And (thinking of the prognosticators-bits of hair and silver and bone and lucknestled 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 foughtinterminably. Without Him, we've just been marking time. If He's angry, He'lllet us know on what account. And I'd bet it won't be Theron's-or Tempus's. One'sa general whom the soldiers chose exactly because the god had abandoned usduring Abakithis's reign; the other is..."
It was not the woman's hand, reaching low, which made him pause. She wantedCrit's protection; information was what he'd sought here in return. And gottenwhat he'd come for, and more from this one-all a Rankan lady had to give. So hethought-in a moment of unaccustomed tenderness for one who would likelyentertain, on his account, the crowds who'd throng the execution stands when theweather broke-to explain to her about Tempus. About what and who the man Crithad 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, bymagic 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 lostinterest in the subject. But Crit had not. When he left her, he marked her doorwith a sign for the palace police without even a second thought to the fine bodybehind it which would soon be lifeless.
The sky was still black as a witch's crotch and the wind was chorusing itsjudgment song in a many-throated voice Crit had heard occasionally on the