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.”