He'd brought Niko's bow. The first thing he did - after leaving the stables, where he saw to his horse and checked on Niko's pregnant mare - was seek the wounded fighter.
The young officer peered at him through swollen, blackened eyes, saw the bow and nodded, unlaced its case and stroked the wood recurve when Critias laid it on the bed. Haifa dozen men were there when he'd knocked and entered - three teams who'd come with Niko and his partner down to Ranke on Sacred Band business. They left, warning softly that Crit mustn't tire him - they'd just got him back.
'He's left me the command,' Crit said, though he'd thought to talk ofhawkmasks and death squads and Nisibisi - a witch and one named Vis.
'Gilgamesh sat by Enkidu seven days, until a maggot fell from his nose.' It was the oldest legend the fighters shared, one from Enlil's time when the Lord Storm and Enki (Lord Earth) ruled the world, and a fighter and his friend roamed far.
Crit shrugged and ran a spread hand through feathery hair. 'Enkidu was dead; you're not. Tempus has just gone ahead to prepare our way.'
Niko rolled his head, propped against the whitewashed wall, until he could see Crit clearly: 'He followed godsign; I know that look.'
'Or witchsign.' Crit squinted, though the light was good, three windows wide and afternoon sun raying the room. 'Are you all right - beyond the obvious, I mean?'
'I lost two partners, too close in time. I'll mend.'
Let's hope, Crit thought but didn't say, watching Niko's expressionless eyes. 'I saw to your mare.'
'My thanks. And for the bow. Janni's bier is set for morning. Will you help me with it? Say the words?'
Crit rose; the operator in him still couldn't bear to officiate in public, yet if. he didn't, he'd never hold these men. 'With pleasure. Life to you. Stepson.'
'And to you. Commander.'
And that was that. His first test, passed; Niko and Tempus had shared a special bond. .
That night, he called them out behind the barracks, ordering a feast to be served on the training field, a wooden amphitheatre of sorts. By then Straton had come out to join him, and Strat wasn't bashful with the mess staff or the hired help.
Maybe it would work out; maybe together they could make half a Tempus, which was the least this endeavour needed, though Crit would never pair again ...
He put it to them when all were well disposed from wine and roasted pig and lamb, standing and flatly telling them Tempus had left, putting them in his charge. There fell a silence and in it he could hear his heart pound. He'd been calmer ringed with Tyse hillmen, or alone, his partner slain, against a Rankan squadron.
'Now, we've got each other, and for good and fair, I say to you, the quicker we quit this cesspool for the clean air of high peaks war, the happier I'll be.'
He could hardly see their faces in the dark with the torches snapping right before his face. But it didn't matter; they had to see him, not he them. Crit heard a raucous growl from fifty throats become assent, and then a cheer, and laughter, and Strat, beside and off a bit, gave him a soldier's sign: all's well.
He raised a hand, and they fell quiet; it was a power he'd never tried before: 'But the only way to leave with honour is to work your tours out.' They grumbled. He continued: 'The Riddler's left busy-work sorties enough - hazardous duty actions, by guild book rules; I'll post a list - that we can work off our debt to Kitty-Cat in a month or so.'
Someone nay'd that. Someone else called: 'Let him finish, then we'll have our say.'
'It means naught to me, who deserts to follow. But to us, to cadre honour, it's a slur. So I've thought about it, since I'm hot to leave myself, and here's what I propose. All stay, or go. You take your vote. I'll wait. But Tempus wants no man on his right at Wizardwall who hasn't left in good standing with the guild.'
When they'd voted, with Straton overseeing the count, to abide by the rules they'd lived to enforce, he said honestly that he was glad about the choice they'd made. 'Now I'm going to split you into units, and each unit has a choice: find a person, a mercenary not among us now, a warm body trained enough to hold a sword and fill your bed, and call him "brother" - long enough to induct him in your stead. Then we'll leave the town yet guarded by "Stepsons" and that name's enough, with what we've done here, to keep the peace. The guild has provisions for man-steading; we'll collect from each to fill a pot to hire them; they'll billet here, and we'll ride north a unit at a time and meet up in Tyse, next high moon, and surprise theRiddler.'
So he put it to them, and so they agreed.
NECROMANT by C. J. Cherryh
The wind came from the north tonight, out of chilly distances, sending an unaccustomed rain-washed freshness through the streets of Downwind, along the White Foal where traffic came and went across the only bridge. The Stepsons had finally done the obvious and set up a guard post here; in these fractious times, things were bad indeed. Previous holders of power in Sanctuary had been content to watch and gather information. Now (when subtlety is lacking, one tries the clenched fist) they meant to control every move between Downwind and the Maze.
Tonight another guard was dead, pinned to the post beside the guardhouse; the second one - no one knew where. The word spread in all those quarters where folk were interested to know, so that traffic on the bridge increased despite the rumbles of oncoming thunder, and those who for a day or two had been caught on one side of the White Foal or the other heard and went skittering, windblown, across the White Foal bridge, some shuddering at the erstwhile guard whose eyes still stared; some mocking the dead, how whimsical he looked, thus open-mouthed as if about to speak.
For those who knew, the stationing of that corpse was a signature: the Downwind knew and did not gossip, not even in the security of Mama Becho's, which sat, a scruffy, doors-open building, a tolerable walk from the. White Foal bridge. Only the fact was reported there, that for the third time that week the bridge guard had come to grief; there was general grim laughter.
The news found its way to the Maze on the other side and drew thoughtful stares and considerably less mirth. Certain folk left the Vulgar Unicorn with news to carry; certain ones called for another drink; and if there was gossip of what this chain of murders might mean, it was done in the quietest places and with worried looks. Those who had left did so with that skill of Maze-born skulkers, pretending indirection. They shivered at the sight of beggars in the streets, at urchins and old men, who were back again at posts deserted while the bridge guard had (briefly) stood.
The news had not yet reached the strange ships rocking to the wind in Sanctuary's harbour, or the glittering luxury ofKadakithis, who amused himself in his palace this night and who would not, without understanding more things than he did, have known that the underpinnings of his safety trembled. The report did, and soon, reach the Stepsons' Sanctuary-side headquarters, after which a certain man sat alone with uncertainties. Dolon was his name. Critias had left him in charge, when the senior Stepsons had gone, quietly, band by band, to the northern war. 'You've got all you need,' Critias had said. Now Dolon, in charge of all there was, sat listening to the first patter of rain against the wall and wondering whether he dared, tonight, the morale of his command being what it was, send a band to the bridge to gather up the one available body before the dawn.