Thieves World 8 – Soul of the City by Asprin, Robert

them the periphery, made them the watch guards, kept what distance from her he

could.

Strat, on the other hand, was comfortable with everything coming out of the dark

that evening-with his bay horse, with paired Stepsons riding up, holding

torches, with Ischade’s whispered council, with men who once were Stepsons and

now were no longer men-men who stayed in shadows when Crit looked at them

straight on.

Strat had “explained” about Stilcho and Janni and Ischade’s talent for raising

uneasy dead. Strat said it was a favor she did them, a gift to those who’d died

with their honor blighted.

Crit hadn’t argued-there wasn’t time. Strat was addled, bewitched, and if he got

through this he was going to beat some sense into the big fool as soon as

possible, do something final about Ischade or make her loose her hold on Strat.

If-

Something puffed and popped and Crit’s horse shivered. Looking to his right,

Crit saw Randal, the Stepsons’ warrior mage, decked out in Niko’s armor.

“Greetings, Crit. I heard you’d like some help.” The flop-eared mage looked

older, more fearsome tonight in dream-forged battle gear. He caught Crit staring

at his cuirass. “This?” Randal touched his chest. “It’s Niko’s, still. Just a

loan. We … have an understanding, but no pairbond.” The freckled face aped a

smile (hat was wan in torchlight as his horse reared and Crit realized it wasn’t

quite a horse at all-it was definitely transparent, though horselike in every

other respect.

“Help. Right. Well, Randal, you know the Riddler’s orders, if you’re here. Any