But seeing Ischade’s reaction to the god high in him made him realize it wasn’t so.
The necromant took a step forward resolutely, cocked her head, licked her lips, and said, “You jest with me? When He is here?” Then, when he didn’t respond, she made a warding sign, withdrawing with a mutter: “Have your witch loosed, then.
There’s less trouble over there than is right here, with you.”
And my fighter, Strat? he or the god wanted to ask, but did not. You didn’t ask
Ischade, you negotiated. Tempus wasn’t in a position to negotiate, right now.
Unless…
“Ischade, wait,” he called. Or the god did. And when she came close, he leaned down and let the Lord of Rape and Pillage whisper in the ear of the necromant who commanded all the partly dead and restless dead who never went to
Sanctuary’s gods.
He tried not to listen to what the god said or what the necromant replied, but it was a bargain they made which concerned him-concerned the flesh of his flesh, and the soul of his Stepson, Strat.
When he straightened up, the frail, pale creature touched his forearm and looked into his eyes. For a moment he thought he saw a tear there, but then decided it was the brightness that passion lent to necromants and their kind.
He could survive what the god had promised Ischade-or at least he thought he could.
It might be interesting to find out… if, of course, Stonn-bringer didn’t kick his ass from one dimension to another for meddling in the Froth Daughter’s affairs before he had time to make good his promise to spend a night with the necromant.