But wherever he went, however far he circled this place, the brook reappeared in
its meanderings. He knew what it was, and that if there was a place where it did
not exist, then it would be very bad news indeed.
It ran slower than it had, and more shallow. Now and again some dead branch
floated down it, which presaged something. He was afraid to guess.
“Come in,” Crit said. “Keep your hands in sight.”
Strat held his hands in view and walked into the doorway of the mage-quarter
office. He kept the door open at his back. That much chance he gave himself,
which was precious little. In fact there was such an ache in him it was unlikely
that he could run. It had been anger on the way here. It had been resolution
going up the stairs. Right now it was outright pain, as if that bolt had already
sped. But he cherished a little hope.
“You want to put that damn thing down, Crit? You want to talk?”
“We’ll talk.” But the crossbow never wavered. “Where’d she go, Strat?”
“I don’t know. To hell, how should I know?”
Crit drew a deep breath and let it go. If the crossbow moved it was no more than
a finger’s width. “So. And what are you here for?”
“To talk.”
“That’s real nice.”
“Dammit, Crit, put that thing down. I came here. I’m here, dammit! You want a
better target?”
“Stay where you are!” The bow centered hard and tendons stood out on Crit’s
hands. “Don’t move. Don’t.”
It was as close as he had ever come to death. He knew Crit and what he knew sent
sweat running on him. “Why?” he asked. “Your idea, or the Riddler’s?” If it was