47

I don’t think I’m a good person, Miguel,” said Sonya.

They sat on a rooftop, camouflaged by cloaks dyed in the same dusty brownish-red color as the tiles beneath them. Unlike the four-person Anxeles Escuros security squads, the sniper squads comprised only two people: one as lookout, the other to shoot.

“I think you’re very nice,” said Miguel as he watched the streets below with a telescoping spyglass. “Considerate, generous, and always a friendly word for those you meet.”

“Oh, I’m nice,” agreed Sonya as she examined the fletching on her arrows. “But being nice doesn’t make me good.”

Miguel lifted a finger, twirled it, then pointed down to a narrow alleyway beneath them. Sonya nodded, took up her bow, and nocked an arrow.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Miguel said agreeably as he lowered his spyglass and looked at her. “What makes you so bad?”

Sonya drew her bowstring to her anchor point and waited until the courier came hurrying around the corner, surrounded by several mercenaries from a rival guild. Then she released.

“Well, I mean…” She watched the courier clutch futilely at the feathers now protruding from his neck. “I kill for money.”

“Do you really, though?” Miguel gave her a searching look. “While it’s true that you’re paid to kill people, is that really the reason you do it? Surely you could find a less arduous means of employment. Or you could even just sponge off the Elhuyar family again like you were doing when we first met.” He handed her another arrow from her pile.

“I see your point.” Sonya shot one of the panicking mercenaries in the eye and he immediately dropped.

“You don’t kill people for the money.” Miguel gave her another arrow. “You do it because you find personal fulfillment in it.”

“And this is your argument for why I’m not a bad person?” she asked as she shot another mercenary.

The remaining two mercenaries finally wised up and took cover in nearby doorways.

“I suppose the real question is how you define ‘bad.’” Miguel stood and stretched. “Anyone who kills?”

“No.” Sonya got up, shouldering her bow. “Rangers of Marzanna are servants of death, so technically, killing is part of our religion. And it is the law of nature that some must die so that others may live.”

She took a step back, then leapt across the alley to the next roof. Miguel needed a little more of a running start, but soon joined her.

“Well, our client will presumably live better with these people dead. And since you’re earning a living and finding some meaning in life, so do you. Everybody wins. Except of course the people getting killed.”

“I guess.” Sonya drew her knife and jumped down to street level. “This just feels less noble somehow.”

The mercenary nearest her lashed out with his curved sword. She parried it with her knife, then spun in close and jammed her elbow into his stomach.

“I think your mistake,” said Miguel as he landed on top of the last mercenary, who was attempting to flee, “was in thinking that killing is ever noble. It’s not.”

“Hmm.” Sonya stepped to one side as her mercenary doubled over and retched on the cobblestones. “Rangers of Marzanna are taught by the Lady that as long as they kill in her service, it’s always noble.”

She planted her knife in the mercenary’s ear, driving it in up to the hilt. His body shuddered, then she let him drop to the ground.

“With all due respect to your religious beliefs”—Miguel watched the mercenary beneath his feet struggle for a moment, then stabbed him in the back of the neck with his dagger—“I think this Lady Marzanna is holding you back.”

Sonya looked over at him in surprise as she wiped her knife on a dead mercenary’s tunic. “Really? You think so?”

“Absolutely. The way you describe her, it sounds like your goddess is all rules and subservience. That’s not how the Raízian God works at all. He lifts us up and inspires us with the music and art that He left behind to guide us. He doesn’t constrain us.”

“That does sound nice,” admitted Sonya. “If only I could join your religion.”

“Anyone can,” said Miguel. “They just need to find some connection to the arts.”

Sonya made a sour face. “I’m an okay dancer, but otherwise I’m not very good at that stuff.”

Miguel laughed. “Are you kidding? You’re a master.” He gestured to the five people who now lay dead at their feet. “Killing may not be noble, but it can most certainly be an art.”