right for this, commander?”
Tempus almost said no, but changed his mind and told the Stepson to get a fresh
horse and his best panoply and meet him at the Mageguild’s outer gate.
5
There was a little mist in the streets by the time Tempus headed his Tros horse
across the east side toward the Mageguild-nothing daunting yet, just a fetlock
high steaminess as if the streets were cobbled with dry ice. He had had no luck
intercepting his sister at Lastel’s estate: a servant shouted through a grate,
over the barking of dogs, that the master had already left for the fete. He had
stopped briefly at the mercenaries’ hostel before going there, to burn a rag he
had had for centuries in the common room’s hearth: he no longer needed to be
reminded not to argue with warlocks, or that love, for him, was always a losing
game. With his sister’s scarf, perhaps the problem of her would waft away,
changed like the ancient linen to smoke upon the air.
Before the Mageguild’s outer wall, an imprudent crowd had gathered to watch the
luminaries arriving in the ersatz-daylight of its ensorceled grounds. Pink
clouds formed a glowing canopy to the wall’s edge-a godly pavilion; elsewhere,
it was night. Where dark met light, the Stepson Janni waited, one leg crooked
over his saddlehorn, rolling a smoke, his best helmet dangling by his knee
and his full-length dress-mantle draped over his horse’s croup, while
around his hips the ragged crowd thronged and his horse, ears flattened, snapped
at Ilsigs who came too near.
Tempus’ gray rumbled a greeting to the bay; the curly-headed mercenary