to look for Strat where his erstwhile partner probably could be found-lying in
with the vampire woman who held sway in Shambles Cross and used the White Foal
to dispose of victims.
From between two produce stalls Critias heard a hiss and a low whistle-old
northern recognition signs. Adjusting the armband (a dirty rainbow of cloth
specked with long-dried blood), he looked about: to his right was a fortune
teller’s tent-a S’danzo girl, Illyra, worked there. He saw her standing in the
door.
They’d never met, yet she waved-a hesitant gesture, part warding sign, part
blessing.
The last thing Crit wanted was his fortune told: he could feel it in his pouch,
where amulets grew heavy; on his neck, where hairs stood on end; in his gut,
which had frozen solid when Tempus had calmly ordered him to his death on a
flimsy pretext. Crit had never thought the Riddler’d held a grudge about his
daughter and her miscarried child. But there was no other reason to send
Stepsons up against a witch like Roxane.
Was that, then, what Abarsis had come to say to him? That it was time a few more
Sacred Banders made their way to heaven? Was Abarsis lonely for his boys? Before
Tempus had led the Band, Crit had fought for the Slaughter Priest. But in those
days Abarsis had been of flesh and blood, even if obsessed with tasks done for
the gods.
“Psst! Crit! Here!”
Between the stalls, opposite the fortune-teller’s tent, were too many shadows.
Crit sat his horse, arm crooked over his pommel, and waited, watching where his
mount’s ears pricked like dowsing rods.