The agents ordered draughts from One-Thumb’s new girl and she came back,
cowering but determined, saying that One-Thumb must see their money first. They
had started this venture with the barman’s help; he knew their provenance; they
knew his secret.
‘Let’s kill the swillmonger. Stealth,’ Janni growled. They had little cash – a
few soldats and some Machadi coppers – and couldn’t draw their pay until their
work was done.
‘Steady, Janni. I’ll talk to him. Girl, fetch two Rankan ales or you won’t be
able to close your legs for a week.’
He pushed back his bench and strode to the bar, aware that he was only half
joking, that Sanctuary was rubbing him raw. Was the god dead? Was Tempus in
thrall to the Froth Daughter who kept his company? Was Sanctuary the honeypot of
chaos? A hell from which no man emerged? He pushed a threesome of young puds
aside and whistled piercingly when he reached the bar. The big bartender looked
around elaborately, raised a scar-crossed eyebrow, and ignored him. Stealth
counted to ten and then methodically began emptying other patrons’ drinks on to
the counter. Men were few here; approximations cursed him and backed away; one
went for a beltknife but Stealth had a dirk in hand that gave him pause. Niko’s
gear was dirty, but better than any of these had. And he was ready to clean his
soiled blade in any one of them. They sensed it; his peripheral perception read
their moods, though he couldn’t read their minds. Where his maat – his balance
once had been was a cold, sick anger. In Sanctuary he had learned despair and