He just stepped forward, on his best behavior where the prince could see, one
palm sweating on the hilt of the sharkskin-pommeled sword, and took her hand.
“My lady, Shupansea, men call me Tempus-“
She interrupted: “The Riddler. We have heard tales of thee.”
And then from behind a curtain came Isambard, acolyte and priestly apprentice to
Molin Torchholder, running without regard to his priestly dignity, calling out:
“Quickly! My lady! My lord! There are dead snakes in the palace! There are more
snakes than there ought to be! And in the children’s rooms, where Nikodemos is
… he’s cut one of the sacred snake’s heads off!”
Isambard skidded to a stop an arm’s length from Tempus’s chest and lapsed into
panicked silence until his master entered the chamber. Molin Torchholder, ever
mindful of his position and demeanor, did not immediately clarify his acolyte’s
exclamations but appraised the assembly as if they, not he, were the breathless
intruders.
“Ah, Tempus. Back in town at last?” Sanctuary’s hierarch inquired, his voice
carefully modulated to conceal the manifold anxieties which that man’s
unexpected presence caused him.
“That I am.” Tempus detested priests, especially this one. And so he grinned
once more, thinking that Brachis, when he arrived with Theron’s sailing party,
would put this foul, dark-skinned priest in his proper place. “Well, Torch, your
minion seemed to have a problem moments ago. Surely you’ve got it as well?” His
sword was out by then, and Jihan’s also.
Kadakithis was scratching his golden curls, his handsome but vacant face