"That's a good speech," Trafalgar said. "You've had two years to practise it."
"I've had longer than that."
Rhavel let the third lance go. It didn't fall or shatter; it simply stopped being there, unmade back into wherever the man kept it, and his empty hand dropped to his side.
"I'm done," he said. "You can see that I'm done. I'd rather not waste what's left waving something I can't lift."
Trafalgar stayed where he was, eight paces out, Maledicta low and loose in his grip. He was breathing hard, and he was by an enormous margin the healthier of the two of them.
Under the plates his body was still working. The break in his forearm had closed into a dull hot ache, the hip was sealed, and there was a rib somewhere that grated when he turned.
Rhavel was not fading by the minute. Rhavel was emptying.
"Sit down before you fall down," Trafalgar said.
"If I sit down I won't get up."
"Okay. Then stand there and talk to me."
