right. I should have summoned them immediately. One of them might actually have been able to do something. Shadowslinger seemed particularly interested, especially once I revealed that Strafa and I had had an earlier encounter with the same pair. In fact, she seemed quite disturbed but then closed down on her thoughts except to suggest that those two must be connected to the tournament, maybe as a Champion and Mortal Companion or Dread Companion, working some tactical angle.
When Shadowslinger rolled out, with Barate behind her chair, with Bonegrinder foaming at the mouth and Tara Chayne Machtkess sniffing delicately, there was no pretty doll or ugly chaperone to be seen. Machtkess told us, “Their scent has dispersed.” She eyed me like she had begun to question my intelligence.
Bonegrinder felt the surface of the street, shook his head. “No warmth left behind, either.”
Shadowslinger said, “He didn’t make it up. He saw what he saw.” Her head turned slowly. She looked up at me from slitted eyes. “His word is gold.” As we headed back up the drive, she told me, “You have been given a thread to pull. Find out who she is, then yank it.”
My word needed not stand alone. Helenia and the red tops had seen the strange pair. But there was no need to offer witnesses. I was Strafa’s husband. I belonged. Now, with me welcomed by Shadowslinger, there could be no doubts about my report.
Right.
It was a unique feeling, though. Kind of warming. I seldom got as much support or trust even from Dean, Singe, or Penny.
They, though, had been schooled by me and Old Bones alike to question everything and those relationships had grown organically rather than dramatically.
• • •
New council of war, family-style, briefly. Shadowslinger chaired and did the talking. She reiterated her strategy. “We will take it easy till after the funeral. We will use that time to tame our emotions and consider our resources. After the interment we will gird our souls for war and rectify the imbalance.”
I got a definite sense of understatement there. I pictured an apocalypse developing within her mind.
“We will devour the Operators bite by slow, bloody bite, raw. Do you all understand?”
She was playing off her evil reputation now, maybe hoping Strafa’s servants, in attendance as always, would mention her mood while gossiping with servants from other households.
I hoped she wasn’t feeling literal. I hoped her reputation was exaggerated.
After speechifying scary the horrid woman handed out assignments, a few of which did make it sound like she meant to eat somebody. The jobs were odds and ends we could pick up, snip off, wrap or unwrap, while we tamed our shock, pain, and crushing hatred, awaiting Strafa’s funeral. I got one of the heavier loads.
She thought I ought to keep my mind occupied.
I do have a tendency to brood when things aren’t going well.
19
I was not in a good mood. It was the bleakest day of my life.
I stared at the glass-faced coffin and felt sorry for myself. Strafa looked like an angel sleeping, a precious child grown big without having lost her innocence.
It felt like a huge, bad practical joke. She had to be pretending. This was a game in bad taste. She couldn’t be dead. Not really. That wasn’t possible. She would open her eyes any minute now. They would be a scintillating, teasing violet. Her face would shine in delight at having gotten us with her latest mischief and she would burst out laughing so sweetly that nobody would be able to hold it against her.
The first raindrops plunked against the face of the coffin. It seemed to be the season for rain. Onlookers stirred. Women opened umbrellas. The Orthodox priest started to hurry. Horrid old Shadowslinger shifted her immense bulk a single step his way. If she could stand up in this, he could do his share with proper decorum and pacing.
Father Amerigo forgot the cold, the wet, and his miserable feet. He became determined to
When Shadowslinger rolled out, with Barate behind her chair, with Bonegrinder foaming at the mouth and Tara Chayne Machtkess sniffing delicately, there was no pretty doll or ugly chaperone to be seen. Machtkess told us, “Their scent has dispersed.” She eyed me like she had begun to question my intelligence.
Bonegrinder felt the surface of the street, shook his head. “No warmth left behind, either.”
Shadowslinger said, “He didn’t make it up. He saw what he saw.” Her head turned slowly. She looked up at me from slitted eyes. “His word is gold.” As we headed back up the drive, she told me, “You have been given a thread to pull. Find out who she is, then yank it.”
My word needed not stand alone. Helenia and the red tops had seen the strange pair. But there was no need to offer witnesses. I was Strafa’s husband. I belonged. Now, with me welcomed by Shadowslinger, there could be no doubts about my report.
Right.
It was a unique feeling, though. Kind of warming. I seldom got as much support or trust even from Dean, Singe, or Penny.
They, though, had been schooled by me and Old Bones alike to question everything and those relationships had grown organically rather than dramatically.
• • •
New council of war, family-style, briefly. Shadowslinger chaired and did the talking. She reiterated her strategy. “We will take it easy till after the funeral. We will use that time to tame our emotions and consider our resources. After the interment we will gird our souls for war and rectify the imbalance.”
I got a definite sense of understatement there. I pictured an apocalypse developing within her mind.
“We will devour the Operators bite by slow, bloody bite, raw. Do you all understand?”
She was playing off her evil reputation now, maybe hoping Strafa’s servants, in attendance as always, would mention her mood while gossiping with servants from other households.
I hoped she wasn’t feeling literal. I hoped her reputation was exaggerated.
After speechifying scary the horrid woman handed out assignments, a few of which did make it sound like she meant to eat somebody. The jobs were odds and ends we could pick up, snip off, wrap or unwrap, while we tamed our shock, pain, and crushing hatred, awaiting Strafa’s funeral. I got one of the heavier loads.
She thought I ought to keep my mind occupied.
I do have a tendency to brood when things aren’t going well.
19
I was not in a good mood. It was the bleakest day of my life.
I stared at the glass-faced coffin and felt sorry for myself. Strafa looked like an angel sleeping, a precious child grown big without having lost her innocence.
It felt like a huge, bad practical joke. She had to be pretending. This was a game in bad taste. She couldn’t be dead. Not really. That wasn’t possible. She would open her eyes any minute now. They would be a scintillating, teasing violet. Her face would shine in delight at having gotten us with her latest mischief and she would burst out laughing so sweetly that nobody would be able to hold it against her.
The first raindrops plunked against the face of the coffin. It seemed to be the season for rain. Onlookers stirred. Women opened umbrellas. The Orthodox priest started to hurry. Horrid old Shadowslinger shifted her immense bulk a single step his way. If she could stand up in this, he could do his share with proper decorum and pacing.
Father Amerigo forgot the cold, the wet, and his miserable feet. He became determined to
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