still carefully sealed in his saddlebag, but using it would eventually let
Kilite know he was still alive. It was better to remain an outlaw.
Hook-nosed, diminutive Thrusher was a man no-one would remember. Able and
single-minded, he’d never run afoul of the town’s dangers nor succumb to its
limited temptations. Walegrin would have a roof over his men’s heads by
nightfall and more water than they could drink to set before them. Wine too, but
Walegrin had almost forgotten the taste of wine.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, Thrusher appeared on the dunes. Walegrin
waved him safe conduct. He put his heels to his horse and galloped the last
stretch of sand. Both man and beast had been cleansed of yellow grit. Walegrin
suppressed a pang of jealousy.
“Ho, Thrush! Do we sleep in town tonight?” one of the other men called.
“With full trenchers and a wench on each knee,” Thrusher laughed.
“By the gods, I thought we’re bound for Sanctuary, not paradise.”
“Paradise enough-if a man’s not choosy,” Thrusher told them all as he dismounted
and made his way to Walegrin.
“You seem satisfied. Is the town that much changed since we left it?” Walegrin
asked.
“Yes, that much. You’d think the Nisibisi rode this way. There are more
mercenaries in Sanctuary than in Ranke. We’ll never be noticed. The usual scum
fears to leave the shadows-and if a man knows how to use his sword there’s any
number who’ll hire him. Kittycat’s gold hasn’t been the best for many a month
now. He’s got to rely on a citizen’s militia to take up the slack from the Hell