10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

For Crit remembered this “Vis” now, and what he recalled didn’t put him at ease. Mradhon Vis, a northerner- Thief, malefactor, one-time part- ner-in-crime of the Nisibisi mageling, Haught. And gods knew of whom or what else. They’d beaten information out of Vis more than once, when the Stepsons were fighting the Nisibisi witch here. Strat, the Stepsons’ chief interrogator, had. Crit had been in command of the intelligence unit then. They’d brought this fool up to the Shambles safe house, drawn the iron shutters, and taught him the sort of respect that turns to hatred if left untended.

There were dozens, perhaps scores, of Vises he and Strat had made in Sanctuary. If Crit lived long enough, one of them was going to try to kill him. Perhaps this one. Perhaps tonight.

“Vis,” he repeated, his voice low. “Right, I remember. Well, let’s go, Vis. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“My pleasure. Commander,” said the mercenary, and chuckled nas- tily. “If you’ll follow me into those shadows there, the worst is yet to come.”

“I’m telling you,” whispered Kama intently to Straton over her beer, “Zip’s moving the altar stones uptown to the Street of Temples-moving them and what they housed.”

Finished, she sat back, eyeing the other patrons of the Vulgar Unicorn surreptitiously. No one had heard, she was certain. She’d been careful of her volume, as well as the drunken slur in her voice. No one human, that is. The fiend who was tending bar late tonight had great gray ears and eyes that looked every which way. His warty countenance was averted, but that meant nothing. In the bronze mirror behind the bar he could be watching them . . .