Robert Asprin - Aftermath

Zip found his hands on the stone. And then on another, the one that the spear touched next. And another, and another. Zip labored there, under the direction of that spear, until the sky was red and gold and he held the final stone in both his hands, chest heaving.

Poised over the pile, afraid that attempting to place the last stone would tumble all the others. Zip blurted breathlessly, "You're sure?"

The helmeted head nodded once, up and down, and the spear jabbed forward commandingly.

Zip placed the stone atop all the other stones and a spark seemed to jump from the rocks. It bit his hand, crawled up his wrist. It hurt like fire.

He staggered back, squinting at the stones suddenly too bright, as if they'd ignited. He shielded his eyes from the glare. A trick of the dawn light, he told himself when he opened his eyes again and the pile was still there, neither burning nor singed, not even smudged, but squat and sturdy.

Squat! Sturdy! A rough beehive of stones, solid as the temple wall in whose shadow it rested. Success! Relief flooded Zip. Before he knew it, he was on his knees at the low opening, peering inward, trying to see if the rivergod was there.

And he saw something, red and glowing, restless in its appointed dark. And reached out to touch the stones, which were cool and real and snug in place.

He pushed on one. It didn't shift. He pushed on two. They didn't budge. He chuckled and then he grinned. He put his cheek to the cool stone, knowing now that the spark that had seemed to bite him was just some phosphorescent insect and the rest had been illusion, a moment of Waking dream.

Because the god was not angry at him-it had come to abide in the temple he had built it!

He gave a wordless shout and then remembered the armored man. He got up from the altar, hand already outstretched to thank the stranger, but there was no one there. No man in fighter's garb. No horse in pantherskin shabraque with panther feet dangling from its back.

Nothing but increasing daylight in an alley where no Ilsig dared be caught, not even Zip, the third shift watch officer of Sanctuary.

"Gotta go, but I'll be back. Lord," he muttered, giving the shrine a final pat before he fled. "I'll be back."

Kama's roan had bolted during the night, found some way to slip its harness and make away. "She does it all the time," Kama said to Crit, who was sure someone had gotten into the barn and stolen the mare. "There's no door that beast can't open, no knot she can't chew through. She'll be out at the Stepsons' barracks, mark my words."

And that stopped all conjecture about the horse, and Kama's attempt to lighten Crit's mood. It wasn't the Stepsons' barracks any longer, not with so few Stepsons left. Nobody stayed there now. It was too lonely. The place was used for storage of gear and extra horses, but Crit stayed here, at the Shambles safe house; Strat stayed ... where Strat stayed. Randal, who could have claimed the right, was sleeping in the Mageguild, and Kama herself preferred any number of beds with men in them to a solitary one full of unhappy memories.

"I'll go out and check," she said lamely. "You've got to go to work, anyway. See you toni- later?"

"Tonight's fine with me," said Crit gently, and then with more fire in him: "If you want to join me over at Ischade's-I can't let this thing with Strat go on like this. I've got to get him out of there."

"Why?" Strat had been there for them, in his way. When they'd come back to the guardpost to write their report he'd been waiting, full of Ischade's warnings and a more honest concern. But Crit couldn't un- bend, wouldn't let Strat have an opening so that amends could be made.

"She says," Strat had offered, using the unadorned pronoun, as they always did, to represent Ischade; "that there's more trouble coming out of that house than you or youi's can handle. Leave it to us, all right?"

Crit hadn't said a word to that at first, just stared at Strat in that way he had that made you want to sink into the earth right there and then. And after too long a pause, he'd said what Kama hoped he wouldn't:

"Us, is it? You and her, you mean? Or some of your soulless zombies under mutual command?"

Strat had been braced for it, by then. Kama wanted to crawl under the table, pretend she didn't understand what was happening and suggest they all go to breakfast-anything but sit there, a mute witness to the rending of a Sacred Band oath.

Strat had said only, "Crit, I signed off" on your paperwork, what more do you want? You can't handle this. We won't tell anyone if you don't. Tasfalen's ... our business. So's Haught. Keep your people away from them, that's all I'm saying." And with that, Strat had left.

There was a time Kama would have taken Crit to her bosom on this son of rebound and felt like she'd won something. But the comfort he needed wasn't hers, and all the acrobatics he'd put both of them through so that he could finally fall into an exhausted sleep didn't help what was ailing Critias.

Or didn't help enough. Still, she said, "Wait for me tonight," and left him, thinking that, if things were going from bad to worse with Strat, Crit might really need her help. He needed someone's. And Kama knew that, no matter what trouble it caused with Molin or anybody else, what- ever Crit needed, she had to try to give him,

Love tends to be like that, even in Sanctuary.

Alone in his office, Critias pretended to work on the duty roster until his eyes started to sting. Then he gave it up, having made little progress, and began to put his papers away, thinking that he'd go down to Caravan Square and see if he could find Kama another horse.

But as he was leaving, Gayle came in, muttering that there was "some porker outside you'd better take a look at, sir-personal like."

"I'm not in the mood," Crit snapped, then said: "Sorry, Gayle, it's not you. It's that damned Zip. Anybody report anything odd last night?"

It was Zip's shift, so as to whatever had happened about the stone shrine, Crit didn't expect anything like an honest report from the watch officer. Wouldn't have, even if Zip could write more than his name.

"That's what I'm sayin'. Commander: you'd better come have a look at this guy, came in last night to the meres* hostel, claiming all sorts of privilege.-Now he's lookin' for Tempus." Gayle shrugged and grimaced, anticipating Crit's next question. "Didn't tell him anything, either way."

"'Just where 'outside' is this fellow?"

"Down at the Storm God's temple, like he owned it. Nice horse, nice gear, lots of loose change."

"Right. I'm on my way." They all knew the type-they were the type, before Tempus had welded them into something more usable by Empire.

Gayle was still hovering and Crit understood why: "Somebody's got to watch the shop, friend."

Gayle screwed up his face. "Forking waste, all this porked-up paper work's somethin' any porkin' fool can do."

"Not when it's mine, it isn't. Molin comes by, keep him here, tell him we're making copies and need his signature on something-anything. Try to find out what he's up to on this Tasfalen matter. And let him know that, far as we're concerned, it's closed: we found the man in question, he's not accused of anything, there's nothing more we can do."

Gayle was nodding intently, trying to memorize all of that, as Crit left.

His gray horse was still where Crit had tethered it, Enlil be praised. If that one disappeared, then it was going to become police business, and fast. But it hadn't. He rubbed its nose and it whickered softly as he mounted up and headed off into the early morning sunlight.

The worst thing about this new duty was getting used to sleeping at night, working in the daytime. For Crit's money, sunlight was something you left to the cattle. In Sanctuary, like most other venues he'd worked, what was worth doing got done at night.