Thieves' World Book #05
The Face of Chaos

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION		Robert Lynn Asprin
HIGH MOON		Janet Morris
NECROMANT		C.J. Cherryh
THE ART OF ALLIANCE	Robert Lynn Asprin
THE CORNERS OF MEMORY	Lynn Abbey
VOTARY			David Drake
MIRROR IMAGE		Diana L. Paxson

INTRODUCTION

Robert Lynn Asprin

'The Face of Chaos will laugh at us all before the cycle completes its turn!'

The words were barely audible above the  din of the bazaar, but they caught  the
ear  of Illyra,  stopping her  in her  tracks. Ignoring  her husband's   puzzled
glance, she made her way into the  crowds in search of the source of  the voice.
Though only half S'danzo, the cards were still her trade and she owed it to  her
clan to discover any intruders into their secrets.

A  yellow-toothed smile  flashed at  her out  of deep  shadow, beside  a  stand.
Peering  closely,  she  recognized Hakiem,  Sanctuary's  oldest  and most  noted
storyteller, squatting in the shelter, away from the morning sun's bright glare.

'Good morning, old one,' she said  coolly, 'and what does a storyteller  know of
the cards?'

'Too little to try  to earn a living  reading them,' Hakiem replied,  scratching
himself idly, 'but much for one untrained in interpreting their messages.'

'You  spoke of  the Face  of Chaos.  Don't tell  me you've  finally paid  for  a
reading?'

'Not at  my age.'  The storyteller  waved. 'I'd  prefer that  the events  of the
future come as surprises.  But I have eyes  enough to know that  that card means
great change and upheaval.  It requires no special  sight to realize it  must be
showing often in readings these days,  with the newcomers in town. I  have ears,
Illyra, as I have eyes. An old man listens and watches, enough not to be  fooled
by one who walks younger than her makeup and dress would lead most to believe.'

Illyra frowned. 'Such observations could cost me dearly, old one.'

'Thou art wise, mistress. Wise enough to know the value of silence, as a  hungry
tongue talks more freely.'

'Very  well,  Hakiem,' the  fortune-teller  laughed, slipping  a  coin into  his
outstretched palm. 'Dull your ears, eyes and tongue with breakfast at my expense
... and perhaps a cup of wine to toast the Face of Chaos.'

'A moment,  mistress,' the  storyteller called  as she  turned to go-'A mistake!
This is silver.'

'Your eyes are as keen  as ever, you old devil.  Take the extra as a  reward for
courage. I've heard what you have to do to gather the stories you can tell!'

Hakiem  slid the  coin into  the pouch  belted within  his tunic  and heard  the
satisfying clink as it joined the others secreted there. These days he  extorted
breakfast  money  more  out of  habit  than  need. Purses  were  growing  fat in
Sanctuary with the influx of wealth brought by the newcomers. Even extortion was
growing easier,  as people  became less  tightfisted. Some,  like Illyra, seemed
almost eager to give it away. Already, this morning, he had collected enough for
ten breakfasts without  exerting the effort  hitherto required to  obtain enough
for one. After  decades of decay.  Sanctuary was coming  to life again  with the
influx of wealth brought by the  Beysib troops. Their military strength was  far
greater than the  Sanctuary garrison could  muster, and only  the fact that  the
foreigners had made no claim to the governance of the city itself kept it in the
hands of the Prince and his ministers. But the threat was always there,  potent,
lending a new spice of danger to  the customary activities of the people of  the
city.

Scratching again, the storyteller frowned  into the morning brightness, and  not
all his wrinkles were from squinting. It  was almost... no, it -was too good  to
be true. Hakiem  had too many  years of anguish  behind him not  to look a  gift
horse  in  the mouth.  All  gifts had  a  price, no  matter  how well-hidden  or
inconsequential it  might seem  at the  time. It  only stood  to reason that the
sudden prosperity brought  by the newcomers  would exact a  price from the  hell
hole known as Sanctuary.  Exactly how high or  terrible a price the  storyteller
was currently unable to puzzle out. (There were still hawks in Sanctuary, though
not so easily  brought to hand  ... and one  hawkmaster in particular.)  Sharper
eyes than Hakiem's would be scrutinizing the effects and long-range implications
of the new arrivals. Still, it would do him well to keep his ears open and ...

'Hakiem! Here he is! I found him! Hakiem!'

