“Faladir? Do you…It’s Tarquin. I’m Quinny. Quinny, remember?” He eased his hand back to the tomb lid, somehow certain moving too fast would make Faladir charge like an angry bull. He closed his hand around the crossguard of the mage knife and slowly tugged it out of his mother’s stone hands.
Faladir’s gaze fastened on the movement and he clattered forward a step, lurching from one foot to the other. He wore a thin sleeveless tunic meant for summer, with no belt, over woolen leggings. His feet, or rather the jointed metal blocks that resembled his feet, were bare. He sounded like a blacksmith’s forge every time he moved. Twin jets of steam came out of the heels of his hands, as if he were preparing a weapon. There was no recognition in his eyes.
He came another step closer. Tarquin could
