Sanctuarites, the children of the damned, the dark Ilsigi whom Rankan and Beysib oppressors alike called Wrigglies, and for women touched with Nisibisi wizard blood who sucked purer blood in Sanctuary’s steamy summer nights-for anyone but him.
Tempus was relieved of duty here, of all responsibility save what his conscience might impose. And it had brought him back here only to complete preparations under way since winter’s end, when Theron had offered him a commission to explore the unknown east and immunity from prosecution to any he chose to hire for the venture.
So once again, and in the east during the trek to come, he would have his
Stepsons, the Sacred Band of paired fighters and certain single mercenaries, and the 3rd Commando, Ranke’s most infamous cadre, for company.
And if their imminent withdrawal from Sanctuary didn’t signal and seal the town’s doom, then Tempus hadn’t outlived a hundred enemies and their legions.
But that wasn’t what made him hesitate, brought him down from the capital to ride once more through garbage-heaped streets where the lawless fought each other block by block in open revolt and man by man over matters of eye color and skin hue and heavenly affiliation.
He couldn’t possibly care about Sanctuary’s survival. The town itself was his enemy. Those who did not fear him for good reason, hated him on principle; those who did neither had left this dungheap long ago.
He could have left the withdrawal to Critias, the Stepsons’ first officer, and to Sync, the 3rd Commando’s line commander. He could have waited in imperial