The storyteller groaned  inwardly as a  brightly bedecked teenager  leapt up and
down, flapping his arms  to reveal Hakiem's refuge  to his comrades. Fame,  too,
had its price ...  and this particular one  was named Mikali, a  young fop whose
main vocation seemed to be spending his father's wealth on fine clothing.  That,
and serving as Hakiem's self-proclaimed  herald. Though the money from  the more
fashionable sides of  Sanctuary was nice,  the storyteller often  longed for the
days of anonymity when he'd had to rely on his own wits and skills to peddle his
stories. Perhaps it was for  this reason he clung to  some of his old haunts  in
the Bazaar and the Maze.

'Here he is!' the youth proclaimed to his rapidly assembling audience. 'The only
man in Sanctuary who  didn't run and hide  when the Beysib fleet  arrived in our
harbours.'

Hakiem cleared his throat noisily. 'Do I know you, young man?'

A  rude  snicker   rippled  through  the   crowd  as  the   youth  flushed  with
embarrassment.

'S ... Surely you remember. It's me, Mikali. Yesterday ...'

'if you know me,' the elder interrupted, 'you also know I don't tell stories  to
preserve my  health, nor  do I  tolerate gawkers  who block  the view  of paying
customers.'

'Of course.' Mikali beamed.  In a flash he  had produced a handkerchief  of fine
silk.  Cupping  it  in  his  hands,  he  began  moving  through  the assemblage,
collecting coins. As might  be expected, he was  loathe to undertake this  chore
silently.

'A gift  for Sanctuary's  greatest storyteller...  Hear of  the landing from the
lips of  the one  who welcomed  them to  our shore  ... Gifts  ... What's  that?
Coppers?! For  Hakiem? Dig  deeper into  that purse  or move  along! That's  the
bravest man in town sitting there ... Thank you ... Gifts for the bravest man in
Sanctuary ...'

In a nonce a double handful of coins had found their way into the  handkerchief,
and Mikali triumphantly presented it to Hakiem with a flourish. The  storyteller
weighed the parcel carelessly in his hand for a moment, then nodded and  slipped
the entire  thing into  his tunic,  secretly enjoying  the look  of dismay  that
crossed the youth's face as Mikali  realized the fine handkerchief would not  be
returned.

Though I took  my post on  the wharf near  midday, it was  after dark before the
fleet had anchored and the first of the Beysib ventured ashore. It was so  dark,
I did not  even see the  small boat being  lowered over the  side of one  of the
ships. Not until they lit torches and began pulling for the wharf was I aware of
their intent to make contact before first light,' Hakiem began.

Indeed, on that night Hakiem had nearly dozed off before he realized a boat  was
finally  on its  way from  the fleet.  Even a  storyteller's curiosity  had  its
limits.

'It was a sight to frighten children with; that torchlit craft creeping  towards
our town like some  great spider from a  nightmare, stalking its prey  across an
ink-black mirror. Though I was hailed  as brave, it embarrasses me not  to admit
that I watched from the shadows. The wise know that darkness can shield the weak
as easily as it harries the strong.'

There were nods of acknowledgement throughout the crowd. This was Sanctuary, and
every listener, regardless  of social status,  had sought refuge  in the shadows
more than once as the occasion arose,  and did it more often than he  would care
to admit.

'Still, once they were ashore, I  could see they were men not  greatly different
from us, so I stepped forth from my place of concealment and went to meet them.'

This brave  deed that  Hakiem took  on himself  had been  born of  a mixture  of
impatience, curiosity, and  drink ... mostly  the latter. While  the storyteller
had indeed been at  his watchpost since midday,  he had also been  indulging all
the while, helping himself to the wines left untended in the wharfside  saloons.
Thus it was that when  the boat tied up at  the wharf he was more  sheets to the
wind than its mother vessel had been.

The party from the boat advanced down  the pier to the shore; then, rather  than
proceed into  town, it  had simply  drawn up  in a  tight knot   and waited.  As
minutes stretched on and no additional boats were dispatched from the fleet,  it
became  apparent that  this vanguard  was expecting  to be  met by  a delegation
from the  town. If that  were truly the  case, it occurred  to Hakiem that  they
might well still be waiting at sunrise.

'You'll have to go to the palace!' he had called without thinking.

At the sound of his voice, the party had turned their glassy-eyed stares on him.

'Palace! Go  Palace!' he  repeated, ignoring  the prickling  at the  nape of his
neck.

'Hakiem!'

A figure in the group had beckoned him forward.

Of all things he  had anticipated or feared  about the invaders, the  last thing
Hakiem had expected was to be hailed by name.

Almost of their own volition, his legs propelled him shakily towards the group.

