He was still almost a child, twelve or thirteen, when his father entered his room. He wore the devil-mask that the evening's performers had brought with them, a grimacing thing of red and black. He carried a hunting knife in each hand, sharp and curved like claws, and he did not walk with his usual posture. "Hold still."

He tried to run, but the door to the balcony had been locked while he slept. Closing the gap, his father asked him, "Do you know who I am?"

The answer escaped his lips in a choked whisper. "You aren't my father. You're someone else."

He never received an answer. The wounds were attributed to a rival's assassin, and a feud was begun over it. He asked why frequently those first few months, but received only a haunted smile.

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