There were a lot of things Solomon could have said in reply to that. First and foremost, that there were many who would say he didn't have a conscience. Solomon would have agreed with them in an instant, except--except that the comment made him think of the battle in the khajbit, and the reason for its result, and he couldn't.
He would have liked to be able to agree--but he couldn't. "Inside the temple," Solomon said, "there are three portals inside the Dreaming. One of them is for knowledge."
They could have left it there and carried on, and it would have been terribly awkward, and under other circumstances Solomon would have enjoyed prodding at the awkwardness. But he had very few people in his lifetime he'd been willing to call friends, and even fewer here, and somehow--he still wasn't quite sure how, or why--but he did regret the threat. Tremendously.
"I told you what happened to my father," Solomon said, quite calmly. "That was four centuries ago. It's been a very long time. They didn't even see fit to give him a proper grave; I had to return after the fact and move him elsewhere. I have nothing by which to remember him." Even the cane had been a weapon more than a remembrance. A reminder of how much he'd failed.
"Except for this." Solomon dug in his pocket and drew out the small wooden painting Skulduggery had found and returned to him. It was no longer water-logged, and the paints were oil so they hadn't faded or run. It was a small picture, one his father had kept on his desk, of a man in an armchair and a boy hanging over the chair's arm. It ought to have been stiff and dignified, as so many paintings were in that time, but they were both smiling--laughing, even. It was easy to tell that they were related; they looked alike, though the man was bearded and lacked the slight curl in the boy's hair.
Calmly Solomon withdrew the small blade he'd taken to carrying and cut a small line on the fatty part of his hand, and let the blood well into his palm before pressing it to the back of the painting, holding it until it had to sink in. Then, equally calmly, he held it out to Bakura.
It wasn't exactly an ushabti. Solomon wasn't dead, for one. Certainly it wouldn't be able to control him. But inside the khajbit, it may well afford Bakura an extra measure of defence for his kin, if anything untoward should happen to supersede Asti's blessing.
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He would have liked to be able to agree--but he couldn't. "Inside the temple," Solomon said, "there are three portals inside the Dreaming. One of them is for knowledge."
They could have left it there and carried on, and it would have been terribly awkward, and under other circumstances Solomon would have enjoyed prodding at the awkwardness. But he had very few people in his lifetime he'd been willing to call friends, and even fewer here, and somehow--he still wasn't quite sure how, or why--but he did regret the threat. Tremendously.
"I told you what happened to my father," Solomon said, quite calmly. "That was four centuries ago. It's been a very long time. They didn't even see fit to give him a proper grave; I had to return after the fact and move him elsewhere. I have nothing by which to remember him." Even the cane had been a weapon more than a remembrance. A reminder of how much he'd failed.
"Except for this." Solomon dug in his pocket and drew out the small wooden painting Skulduggery had found and returned to him. It was no longer water-logged, and the paints were oil so they hadn't faded or run. It was a small picture, one his father had kept on his desk, of a man in an armchair and a boy hanging over the chair's arm. It ought to have been stiff and dignified, as so many paintings were in that time, but they were both smiling--laughing, even. It was easy to tell that they were related; they looked alike, though the man was bearded and lacked the slight curl in the boy's hair.
Calmly Solomon withdrew the small blade he'd taken to carrying and cut a small line on the fatty part of his hand, and let the blood well into his palm before pressing it to the back of the painting, holding it until it had to sink in. Then, equally calmly, he held it out to Bakura.
It wasn't exactly an ushabti. Solomon wasn't dead, for one. Certainly it wouldn't be able to control him. But inside the khajbit, it may well afford Bakura an extra measure of defence for his kin, if anything untoward should happen to supersede Asti's blessing.