“Other ways, I know. Randal, I think I’ve a solution that might serve to get you off the hook, if you’ll help me.”
“Oh, Riddler, I’d be so grateful. She’s-no offense- more your sort of problem than mine. If you could just get me away from her, as long as it’s not taken ill by the Band. I’ll sneak away, I’ll meet you in Ranke, I’ll-“
“No sneaking away, Randal,” said Tempus through lips that had parted to bare his teeth.
That smile was one all Stepsons knew. Randal said dumbly, “We can’t… hurt her-sir. No sneaking away? Then how… ?”
“With your permission, Randal, I’m going to woo her away from you-steal your bride from under your very nose.”
“Permission!” Oh, Tempus, I’d be so grateful-so everlastingly and abidingly grateful….”
“I have it, then?”
“What? Permission? By the Writ and the devils who love me, yes! Woo away! And may the-“
“Just your permission will be enough, Randal. Let’s not bring any powers into this whose response we can’t foresee, let alone control.”
The woman was walking alone in the garden while, within the manse beyond, a civilized uptown party was under way. Her hair was blond and curly, bound up in the fashion noblewomen in the capital had adopted this season: held in place with little golden pins hafted with likenesses of Rankan gods.
He came upon her from behind and had his left arm crooked around her neck in seconds, saying only, “Hold, I’m not here to hurt you,” while within him a god who shouldn’t have been there stirred to wakefulness, stretched, and urged otherwise.