tied it on his upper arm before he looked questioning-ly at the dispatcher.
The old soldier in patched off-duty gear said, “You’re on call to the Green
Liners, remember, no matter what name you choose. The red’s for the Blood Line:
that’s Zip’s PFLS-Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary. Third
Commando’s backing that lot, so unless you’ve friends there, be careful in
Ratfall, and in all of Downwind-that’s their turf. The Blue Line follows the
White Foal-those two witches down there, Ischade and the Nisibisi witch-bitch,
have death squads to enforce their will, and Shambles Cross is theirs. The Black
Line’s round the Mageguild-the quays and harbors, down to the sea; the Yellow
Line your own Stepsons threw up out west of Downwind and Shambles. You need any
help, son, take my name in vain.”
Niko nodded, said, “My thanks, sir. Life to you, and-“
“Your commander? Tempus? Will he follow? Is he here?” The eagerness in the
dispatcher’s voice gave Niko pause. Stealth’s caution must have showed in his
face, for the rough-hewn, one-eyed mere continued: “Strat’s reclaimed the
barracks for the Stepsons, but it was bloodier than a weekend pass to hell. We’d
like to see the Riddler- nobody lessor’s going to straighten this season’s mess
out.”
“Maybe,” Niko said carefully, “after the weather breaks-it’s snow to your
horse’s belly upcountry by now.” He wasn’t empowered to say more. But he could
ask his own question now. “And Randal? The Tysian Hazard who came downcountry
with the advance force? Seen him?”