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"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Locke said from where he lay sprawled on the parapet. Sabetha, a cosh at the ready in one hand and a pouch of something unidentifiable in the other, pinned him with a frown. It took her another moment before she slowly slipped the weapon back into a pouch at her waist and stood back.
"Locke," she said, and smiled. She was, Locke noticed, from his peculiarly decent vantage point, still just as remarkably lovely as the last time he'd seen her. As was her usual wont, the mass of her perfect red curls were pulled up and tucked flat under a leather cap, and none showed. But still, the moonlight lit her dusky olive skin, and even the odd splotches of freckles that seemed to multiply over the years only added an interesting touch to her beauty.
Then she kicked him in the groin. "I swear to the Crooked Warden, if you get in my way, I will feed you to the bondsmagi's pets and make sure they keep you alive the whole time. It will be expensive, but, believe me, it will be worth every copper."
Jean, looking none too bothered by Locke's pain, leaned against the ramparts' low wall. "If slow, magical torture is what you're in the mood for, all you have to do is let them know we're in town." He spread his hands, looking as harmless as he ever could. "Can we talk somewhere private?"
Under her breath, Sabetha cursed the pig-fucking daughter of a half-witted goat that had birthed the pair of them, and nodded. "I'll meet you in an hour, at the inn five blocks west of here. If I see you before then, I am truly, honestly going to cut off your balls."