theatrical display.
A man shoved a chair up at Straton’s back; he turned a slow glance that way,
took the measure of that man the same as he had of the two more in the comer.
Thieves. Brigands. Ilsigis. A Nisi renegade. Jubal from gods knew where. And
himself, Rankan; the natural enemy of all of them.
“Sit down,” Jubal said, a voice that made the air quiver. Straton did that,
slowly, without any haste at all. Leaned back and put his hands in his belt and
crossed his ankles in front of him.
“I said I had a proposal,” Straton said.
“From you or from the witch? Or from your commander?”
“From me. Privately. In regard to the other two.”
Jubal’s square-nailed finger traced an obscure pattern on the aged wood. “Your
commander and I have a certain-history.”
“All the more reason to deal with me. He owes the witch. She owes me. I want
this town quiet. Now. Before it loses whatever it’s got. If Tempus is here he’s
here for reasons more than one.”
“Like?”
“Like imperial reasons.”
Jubal laughed. It was a snarl, a slow rumbling. He spoke something in some
tongue other than Rankene. The man by him laughed the same. “The Emperor, is it?
Is it treachery you propose? Treachery against your commander?”
“No. Nobody benefits that way. You make your living in this town. I have
interests here. My commander has interests only in getting out of here. That’s
in your interest. You can go back to business. I get what I want. My commander
can get out of here without getting tied down in a fight in Sanctuary streets.
All that has to happen is a few weeks of quiet. Real quiet. No theft. No gangs.