through his fingers. “I need time alone.”
He’d taken that time, sitting in a room that had been an arcane attic. Randal’s
Nisi globe remained not on his worktable; Lalo’s triple portrait was not nailed
to the wall behind him; Ischade’s abandoned raven, in all its ill-tempered
glory, was truly flapping from one perch to another, and now Stormbrin-ger’s
gift for Tempus had made its appearance as well. Unlike the other artifacts,
the strip of cloth with its ordinary, girlish embroidery seemed innocent
enough-until he considered that the sight of it was supposed to convince
Tempus to risk sleep and a visit to the realm of Askelon.
The rain finally stopped. It would be days before the streets dried-if they
dried at all before the next storm swept through. Molin tucked the scarf in a
pouch and threw a cloak over his shoulder. There wouldn’t be a better time to
find Tempus. He didn’t have to go far, just a sidelong glance out the window.
The Riddler, followed closely by an exceptionally grim looking Critias, was
coming to pay him a visit.
“That picture,” the nearly immortal mercenary snarled, pointing above Molin’s
head as the heavy wood door slammed against the wall.
Pointedly ignoring the priest, Crit walked around to examine the picture
closely. After touching it with his fingers he used his knife to scrape off a
bit of the background-and got plaster-shavings for his efforts.
“It’s not there, Critias,” Molin warned.
“Get it,” Crit ordered.
“You don’t come in here giving me orders.”
“Let him see it,” Tempus asked wearily. “/’// make sure no harm comes to it.”