Crit hated this sort of innuendo- The man he was looking at was of a fighting class not usually under his command, and if the newcomer was staying in Sanctuary, some accommodation between them would have to be made. The last thing he needed was a man like this working against him. And if he was what he seemed-an acquaintance of Tempus-then he might represent a light at the end of Crit’s personal tunnel.
The man leaning against the wall merely chewed on his stick of lamb chunks and eyed Crit and the gray horse until Critias knew he must dismount or create an enemy,
When he’d done that, the newcomer threw away his stick of lamb and came toward him. When he reached the pile of stones, he put one foot up on it and retrieved his helmet. “I’m known as Shepherd,” he said, and held out his hand.
“I bet you are,” Crit replied, taking it. Between them was the pile of stones and, somehow, Crit didn’t want to touch it. He remembered what Kama had said about Zip and the stones, but it didn’t seem anywhere Bear as important as the man before him. “Well, Shepherd, I’m not using niy war name here, so it’s just Critias.” He disengaged his hand and unconsciously wiped it against his hip.
Behind Crit, his horse snorted. Duly prompted, the Stepson said, “We’ve got plenty of work for the right sort of man, but what kind depends on how long you’re staying. And what sort of references you can produce. More, I hope, than just evidence of the Storm God’s favor.”
“More than gods’ favor, yes,” said Shepherd, tapping his foot on the pile of stones. “Gods: can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.” He shook his head in mock disgust, to make it clear that the remark was a joke, but it seemed strange to Crit, as strange as this Shepherd come to Sanctuary in the wake of the Riddler.