Daimya came, just after dark. Wolf was startled. He had expected a child, from the way Carroll spoke, and Daimya was far from a child. She was a slim woman, in her early twenties, he estimated. Her body was sleek and fit, and her long black hair was tied behind her head, where it flowed over her back like a waterfall carved from ebony. She had large eyes, slightly almond shaped, that regarded him solemnly as she gave the information she had gathered. "He will come to inspect this village in two days," she said. "He will visit four farms, picked at random, and then there will be a procession down the main street."
"That would be our time," Wolf mused. "Crowds about."
"Some will be killed," Daimya objected. "His guards will not take this thing lightly."
"I am sorry," Wolf said sincerely. "It is our best chance of success."
Daimya shrugged. "You are the killer, not I," she said, with obvious distaste.
Wolf felt an impulse to explain, to justify, to make this slight girl see that he hated this. Angrily he fought it down.
It doesn't matter what she thinks, he told himself. It doesn't matter. What matters is to get the job done and get out. That's all.
............