He blinked, and rubbed his eyes, which were smarting with underworld cold, and
when he took his hands away he found himself standing in a seared circle of
stinking fumes with two coughing Stepsons, both of whom were breathing heavily,
but neither of whom looked to have suffered any enduring harm. Janni was
supporting Niko, who had discarded the gift-cuirass, and it glowed as if cooling
from a forger’s heat between his feet. The dirk and sword, too, lay on the
smudged flagstones, and Tempus’ sword atop the heap.
There passed an interval of soft exchanges, which did not explain either where
Tempus had disappeared to, or why Niko’s gear had turned white-hot against the
Stormbringer’s whirlpool cold, and of assessing damages (none, beyond frostbite,
blisters, scrapes and Tempus’ flayed swordhand) and suggestions as to where they
might recoup their strength.
The tearful First Consort was calmed, and Torchholder’s people (no one could
locate the priest) told to watch her well.
Outside the temple, they saw that the mist had let go of the streets; an easy
night lay chill and brisk upon the town. The three walked back to the Mageguild
at a leisurely pace, to reclaim their panoplies and their horses. When they got
there they found that the Second and Third Hazards had claimed the evening’s
confrontation to be of their making, a cosmological morality play, their most
humbly offered entertainment which the guests had taken too much to heart. Did
not Vashanka triumph? Was not the cloud of evil vanquished? Had not the wondrous