And (thinking of the prognosticators-bits of hair and silver and bone and luck
nestled in the pouch dangling from his belt that, with the rest of his clothes,
lay in a heap at the foot of another man’s bed) Crit replied in Court Rankene,
“When the Storm God returns to the armies, wars can be won-not just fought
interminably. Without Him, we’ve just been marking time. If He’s angry, He’ll
let us know on what account. And I’d bet it won’t be Theron’s-or Tempus’s. One’s
a general whom the soldiers chose exactly because the god had abandoned us
during Abakithis’s reign; the other is…”
It was not the woman’s hand, reaching low, which made him pause. She wanted
Crit’s protection; information was what he’d sought here in return. And gotten
what he’d come for, and more from this one-all a Rankan lady had to give. So he
thought-in a moment of unaccustomed tenderness for one who would likely
entertain, on his account, the crowds who’d throng the execution stands when the
weather broke-to explain to her about Tempus. About what and who the man Crit
had sworn to serve was, and was not.
He settled for “… Tempus is what Father Enlil-Lord Storm to the armies-wills,
and cursed more than Ranke and all her enemies put together. By gods and men, by
magic and mages. If there’s hell to pay because of Theron’s reign, rest assured,
lady, it’s he who’ll suffer in all our steads.”
The Rankan woman, from the look on her face and the hunger on her lips, had lost
interest in the subject. But Crit had not. When he left her, he marked her door