softly modulated tone that signaled the end of his patience. “I’ll send Hoxa.
Now-I have more important matters-“
“Impotent coward. You have no god because you let Tempus Thales and his
catamites usurp you. Torch-holder’s a True Son of Vashanka,’ they told my
father. True son of the Wrigglie whore that whelped you-“
The rage Molin had repressed when he looked at Isambard’s face burst out. The
goblet stem broke with a tiny snap; the only sound or movement in the room. He
forced himself to move slowly, knowing he would kill her if she did not get out
of his sight and knowing, in a still-sane corner of his mind, that he would
regret it if he did. Rosanda edged backward toward the door as her husband
pushed himself up from the table on whitened knuckles. She was through the
antechamber and barricaded in the bedroom before he said a word.
“Gather my possessions, Hoxa. Move them downstairs while I speak with
Shupansea.”
Mid-Winter drew closer in a series of dreary days remarkable only for their raw
unpleasantness. Gyskouras, still chastened by the death of Aldwist, was almost
as reserved as his foster-brother, giving Molin the opportunity to realize that,
even without supernatural meddling, the weather of Sanctuary left much to be
desired. Not even a blizzard along Wizardwall was as bone-numbing cold as the
harbor mists, and no amount of perfume could disguise the fact that the city was
filling its braziers with offal and dung.
There were still too many residents in the Palace, Beysib and otherwise, despite