"Hazard," said the Riddler to Randal, "and Hazard," to Cat. "Would you leave us. First Hazard? My wizard and I need to talk."
"Your wizard" said Cat, still reflexively acting as powerful as he'd once been. Then his color drained as he remembered his circumstances and put two and two together. "Oh yes, your wizard. I see, my lord Tempus. Dinner will be at sundown, if you'd grace us. I'm sure we can find some... carrots ... for your... mount."
Not a word about the desecration of the Mageguild by a horse, not a single additional attempt to regain control where all attempts were useless: Cat just chewed his lip.
Even though Randal's eyes were already watering, he felt a deep and abiding sadness for the handsome young First Hazard, although in former times he had wished, more than anything, to be possessed of so fine a form and face and bloodline as the Rankan who scurried out of his own sanctum so that Randal and his commander could confer in private.
It was what you were, not how you looked, that mattered these days in Sanctuary. And Randal was the only warrior-wizard in a town that soon would value warriors much more than wizards.
"You need me, commander?" Randal said, trying to speak clearly despite the clogging of his nose which proximity to the Tros horse was causing.
"Yes, I do, Randal." Tempus dropped the Tros's reins and it stood, groundtied, while the big fighter approached the small, slight wizard, put an arm across his narrow shoulders, and walked with him toward the First Hazard's purple alcove. "I need your help. I need your presence. I need your whole attention-now, and always."
Randal felt pride course through him, felt himself grow inches taller, felt his neck flush with joy. "You have it, Riddler, now and always-you know that. I took the Sacred Band oath. I have not forgotten."
Niko had, seemingly, but not even that cloud could block out the light of Tempus's favor-not, at any rate, completely, Randal told himself.
"Nor have we. The Band sets out for Ranke soon, there to meet with Niko and trek east. We want you on that journey, Randal-as a Sacred Bander, purely."
"Purely? I don't understand. It was Niko who broke the pairbond, not-"
"This is not about Niko. It's about Jihan."
"Oh. Oh." Randal slipped out from under the Riddler's arm, its weight suddenly unbearable. "That. She... well, it wasn't my idea, the marriage. You must know that. I'm not even-good-with women. And she's... demanding." The words came out in a rush, now that there was finally someone to tell who would understand the problem. "I've put her off so far, explaining that I can't... you know... until we're wed. But I'll lose so much... power, and there's precious little of that around, these days. She says she'll make up for it, through her father, but I'm not god-bound, I'm bound in-"
"Other ways, I know. Randal, I think I've a solution that might serve to get you off the hook, if you'll help me."
"Oh, Riddler, I'd be so grateful. She's-no offense- more your sort of problem than mine. If you could just get me away from her, as long as it's not taken ill by the Band. I'll sneak away, I'll meet you in Ranke, I'll-"
"No sneaking away, Randal," said Tempus through lips that had parted to bare his teeth.
That smile was one all Stepsons knew. Randal said dumbly, "We can't. . . hurt her-sir. No sneaking away? Then how... ?"
"With your permission, Randal, I'm going to woo her away from you-steal your bride from under your very nose."
"Permission!" Oh, Tempus, I'd be so grateful-so everlastingly and abidingly grateful...."
"I have it, then?"
"What? Permission? By the Writ and the devils who love me, yes! Woo away! And may the-"
"Just your permission will be enough, Randal. Let's not bring any powers into this whose response we can't foresee, let alone control."
The woman was walking alone in the garden while, within the manse beyond, a civilized uptown party was under way. Her hair was blond and curly, bound up in the fashion noblewomen in the capital had adopted this season: held in place with little golden pins hafted with likenesses of Rankan gods.
He came upon her from behind and had his left arm crooked around her neck in seconds, saying only, "Hold, I'm not here to hurt you," while within him a god who shouldn't have been there stirred to wakefulness, stretched, and urged otherwise.
Ignoring the obscene and increasingly attractive suggestions the war-god in his head was making, he gave the woman time to realize who held her.
It didn't take long: She wasn't a typical Rankan woman of blood-no man without Tempus's supernal speed and talent could have caught her unaware.
She stiffened and, every muscle tensed so that his body began taking the god's suggestions literally, pressed back against him-the first move toward putting him off balance, ready to use her own arena-training in weight, feint, and misdirection of attention to try to escape.
"Hold," he said again. "Or suffer the consequences, Chenaya."
"Pork you, Tempus," she gritted in a surprisingly ladylike voice unsuited to the content of her words. He could feel her hands ball into fists, then relax. Behind him, people indoors chatted and clinked their goblets.
"We haven't time for that, unless you're ready." He put his free hand on her hip and spread it, moving it forward to press against her belly and slip downward, putting her in a hold she'd never come up against in a Rankan arena.
"Gods, you haven't changed, you bastard. If it's not my body-for which you'll pay more than it's worth, I assure you-what do you want?"
"I thought you'd never ask. It's a little matter of an attempt on Theron's life, yours, I believe-something about boarding the barge. Not a smart move for a member of a decidedly ac-royal family: not for you, not for Kadakithis, who'll share Theron's wrath if it's revealed who tried to feed him to the sharks, not for any of what's left of your line."
"Again, halfling, what do you want?"
There were two answers at that point in time, one of which had to do with the god in his head, who was whispering. She is a woman, and women only understand one thing. She is a fighter. It's long since We've had a fighter. Give her to Us, and We'll be very grateful-and she will be Our willing servant. Otherwise, you cannot trust her.
To the god in his head, he responded, / can't trust You, never mind her. To the woman, he said, "Chenaya, beyond the obvious, which we'll see about"-still holding her tightly enough with his elbow that a slight jerk would break her neck, he began to raise her voluminous white skirt from behind-"I want you to do something for me. There's a faction here that needs a woman whom the gods decree cannot be defeated. What I ask, I ask for Kadakithis, for the continuance of your bloodline, and for the good of Sanctuary. What the god asks, I'm afraid, is another matter." His voice was deepening, and into him was pouring all the long held passion of Sanctuary's Lord of Rape and Pillage, Blood and Death.
She was a fighter, and god-bound. He hoped, as he began to explain the business that had brought him here and the god in him got out of hand, that she'd understand.
The sentry at the tunnel entrance to Ratfall, Zip's base camp in Downwind, was gagged and flopping in a pool of his own blood.
Zip had slipped in it, then stumbled over the body in the dusk before he realized what he'd stumbled on: Sync's calling card-the sentry's hands and feet had been lopped off.