‘Not your friend. There’re new ghosts in hell. You know them. You know who made
them-“
“It was overdue.” Janni’s face acquired eyes, glaring through a red film in the
moonlight. “Long overdue, that housecleaning. What were they to you? Half
Rankene, nothings-They had their chance.”
Stilcho turned and glared, his back to the river. “My dead-you sanctimonious
prig. My dead-” Stepsons murdered by Stepsons, his barracksmates slaughtered,
and several-score bewildered, betrayed ghosts were clamoring tonight at the
gates of Hell. It was Ischade’s doing, and Straton’s; but Stilcho did not carry
that complaint where it was due. “No wonder you don’t want to go back down
there-Is that it, Janni-butcher? Partner to butchers? Hell got too large a
welcoming-committee waiting for you?” Janni reached for him in anger and Stilcho
retreated against the low gate. It gave backward unexpectedly, above the abyss,
and Stilcho’s heart jumped. He feared wards broken. He feared the steep slope
that the path took along the riverside, and remembered that he could die of
other things than Ischade’s inattention. He stood in the gateway and held his
ground with bluff. “Don’t you lay a hand on me. Or I’ll take you back where I
got you. Now. And you’ll find the witch-bitch Roxane was pleasant company.
What’s in hell is forever, Janni-ghost. And they’ll love to have you with them,
damned, like them. They’ll wait at the gates for you. Real patient. Or shall I
call their names? I know their names, Janni-prig. I don’t think you ever