steady. “I’ll be there,” he said.
“I’ll tell her that,” Haught said with uncommon civility, and whisked himself
around the comer again.
Strat slipped the ring on his littlest finger, and suffered a spasm that took
his sight away. The bay horse pulled the reins from his hands and then,
sheepish, stood there with the reins adangle while his master recollected his
sight and got his heart settled from its pounding.
It was apology, from Ischade. It was invitation as plain as ever witch or woman
sent a man. His heart pounded as he climbed up to the saddle and clenched his
fist on the ring that had now the slow sweet bliss krrf never matched.
He fought his head clear, knew that what the slave asked- what she asked-was
trouble, trouble not with Crit this time. Trouble that might take everything he
had done and his life and sweep everything away, but the witch knew that, but
Ischade wanted him and by this gift he knew how much she wanted him; he felt it
continually and the world swam in front of his eyes.
What are you doing? he asked her in absentia. Do you know what you’re asking?
And in the gnawing doubt that had been between them at the beginning and now
again: Does it matter to you?
The bay moved, and the alley passed in a blur of starlit cobbles, the glare of a
lantern. Things passed in and out of focus.
And in a profound effort he took the ring from off his finger and put it in his
pocket where it was only mildly euphoric.
Sweat ran on his body. He mopped at his face, raked his hair back and tried to