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bump where his first sergeant-at-arms had broken it, the scar over his brow. A Hssrdan ClawCorporal had near as dammit taken his head off with its halberd, the scaly shit. Fort’s mouth curved with cruel satisfaction. He’d lost count of the Hssrda he’d killed and he’d never had a single regret. Not from the moment his company had marched into the first slave camp.
    With an effort, he wrenched his thoughts away and reached for the scissors. Hide?
    Fortitude McLaren wouldn’t hide. Not even from his Goddess.
    But Griff was going to be a problem, that much was clear. Fort arranged a small towel under his chin. With a sigh, he began clipping his moustache.
    When he forgot to flirt, the tumbler was good company—clever as a
    quartermaster’s whip, entertaining, surprisingly perceptive. The sort of friend a man could trust to get his back. And sweet Lufra, Griff had been kind to him. Kind !
    24

    Strongman
    Surely he was too formidable, too frightening, too damn cold , to invite kindness?
    Why would Griff even think he’d welcome it? But the tumbler had walked right through the barriers as if they were mist.
    Fort paused and laid the scissors aside. He’d never believed in fooling himself.
    When he looked down, the real nature of the problem made itself uncomfortably apparent.
    It was him. He was the problem.
    Because the very thought of Griffid Ringman made him half-hard. Fuck, he thought savagely, there’d scarcely been a moment spent in the tumbler’s company when he hadn’t been conscious of his gods-be-damned, stupid cock! He spread his knees, giving himself room, breathing hard.
    Why? Why in all the icy hells had this happened to him? And why now?
    It was humiliating, shameful, that was what it was. Twenty years as a mercenary and he’d had any number of opportunities for manlove. For buggery, he told himself brutally. Sitting here now, in the lamplight in his own wagon, he could think of half a dozen men who would have bent over for him, and gladly.
    Deliberately, he called them to mind, one by one, lingering on those he’d thought the most attractive. Not even a twitch. His erection subsided.
    That was more like it. Grimly, he picked up the mirror and the scissors and began on one side of his beard. As the whiskers fell away, his jawline emerged, severe and solid, uncomfortably reminiscent of his father’s. Sobriety McLaren would have taken Griff out to the barn and thrashed him ‘til his back was a bloody ruin.
    Fort changed sides, refusing to let his hand shake. Then his father would have dragged the tumbler to stand before the Ecclesiastical Court, his shoes filled with his own blood, swimming with it. A Crookedness befouling the Straight Way, that would be the accusation. Very little proof was required. Hysteria did the rest. And after that…
    Lurching to his feet, he poured a cup of tepid, bitter roberry and downed it in two long swallows. Fort’s hands clenched around the cup until the scarred knuckles shone white. He had a sudden vision, crystal clear. Himself, pulling Griff away from the old man, thrusting the smaller man behind him, seizing the whip, advancing on his father, murder in his heart…
    Sweet Lufra ! His breath coming fast and choppy, he set the cup down with elaborate care.
    Even as a lad, he’d never been able to understand what was so evil about manlove, so threatening. Shameful it might be, furtive and somehow sleazy, but not evil. It was only later, when he was out in the world, that he’d come to see the Straight Church through the eyes of the Feolin, the rest of the Ten Nations. Bigots, hypocrites, sadists.
    Joyless bastards.
    He’d often wondered what his father would make of a son who’d adopted the worship of a goddess, a mere female, a creature of no value in the eyes of Ruler God.
    25

    Denise Rossetti
    Lufra—Maiden, Mother, Crone and Harlot. Lust Dragon of the Feolin. He rather thought the old bastard would die of an apoplexy. Pity he had no idea.
    The door swung