advice? Or should we ride right in there, storm the place, bum it to the
ground?”
At his knee came a touch as soft as a butterfly landing. “I told you, Critias,
just walk right in and take it-walk in by my side, if you will…. She’s not at
home and, if my guess is right, quite indisposed.”
Crit looked from Ischade to Randal for confirmation. Randal nodded. “That’s my
best guess as well.” The mage scratched one ear. “Only, I’ll go in with Ischade.
Roxane’s my enemy, not yours-at least not so much so. And you don’t trust
Ischade … no offense, dear lady.”
“None taken. Yet,” said the woman whose head reached only to Crit’s knee, but
who seemed taller than anyone else about.
Strat rode up, concerned, looking at Crit as if to say, ‘You’d better not start
trouble now, partner or not. Don’t push your luck.’
“I’m going,” Crit said. “I have my orders.”
“Into a witch’s house?” Strat shook his head. “You may be my partner, but these
are my men, until we’ve worked things out. We needn’t risk them, or you. We’ve
got friends to deal with magic who deal with it routinely. Ischade. Randal.
Please be our guests-” As he spoke, Strat bowed in his saddle and, one hand
outstretched in a sweeping gesture, motioned the mage and the necromant to
precede the fighters up the cart-track to Roxane’s house. And as his gesturing
hand neared Crit’s horse, it snatched a rein, and held it.
“Strat,” Crit warned. “You’re pushing matters.”
“Me? I thought it was you, mixing in what you don’t yet understand.”
“Let go of my horse.”
“When you let go of your anger.”