Shortly, Mithos smiled and told me to stop. “You have a talent, my friend,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll find a use for you yet. Now get rid of that dress and put the shirt on. And the trousers and boots. You’ll probably need a belt with those. There’s one in that box. Can you shoot a crossbow?”

“Kind of,” I answered. “So long as you don’t expect me to hit anything with it.”

“Take this,” he said. He handed me a whimsical little crossbow, one of the light, one-handed kind which was legal within the city. It probably wouldn’t do much damage to anyone in armor but it was a lovely piece of work: polished russet wood inlaid with silver. It was exactly what a Cherrati would carry.

Orgos was to ride with me in a wagon full of “borrowed” trade goods whose origin I dreaded to consider. He looked good too, I must say. There are more blacks native to Cherrat than to these parts, so he didn’t look at all out of place in his dark leather and crimson silks. He girded on a rapier (another weapon deemed legal because it wouldn’t penetrate the plate cuirass of an Empire soldier), and completed the picture with a plumed cap.

When Renthrette turned I was disappointed to note that she was dressed in the drab, coarse, and shapeless fabrics of a peasant. She gave me a blank look and turned away. I obviously wasn’t making much of an impression. She made light of a crate I could barely have lifted and my vague interest took another hit. This was unfortunate, since it was only my focus on her that was stopping me from thinking about all the terrible things I probably should have been thinking about, like where I was, who I was with, what I was doing, who was most likely to kill me, and whether they would do it this afternoon or sometime later in the week.