“Will he not honor his daughter’s wish?”
And Jihan’s arms locked around his neck in a grip not Tempus, or death itself, could brezk, and she pulled him down to her. “Then, Riddler, let us show Him that it is my wish.”
He wasn’t sure that, even with the war-god to help, he could manage to prove himself again so soon. But the god was, thanks be to Him, as insatiable as she, and, though Stormbringer began to rumble and to shake the ground in pique, so that soon they thrashed and rolled in a downpour that quenched the fire on the altar and the fire in Tasfalen’s house, it was too late for Jihan’s father to intervene.
Tempus had wooed Jihan, and won her, and there was nothing even Stormbringer could do to change the Froth Daughter’s mind once it was made up.
Zip couldn’t believe the trouble he was in, forced into an alliance with so many who had good reason to wish him dead.
Jubal’s hawkmasks escorted him out to the Stepsons’ barracks to show him around.
At least he didn’t have to live there-yet.
The deal was, as he understood it, that he spearhead some addled alliance made up of all his known enemies and some he hadn’t known he had: One, a bitch named
Chenaya, had more balls than half the mercenaries lounging on the white washed parade grounds and she’d made it clear that she didn’t expect the pecking order to hold for long unless she was at the head of it.
Heads tended to get lopped off in Sanctuary, he’d told her, with an exaggerated bow and outstretched hand meant to indicate that she could precede him into any grave, anytime, anyplace.