commander’s tent, and Ari, not himself, now led the troop. The squad-leader had offered him the loan of his lodgings, which, with their tattered hangings, beribboned totems, and decaying lamps, seemed to echo with the resonances of that erratic personality. As the light brightened, he heard the startled scurry of vermin among the clutter along the wall and cursed. Yirth had taught him a Circle against rats, and he wondered if he remembered its spells well enough to put one around the tent, or whether this would be more trouble than it was worth.
Voices clamored suddenly outside, torchlight smearing the striped rugs of the door curtains with orange light and shadow shapes. A woman laughed, high and sweet, and Zane’s voice jeered good-naturedly, “Shove it up your nose, heretic . . . ” Then Penpusher’s deep, stammering voice: “ . . . g-got to welcome the Ch-Chief back. Besides, he may have some money.” The curtains were thrust aside to reveal a whole swarm of half-drunk warriors: Ari in the lead, winecup in one hand and arm around his favorite concubine; Penpusher, massive and terrifying in the rotting ruin of black doublet, ruffled collar, and trunk hose that were the uniform of gentlemen in the Middle Kingdoms, his curls brushing the sloping ceiling of the tent; Dogbreath and Firecat, passing a wineskin back and forth between them; Zane like a well-fed cat with the giggling blonde light-skirt who was his current mistress on his arm; and the Big and Little Thurgs like bizarre brothers.
They crowded in, filling the little room with others still jostling in the entrance. Dogbreath, still clad in most of the hapless shepherd’s clothes but with his long, beribboned braids hanging down his chest, waved the wineskin and called out, “We’re trying to get up a poker game, Chief, but so far we’ve got two strats, three stallins and twenty-five coppers between us . . . ”
“Hey, man, you can’t play poker with a hoodoo!” Firecat protested, jabbing Dogbreath in the ribs and taking the wineskin away from him. She winked at the Wolf. As usual, jewels flashed from her ears, her wrists, her tangled hair, and in the throat of her grubby silk shirt.
“There’s an idea, if you’re ever hungry in a strange town,” Opium’s sweet, lazy voice crooned as she snaked past the men in the doorway. Her brown eyes were warm, sparkling into his in the erratic lamplight. She’d discarded her cloak, and a creamy paradise of breast surged up against the blood-red silk of her bodice, half-hidden by the scented glory of her hair. “Or do wizards ever end up hungry in strange towns?”
“No more than ladies with jugs like yours!” Zane laughed with joviality too prompt, too hard-edged. Opium’s dusky cheeks flared with humiliated color, and she stepped swiftly back.
“Oh, shove it, Zane,” Firecast snapped angrily, and the Big Thurg rumbled, “Stop thinking with your codpiece, man.”
“C-can you really c-call c-cards?” asked Penpusher, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps only to gloss past what might have become an argument, since Zane and Firecat were both drunk and both likely to be interested in Opium for the same reasons.
Sun Wolf sighed. It was one of the first things he and the Hawk had tried when they’d hit the road from Mandrigyn. “If I’ve got something to look in—a candle flame, or a jewel . . . ”
“Like the crystal balls wizards have?” Little Thurg asked, perching on the edge of the room’s one chair.
Zane hooted. “Yeah, that’s why wizards make so much noise when they . . . ”
“Would somebody go drown him in the latrine?”
“No, c’mon, Chief, show us,” urged Ari, pulling a truly sorry pack of cards from the purse at his belt. “Beats penny-ante . . . ”
“So does getting a tooth drawn,” Dogbreath reminded him.
“Watch out, man, those are the Captain’s special marked cards . . . ”
And from behind Dogbreath came the whisper of red silk
Voices clamored suddenly outside, torchlight smearing the striped rugs of the door curtains with orange light and shadow shapes. A woman laughed, high and sweet, and Zane’s voice jeered good-naturedly, “Shove it up your nose, heretic . . . ” Then Penpusher’s deep, stammering voice: “ . . . g-got to welcome the Ch-Chief back. Besides, he may have some money.” The curtains were thrust aside to reveal a whole swarm of half-drunk warriors: Ari in the lead, winecup in one hand and arm around his favorite concubine; Penpusher, massive and terrifying in the rotting ruin of black doublet, ruffled collar, and trunk hose that were the uniform of gentlemen in the Middle Kingdoms, his curls brushing the sloping ceiling of the tent; Dogbreath and Firecat, passing a wineskin back and forth between them; Zane like a well-fed cat with the giggling blonde light-skirt who was his current mistress on his arm; and the Big and Little Thurgs like bizarre brothers.
They crowded in, filling the little room with others still jostling in the entrance. Dogbreath, still clad in most of the hapless shepherd’s clothes but with his long, beribboned braids hanging down his chest, waved the wineskin and called out, “We’re trying to get up a poker game, Chief, but so far we’ve got two strats, three stallins and twenty-five coppers between us . . . ”
“Hey, man, you can’t play poker with a hoodoo!” Firecat protested, jabbing Dogbreath in the ribs and taking the wineskin away from him. She winked at the Wolf. As usual, jewels flashed from her ears, her wrists, her tangled hair, and in the throat of her grubby silk shirt.
“There’s an idea, if you’re ever hungry in a strange town,” Opium’s sweet, lazy voice crooned as she snaked past the men in the doorway. Her brown eyes were warm, sparkling into his in the erratic lamplight. She’d discarded her cloak, and a creamy paradise of breast surged up against the blood-red silk of her bodice, half-hidden by the scented glory of her hair. “Or do wizards ever end up hungry in strange towns?”
“No more than ladies with jugs like yours!” Zane laughed with joviality too prompt, too hard-edged. Opium’s dusky cheeks flared with humiliated color, and she stepped swiftly back.
“Oh, shove it, Zane,” Firecast snapped angrily, and the Big Thurg rumbled, “Stop thinking with your codpiece, man.”
“C-can you really c-call c-cards?” asked Penpusher, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps only to gloss past what might have become an argument, since Zane and Firecat were both drunk and both likely to be interested in Opium for the same reasons.
Sun Wolf sighed. It was one of the first things he and the Hawk had tried when they’d hit the road from Mandrigyn. “If I’ve got something to look in—a candle flame, or a jewel . . . ”
“Like the crystal balls wizards have?” Little Thurg asked, perching on the edge of the room’s one chair.
Zane hooted. “Yeah, that’s why wizards make so much noise when they . . . ”
“Would somebody go drown him in the latrine?”
“No, c’mon, Chief, show us,” urged Ari, pulling a truly sorry pack of cards from the purse at his belt. “Beats penny-ante . . . ”
“So does getting a tooth drawn,” Dogbreath reminded him.
“Watch out, man, those are the Captain’s special marked cards . . . ”
And from behind Dogbreath came the whisper of red silk
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