‘Let them go, Crit.’
‘ What? Niko, forget the game, tonight. They’ll not live to tell you helped us.
We’ve been needing this advantage too long -‘
‘Let them go, Crit.’ Beside him his prisoner cursed or hissed or intoned a
spell, but did not break to run. Niko stepped close to his task force leader,
whispering: ‘This one’s an ex-commando, a fighter from Wizardwall come upon hard
times. Do him a service, as I must, for services done.’
‘Nisibisi? More’s the reason, then, to take them and break them-‘
‘No. He’s on the other side from warlocks; he’ll do us more good free in the
streets. Won’t you. Vis?’
The foreign-looking ruffian agreed, his voice thick with an accent detectable
even in his three clipped syllables.
Niko nodded. ‘See, Crit? This is Vis. Vis, this is Crit. I’ll be the contact for
his reports. Go on, now. You, too, freedman, go. Run!’
And the two, taking Niko at his word, dashed away before Crit could object.
The third, in Straton’s grasp, writhed wildly. This was a failed hawkmask, very
likely, in Straton’s estimation the prize of the three and one no word from Niko
could make the mercenary loose.
Niko agreed that he’d not try to save any ofJubal’s minions, and that was
that… almost. They had to keep their meeting brief; any could be peeking out
from windowsill or shadowed door; but as they mounted up to ride away, Janni saw
a cowled figure rising from a pool of darkness occluding the intersection. It
stood, full up, momentarily, and moonrays struck its face. Janni shuddered; it
was a face with hellish eyes, too far to be so big or so frightening, yet their