short, feathery hair. 'And our joint venture with the Rankan garrison isimpeding rather than aiding success. Army Intelligence is a contradiction interms, like the Mygdonian Alliance or the Sanctuary pacification programme. Thecutthroats I've got on our payroll are sure the god is dead and all the Rankanssoon to follow. The witch - or some witch - floats rumours of Mygdonianliberators and Ilsig freedom and the gullible believe. That snotty thief youbefriended is either an enemy agent or a pawn ofNisibisi propaganda - tellingeveryone that he's been told by the Ilsig gods themselves that Vashanka wasrouted ... I'd like to silence him permanently.' Crit's eyes met Tempus's then,and held.

'No,' he replied, to all of it, then added: 'Gods don't die; men die. Boys diein multitudes. The thief, Shadowspawn, is no threat to us, just misguided, semiliterate, and vain, like all boys. Bring me a conduit to Jubal, or the slaverhimself. Contact Niko and have him report - if the witch needs a lesson, Imyself will undertake to teach it. And keep your watch upon the fish-eyed folkfrom the ships -I'm not sure yet that they're as harmless as they seem.'

Having given Crit enough to do to keep his mind off the rumours of the godVashanka's troubles - and hence, his own - he rose to leave. 'Some results, byweek's end, would be welcome.' The officer toasted him cynically as Tempuswalked away.

Outside, his Tros horse whinnied joyfully. He stroked its mist-dappled neck andfelt the sweat there. The weather was close, an early heatwave as unwelcome asthe late frosts which had frozen the winter crops a week before their harvestand killed the young sets just planted in anticipation of a bounteous fall.

He mounted up and headed south by the granaries towards the palace's north wall