They paced slowly through the dead garden, along a walk so narrow that shoulders sometimes touched. Lalette could hear the tiny tinkle of the chain that bound Slair’s sword to his hip when that touch came; she knew he was stirred, and the rousing of emotion was not unpleasant to her. Beyond the slate roofs of the town the sun was sinking redly through striations of cloud; all things lay in a peace that was the peace of the end of the world. He turned his head.
“Demoiselle,” he said, “what will you give for news?”
“Oh, hush,” said she. “You spoil it. For a moment I was immortal.”
“I ask your grace. But truly I have news for you, and it should please you.”
“Sit here and tell me.” She took her place on a marble bench beneath the skeleton of an espaliered peach against the wall.
“You will not have to use your Art against the arch-priest Groadon. Does that not please you?”
“More than you know. What is the reason?”
“He has fled; slipped through the watch set on his palace and gone—whether to hell, the court or Tritulacca, no one knows.”
“I am glad.” She looked straight before her for a moment. “Ah, if things were better ordered.”
“You are not as pleased as you might be.”