Thieves World 7 – The Dead of Winter by Asprin, Robert

could claim and to the unconcealed rage that accompanied Molin’s crisp movements

as he wrapped the reins around the guard’s trembling hand. The terrified young

man hauled away on the stable-gong rope as if his life depended on it.

The storm intensified once the Hierarch stepped into the vast, empty parade

ground before the Palace. Lightning grounded in the mud, releasing steam and

stench. Those who remembered the terrible storms of the summer had already taken

cover in the deepest, driest rooms. Molin glanced at the annex which housed the

two children who were, somehow, avatars of both Vashanka and a new,

unconsecrated Storm God, just as lightning caressed it with blue-and-silver. His

instinct was to run across the courtyard but his belief that he would survive

such bravery was not strong enough; he ducked into one of the stair-niches built

into the West Gate.

“My Lord Molin,” the bald courtier in rose-and-purple silk said, catching his

arm as he strode down the corridors. A mere clothing disguise would never fool a

Beysib courtier, accustomed as the Beysibs were to dressing like flowers and

dyeing their skin to match. “My Lord Molin, a word with you-“

The Beysibs only called him “Lord” when they were frightened. They had a snake

loving bitch for their only goddess and knew nothing of the temper of Storm

Gods. Molin plucked his dripping sleeve from the courtier’s hands with all the

disdain his anger and frustration could muster. “Tell Shupansea I’ll come to the

audience chamber when this is over-not before,” he said in perfect Rankene