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

linen in two. He pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to Hoxa.

“Hold it above the coals. No sense taking chances-I’d rather have the bite of a

sword than the bite of a child any day.”

The priest didn’t wince when the cautery singed his skin, but after the wound

was bandaged he used both trembling hands to carry the goblet to his work-table.

“So tell me Hoxa, what sort of a morning has it been for you?”

“The ladies, Lord Torchholder-,” the scrivener began, jerking a shoulder toward

the door, beyond which a chorus of feminine voices was raised in unintelligible

argument. “Your brother, Lowan Vigeles, has been here looking for his daughter

and complaining,” Hoxa paused, took a deep breath and continued with a credible

imitation of Vigeles’s nasal twang, “about the lowness of the Rankan estate in

Sanctuary, which is still part of the Empire although you have seen fit to

conceal the arrival of a coterie of Beysib exiles, and their poorly defended

gold, from the Empire, which could put all that gold to good use in its

campaigns rather than see it squandered by Wrigglie scum and fish-eyed

barbarians.”

He took another gasping breath. “And the storm shook the windows loose from the

walls. Your Lady Wife’s glass from Ranke is ruined and she is in high wrath, I

fear-“

Molin rested his head in his hands and imagined Lowan’s aristocratic, somewhat

vapid face. My brother, he thought to the memory, my dear, blind brother. An

assassin sits on the Imperial Throne, an assassin who sent you running to

Sanctuary for your life. In one breath you tell me how desperate, how depraved