Robert Asprin - Soul of the City

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.

Riding Mazeward on a horse suddenly and unreasonably skittish, he cursed himself for a fool. No proof that it was Kama-what he'd seen could have been some apparition, even the witch, Roxane, in disguise. He'd touched nothing; only seen something he thought was Kama-there were undeads in Sanctuary who resembled the forms they'd had in life, and some of those were Roxane's slaves. Though if any such had happened to Kama, he told himself, Strat would have sent word to him. At least, the Strat he used to know would have. Right then, Critias could count the things he knew for certain on the fingers of one hand.

But he knew he was going to the vampire woman's house to find his partner. It was just a matter of time; Kama's allegations were already eating at his soul. He had to leam the truth.

Kadakithis's palace was full of fish-eyed Beysibs: Beysib men with more jewelry on their persons than Rankan women from uptown or Ilsigi whores; Beysib women female shock troops with bared and painted breasts and poison snakes wound about their necks or arms-who seemed never to blink and gave Tempus gooseflesh.

Kadakithis wanted to introduce Tempus and Jihan to his Beysib flounder, Shupansea; before Tempus could protest, in the prince/governor's velvet-hung chamber, that he needed no more women in his life, the Rankan prince had called the woman forth.

Jihan, beside him, took Tempus's arm and squeezed, sensing what passed on first glance between her beloved Riddler and the lady ruler of the Beysib people.

For Tempus, noises lessened, the world grew dim, and in his heart a passion rose, while in his head a voice he'd not heard clear for years urged: Take her. For Me. Ravage the slut upon this spot/

The woman's fish-eyes widened; a snake slithered on her arm. Her breasts were fair and gilded; they stared at him with come-hither charms and it was only Jihan who restrained him, prince or no, from doing what Vashanka wanted then and there.