stirred his posset of cooling wine and barley and goat's cheese with a finger,then wiped the finger on his bossed cuirass, burnished from years of use. Theywere meeting in the mercenaries' guild hostel, in its common room, dark ascongealing blood and safe as a grave, where Tempus had bade the veteranmercenary lodge - an operations officer charged with secret actions could be nopart of the Stepsons' barracks cohort. They met covertly, on occasion; mosttimes, coded messages brought by unwitting couriers were enough.

Crit, too, it seemed, thought Tempus wrong in sending Janni, a guilelesscavalryman, and Niko, the youngest of the Stepsons, to spy upon the witch:clandestine schemes were Crit's province, and Tempus had usurped, oversteppedthe bounds of their agreement. Tempus had allowed that Crit might take overmanagement of the fielded team and Crit had grunted wryly, saying he'd run thembut not take the blame if they lost both men to the witch's wiles.

Tempus had agreed with the pleasant-looking Syrese agent and they had gone on toother business: Prince/Governor Kadakithis was insistent upon contacting Jubal,the slaver whose estate the Stepsons sacked and made their home. 'But when wehad the black bastard, you said to let him crawl away.'

'Kadakithis expressed no interest.' Tempus shrugged. 'He has changed his mind,perhaps in light of the appearance of these mysterious death squads your peoplehaven't been able to identify or apprehend. If your teams can't deliver Jubal orturn up a hawkmask who is in contact with him, I'll find another way.'

'Ischade, the vampire woman who lives in Shambles Cross, is still our best hope.We've sent slave-bait to her and lost it. Like a canny carp, she takes the baitand leaves the hook.' Crit's lips were pursed as if his wine had turned tovinegar; his patrician nose drew down with his frown. He ran a hand through his