“Like you. Here. There. A lot of us. But we don’t die like the Whoresons in
barracks. You’re dealing with something else now.”
“There’s Nisi want your guts for ribbons. My spies tell me that.” Strat grinned
deliberately into Vis’s dark face. “Us is a damn small number. Ils doesn’t
include most of the mountaineer-Nisi. I know what they want you for, Vis. But
don’t let’s discuss that. You may find Jubal can’t hide you singlehanded. You
may find Ilsigi money runs thin. Say you and your fine friends just back off now
and thank your peculiar gods you and I’ve kept our tempers. And we won’t remind
each other of old times.”
“So it’s not Ranke on the move.”
“No, it’s not Ranke. It’s not us. It’s not you. Whatever’s moving, it’s not
either one of us. Or Jubal.”
“Ilsigi,” Vis said.
“Ilsigi.” Freed, Straton spat in sheer amazement. “Wrigglies.” He stared at the
Nisi outlaw, recalling the peculiar silence of the streets.
“It’s Ilsigi,” Vis said. “What’s either of our lives worth when that breaks
loose, huh? That’s a lot of knives.”
More messengers flew. Most were black, and feathered. One landed in the Maze,
bearing a certain amulet. One landed on the wall of the palace and with
characteristic perverseness, ran its designated recipient to panting hysteria
trying to overtake it and retrieve the small cylinder affixed to its leg. It
took off, landed, took off again, and finally, coyly surrendered and bit the
hand of the priest who retrieved it.
One landed on a small bush and hopped onto a sill in the Street of Red Lanterns.