And he pushed on the wagon’s door, which opened and let the sobered fighter out
into the blessedly cold and normal Sanctuary night.
Normal, except for the presence of Molin Torchholder and the little scribbler,
whom the priest held by the collar. “Nikodemos, look at this,” said the priest
without preamble as if Niko were now his ally-which, so far as Stealth was
concerned, he indubitably was not.
Still, the picture that the scribbler, who was protesting that he had a right to
do as he willed, had scribed was odd: It was of Niko, but with Tempus looking
over his shoulder and both of them seemed to be enfolded in the wings of a dark
angel who looked altogether too much like Roxane.
“Leave the picture, artist, and go your way.” It was Niko’s order, but
Torchholder let go of the bandy-legged limner, who hurried off without asking
when or if he’d get his artwork back.
“That’s my problem … that picture. Forget you’ve seen it. Yours, if you want
what the god wants, is to get those children schooled where they can be
disciplined-by Bandaran adepts.”
“What makes you assume I want any such-“
“Torchholder, don’t you know what you’ve got there? More trouble than Sanctuary
can handle. Infants-one infant, anyhow-with a god in him. With the power of a
god. A Storm God. Can you reason out the rest?”
Torchholder muttered something about things having gone too far.
Niko retorted, “They’re not going any further unless and until my partner
Randal-who’s being held by Roxane, I hear tell-is returned to me unharmed. Then