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Rigg reached with his left hand to take the spoon from the right side of the bowl. Shouter did the same with his right.
“This is going to be clumsy,” said Rigg. “I’m right-handed. Using a spoon with my left hand on a boat that’s prone to yaw, I might spill.”
Since Rigg could plainly see that Shouter was left-handed, he was deliberately giving Shouter an opening to say that he was at the same disadvantage. Instead, Shouter grimly set about bringing dribbling spoonfuls to his mouth, spilling a little onto the table and his lap.
Rigg had spent considerable time with Father practicing to be as ambidextrous as possible—able to shoot a bow, clean and skin an animal, and write smoothly and legibly with either hand. He could have eaten without dribbling, but instead he matched Shouter spill for spill.
“I don’t think it’s an accident they bound your left hand to my right,” said Rigg. “To make us both clumsier.”
Shouter didn’t even look at him.
As they both kept eating, Rigg spoke between bites. “For what it’s worth, my friends and I had no idea we were going to be arrested today, and whatever they did to put you in the water, I wasn’t part of it.”
Shouter turned to gaze at him with furious eyes, but still refused to speak. That was all right—he had made contact and it was just a matter of time.
“So you don’t hate me because you’re wet, you hate me because of who I’m supposed to be. Just so you know, I’m not claiming to be anybody but myself.”
Shouter gave a single bark of a laugh.
“The only parent I knew was my father, who raised me mostly in the forests. He died several months ago, and left—”
“Spare me,” said Shouter. “How many times do you think that story is going to work?”
“As often as the truth works.”
“I’m here to kill you,” said Shouter.
Rigg felt a thrill of fear run through his body. Shouter meant it. Well, that was certainly useful information.
“All right then,” said Rigg. “I can’t stop you.”
“You can’t even slow me down.”
Rigg waited.
“Well?” he asked.
“Not here,” said Shouter. “Not in t
his room. Then they’d have to have a trial and execute me, and it would become public. Stories would spread about how a soldier under General Citizen’s command murdered the rightful King-in-the-Tent. It would be as bad as leaving you alive.”
“So the general has given you orders to—”
“Fool,” said Shouter. “Do you think I need orders in order to see my duty and do it?”
Rigg thought again of the hatred on the man’s face. “This isn’t about duty.”
Shouter said nothing for a long while. Then: “Killing you is more than a duty. But the manner will be dutiful.”
“Just for my own interest,” said Rigg, “are you killing me because you think I really am the Sessamekesh? Or because you think I’m an imposter?”
“Just for your own interest,” said Shouter, “it doesn’t matter.”
“But your hatred for me—does it spring from a love of the royal family or a loathing for them?”
“If you’re truly royal or if you’re an imposter, your purposes can only be served by restoring the royal family to power.”
“Your hatred of the royals is personal.”