'The first  one I  met was  the one  I least  expected,' Hakiem  confided to his
audience. 'None other than our own Hort, whom we all believed to be lost at sea,
along with his father. To say the  least, I was astonished to find him  not only
among the living, but accompanying these invaders.'

'By now you all have not only seen the Beysib, but have all grown accustomed  to
their strange appearance. Coming on them  for the first time by torchlight  on a
deserted pier as I did,  though, was enough to panic  a strong man ... and  I am
not a strong man. The hands holding the torches were webbed, as if they had come
out  of the  sea rather  than across  it. The  handles of  the warriors'  swords
jutting up from behind their shoulders I  had seen from afar, but what I  hadn't
noted  was  their eyes.  Those  dark, unblinking  eyes  staring at  me  with the
torchlight reflecting in  their depths nearly  had me convinced  that they would
pounce on me like a pack of animals  if I showed my fear. Even now, by  daylight
those eyes can ...'

'Hakiem!'

The storyteller was pleased to note that he was not the only one who started  at
the sudden cry. He had not lost his touch for drawing an audience into a  story.
They had forgotten the  morning glare and were  standing with him on  a torchlit
pier.

Fast behind his pride, or perhaps overlapping it, was a wave of anger at  having
been  interrupted  in mid-tale.  It  was not  a  kindly gaze  he  turned on  the
interloper.

It was none other than Hort, flanked by two Beysib warriors. For a moment Hakiem
had to fight off  a wave of unreality,  as if the youth  had stepped out of  the
story to confront him in life.

'Hakiem! You must come at once. The Beysa herself wishes to see you.'

'She'll have to wait,' the storyteller declared haughtily, ignoring the  murmurs
that had sprung up among his audience, 'I'm in the middle of a story.'

'But you don't understand,' Hort insisted, 'she wants to offer you a position in
her court!'

'No, you don't  understand,' Hakiem flared  back, swelling in  his anger without
rising from his seat. 'I already am employed ... and will be employed until this
story is done. These  good people have commissioned  me to entertain them  and I
intend to do just that until they are satisfied. You and your fish-eyed  friends
there will just have to wait.'

With  that,  Hakiem returned  his  attention to  his  audience, ignoring  Hort's
discomfiture. The fact that  he had not really  wished to start this  particular
session was unimportant,  as was the  fact that service  with the leader  of the
Beysib government-in-exile would undoubtedly be lucrative. Any storyteller, much
less Sanctuary's best  storyteller, did not  shirk his professional  duty in the
midst of a tale, however tempting the counter-offer might be.

Gone were the days when he would scuttle off as soon as a few coins were  tossed
his way. The old storyteller's pride had grown along with his wealth, and Hakiem
was no more exempt than any other  citizen of Sanctuary from the effects of  the
Face of Chaos.

HIGH MOON

Janet Morris

Just south  of Caravan  Square and  the bridge  over the  White Foal  River, the
Nisibisi witch had settled in. She  had leased the isolated complex -  one three
storied 'manor house' and its outbuildings -as much because its grounds extended
to the White Foal's  edge (rivers covered a  multitude of disposal problems)  as
for its proximity  to her business  interests in the  Wideway warehouse district
and its  convenience to  her caravan  master, who  must visit  the Square at all
hours.

The caravan  disguised their  operations. The  drugs they'd  smuggled in were no
more pertinent  to her  purposes than  the dilapidated  manor at  the end of the
bridge's south-running  cart track  or the  goods her  men bought  and stored in
Wideway's most pilferproof holds, though  they lubricated her dealings with  the
locals and  eased her  troubled nights.  It was  all subterfuge,  a web of lies,
plausible lesser evils to which she could own if the Rankan army caught her,  or
the  palace  marshal  Tempus's Stepsons  (mercenary  shock  troops and  'special
agents') rousted her minions and flunkies or even brought her up on charges.

Lately, a  pair of  Stepsons had  been her  particular concern.  And Jagat - her
first lieutenant in espionage - was  no less worried. Even their Ilsig  contact,
the unflappable Lastel who had lived a dozen years in Sanctuary, cesspool of the
Rankan empire into  which all lesser  sewers fed, and  managed all that  time to
keep his dual identity as east-side entrepreneur and Maze-dwelling barman  uncom
promised, was distressed by the attentions the pair of Stepsons were payin her.

