He was glad he had not prevailed on the prince to come along…. What a
woman! And what was her name? He had been told, he was sure, but just forgot. .
. .
Outside, torchlit, their breath steaming white through cold-sharpened night air,
waiting for their ivory-screened wagon, they giggled over the distinction
between “serious” and “solemn”: the First Hazard had been serious, Molin was
solemn; Tempus the Hell-Hound was serious, Prince Kadakithis, solemn; the
destabiliza-tion campaign they were undertaking in Sanctuary under the auspices
of a Mygdonian-funded Nisibisi witch (who had come to Lastel, alias One-Thumb,
in the guise of a comely caravan mistress hawking Garonne drugs) was serious;
the threat of northern invasion, down-country at the Empire’s anus, was most
solemn.
As her laughter tinkled, he nuzzled her: “Did you manage to … ?”
“Oh, yes. I had a perfectly lovely time. What a wonderful idea of yours this
was,” she whispered, still speaking court Rankene, a dialect she had been using
exclusively in public ever since the two of them-the Mazedweller One-Thumb and
the escaped sorcerer-slayer Cime-had decided that the best cover for them was
that which her magic provided: they need not do more. Her brother Tempus knew
that Lastel was actually One-Thumb, and that she was with him, but he would
hesitate to reveal them: he had given his silence, if not his blessing, to their
union. Within reasonable limits, they considered themselves safe to bargain
lives and information to both sides in the coming crisis. Even now, with the war