management of the fielded team and Crit had grunted wryly, saying he’d run them
but not take the blame if they lost both men to the witch’s wiles.
Tempus had agreed with the pleasant-looking Syrese agent and they had gone on to
other business: Prince/Governor Kadakithis was insistent upon contacting Jubal,
the slaver whose estate the Stepsons sacked and made their home. ‘But when we
had the black bastard, you said to let him crawl away.’
‘Kadakithis expressed no interest.’ Tempus shrugged. ‘He has changed his mind,
perhaps in light of the appearance of these mysterious death squads your people
haven’t been able to identify or apprehend. If your teams can’t deliver Jubal or
turn up a hawkmask who is in contact with him, I’ll find another way.’
‘Ischade, the vampire woman who lives in Shambles Cross, is still our best hope.
We’ve sent slave-bait to her and lost it. Like a canny carp, she takes the bait
and leaves the hook.’ Crit’s lips were pursed as if his wine had turned to
vinegar; his patrician nose drew down with his frown. He ran a hand through his
short, feathery hair. ‘And our joint venture with the Rankan garrison is
impeding rather than aiding success. Army Intelligence is a contradiction in
terms, like the Mygdonian Alliance or the Sanctuary pacification programme. The
cutthroats I’ve got on our payroll are sure the god is dead and all the Rankans
soon to follow. The witch – or some witch – floats rumours of Mygdonian
liberators and Ilsig freedom and the gullible believe. That snotty thief you