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Thirty

"Good news?" Paravang Roche asked hopefully.

The broker shook his head.

"No news?" Again, the broker shook his head.

"I thought it was to be last night!" Roche said in an urgent undertone. Several people, their prayers disturbed, glanced at him and frowned. The broker was obviously choosing his words carefully.

"So did I. But evidently matters have gone awry. The appointed gentleman did not return to the hiring place, nor was he at his abode this morning. There is beginning to be some concern."

Paravang felt someone draw a long, cold finger up his backbone. He was on the ground again and an expressionless killer's face was gazing down at him.

"What is to be done?"

"Give it another day," the broker said. He rose stiffly to his feet, wincing.

He is not a young man, and neither am I, Paravang thought. His jaw still hurt where the demon had cuffed him to the floor. He was reaching an age where his feet hurt him if he stood for too long, whereas his enemy paced the ground with predator's grace, the walk of a man who dispatched trained assassins without even thinking about it, and now he might be hunting me. Why did I do this? The dowser panicked. He should have done what that bitch Tserai had suggested and risen above it, let it rest. Hate had blinded him to consequence. In fright, he clutched at the old broker's arm.

"Can I stay here tonight in the temple? Will that be permitted?"

The broker detached himself with distaste.

"I imagine that for an appropriate consideration . . ."

"Of course!"

Paravang rummaged in his pockets. He gave the broker a handful of notes. The old man looked at the money as though Roche had handed him something old and dead.

"I suppose this will have to do. But what will you do after tonight? You can't stay here forever, you know."

Paravang nodded mutely. Senditreya save me . . . He turned a pleading gaze to his goddess, bowed his head to the floor and spent the first and only night of his life in prayer.

 

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Framed