Zip leaned on the board, close to her, giving her a long look. “I wouldn’t tell him that-not me.”
He had a nice face, she realized. Young and rugged, crowned by a mop of dark hair. Sweat-tracks lined his brow and cheeks, and there were circles of dirt around his neck where the flesh showed above his rough-woven tunic. He smelled, but it was a man’s musky odor, not the stench of Downwind. She stared brazenly into his eyes and chuckled.
“Oh, I’ve taken his measure,” she said, “and he comes up short.”
“He hears the voice of the Storm God,” Zip cautioned with an enigmatic, taut, little smile.
“He hears voices, all right.” She caught a piece of his tunic and pulled his face close to hers. In conspiratorial tones she whispered, loud enough still for any to hear, “But the Storm God?” She shrugged meaningfully. “Between you and me and these others, I suspect he’s just a crazy, common madman. He uses the so called voices to excuse his perversions and aberrations. After all, he can’t be blamed-and needn’t take responsibility for his actions-if divine voices compel him. He’s only a poor avatar.”
Chenaya didn’t actually believe it; she had little doubt of the veracity of
Tempus’s relationship with the Storm Gods. Her own experiences with Savankala were proof enough that such god/mortal alliances evolved. Still, it was a delicious rumor to start.
Zip picked up the mug of beer Mama Becho had placed at his elbow. He took a long drink, regarding Chenaya over the rim. He set the vessel down between them. “You threw away a lot of money to find me, woman,” he said finally. “Why? Not just to gossip about the Riddler.”