“The conventions do not matter one little bit. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. She went into premature labor. We already had a place to mislay blame. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. She fidgeted and looked away. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.
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