Alain cursed, took a split second to look over the gun, and, finding nothing that was obviously a trigger, set off in pursuit. What advantage he had from being used to guerilla fighting in difficult terrain was quickly countered out by his relative slowness, but he continued the pursuit doggedly, even as Altair darted in and out of his line of sight. If I could work this bedamned pistol, he thought grimly, you would be a dead man.

But some part of him doubted it. He had none of the cold fury that was a gunslinger's fuel; that was hard to come by in chasing a man who had done you no wrong, following a battle that need not be fought. And the man was right, fuck it all; right to say there were other dangers, right to say Alain was looking for a reason not to take his life.

And the boy? The voice in Alain's head was cool and steady - Vannay's voice, ever present, ever speaking against the pragmatic and immediate. You swore your oath to him, to try. While this man lives, he cannot win.

The gunslinger tightened his jaw, shifted his grip on the gun, and went on pursuing.