He passed it to the knight. "It came off."
The boy peered beneath Moran's arm and stared at the
bound books that stood on the simple shelf above the bed.
"THE BRIGHTBLADE TACTICS? Bedal Brightblade?"
Tarli ducked around the knight, entered without being
invited. He reached past the startled cleric, pulled the
book out. "Handwritten." He turned to a careful
drawing of an intricate parry-and-thrust pattern, trying
to follow it through with his left hand. "Did you write
this?"
"I did." Moran tried not to sound proud. It had
taken years of reading, and more years of testing
technique, until he was sure of how the legendary Bedal
Brightblade had fought
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