She had thought her  allies overcautious at first,  when it seemed she  would be
here only long  enough to see  to the 'death'  of the Rankan  war god, Vashanka.
Discrediting the state-cult's power icon was the purpose for which the  Nisibisi
witch, Roxane, had come down from Wizardwall's fastness, down from her  shrouded
keep of  black marble  on its  unscalable peak,  down among  the mortal  and the
damned. They  were all  in this  together: the  mages of  Nisibisi; Lacan  Ajami
(warlord ofMygdon and the known world  north of .Wizardwall) with whom they  had
made pact; and the whole Mygdonian Alliance which he controlled.

Or so her lord and love had explained it when he decreed that Roxane must  come.
She had not argued - one pays one's way among sorcerers; she had not worked hard
for a decade nor faced danger in twice as long. And if one did not serve  Mygdon
- only one - all would suffer. The Alliance was too strong to thwart. So she was
here, drawn here with others fit for better, as if some power more than  magical
was whipping up a tropical storm to cleanse the land and using them to gild  its
eye.

She should have been home by now; she would have been, but for the hundred ships
from Beysib  which had  come to  port and  skewed all  plans. Word had come from
Mygdon, capital of Mygdonia, through the Nisibisi network, that she must stay.

And so it had become crucial that  the Stepsons who sniffed round her skirts  be
kept at bay -  or ensnared, or bought,  or enslaved. Or, if  not, destroyed. But
carefully, so carefully. For  Tempus, who had been  her enemy three decades  ago
when he fought the  Defender's Wars on Wizardwall's  steppes, was a dozen  Storm
Gods' avatar; no army  he sanctified could know  defeat; no war he  fought could
not be won. Combat was life to him; he fought like the gods themselves, like  an
entelechy from  a higher  sphere -and  even had  friends among  those powers not
corporeal or vulnerable to sortilege of the quotidian sort a human might employ.

And now it was  being decreed in Mygdonia's  tents that he must  be removed from
the field - taken out of  play in this southern theatre, manoeuvred  north where
the warlocks could  neutralize him. Such  was the word  her lover-lord had  sent
her: move him  north, or make  him impotent where  he stayed. The  god he served
here had been easier to rout. But she doubted that would incapacitate him; there
were other Storm Gods, and Tempus, who under a score of names had fought in more
dimensions than she had ever visited, knew them all. Vashanka's denouement might
scare  the  Rankans  and  give  the  Ilsigs  hope,  but  more  than  rumours and
manipulation of  theomachy by  even the  finest witch  would be  needed to  make
Tempus  fold  his  hands  or  bow  his head.  To  make  him  run,  then,  was an
impossibility. To lure him north, she hoped, was not. For this was no place  for
Roxane. Her nose was  offended by the stench  which blew east from  Downwind and
north from  Fisherman's Row  and west  from the  Maze and  south from either the
slaughterhouses or the palace - she'd not decided which.

So she had called a meeting, itself an audacious move, with her kind where  they
dwelled on Wizardwall's high peaks. When it was done, she was much weakened - it
is no small  feat to project  one's soul so  far - and  unsatisfied. But she had
submitted her strategy  and gotten approval,  after a fashion,  though it pained
her to have to ask.

Having gotten it, she was about to set her plan in motion. To begin it, she  had
called upon Lastel/One-Thumb  and cried foul:  'Tempus's sister, Cime  the  free
agent, was part   of our bargain,  Ilsig.  If you  cannot produce her,  then she
cannot aid  me, and  I am  paying you  far too  much for a third-rate criminal's
paltry talents.'

The huge  wrestler adjusted  his deceptively  soft gut.  His east-side house was
commodious; dogs  barked in  their pens  and favourite  curs lounged about their
feet, under the samovar, upon riotous silk prayer rugs, in the embrace of comely
krrf-drugged slaves - not her idea of entertainment, but Lastel's, his  sweating
forehead and heavy breathing proclaimed as he watched the bestial event a  dozen
other guests found fetching.

The dusky Ilsigs  saw nothing wrong  in enslaving their  own race. Nisibisi  had
more pride. It was  well that these were  comfortable with slavery -  they would
know it far more intimately, by and by.

But her words had jogged her host, and Lastel came up on one elbow, his cushions
suddenly askew. He, too, had been  partaking ofkrrf- not smoking it, as  was the
Ilsig custom, but mixing it with other  drugs which made it sink into the  blood
directly through the skin. The effects were greater, and less predictable.

As she had hoped, her  words had the power of  krrf behind them. Fear showed  in
thejowled mountain's eyes. He  knew what she was;  the fear was her  due. Any of
these were helpless before her, should  she decide a withered soul or  two might
amuse her. Their essences could lighten her load as krrf lightened theirs.

