you. I am the one. Now show your gratitude.’ But he knew very well that someday
soon, someone would. He did not let this irritation besmirch his happiness. He
had got a new shipment of Caronne krrf (black, pure drug, foil stamped, a full
weight of it, enough to set every mercenary in Sanctuary at the kill) and it was
so good that he considered refraining from offering it on the market. Having
considered, he decided to keep it all for himself, and so was very happy
indeed, no matter how many fistfights broke out in the bar, or how high the
sun was, these days, before he got to bed …
Tempus, too, was happy that morning, with the magnificent Tros horse under him
and signs of war all around him. Despite the hour, he saw enough rough hoplites
and dour artillery fighters with their crank-bows (whose springs were plaited
from women’s hair) and their quarrels (barbed and poisoned) to let him know he
was not dreaming: these did not bestir themselves from daydreams! The war was
real to them. And any one of them could be his. He felt his troop-levy money
cuddled tight against his groin, and he whistled tunelessly as the Tros horse
threaded his way towards the Vulgar Unicorn. One-Thumb was not going to be happy
much longer. Tempus left the Tros horse on its own recognizance, dropping the
reins and telling it, ‘Stay.’ Anyone who thought it merely ripe for stealing
would learn a lesson about the strain which is bred only in Syr from the
original line ofTros’s.
There were a few locals in the Unicorn, most snoring over tables along with