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You don’t think for much more than the count of thirty, before you drop that match.
What Bauglir’s done—and someday, he’ll hang for it—is fill a man’s boots with piss just for the fun of it, without reckoning how necessary that man’s contentment may be. What Bauglir’s done, with his Eastern collars and his lily-white hands, is waste your time. He’s moonfaced with love for himself and his own ideas. Money won’t stem the tide of madness forever.
You drop the match and smile around your chaw, picturing how that one-eyed bitch will burn. Let Russandol hobble in too late, slobbering and pleading. Let him find her charred bones.
Your hat goes on your head, your gun waits in your hand.
Lem tries to stop you. Shooting him is as easy as whipping him was, last he failed you. He makes less noise, this time. Just one shout, then he’s on his back. You step around him and consider your chances with the horses. They let the horses out before they burned the stables—they’re soft, these fool-slaves. Surely, they know they haven’t enough saddles to run with—only enough for their hunters.
No luck, though. You go on foot. You could make for the railroad—you thought you would—but half a mile back, the smoke’s still pluming, flames still leaping, and you find you haven’t much of a care for your men, for your fortress.
Let it burn, just as Utumno did.
Let Bauglir drown in his own piss. You have gold in your pockets and more in your hidey-hole, up San Francisco way.
You take your time, walking. Bauglir and his whore and his guard-dogs, Bauglir and his crumbling mountain…
You helped in the burning, as it turns out.
There’s always more time. You’re content.