bands like the Stepsons or the Hell-Hounds, bound only to the interest of the
gold that paid them. For Straton and Walegrin, whose orders-keep the peace in
Sanctuary-were identical and whose positions-military commander-were untenably
identical, the antagonism was especially acute.
Walegrin, having spent the better part of his life in blind admiration of the
likes of Straton, Critias, or even Tempus, expected the Stepson to blast them
out of their conversational impasse. He felt no relief when, after long moments
of staring, enlightenment overcame him: Strat was out of his depth and sinking
faster than he, himself, was.
“All right,” Walegrin began, leaning across the makeshift table, forcing the
anger from his voice the way Molin did. “You’ve got the garrison’s voluntary
cooperation. What else?”
“We’re changing the rules-some of the players won’t like it. The PFLS is going
to push-“
Walegrin raised a finger for silence; the hawk’s cry rose and fell in a new
pattern. “Keep talking,” he told the Stepson. “Don’t look around-we’re being
watched. Thrush?” he asked the darkness.
“There was one following him-” a voice explained from the shadows behind
Walegrin’s back. “He’s up on the roof over your right shoulder-with a bow
that’ll put an arrow through you both. There was another-no weapons that we
could see- came up a bit later. Now the second’s seen the first an’ he’s
circling around.”
“Friends of yours?”
“No, I came alone,” Strat replied without confidence as a hiss that might have
been an arrow crossed the open sky above them.