He turned and held it out to Crit. “Want one?”
“No.” Crit still stood there with the bow aimed at the floor. “Where’s the
horse? You leave that damned horse down there in the yard in full view?” .
“I don’t plan to stay.” Strat drank a mouthful of the sour wine and made a face.
His gut was empty. Even a little wine hit it hard. “I’ve patched up a peace in
this town. I figured it could make me some enemies. And Kama has contacts in the
Front, doesn’t she? I figure-I figure maybe she’s got her answers, and they’re
not mine.”
“She tried to shoot you in the back. I stopped it. You come in here madder than
hell at me; and her, you just-No. You’re not bloody mad, are you? You came in
here-what for? Why did you walk in here, if that was what you expected?”
“I told you. I thought if you’d meant to hit me you would have. Didn’t get a
chance to talk to you last night. That’s all.” He downed the rest of the wine in
the cup and set it down before he looked around again at Crit, at the bow and
the open door. “I’d better go. My horse is in the yard.”
“That damn horse-that damn spook. Ace, the damn thing doesn’t sweat, it doesn’t
half work, like the zombies, f’godssake, Ace, stay here.”
“Are you going to stop me?”
“Where are you going?”
He had not truly considered that. He had not known whether there was truly any
time beyond this room. Nothing he did presently made sense: there was no need to
have come, no need to have patched things up with Crit, only it was something he
had not been able to avoid thinking on since yesterday and last night, and now