Ageless eyes shocked against mortal eyes too sure of their doom and unwilling to seek favor. But another thing passed between them: The weariness of the young fighter, hunted by too many and willing to die against sheer numbers and superior force of arms, had turned to hopelessness; that despair met its echo in the gaze of the fabled immortal who went from war to war and empire to empire, taking life and teaching the wisest something about the spirit’s triumph over death.
Tempus, who had created, trained, and fielded the Stepsons, was offering a moratorium, some forgotten hope, where an ultimatum had been expected.
There was something in Zip’s tone when the boy answered, “Yeah, a week. All right. All I can say is the PFLS will try-I can’t speak for the others. It’s got to be enough. Or-“
Tempus had to interrupt. A threat uttered in front of the youth’s followers would be binding. “Enough, for you and yours. What they sow, they’ll reap. You can come out of this with more than you expect. Zip-an imperial pardon, maybe a profession, and do what you do best for the good of the town you say you love.”
“The town I’ll die for, one way or the other,” Zip murmured, because he’d understood what Tempus was saying and what had been unsaid in their met glance, and wanted the Riddler to know it, before he waved his men back without another word from Tempus.
It took only moments for the intersection where Red Clay Street met West Gate to seem deserted once again. It took no longer to mount the Tros and head it toward