She bore the accursed Stormchild’s playmate! S’danzo wickedness has taken away
the sun and turned the gods’ ire upon us!”
And a third voice, streetwise and dark, a man’s voice Tempus thought he ought to
recognize, put in: “Come on, Walegrin, give her up and you go free-you and
yours. We’re only killing witches and their children today!”
“Screw yourself. Zip,” one of the Rankans called back. “You’ll have to take her
from us. And we’ll have a couple lives in exchange-yours for certain. That’s a
promise.”
Tempus had only an instant to realize that Walegrin, the garrison commander, was
one of the Rankans under siege, and to add up all he’d heard and realize that
the blond soldier’s sister-of-recoro, Illyra, must be the woman whose life was
the subject of a traditional Sanctuary streetcorner debate.
Then the Tr6s was sighted by the rebels at the rear of the crowd, which began to
part but not disperse.
Missiles pelted him, some barbed, some jagged, some meant for rolling bread or
holding wine-and some designed for war.
He ducked an arrow hurtling toward him from a crossbow, his senses so much
faster that he could see the helically-fletched blue feathers on its tail as it
sped toward his heart.
The Tros was hit between the eyes with a tomato: it had seen the missile coming,
but never flinched or ducked, its ears pricked like a sighting mechanism aligned
upon the crowd: it was a warhorse, after all.
But Tempus found this affront unacceptable, and took exception to the brashness
of the crowd. Reaching up with his left hand while still holding his reins, he