"Just where is your Mistress?" Tempus demanded, rubbing his knuckles.
The creature shrugged and crossed its eyes. "Don't know," he admitted. "Snapper went looking for her. Nice dark lady asked Snapper to look for the Mistress."
"Did Snapper Jo find his Mistress?" Molin asked.
"No, not find. Look everywhere-look in hell itself. Not find. No Mistress! Snapper Jo free!"
The notion overwhelmed Snapper Jo. He hugged himself, trembling with joy, and went back to the bar without another thought for the two men watching him.
"If we believe him, then she's not dead," Tempus admitted. "If I'd believe a fiend," he corrected himself. "Torch, I talked to Niko about all of this. He says he's free of her-free like he hasn't been in years. I believe Niko, Torch. There's nothing left of Roxane except memories-and bad habits."
It was Molin's turn to bury his head in his hands. "Niko and the fiend: both free of Roxane. Thank you, Riddler-I'll believe the fiend. He says he looked in hell and didn't find her; Ischade sent him to hell looking for Roxane and he didn't find her there. Now, Niko, I'll wager he not only told you that he was free of Roxane but that all our precautions were unnecessary. I'll wager he told you that he could take care of the Stormchildren all by himself."
"All right. Torch. We'll tell Niko we're moving the globe and the kids-and then we'll watch him. We'll even send a little procession out past the walls to one of the estates. But by Enlil, Vashanka, Stormbringer, and every other soldier's god-you're wrong. Torch. Niko's free of her-she's nothing but nightmares to him. Maybe there's something still after the Stormchildren-or the globe-but not Roxane and not through Niko."
Tempus set his ambush for the night of the next full moon. Walegrin muttered a number of choice, unreproducible words when half of the garrison was pulled off duty to shovel dirt, patch roofs, and in other ways make a tumble-down estate north of the city walls look like the prospective home for what Tempus called his "vulnerables." His muted protests erupted into a full-scale tirade when, by noon of the appointed day, it was clear that any advantage to having the charade on the night of the full moon would be offset by one of Sanctuary's three-day torrents.
The palace parade ground was an oozing morass which had already foundered three good horses-and it was clear sailing compared to any other street, road, or courtyard. It would be well nigh impossible to get the carriage from the stables to the gate much less up the slopes to the estate. Walegrin pointed this out to Critias as they huddled down under oiled-leather cloaks and slogged across the parade ground on foot.
"He says, use oxen," Crit replied impassively.
"Where am I supposed to get a team of oxen before sundown?"
"They're being provided."
"And who's going to drive them? Has he thought of that? Oxen aren't horses, you know."
"You are."
"The bloody hell I am, Critias."
They had reached the comparative shelter of the stable doorway, where the water gushed off the eaves in streams that could, with care, be avoided. Critias removed his dripping rain helmet and wrung it out.
"Look, pud," he said, tucking the hat into his belt, "I don't make up the orders. Orders come from the Riddler and your man, Torchholder. Now when those oxen get here, you hitch them to the carriage and drive them out to the estate. If they're," he pointed a thumb back toward the palace, "sitting tight with their gods, everything will go according to plan-somehow. And if they're not then you could be the best bloody drover in the world and it wouldn't make a whore's heart's bit of difference."
Thus, some hours after nightfall, Walegrin found himself still in his oiled leathers standing beside the ungainly rumps of a pair of oxen. Randal was slowly making his way down the rain-slicked stairs clutching the skull-sized package containing his Nisibisi Globe of Power. The mage wore a ludicrously old fashioned panoply which hindered his already over-cautious progress. Tempus looked uncomfortable as he waited under the stone awning with a child tucked under each arm.
"Almost there," Randal assured them, glancing back toward the torchlight and, as luck would have it, overbalancing himself just enough to slip down the last three steps.
There wasn't a person, living or dead, within Sanctuary who hadn't heard a rumor or two about the witch-globes. Walegrin dropped his torch and lunged for the package. His efforts were, however, unnecessary as the package hung politely in mid-air until Randal stumbled to his feet and reclaimed it. The effect was not lost on Walegrin or any of the dozen or so others detailed to escort the oxen-or on Tempus who came down the stairs behind Randal to deposit his silent, unmoving bundles within the ox-cart.
The mage and the mercenary commander exchanged whispers which Walegrin couldn't hear above the sound of the rain. Then Tempus shut the door and came up beside Walegrin.
"You know the route?" he inquired.
Walegrin nodded.
"Then don't move off it. Randal can-take care of the magic regardless but if you want protection from anything else you stay in sight of the spotters."
With a noncommittal grunt Walegrin loosened the long whip from the bench beside him and tickled the oxen's noses. Tempus stepped quickly to one side as the cart lurched into motion. The beasts had no halters or reins, responding only to the whip and the voice of their drover. Walegrin figured he'd try to keep everything moving from the driver's bench but he imagined, accurately as it turned out, that he'd be in the mud beside the oxen before they cleared the old Headman's Gate and lumbered onto the nearly deserted Street of Red Lanterns.
"It'll be dawn before we get there," Walegrin cursed when the rightside ox paused to add its own wastes to the sludge in the street.
But the man-high solid wheels of the cart kept turning and the oxen were as strong as they were slow and stupid. Straton and a pair of Stepsons joined the procession where it cleared the last of the huge, stone-walled brothels. Strat, a lantern dangling from the pike he carried in his right hand, brought his bay horse alongside the ox-cart. Walegrin gripped at a dangling saddle-strap for some security in the treacherous footing.
It was nearly impossible to keep the torches lit. The men on horseback were having a harder time of it than Walegrin and his team. Walegrin watched the mud directly in front of them and lost track of how many checkpoints or spotters they had passed. They halted once, when the undergrowth cracked louder than the rain, but it was only a family of half-wild pigs. Everyone laughed nervously and Walegrin touched the oxen with his whip again. Another time Strat spotted shadows moving above them on the ridge, but it was only their own men breaking cover.
They had reached the stony trail leading to the estate when the oxen bellowed once in unison, then sank to their knees. Walegrin dropped the saddle-strap and went racing back to the cart where his sword was stashed. The horses panicked, rearing up and collapsing as much from the bad footing as from the metallic drone every man and beast was hearing, feeling, between his ears.
"Do something!" Walegrin yelled to his passenger as he tugged his sword free of its scabbard. The first touch of En-librite steel against his skin made a shower of green sparks, but it dulled the pain in his head as well. "Stop her, Randal!"
"There's no one out there," the mage replied, poking his head and shoulders through the cart's open window. His archaic armor, like Walegrin's sword, had a faintly green presence to it.
"There's damn sure someone out here!"
Walegrin stood on the drover's bench. Save for Strat all of the escort had been thrown into the mud; save for Strat's bay all the horses were either on their sides screaming or plunging into the morass of the fallow fields surrounding the estate. One horse, he couldn't tell which, shrieked louder than the rest- a broken leg most likely. Walegrin felt a rising tide of panic only marginally related to the dull roar in his skull.