befriended is either an enemy agent or a pawn ofNisibisi propaganda – telling
everyone that he’s been told by the Ilsig gods themselves that Vashanka was
routed … I’d like to silence him permanently.’ Crit’s eyes met Tempus’s then,
and held.
‘No,’ he replied, to all of it, then added: ‘Gods don’t die; men die. Boys die
in multitudes. The thief, Shadowspawn, is no threat to us, just misguided, semi
literate, and vain, like all boys. Bring me a conduit to Jubal, or the slaver
himself. Contact Niko and have him report – if the witch needs a lesson, I
myself will undertake to teach it. And keep your watch upon the fish-eyed folk
from the ships -I’m not sure yet that they’re as harmless as they seem.’
Having given Crit enough to do to keep his mind off the rumours of the god
Vashanka’s troubles – and hence, his own – he rose to leave. ‘Some results, by
week’s end, would be welcome.’ The officer toasted him cynically as Tempus
walked away.
Outside, his Tros horse whinnied joyfully. He stroked its mist-dappled neck and
felt the sweat there. The weather was close, an early heatwave as unwelcome as
the late frosts which had frozen the winter crops a week before their harvest
and killed the young sets just planted in anticipation of a bounteous fall.
He mounted up and headed south by the granaries towards the palace’s north wall
where a gate nowhere as peopled or public as the Gate of the Gods was set into
the wall by the cisterns. He would talk to Prince Kitty-Cat, then tour the Maze
on his way home to the barracks.