the man said. “He doesn’t look like any rich man’s son,” the other man, obviously Fang, said, scowling. Rendi stared at them. In the dim light, they seemed more like figures in a nightmare. Nothing seemed real. But he was truly there, inside one of the rooms of the inn with his hands and feet tied. After the trader had dropped him on the floor like a sack of rice, Rendi had propped himself against the wall, drooling into the coarse cloth knotted over his mouth. The gag was unnecessary, for Rendi was so shocked, he could not make a sound. “Besides, Liu, he isn’t part of the plan,” Fang said. He was older than the other, the bristles of his unshaven face were gray like the ashes of burned offerings, and his words fell with the weight of weariness. But even more than his words, the cold, ruthless look in his eyes belied his being a trader. “We want the duke’s strings of gold, not some stray kid.” “This kid’s worth more than the duke’s traveling cash,” Liu said.
