By Glen Cook
She used to be tall, blonde, and delivering Garrett a rate that was once impossible to resist to take a case that appeared open and close. yet in a city of elves and people, thugs and swindlers -- a spot the place magic and faith might end up an all-too-potent combine -- Garrett had discovered to take an extended, demanding glance ahead of nodding yes.
And whilst, quickly after this damsel in misery had departed, the Grand Inquisitor got here searching for Garrett's aid, he knew it used to be time to throw a few enterprise his competitors' approach. yet even for a hard-boiled detective like Garrett, who had the lifeless guy for an best friend and the hardest half-elf on the town guarding his again, it used to be already too past due to decline. For Garrett were fingered because the most up-to-date sacrifice to a long-dead god, and his in basic terms likelihood to avoid wasting his neck was once to unravel his latest instances without delay!
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Additional info for Cold Copper Tears (Garrett Files, Book 3)
Both of the men looked pale, the mud spatters that covered them dark by contrast. “General,” Othel said to Reht, as his horse turned a circle, neighed, and pawed the earth. Enken tossed Othel a waterskin. The scout took a long draw then wiped his mouth. “Report,” Reht said. “It is cool within the fog and grew cooler as we advanced,” Othel said. “Visibility is poor but light can cut through it. ” “As did I,” Phlen agreed, nodding. Othel passed him the waterskin and he drank. Othel said, “We rode in half a league and encountered nothing.
The priest stood a hand taller than Reht, and a stone heavier. “Your commander, which means you follow my orders. ” More spit. “He is. But in this army, you answer to me first, to your god second. Otherwise, you ride off now. ” “You disliked Vors. ” “I hated him passionately,” Reht said, eliciting a growl from Kelgar. “But he was a soldier in this army. My army. ” The Talassan stared into Reht’s eyes, measuring him. Reht gave no ground. Finally the priest smirked, stepped back, and nodded. No spit.
Home,” Cale shouted in answer. ” It was also in the center of the storm. They stood in the meadow not far from the small cottage where Cale had lived with Varra. The sentinel elm, towering over them, whispered and creaked in the wind, sizzled in the rain. The furniture Cale had made from deadwood lay overturned in the grass. The wildflowers Varra had planted were browned and dead on the stalks. The window shutters and door of the cottage flapped in the gusts, all of them beating as if in anger against the cottage’s walls.