The gross man spoke quickly, a whine of excuses: the woman had 'disappeared  ...
taken by Askelon, the very lord of dreams. All at the Mageguild's fete where the
god was vanquished saw it. You need not take my word - witnesses are legion.'

She fixed him with  her pale stare. Ilsigs  were called Wrigglies, and  Lastel's
craven self was a good example why. She felt disgust and stared longer.

The man  before her  dropped his  eyes, mumbling  that their  agreement had  not
hinged on the mage-killer Cime, that he was doing more than his share as it was,
for little enough profit, that the risks were too high.

And to  prove to  her he  was still  her creature,  he warned  her again  of the
Stepsons: 'That pair of  Whoresons Tempus sicced on  you should concern us,  not
money - which neither of us will be alive to spend if -' One of the slaves cried
out, whether in  pleasure or pain  Roxane could not  be certain; Lastel  did not
even look up, but continued:'... Tempus finds out we've thirty stone of krrf  in
-'

She interrupted him, not letting him name the hiding place. 'Then do this that I
ask  of  you, without  question.  We will  be  rid of  the  problem they  cause,
thereafter, and have our own sources,  who'll tell us what Tempus does  and does
not know.'

A slave  serving mulled  wine approached,  and both  took electrum  goblets. For
Roxane, the liquor was an advantage: looking into its depths, she could see what
few cogent thoughts ran through the fat drug dealer's mind.

He thought of her, and she saw her own beauty: wizard hair like ebony and  wavy;
her sanguine skin like velvet: he dreamed  her naked, with his dogs. She cast  a
curse  without word  or effort,  refiexively, giving  him a  social disease   no
Sanctuary mage or  barber-surgeon could cure,  complete with running  sores upon
lips  and member,  and a  virus in  control of  it which  buried itself  in  the
brainstem and came out when it chose. She hardly took note of it; it was a small
show of temper,  like for like: let him exhibit the  condition of his soul,  she
had decreed.

To banish her leggy  nakedness from the surface  of her wine, she  said straight
out; 'You know the other bar  owners. The Alekeep's proprietor has a  girl about
to graduate from  school. Arrange to  host her party,  let it be  known that you
will sell  those children  krrf -  Tamzen is  the child  I mean.  Then have your
flunky lead her down to  Shambles Cross. Leave them there  - up to half a  dozen
youngsters, it may be - lost in the drug and the slum.'

'That will tame  two vicious Stepsons?  You do know  the men I  mean? Janni? And
Stealth?  They bugger  each other,  Stepsons. Girls  are beside  the point.  And
Stealth - he's a/wzzbuster- I've seen him with no woman old enough for  breasts.
Surely -'

'Surely,' she cut in smoothly, 'you don't want to know more than that - in  case
it goes awry. Protection in these matters lies in ignorance.' She would not tell
him more -  not that Stealth,  called Nikodemos, had  come out of  Azehur, where
he'd earned his  war name and  worked his way  towards Syr in  search of a  Tros
horse via Mygdonia, hiring on as a caravan guard and general roustabout, or that
a dispute over a consignment lost to mountain bandits had made him  bond-servant
for a year to a Nisibisi mage - her lover-lord. There was a string on Nikodemos,
ready to be pulled.

And when he felt it, it would be too late, and she would be at the end of it.

Tempus had allowed  Niko to breed  his sorrel mare  to his own  Tros stallion to
quell mutters  among knowledgeable  Stepsons that  assigning Niko  and Janni  to
hazardous duty  in the  town was  their commander's  way of  punishing the slate
haired fighter who had declined  Tempus's offered pairbond in favour  of Janni's
and had subsequently quit their ranks.

Now the mare  was pregnant and  Tempus was curious  as to what  kind of foal the
union might produce, but rumours of foul play still abounded.

Critias, Tempus's  second in  command, had  paused in  his dour  report and  now
stirred his posset of cooling wine  and barley and goat's cheese with  a finger,
then wiped the finger on his  bossed cuirass, burnished from years of  use. They
were meeting  in the  mercenaries' guild  hostel, in  its common  room, dark  as
congealing  blood  and  safe as  a  grave,  where Tempus  had  bade  the veteran
mercenary lodge - an operations officer charged with secret actions could be  no
part of  the Stepsons'  barracks cohort.  They met  covertly, on  occasion; most
times, coded messages brought by unwitting couriers were enough.

