removed his dripping rain helmet and wrung it out.
“Look, pud,” he said, tucking the hat into his belt, “I don’t make up the
orders. Orders come from the Riddler and your man, Torchholder. Now when those
oxen get here, you hitch them to the carriage and drive them out to the estate.
If they’re,” he pointed a thumb back toward the palace, “sitting tight with
their gods, everything will go according to plan-somehow. And if they’re not
then you could be the best bloody drover in the world and it wouldn’t make a
whore’s heart’s bit of difference.”
Thus, some hours after nightfall, Walegrin found himself still in his oiled
leathers standing beside the ungainly rumps of a pair of oxen. Randal was slowly
making his way down the rain-slicked stairs clutching the skull-sized package
containing his Nisibisi Globe of Power. The mage wore a ludicrously old
fashioned panoply which hindered his already over-cautious progress. Tempus
looked uncomfortable as he waited under the stone awning with a child tucked
under each arm.
“Almost there,” Randal assured them, glancing back toward the torchlight and, as
luck would have it, overbalancing himself just enough to slip down the last
three steps.
There wasn’t a person, living or dead, within Sanctuary who hadn’t heard a rumor
or two about the witch-globes. Walegrin dropped his torch and lunged for the
package. His efforts were, however, unnecessary as the package hung politely in
mid-air until Randal stumbled to his feet and reclaimed it. The effect was not
lost on Walegrin or any of the dozen or so others detailed to escort the oxen-or