“I’m retired,” he said inanely, checking the pistol. It was loaded, of course, but she didn’t have a bullet chambered and the safety was on, so she’d learned something since the old days, at least.

Anat laughed. He didn’t like the look in her eyes. “Yeah. So am I.” She cocked her head to one side. “Retirement’s for old men, Kephas. I don’t intend to get old.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He did. He wanted to live to plant his century tree and meet his as-yet-theoretical progeny. Seven years he’d been out, since the succession crisis, and he’d almost shaken the longing for the old days. Seven years without a word, and here was Anat with a fool’s errand and the promise of glory, tempting him back to the trade.

“Anat,” he said, “this is . . .” Madness? Suicide? The worst idea you’ve ever had?

“Better with two,” she supplied. “You know it. It’s always been better with the two of us.” She held out a hand for her gun. “Come on, old man. In or out?”