Out from the gloom came a hand, white and long-a woman’s, despite the leather
bracer.
Crit squeezed with his right knee and the sorrel ambled forward-one pace, two.
Then he said, “Hello, Kama. What’s that you’ve got there, friend or captive?”
Beside the woman half in shadow was a waif-a flat-faced boy with almond eyes and
scruffy beard who wore a black rag bound across his brow.
The boy didn’t matter; the woman, crossbow pointed half to port so that its
flight would skewer Crit’s belly if she pulled its trigger mechanism back,
mattered more than Crit liked.
Tempus’s daughter laughed the throaty laugh that had gotten Crit in trouble long
ago. “Looking for someone?” Kama never answered stupid questions. She was as
sharp as her father, in her way. But not as ethical.
“Strat,” he said simply, to make things clear.
“Our ‘acting’ military governor, now that Kadakithis lies abed with Beysibs? The
leader of the militias and their councils? The vampire’s fancy man? You know the
way-down on the White Foal. But do take an unfortunate or two to appease her
hunger-for old time’s sake, I’ll warn you.”
Crit didn’t react to Kama’s acid comments on Strat’s faring-for all he knew, it
might be true; and he’d never show her she could still reach him, let alone hurt
him. He said, “How about this pud you’ve got here? Will he do?” For the signs of
something intimate between the woman and the street tough were clear to see-hips
brushed, though Kama held the crossbow; whispers went back and forth through
motionless lips.
And the youth was armed-slingshot on one wrist, dagger at his hip. The slingshot