"And is that the whole of it. Commander?" Crit asked laconically, as if the task were simple, not a death sentence or an invitation to mutiny.
Crit saw even Jihan's feral eyes go wide. The Froth Daughter, achingly attractive to a fighter with her form clothed in scale armor shining like the dusk, looked between the two men and whispered something to the Riddler, then looked back at Crit.
The long-eyed Riddler did not, just stroked his gray's arched neck. "It's enough," replied the man Crit served and often had thought he'd die to please.
That evening, later, riding alone through the Common Gate in search of Straton, Critias was^ no longer so sure that an honorable death would be a privilege-not when it was here.
Sanctuary hadn't changed, or if it had, the change was for the worse. There were checkpoints everywhere and Crit had to bully his way through two of them before finding a soldier he knew-someone who had an armband he could commandeer.
By then he'd skirted the palace, green-walled because some sort of fungus or moss was growing there, and entered the Bazaar where illicit drugs, girls and boys, and even lives were hawked openly in twisting streets.
His back unguarded, his sorrel spooked and dancing, he was heading for the Maze, a deeper slum than this one, against his better judgment because he didn't want to look for Strat where his erstwhile partner probably could be found-lying in with the vampire woman who held sway in Shambles Cross and used the White Foal to dispose of victims.
From between two produce stalls Critias heard a hiss and a low whistle-old northern recognition signs. Adjusting the armband (a dirty rainbow of cloth specked with long-dried blood), he looked about: to his right was a fortune teller's tent-a S'danzo girl, Illyra, worked there. He saw her standing in the door.
They'd never met, yet she waved-a hesitant gesture, part warding sign, part blessing.
The last thing Crit wanted was his fortune told: he could feel it in his pouch, where amulets grew heavy; on his neck, where hairs stood on end; in his gut, which had frozen solid when Tempus had calmly ordered him to his death on a flimsy pretext. Crit had never thought the Riddler'd held a grudge about his daughter and her miscarried child. But there was no other reason to send Stepsons up against a witch like Roxane.
Was that, then, what Abarsis had come to say to him? That it was time a few more Sacred Banders made their way to heaven? Was Abarsis lonely for his boys? Before Tempus had led the Band, Crit had fought for the Slaughter Priest. But in those days Abarsis had been of flesh and blood, even if obsessed with tasks done for the gods.
"Psst! Crit! Here!"
Between the stalls, opposite the fortune-teller's tent, were too many shadows. Crit sat his horse, arm crooked over his pommel, and waited, watching where his mount's ears pricked like dowsing rods.
Out from the gloom came a hand, white and long-a woman's, despite the leather bracer.
Crit squeezed with his right knee and the sorrel ambled forward-one pace, two. Then he said, "Hello, Kama. What's that you've got there, friend or captive?"
Beside the woman half in shadow was a waif-a flat-faced boy with almond eyes and scruffy beard who wore a black rag bound across his brow.
The boy didn't matter; the woman, crossbow pointed half to port so that its flight would skewer Crit's belly if she pulled its trigger mechanism back, mattered more than Crit liked.
Tempus's daughter laughed the throaty laugh that had gotten Crit in trouble long ago. "Looking for someone?" Kama never answered stupid questions. She was as sharp as her father, in her way. But not as ethical.
"Strat," he said simply, to make things clear.
"Our 'acting' military governor, now that Kadakithis lies abed with Beysibs? The leader of the militias and their councils? The vampire's fancy man? You know the way-down on the White Foal. But do take an unfortunate or two to appease her hunger-for old time's sake, I'll warn you."
Crit didn't react to Kama's acid comments on Strat's faring-for all he knew, it might be true; and he'd never show her she could still reach him, let alone hurt him. He said, "How about this pud you've got here? Will he do?" For the signs of something intimate between the woman and the street tough were clear to see-hips brushed, though Kama held the crossbow; whispers went back and forth through motionless lips.
And the youth was armed-slingshot on one wrist, dagger at his hip. The slingshot was arrogantly aimed at Crit's eyes by the time Kama said, "Don't make the mistake of thinking you understand what you're seeing, fighter. You'll need help. If you're smart, you'll remember where and how to get it- Strat's part of Sanctuary's problem, not its solution."
Everyone found comfort where they could in wartime, and Sanctuary was war's womb, a microcosm of every horror man could foist upon his brother-worse now with factions holding checkpoints and militias ruling blocks whose inhabitants were never certain. The idea of Strat being a part of Sanctuary's problem nearly made him draw his own bow-Crit knew Kama well enough to know, if quarrels were loosed, his would find its mark first: her woman's hesitation would be her last.
And he might have, right then, no matter what her provenance, but for the pud who didn't know him and didn't like any northern rider, especially one talking to his girlfriend. The slingshot grew taut, the boy's eyes steady as his stance widened.
So there was that-a deadly interval of stalemate broken only when a drunk caromed off a nearby doorway and knelt down, retching in the street.
Then Crit cleared his throat and said, "If you're still a member of the Stepsons, woman, I'll want you at the White Foal bridge two hours before dawn. Spread the word among the Third Commando, too; I'll need some backup on this-(/ the Third's still led by Sync, and if he's not succumbed to Sanctuary's blight, I should be able to expect it."
"Old debts? Words of honor?" Kama rejoined. "Honor's cheap in thieves' world. Cheapest this season, when everyone has a power play to field."
"Will you take my message, soldier?" He gave her what she wanted-recognition, though he'd rather call her whore and take her over bended knee.
"For you, Crit? Anything." Teeth flashed, a chuckle sounded, and he heard her mutter, "Zip, relax; he's one of us," and the youth behind her grumbled a reply before he slouched against a daub-and-wattle wall. "Before the break of day we'll be there.... How many would that be you'll need?"
And Crit realized he didn't know. He hadn't a plan or a glimmer. What would it take to wrest the Globe of Power from Roxane, the Nisibisi witch? "Randal'll know-if he's still our warrior mage. Don't ask questions woman-not here. You know better. And Niko, find him-"
"Seh," the young tough behind her swore. 'This one's walking wounded, Kama. Niko? Why not ask the-"
"Zip. Hush." The woman stepped out a pace from shadows, smiling like her father a show of teeth with no humor in it. "Critias... friend, you've been away too long, doing what high-bom officers do in Rankan cities. If not for... past mistakes ... I'd ride with you and explain. But you'll find out enough, soon enough, from your beloved partner. As for Niko, if you want him, he's in the palace these days, playing nursemaid to kids the priesthood loves."
Before he could escalate from shock to anger, before he thought to move his horse in tight and take her by the throat and shake her for playing women's games when so much was on the line, she melted back into her shadows and there was a grating sound, followed by scrabbling, a square of light that came and went, and when his horse danced forward, both Kama and the boy called Zip were gone-if they'd ever been there.