And when he had it, what would he do with it? Give it to the invalid ex-corpse?
Or find a way to make use of it himself? He didn’t know, but he knew he had
plenty of time to decide. And, since he had nothing better to do, he thought, he
might as well start collecting what dust he could, mote by mote by mote….
The storm pelted Sanctuary with all the fury of affronted gods. Rain sheeted so
hard that it punctured skin windows in the Maze; it ran so thick and wild in the
gutters that the tunnels filled up and sewers overflowed in the better streets
while, in the palace, servitors ran with buckets and barrels to place under
leaks that were veritable waterfalls.
On the dockside, everything was awash in tide and downpour, which gave Tempus
the perfect opportunity to suggest that Theron, Emperor of Ranke, Brachis, High
Priest, and all the functionaries forget protocol and begin their procession
now, to higher ground and drier quarters.
By the time the Rankan entourage reached the palace gates, Molin Torchholder had
already arrived, Kama in tow.
In the palace temple’s quiet, he was giving grateful thanks for the storm which
had come to quench the fires (that, unattended by gods, threatened to bum the
whole town down) while, at the casement, Kama stared out over smoking rooftops
toward uptown, where the pillar of fire spat and wriggled.
She had sidled into the alcove, away from priestly ritual, and she couldn’t have
said whether it was the cold storm winds with their blinding sheets of rain so
fierce that she could see it bounce knee-high when it struck the palace roof, or