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where a gate, nowhere as peopled or public as the Gate of the Gods, was set
into the wall by the cisterns. He would talk to Prince Kittycat, then tour the
Maze on his way home to the barracks.
But the prince wasn't receiving, and Tempus's mood was ill just as well; he
had been going to confront the young popinjay, as once or twice a month he was
sure he must do, without courtesy or appropriate deference. If Kadakithis was
holed up in conference with the blond-haired, fish-eyed folk from the ships
and had not called upon him to join them, then it was not surprising: since
the gods had battled in the sky above the mageguild, all things had become
confused, worse had come to worst, and Tempus' curse had fallen on him once
again with its full force.
Perhaps the god was dead certainly, Vashanka's voice in his ear was absent.
He'd gone out raping once or twice to see if the Lord of Pillage could be
roused to take part in His favorite sport.
But the god had not rustled around in his head since New Year's day; the
resultant fear of harm to those who loved him by the curse that denied him
love had made a solitary man withdraw even further into himself; only the
Froth Daughter Jihan, hardly human, though woman in form, kept him company
now.
And that, as much as anything, irked the Stepsons. Theirs was a closed
fraternity, open only to the paired lovers of the Sacred Band and
distinguished single mercenaries culled from a score of nations and diverted,
by Tempus' service and Kittycat's gold, from the northern insurrection they'd
drifted through Sanctuary en route to join.
He, too, ached to war, to fight a declared enemy, to lead his cohort north.
But there was his word to a Rankan faction to do his best for a petty prince,
and there was this thrice-cursed fleet of merchant warriors come to harbor
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talking "peaceful trade" while their vessels rode too low in the water to be
filled with grain or cloth or spices if not barter, his instinct told him, the
Burek faction of Beysib would settle for conquest.
He was past caring; things in Sanctuary were too confuted for one man, even
one near-immortal, god-ridden avatar of a man, to set aright. He would take
Jihan and go north, with or without the Stepsons his accursed presence among
them and the love they bore him would kill them if he let it continue: if the
god was truly gone, then he must follow. Beyond Sanctuary's borders, other
Storm Gods held sway, other names were hallowed. The primal Lord Storm (Enlil)
whom Niko venerated had heard a petition from Tempus for a clearing of his
path and his heart: he wanted to know what status his life, his curse, and his
god-bond had, these days. He awaited only a sign.
Once, long ago, when he went abroad as a philosopher and sought a calmer life
in a calmer world, he had said that to gods all things are beautiful and good
and just, but men have supposed some things to be unjust, others just. If the
god had died, or been banished, though it didn't seem that this could be so,
then it was meet that this occurred. But those who thought it so did not
realize that one could not escape the intelligible light: the notice of that
which never sets: the apprehension of the elder gods. So he had asked, and so
he waited.
He had no doubt that the answer would be forthcoming, as he had no doubt that
he would not mistake it when it came.
On his way to the Maze he brooded over his curse, which kept him unloved by
the living and spurned by any he favored if they be mortal. In heaven he had a
brace of lovers, ghosts like the original Stepson, Abarsis. But to heaven he
could not repair: his flesh regenerated itself immemorially; to make sure this
was still the case, last night he had gone to the river and slit both wrists.
By the time he'd counted to fifty the blood had ceased to follow and healing
had begun. That gift of healing if gift it was still remained his, and since
it was god-given, some power more than mortal "loved" him still.
It was whim that made him stop by the weapons shop the mercenaries favored.
Three horses tethered out front were known to him; one was Niko's stallion, a
big black with points like rust and a jughead on thickening neck perpetually
sweatbanded with sheepskin to keep its jowls modest.
The horse, as mean as it was ugly, snorted a challenge to Tempus' Trôs the
black resented that the Trôs had climbed Niko's mare.
He tethered it at the far end of the line and went inside, among the
crossbows, the flying wings, the steel and wooden quarrels and the swords.
Only a woman sat behind the counter, pulchritudinous and vain, her neck hung
with a wealth of baubles, her flesh perfumed. She knew him, and in seconds his
nose detected acrid, nervous sweat, and the defensive musk a woman can exude.
"Marc's out with the boys in back, sighting-in the high-torque bows. Shall I
get him, Lord
Marshal? Or may I help you? What's here's yours, my lord, on trial or as our
gift ' Her arm spread wide, bangles tinkling, indicating the racked weapons.
"I'll take a look out back, madam, don't disturb yourself."
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