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one end of the pick's blade. It pierced his faceplate, but by then he was dead anyway.
"What I said was the truth," Clavain said. "I might have killed them as well, just like I said. I
don't like to think so, but I can't say it isn't in me. No, I don't blame you for that, not at all."
With his boot he began to kick a dusting of frost over the dead man's body. It would be too much
bother to remove Setterholm from this place, and the machines inside him would sterilise his body,
ensuring that none of his cells ever contaminated the glacier. And, as Clavain had told himself only
a few days earlier, there were worse places to die than here. Or worse places to be left for dead,
anyway.
When he was done; when what remained of Setterholm was just an ice-covered mound in the
middle of the cavern, Clavain addressed him for one final time.
"But that doesn't make it right, either. It was still murder, Setterholm." He kicked a final divot of
ice over the corpse. "Someone had to pay for it."
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