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

laid a clearer claim to life, had had shadows in his eyes.

The same shadows of disgust scoured his mouth now as the big Stepson spat over

his shoulder and demanded, “Randal, give me an answer.”

But Randal, the big-eared, freckled mage who was so cautious and yet no man’s

fool or pawn despite his slight and unassuming person, knew that Straton wanted

more than a reason for the sacrifice of a cur. Strat wanted someone to tell him

that the massacre he walked through fit somehow into the Stepsons’ code of

honor.

But it didn’t. Not in any way at all. It was war out of hand and blood begetting

blood and the only justification or reason for it was the nature of Sanctuary

itself- Sanctuary was out of balance, gnawing on its own leg while it frothed at

the mouth, beset by enemies from within and without. The town was full of

factions among men and among gods and among sorcerers, so full that even

Ischade, who had interests here, had to come out into daylight to protect them,

and to throw in her lot with Straton’s Sacred Band and Sync’s amoral 3rd

Commando.

When Randal didn’t answer, just favored Strat with an eloquent sickened look

full of accusation, since Strat was putatively in command, Ischade said to the

officer beside her, “Order is its own reward. And reason makes its bed with us,

not with the Beysib interlopers who have the Prince enthralled, or with the

quasi-mages locked up tight in their guild, or with Roxane’s undead death

squads.”

Then Randal put down his knife and wiped his long nose with a gory hand. “Maybe