their curl-toed winter shoes and their gaudy jewelry.
Torchholder knew him, but Niko didn’t have the sense to leave before the High
Priest of Vashanka recognized the fighter who’d been with Tempus at the
Mageguild’s Fete two winters past.
So when the priest sat down opposite him, Niko raised his head from the palm on
which he’d been propping it and stared owlishly at the priest. “Yeah? Can I help
you, citizen?”
“Perhaps, fighter, I can help you.”
“Not if you can’t lay the undead, not a chance of it.”
“Pardon?” Torchholder was watching the half drunk Sacred Bander closely, looking
for some sign. “We can do whatever the god demands, and we know you are pious
and well disposed to-“
“Enlil,” Niko interrupted firmly. “Gotta have a god around here, so I’m making
it plain: Mine’s Enlil, when I need one. Which is as infrequently as possible.”
Stealth’s hand went to his belt and Torchholder froze in place.
But Niko only patted his weaponbelt and brought the hand back to the table,
where he propped his chin on it. “Weapons’11 do me, mosttimes. Other times …”
The Sacred Bander leaned forward. “You any good at fighting witches? I’ve got a
friend I’d like to get out of one’s clutches …”
Torchholder made a warding sign with practiced fluency before his face. “We’d
like to show you something, Nikodemos called-“
“Ssh!” Niko said with exaggerated care, and looked around, right and left,
before leaning forward to whisper. “Don’t call me that. Not here. Not ever. I’m
just visiting. I can’t stay. Too much magic. Hurts, you know. Dead partners that