dead. He wept at such times, because he could not explain to it and it was not
interested in listening.
“Get me out of here,” he yelled down the hall, startling the children. A priest
showed up in the hallway, spear in hand, eyes wide. “Dammit, get me out of this
city!”
The priest kept staring. Niko kicked the door shut and sank down against it,
child in either arm.
They crawled into his lap, hugged him round the neck. One wiped his face, and he
stared past, longing for the dawn and the boat they promised would come.
A barge went down the White Foal, an uncommonly sturdy one by Sanctuary
standards. Ischade watched it, arms about her, the hood of her black cloak back.
Her faithful were there: chastened Haught, smug Stilcho. The usual birds sat in
the tree. Breath frosted on the wind-a cold morning, but that hardly stopped the
looting and the sniping. There was a smoky taint to the air.
“They want war,” Ischade said, “let them have war. Let them have it till they’re
full of it. Till this town’s so confounded no force can hold it. Have you heard
the fable of Shipri’s ring? The goddess was set on by three demons who plainly
had rape in mind; she had a golden armlet, and she flung it to the first if he
would fight off the other two and let her go. But the second snatched at it and
so did the third; the goddess walked away and there they stand to this day. No
one devil can get it; and the other two won’t let go till the world ends.” She
turned a dazzling smile on them both, in a merry humor quite unlike herself.