well where she was at night; and they still blame her-“
“-like they blame lambs on wolves; sure, Strat; but a wolf’s still a wolf. And
you’re damn lucky this far. I’m telling you. The Riddler will order you. Stay
the hell out of there.”
“Stay the hell out of my business!” Strat slammed an offered hand aside and ran
the steps down to the bottom.
“Strat!”
He looked up in mid-turn. By the tone there might have been a weapon. There was
not. He hardly broke stride as he went for the stable, flung the door open, and
fumbled after the lantern that hung there. A soft whicker sounded. Another,
rowdier, sounded off loud and two steelshod hooves hit the stall: Crit’s sorrel,
ill-tempered and fighting the rein every step of the way into the stable,
bucking and banging boards and making itself heard upstairs.
“Shut up!” It was the same as yelling at Crit. About as useful. The hooves hit
the boards again.
And Crit arrived in the stable doorway, stood there dark against the starlight
on the cobbles outside. Straton ignored him and made another attempt at the
light. It took. He adjusted the wick and hung the lamp on its peg, and did what
he knew might be fatal. He turned his back on Crit and walked away down the
aisle.
Not a quarrel between friends. It was nothing private. Tempus’s orders were
involved. Tempus disavowed him, disavowed everything he had done, everything he
had set up, every alliance he had made; and told him (through Crit) to break off
with his woman and own up to failure. Sent his own leftside leader to kill him.