‘Yes,’ Tempus said, considerately-cleverly changing the subject. ‘What old
whatsisname Torchholder yammers about is true. Vashanka came, and He claimed
Sanctuary. His name is branded into the place, now. The very temple of Ils lies
in rubble. Vashanka created the Weaponshop, from nothing, and-‘
‘A pedlar-god?’
‘I didn’t think much of the lactic myself,’ Tempus said, hoping Vashanka heard
him while noting how good the youth was at sneering. ‘And the Weaponshop
destroyed the mage the governor imported to combat him. Vashanka is not to be
combated.’
Hanse snapped glances this way and that. ‘Say such things a time or two more in
Sanctuary, my friend, and your body will be mourning the loss of its head.’
The blond man stared at him. ‘Do you believe that?’
Hanse let that pass, while he rowed into the current of other conversations in
the tavern. A current restless as a thief on a landing outside a window, and
conversations just as stealthy and dark. He tuned it out again, stepping out of
the flow yet flowing with it. Quietly.
‘And how many of those fell Things do you think are still loose?’
‘Too many. Two or four? You know our job is to collect them.’
‘Our?’
‘The Hell Hounds.’
‘Who’s your bearded friend, Hanse?’
The speaker stood beside the table, only a bit older than Hanse and just as
cocky. Older in years only; he had not benefited from those years and would
never be so much as Hanse. Self-consciously he wore self-consciously tight
black. Oh, a brilliant thief! About as unobtrusive as hives.
Hanse was staring at Tempus, who was pink and bronze of skin, gold and honey of