it; Haught had just located it. And Haught perhaps sensed it. There was a sudden
quiet in the Nisibisi wizardling. No further jibes. Not a further word for a
moment.
“Let’s just get it done,” Stilcho said, anxious less for Haught than for Her
orders. And he gathered his black cloak about him and walked on past the bridge.
A bird swooped overhead-a touch of familiarity, perhaps, avian inquisitiveness.
But it was not the sort to be interested in riverside unless there was a bit of
carrion left. It napped away to the Downwind side of the bridge, heedless of
barriers and checkpoints, as other birds winged their way here and there.
That one was bound for the barracks, Stilcho reckoned. Across the bridge he saw,
with his half-sight-(the missing eye was efficacious too, and had vision in the
shadow-world, whether or not it was patched: it was, lately, since he had
recovered a little bit of his vanity, under the sting of Haught’s taunts.) He
saw the PFLS bridgewarder, but he saw several Dead gathered there too, about the
post where they had died; and Haught was with him, but not exactly in the lead
as they walked down the street and cut off toward the Shambles.
“Gone back to the witch, that’s where.” Zip dropped down on the wooden stairs of
a building in the Maze, there on the street, and the beggar-looking woman who
slouched in her rags nearby was listening, although she did not look at him. Zip
was panting. He pulled out one of his knives and attacked the wood of the step
between his legs. “He’s one damn fool, you know that.”