god-you’re wrong. Torch. Niko’s free of her-she’s nothing but nightmares to him.
Maybe there’s something still after the Stormchildren-or the globe-but not
Roxane and not through Niko.”
Tempus set his ambush for the night of the next full moon. Walegrin muttered a
number of choice, unreproducible words when half of the garrison was pulled off
duty to shovel dirt, patch roofs, and in other ways make a tumble-down estate
north of the city walls look like the prospective home for what Tempus called
his “vulnerables.” His muted protests erupted into a full-scale tirade when, by
noon of the appointed day, it was clear that any advantage to having the charade
on the night of the full moon would be offset by one of Sanctuary’s three-day
torrents.
The palace parade ground was an oozing morass which had already foundered three
good horses-and it was clear sailing compared to any other street, road, or
courtyard. It would be well nigh impossible to get the carriage from the stables
to the gate much less up the slopes to the estate. Walegrin pointed this out to
Critias as they huddled down under oiled-leather cloaks and slogged across the
parade ground on foot.
“He says, use oxen,” Crit replied impassively.
“Where am I supposed to get a team of oxen before sundown?”
“They’re being provided.”
“And who’s going to drive them? Has he thought of that? Oxen aren’t horses, you
know.”
“You are.”
“The bloody hell I am, Critias.”
They had reached the comparative shelter of the stable doorway, where the water
gushed off the eaves in streams that could, with care, be avoided. Critias