don’t covet, and for a pittance!’
Girl? The woman was nearly his own age, unless another set of diamond rods
existed, and he doubted that. He yawned, not reaching up to take the purse that
dangled over the lee of the roof, ‘I am disappointed. I thought Shadowspawn
could steal.’
The innuendo was not lost on the invisible thief. The purse was withdrawn. An
impalpable something told him he was once again alone, but for the clients of
Vashanka’s Weaponshop. Things would be interesting in Sanctuary, for a good
little while to come. He had counted twenty-three purchasers able to walk away
with their mystical armaments. Four had died while he watched, intrigued.
It was possible that a career Hell Hound such as Zaibar might have intervened.
But Tempus wore Vashanka’s amulet about his neck, and, if he did not agree with
Him, he would at least bear with his god.
The woman he was waiting for showed there at dusk. He liked dusk; he liked it
for killing and he liked it for loving. Sometimes if he was very lucky, the dusk
made him tired and he could nap. A man who has been cursed by an archmage and
pressed into service by a god does not sleep much. Sleep was something he chased
like other men chased women. Women, in general, bored him, unless they were
taken in battle, or unless they were whores.
This woman, her black hair brushing her doeskin-clad shoulders, was an
exception.
He called her name, very softly. Then again: ‘Cime.’ She turned, and at last he
was sure. He had thought Hakiem could mean no other: he had not been wrong.