possessed.”
“Look.” Niko’s diction slipped into mercenary argot. “It’s all the same-no good
without evil, no balance… no maat. If we lose one, we lose the other. It’s
just life, that’s all. And as for death-we get what we expect.”
“And you expect what?” Now she realized that Niko himself was not naive, or
helpless, or entirely benign. “From me, I mean?”
“Mercy, I already told you.” The firewell behind him began to shimmer and to
dance, swinging its hips like a temple girl. “To your kind; for the record. For
the balance of the thing. Janni we will take now.”
“We?” It was one of the hardest things Ischade had ever done to engage in
philosophical discussion with Nikodemos while, behind, the shambling thing had
come so close she could feel its fetid breath upon her neck, and fancied that
breath moist and felt, she thought, a strand of drool land in her hair. Don’t
look at it; don’t turn around-it’s Niko’s rest-place and his rules, not mine,
apply.
“We,” Niko said as if it were a simple lesson any child should understand. And
then she did: behind him, a ghost appeared.
She knew ghosts when she saw them: this one was a spirit of supernal power, a
fabled strength, a glossy being of such beauty that tears came to Ischade’s eyes
when it sat down beside Niko, ruffling his hair with a fawn-colored hand.
“I am Abarsis,” it smiled in introduction, and she saw the wizard blood there,
ancient lineage, and love so strong it made her heart hurt: she’d given up such
options as this ghost had thrived on, long ago.