(It’s customary to die first; but in your case we’ll make an exception.)
‘And anyway,’ Gorgas went on, still smiling, ‘it’s not as if you’ve got a choice. You’re too weak to fight me, or jump over the side. When we get there, as soon as I’ve got you and the stuff ashore, I’m going to soak down the decks with lamp-oil and set this old tub alight. You want to get off the island, you’re going to have to build yourself a boat.’
Bardas was having trouble breathing. ‘Or I could kill you,’ he said. ‘I could kill us both.’
‘You could,’ Gorgas conceded. ‘If you wanted to; and then we’d really be alike, you and me – except that my act of deliberate evil was at the beginning, and yours would be at the end. Is that what you want?’
‘No.’›
‘Thought not,’ Gorgas said cheerfully. ‘So it looks like we’re going to be doing it my way. It’s all right; if I take away the choice, you can carry on blaming me for everything. You can blame me when it rains, or when it doesn’t; you can blame me when the goats eat off the green corn, or the hayrick catches fire; I’ll be glad to take the blame, it’ll be like old times.’
‘No,’ Bardas said softly. ‘Gorgas, please.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Gorgas said (he was walking away; Bardas couldn’t see him any more). ‘I guess you’ve just got to trust me, Bardas. After all, I’m your big brother and I love you. And haven’t I always seen you right?’