"I don't know all that … please, I don't!"
He was telling the truth, unfortunately. "Very well. Tell me what you do know, then."
"I'm … not sure. No! Honest—he's the Raidmaster, everyone knows that—plans all the new-style raids—but nobody knows him. A Lawrence Shannon even leads all those raids, but not the same one, maybe not the one who plans 'em. An' that's all I know about 'im, honest!"
"I believe you," Cortin said. It was too bad he knew so little, and that so inconclusive, but she had no doubt that he was telling her all he did know, as she'd asked. "Have you heard anything else? It need not be certain—a rumor of his plans, perhaps."
"No … no, wait … maybe. I overheard something … a hospice … or could be a retirement home, or some sort of hospital. Old folks, or sick ones, anyway. That's all."
"All on that subject, or all on any?"
"All on any … please?"
"You have earned it." Cortin drove the knife up under his ear; he gasped, shuddered once, and died.
Cortin looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Compared to your present master, my friend, I was easy on you. May you suffer under him for eternity."
Odeon tasted bile, knew suddenly he was going to be sick. "Joanie—"