Crit’s question, “How?” hung in the air until Stilcho volunteered, “It’s just
too complicated. Stepson. Ask about Strat, that’s what you’re here for… or at
least that’s what he’s here for.” Stilcho jerked a thumb toward the bay horse,
head low, snuffling, taking slow, careful steps toward a shadow that might be a
prostrate man with a woman crouched by his side.
“That’s right, Stilcho-Strat. That’s all I want. Not you or your witch woman.”
It was Ischade there, hulking over Strat- it must be. Ischade’s ghost-man and
ghost-horse, and the nec-romant herself, ringing Strat round with magic.
Crit considered seriously for the first time the possibility that he was going
to die here. He didn’t believe for a moment that Stilcho was “alive” in the way
that Crit-or Strat, please gods-was alive.
He said to Stilcho, “That’s him, then? He’s alive, if he can’t control his
bowels. I’ll just take him and be-“
A voice from the shadowed loft said, “Shit, Stilcho, he’ll kill me,” as a hand
which was also Strat’s reached up feebly to stroke the ghost-horse’s questing
muzzle and the horse started to bow down again, not realizing that Strat was too
badly wounded to mount, no matter how easy the ghost-horse tried to make it.
Crit found that he was blinking back tears. Unreasonably, he wanted to sit down
crosslegged where he was, let things take their course-even if it meant burning
to death in this damned loft with a partner too sick to be moved but well enough
to remember that Crit had shot at him.
Crit said, “I wouldn’t-couldn’t. I busted my butt getting here, Strat,” but it