“Again, halfling, what do you want?”
There were two answers at that point in time, one of which had to do with the god in his head, who was whispering. She is a woman, and women only understand one thing. She is a fighter. It’s long since We’ve had a fighter. Give her to
Us, and We’ll be very grateful-and she will be Our willing servant. Otherwise, you cannot trust her.
To the god in his head, he responded, / can’t trust You, never mind her. To the woman, he said, “Chenaya, beyond the obvious, which we’ll see about”-still holding her tightly enough with his elbow that a slight jerk would break her neck, he began to raise her voluminous white skirt from behind-“I want you to do something for me. There’s a faction here that needs a woman whom the gods decree cannot be defeated. What I ask, I ask for Kadakithis, for the continuance of your bloodline, and for the good of Sanctuary. What the god asks, I’m afraid, is another matter.” His voice was deepening, and into him was pouring all the long held passion of Sanctuary’s Lord of Rape and Pillage, Blood and Death.
She was a fighter, and god-bound. He hoped, as he began to explain the business that had brought him here and the god in him got out of hand, that she’d understand.
The sentry at the tunnel entrance to Ratfall, Zip’s base camp in Downwind, was gagged and flopping in a pool of his own blood.
Zip had slipped in it, then stumbled over the body in the dusk before he realized what he’d stumbled on: Sync’s calling card-the sentry’s hands and feet had been lopped off.