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were
not in the Maze this morning.
Though Sanctuary had never been so prosperous, every guild and union
and
citizens' group had sent representatives to the palace at sunrise to complain.
Lastel, a.k.a. One-Thumb, could not understand why the Sanctuarites were
so
unhappy. Lastel was very happy: he was alive and back at the Vulgar
Unicorn
tending bar, and the Unicorn was making money, and money made Lastel
happy,
always. Being alive was something Lastel had not fully appreciated until
recently, when he had spent aeons dying a subjective death in thrall to a spell
he had paid to have laid upon his own person, a spell turned against him by
the
sons of its deceased creator, Mizraith of the Hazard class, and dispelled by he
knew not whom. Though every night he expected his mysterious benefactor to
sidle
up to the bar and demand payment, no one ever came and said: 'Lastel, I
saved
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you. I am the one. Now show your gratitude.' But he knew very well that
someday
soon, someone would. He did not let this irritation besmirch his happiness.
He
had got a new shipment of Caronne krrf (black, pure drug, foil stamped, a
full
weight of it, enough to set every mercenary in Sanctuary at the kill) and it was
so good that he considered refraining from offering it on the market.
Having
considered, he decided to keep it all for himself, and so was very happy
indeed, no matter how many fistfights broke out in the bar, or how high the
sun was, these days, before he got to bed ...
Tempus, too, was happy that morning, with the magnificent Tros horse under
him
and signs of war all around him. Despite the hour, he saw enough rough
hoplites
and dour artillery fighters with their crank-bows (whose springs were
plaited
from women's hair) and their quarrels (barbed and poisoned) to let him
know he
was not dreaming: these did not bestir themselves from daydreams! The war
was
real to them. And any one of them could be his. He felt his troop-levy money
cuddled tight against his groin, and he whistled tunelessly as the Tros horse
threaded his way towards the Vulgar Unicorn. One-Thumb was not going to
be happy
much longer. Tempus left the Tros horse on its own recognizance, dropping
the
reins and telling it, 'Stay.' Anyone who thought it merely ripe for stealing
would learn a lesson about the strain which is bred only in Syr from the
original line ofTros's.
There were a few locals in the Unicorn, most snoring over tables along with
other, bagged trash ready to be dragged out into the street.
One-Thumb was behind his bar, big shoulders slumped, washing mugs while
watching
everything through the bronze mirror he had had installed over his stock.
Tempus let his heels crack against the board and his armour clatter: he had
dressed for this, from a box he had thought he might never again open. The
wrestler's body which Lastel had built came alert, pirouetted smoothly to
face
him, staring unabashedly at the nearly god-sized apparition in leopard-skin
mantle and helmet set with boar's tusks, wearing an antique enamelled
breastplate and bearing a bow of ibex-horn morticed with a golden grip.
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'What in Azyuna's twat are you?' bellowed One-Thumb, as every waking
customer he had hastened to depart.
'I,' said Tempus, reaching the bar and removing his helmet so that his
yarrow honey hair spilled forth, 'am Tempus. We have not chanced to meet.'
He
held out a hand whose wrist bore a golden bracer.
'Marshal,' acknowledged One-Thumb, carefully, his pate creasing with his
frown.
'It is good to know you are on our side. But you cannot come in here ... My -'
'I am here, Lastel. While you were so inexplicably absent, I was often here,
and
received the courtesy of service without Charge. But now I am not here to eat
or
drink with those who recognize me for one who is fully as corrupt as are
they
themselves. There are those who know where you were, Lastel, and why -
and one
who broke the curse that bound you. Truly, if you had cared, you could
have
found out.' Twice, Tempus called One-Thumb by his true name, which no
palace
personage or Maze-dweller should have known enough to do.
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