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

More messengers sped during the day. One great one lifted on black wings and

scattered a flock of lesser on his way from the river-house roof. The little

ones went a dozen ways.

And Ischade (she did sleep, now and again, but rarely of late) wrapped herself

in a dusky blue cloak unlike her nighttime black and gathered up certain other

things she wanted.

“Stilcho,” she said; and having no answer, thrust aside the curtains that hid

the Stepson’s small room.

There was no one there. “Stilcho!” She sent her mind out in a light scouring of

the immediate vicinity; and raised a thin, wan response.

She opened the door and took a look out back: and found him there, a shivering

knot of cloak by the rose-bush.

“Stilcho!”

There was refuge of a sort in the house, one of half a dozen hidey-holes they

maintained within the black zone for operations this far from base. And Strat

paid listless attention to the bay and saw it strawed and fed and watered in the

shanty-stable; and climbed the dirty stairs of the deserted place and pulled the

vent-chain that let a little light through the shutters.

There was a little food here. A little wine. A waterpot and a few other odds and

ends. He stumped about in the dusty silence and knew that he was safe from

hearing: below was only the stable, and to either side were warehouses and the

owners of them well-heeled and Rankene, uptown.

He had his breakfast. He washed. He found himself trapped in one of those days

that had gotten common enough lately, with horror on either end and sheer