came out hoarse and low and he said it to the straw scattered on the loft’s
floor at his feet.
The woman was trying to help Straton, who didn’t realize he couldn’t get on that
horse by himself.
Crit sheathed his sword and put his hands in the air, then walked over to the
place where the ghost-horse nuzzled its master encouragingly.
Strat, half-prone, was staring at him. The big fighter’s hand was clutched to
his chest or belly-Crit couldn’t tell from all the blood in the way.
“Strat… Ace, for pity’s sake, let me help you,” Crit said, bending down on one
knee, empty hands outstretched.
The ghost-horse neighed impatiently and butted Straton’s shoulder. Behind the
pair, the woman stood-the woman named Moria from the Peres estate, but dressed
in street rags so that he hardly recognized her.
Stilcho said, “Strat, maybe you’d better… it’s not going to be safe here much
longer. They can take care of you better than we-“
“Stilcho,” Moria hissed, “come away. It’s for them to talk out.”
“Talk?” Strat laughed and the laugh choked him, so that he gurgled and wiped his
mouth with a hand that came away bloody. “We just did.”
The wounded fighter reached with his bloody hand to take one of Crit’s. “Well,
Crit, you going to watch, or you going to give me some help?”
“Strat…” Crit embraced his partner, oblivious of might-be enemies about him,
searching for harm, testing strength, mouthing harsh words that covered too much
emotion; “You stupid bastard, when I get you fixed up I’m going to beat some
sense into you.”