The barge passed beneath the White Foal bridge. A black bird flew after it,
sending forlorn cries down the wind.
The bay horse was dead. Strat limped when he walked, and persisted in walking,
pacing the floor in the temporary headquarters the Band had set up deep within
the mage quarter. A clutter of maps lay on the table. Plans that the ever
changing character of the streets changed hourly. He wanted sleep. He wanted a
bath. He reeked of smoke and sweat and blood, and he gave orders and drew lines
and listened to the reports that began to come in.
He had not wanted this. He had no wish to be in command. He was, somehow.
Somehow it had fallen on him. The Band fought phantoms, confounded them with the
living and mage-illusions. Sync was missing. Lyncaeos was dead. Kama had not
been heard from. The bay horse had damn near broken his leg when an arrow found
it. He had had to kill it. Stepsons and commandos killed with terrible
efficiency and the Ilsigi guerrillas who thought they knew what side they were
on and thought they knew all about war might see things differently this
morning. And change alliances again. In a situation like this alliances might
change twice in a morning.
And Kadakithis sat in his palace and the Guard and the mercs held it. Strat
limped to the window and entertained treasonous thoughts, hating thoughts,
staring up toward the palace through the pall of smoke.
DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE
Diane Duane
… But who could ever tell of all the daring
in the stubborn hearts of women, the hard will,