thirsty. Promise Park and the Alekeep, an east-side establishment considered
upper class by those who could tell classes of Ilsigs, were right around the
corner, a block up the Street of Gold from where they met. He proposed to take
her there for lunch. She was delighted – all things mortal were new to her; the
whole business of being in flesh and attending to it was yet novel. A novice at
life, Jihan was hungry for the whole of it.
For him, she served a special purpose: her loveplay was rough and her
constitution hardier than his Tros horses – he could not couple gently; with
her, he did not inflict permanent harm on his partner; she was bom of violence
inchoate and savoured what would kill or cripple mortals.
At the Alekeep, they were welcome. They talked in a back and private room of the
god’s absence and what could be made of it and the owner served them himself, an
avuncular sort still grateful that Tempus’s men had kept his daughters safe when
wizard weather roamed the streets. ‘My girl’s graduating school today. Lord
Marshal – my youngest. We’ve a fete set and you and your companion would be most
welcome guests.’
Jihan touched his arm as he began to decline, her stormy eyes flecked red and
glowing.
‘… ah, perhaps we will drop by, then, if business permits.’
But they didn’t, having found pressing matters of lust to attend to, and all
things that happened then might have been avoided if they hadn’t been out of
touch with the Stepsons, unreachable down by the creek that ran north of the
barracks when sorcery met machination and all things went awry.