“You keepin’ your promises. Commander?”
Walegrin shifted his weight nervously and with evident distaste slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Yeah, I’m keeping promises. You got a problem you can’t handle?”
There was no love lost between these men. Zip had wielded the ax that had hacked
Illyra’s gut open and broken her daughter in two. They’d meant to fight to the death that day-only Tempus’s accidental intervention had stopped them. Walegrin judged it extremely likely that he’d finish the job someday; someday after
Tempus was gone and Zip’s absence wouldn’t raise embarrassing questions.
“Not me personally-unless you lied to your priest and the Riddler both. Well, you coming with me?”
Liking it not at all, Walegrin fell in step behind Zip and followed him into the alleyways. The truth was, and the garrison commander knew it, that Zip’s feelings were never very personal. He and Illyra had had a run-in more than a year ago and he’d stabbed her then-but that had had nothing to do with his attack on her daughter and neither had meant that Zip felt any more strongly about her than he felt about anyone. Tempus’s Ratfall farce had probably secured
Zip’s loyalty and good behavior about as well as it could be secured.
There wasn’t really any reason for Walegrin’s sweat to go cold as they tunnelled through another cellar and he knew he’d not get back to a street he recognized without help before
sunrise.
They were at another of the PFLS safe-houses, an old, uninviting structure whose only doorway opened on a blind courtyard. Glancing at the rooftops, Walegrin knew they weren’t a stone’s throw from the Wideway-but he’d never imagined this house and its courtyard existed. He wondered how many other boltholes like this the PFLS retained and if even Tempus truly had them under control.