Then the man said, “And Ischade, the vampire woman-is she well? Down at Shambles
Cross? Holding court among her shades?”
“She…” Then memory jogged memory, and Snapper Jo raised a crop of goose bumps to complement his warts: This was the Sleepless One, the legendary fighter his former mistress had fought so long. “She… is, sire. Ischade… is. And will be, always….”
Snapper Jo had friends among the not-really-human, the once-dead, the straddlers of the void. Ischade was not one of them, but neither was this man, whom he now knew.
As he knew why the crowd had drawn back, this rabble who knew the players in a game they joined only as pawns and never of their own accord.
Snapper tried not to cringe, but his lips formed words involuntarily, words that whistled out sing-sing, “Mur-der, murder, oh there’ll be mur-der everywhere and
Snapper’s so happy without it….”
“When next a Stepson or Commando comes in, instruct him to seek me at the mercenaries’ hostel. And don’t fail.” The man called Tempus lay coins upon the bar.
Snapper could see them glitter with his left-looking eye, but he didn’t pick them up until the big man had gone, leaving behind only creaking floorboards stained ruddy to prove he’d been there at all.
Then the fiend called one of the serving wenches from the kitchen and gave the girl, whom he loved-to the extent that a fiend can love-all the money the
Riddler had left him, saying, “See, fear not. Snapper protect you. Snapper take care you. You take care Snapper, too, yes, later?” And the fiend gave a broad and lascivious grin to the woman he favored, who hid her shudder as she pocketed the equivalent of a week’s wages and promised the fiend she’d warm his lonely night.