Crit’s hand dropped. There was a worried look on his face. Strat’s stares could put it there, lately. And that usually got Crit’s temper up when other provocations failed. This time he just stood there.
“Yeah,” Strat said. “I’m going to drop out a few hours on the way back, expect it: I’ll be pulling in a few contacts.” He hung the bridle on his shoulder, flung the blanket over the bay’s back, not-not looking more than he must at that coin-sized patch just by the bay’s hipbone. “I may talk to her. Figure I can walk out of there, too. It’s all cooled down; she’s got her choices, I have mine.” He slung the saddle up, and the bay never offered to move. It had as well been a statue that breathed and smelled like a horse. “She’s sleeping around. We got corpses to prove it.”
“Don’t be a damn fool.”
“Hey.” He turned his head and looked at Crit. “Trust me to do what needs doing.
All right? You’re not my mother.”
Crit said not a thing.
Damn mistake, Crit. Say it. My mind’s like the damned shoulder, on and off, I never know when. I can’t think, I can’t know when I’m on target, can’t know when
I’ll flinch.
She’s got herself another lover. One I can’t match, can I?
I can meet her and ride away again. You don’t know how easy it is. I’ve seen her in the streets, Crit. Like the rest of the whores. With a pox that’ll kill you.
He slipped the bridle on, cinched up, and hurled himself into the saddle without the least twinge from the shoulder. “See you.” he said, and rode for the gates.
“Where?” Tempus snapped, just arrived on the hill, just arrived inside Molin’s offices. It was not a good day for Molin either, but Tempus was clearly begun on a worse one. “When and who?”