Soul of the City (Thieves' World, Book 8)
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In this dramatic eighth volume, Tempus returns to Sanctuary, a city ravaged by war and upheaval, seething with crime and chaos - a dark bedlam of magic forces thrown out of balance, and disasters, both natural and unnatural...
there'll be havoc. I don't want the blame of it. Gyskouras, he's yours…your son—or your god's. I prayed…Did the gods inform you?" Tempus turned away from the young fighter and the words came back over his shoulder to Niko and hit as hard as a blow from the Riddler's hand. "Abarsis. He came and told me. Now we're all down here. Why in any god's name didn't you just take them and go, if that's the answer? Theron will be here by and by." He turned on his heel and faced Nikodemos. "You're
where night blossoms bloomed, watching with that look she had which cut through the shadows of her hood. She'd healed the horse, obviously. She had the healing touch, when she wanted to, had Ischade. He was so glad to see the bay, who nuzzled in his pockets for a carrot or the odd sweetmeat, it took him a while to clear his throat and make sure his eyes were dry before he turned to thank her: "It's wonderful having him back. There's not another in my string to equal him—not his size, his
to be a Nisibisi warlock—and those were only Randal's magic-tainted concerns. The mage had, however, one concern that stood above all the rest; which made him secure against momentary lust and drew him, and her, back to the grove where a circle of stones glowed a faint blue. Nikodemos, the impossible Stepson whom Randal worshiped with a chaste, fervent love, was trapped at the focus of every dangerous incongruity prowling Sanctuary and anything that might help Niko was worth every risk
"beloved" over a matter that should have been towering only in its insignificance: the "life" of a petty mageling, a would-be wizard called Randal, a flop-eared, freckled fool who fooled now with forces beyond his ability to control. Yes, Niko had dared to trick Roxane, to distract her with his charms while this posturing prestidigitator, whom she'd thought to have for dinner, got away. And now Niko lurked in priestholes, palaces, and princely bedrooms, protected by Randal (who had a Globe of
her fingers. Haught and the witch stood facing each other, Stilcho was down on his knees by the writhing Stepson, but no fire flew. "You've a bit to learn," Tasfalen said. "Most of all, a sense of perspective. But I'm willing to take an apprentice." From Haught, a long silence: then, quietly: "Is it mistress or master?" Tasfalen's right eyebrow jerked in wrath. Then a grin spread over his face. "Oh, I like you well, upstart. I do like you." The pottery globe vanished from his/her hands.