He had a job to do. Lots of jobs. He’d made sure of that. He couldn’t afford too much time for reflection. This task before him wasn’t going to be simple, but he needed to occupy his mind with something besides the conundrum of his partner. Tonight, it was finding and restoring Tasfalen, whose entire noble family was missing and had been missing far too long. Torchholder wanted the popinjay found. Or wanted Crit killed in the finding, so that there’d be no rival of consequence for Kama’s affections by the time Molin did whatever he was planning about his current wife.
Crit wasn’t mistaking Molin Torchholder: in the priest’s mind, this was a suicide mission he’d forced on Crit, knowing Crit wouldn’t dele- gate this sort of task to what men he had available. Zip’s half-tame militia wasn’t good for much but swaggering and street fights on their night shift; Walegrin’s barracks of day-soldiers soldiered well enough, but knew nothing of covert means; and Crit wouldn’t ask at the Mageguild-even with the Stepsons’ mage, Randal, there, the price of magical aid in Sanc- tuary was always too high.
So that left only Jubal’s thugs, one of whom Crit awaited. Jubal’s faceless horde of enforcers would spit out one with a face tonight, and that one would lead Crit to Tasfalen.
Once Crit had verified the continued existence of the noble (or lack of ft-a corpse would do), he could get Torchholder off his back. And see Kama. For Crit was about ready to force an end to that particular prob- lem: either bring Kama back with him from the palace, to take up her rightful place in what was left of the Stepsons’ barracks, or use her affair with Molin to blackmail the priest.