undue injury or commotion. “But you left Valtostin?”
The man shifted his weight nervously. “Women-a woman.”
“And you came to Sanctuary to forget?” Walegrin suggested.
“There’s always work for such as me; especially in a city like this.”
“So you found work here, but not with the garrison. What did you do?”
“I guarded the property of a merchant…”
Walegrin did not need to hear the rest of the explanation; he’d heard it often
enough. It was as if the surviving hawkmasks had settled on a single excuse for
their past involvement with Jubal. In a way there was truth in it; Jubal’s trade
wasn’t fundamentally different from the activities of a legitimate merchant
especially here in Sanctuary.
“You know what I’m offering?” Walegrin asked flatly when the man had fallen
silent. “Why come to me when Tempus needs Stepsons?”
__
“I’d die before I served hint.”
That too was the expected response. Walegrin emerged from the shadows to embrace
his new man. “Well, die you might, Cubert. We quarter in a villa to the north of
town. A sign says ‘Sighing Trees,’ if you read Wriggle. Otherwise you’ll know it
by the smell. We’re with Balustrus, metal-master, for one more night.”
Cubert knew the name and did not flinch at the sound of it. Perhaps he did not
have the abhor-ence of magic and near-magic that most mercenaries had. Or he was
simply a good soldier and accepted his lot with resignation. Thrusher emerged to
open the door.
“Was that the last?” Walegrin asked when they were alone again.
“The best, anyway. There’s one more, another hawkmask, and-” Thrusher paused, “