Crit,  too,  it seemed,  thought  Tempus wrong  in  sending Janni,  a  guileless
cavalryman, and  Niko, the  youngest of  the Stepsons,  to spy  upon the  witch:
clandestine schemes were  Crit's province, and  Tempus had usurped,  overstepped
the bounds  of their  agreement. Tempus  had allowed  that Crit  might take over
management of the fielded team and Crit had grunted wryly, saying he'd run  them
but not take the blame if they lost both men to the witch's wiles.

Tempus had agreed with the pleasant-looking Syrese agent and they had gone on to
other business: Prince/Governor Kadakithis was insistent upon contacting  Jubal,
the slaver whose estate  the Stepsons sacked and  made their home. 'But  when we
had the black bastard, you said to let him crawl away.'

'Kadakithis expressed no interest.' Tempus  shrugged. 'He has changed his  mind,
perhaps in light of the appearance of these mysterious death squads your  people
haven't been able to identify or apprehend. If your teams can't deliver Jubal or
turn up a hawkmask who is in contact with him, I'll find another way.'

'Ischade, the vampire woman who lives in Shambles Cross, is still our best hope.
We've sent slave-bait to her and lost it. Like a canny carp, she takes the  bait
and leaves  the hook.'  Crit's lips  were pursed  as if  his wine  had turned to
vinegar; his patrician nose drew down with his frown. He ran a hand through  his
short,  feathery  hair. 'And  our  joint venture  with  the Rankan  garrison  is
impeding rather  than aiding  success. Army  Intelligence is  a contradiction in
terms, like the Mygdonian Alliance or the Sanctuary pacification programme.  The
cutthroats I've got on our payroll are sure the god is dead and all the  Rankans
soon  to  follow. The  witch  - or  some  witch -  floats  rumours of  Mygdonian
liberators and  Ilsig freedom  and the  gullible believe.  That snotty thief you
befriended is either an  enemy agent or a  pawn ofNisibisi propaganda -  telling
everyone that  he's been  told by  the Ilsig  gods themselves  that Vashanka was
routed ... I'd like to silence him permanently.' Crit's eyes met Tempus's  then,
and held.

'No,' he replied, to all of it,  then added: 'Gods don't die; men die.  Boys die
in multitudes. The thief, Shadowspawn, is no threat to us, just misguided,  semi
literate, and vain, like  all boys. Bring me  a conduit to Jubal,  or the slaver
himself. Contact  Niko and  have him  report -  if the  witch needs  a lesson, I
myself will undertake to teach it.  And keep your watch upon the  fish-eyed folk
from the ships -I'm not sure yet that they're as harmless as they seem.'

Having given  Crit enough  to do  to keep  his mind  off the  rumours of the god
Vashanka's troubles - and hence, his own  - he rose to leave. 'Some results,  by
week's  end, would  be welcome.'  The officer  toasted him  cynically as  Tempus
walked away.

Outside, his Tros horse whinnied joyfully. He stroked its mist-dappled neck  and
felt the sweat there. The weather  was close, an early heatwave as  unwelcome as
the late frosts which  had frozen the winter  crops a week before  their harvest
and killed the young sets just planted in anticipation of a bounteous fall.

He mounted up and headed south by the granaries towards the palace's north  wall
where a gate nowhere as peopled or public  as the Gate of the Gods was set  into
the wall by the cisterns. He would talk to Prince Kitty-Cat, then tour the  Maze
on his way home to the barracks.

But the prince wasn't receiving, and Tempus's mood was ill -just as well; he had
been going to confront the young popinjay, as once or twice a month he was  sure
he must do, without courtesy  or appropriate deference. If Kadakithis  was holed
up in conference with  the blond-haired, fish-eyed folk  from the ships and  had
not called upon him to join them, then it was not surprising: since the gods had
battled in the sky  above the Mageguild, all  things had become confused,  worse
had come to worst, and Tempus's curse had fallen on him once again with its full
force.

Perhaps the god was  dead - certainly, Vashanka's  voice in his ear  was absent.
He'd gone out raping once or twice to see if the Lord of Pillage could be roused
to take part in His favourite sport.  But the god had not rustled around  in his
head since New Year's day; the resultant fear of harm to those  who loved him by
the curse that  denied  him love had made  a solitary man withdraw  even further
into himself;  only the   Froth Daughter  Jihan, hardly  human, though  woman in
form, kept him company now.

And  that,  as  much  as  anything, irked  the  Stepsons.  Theirs  was  a closed
fraternity, open only to the paired lovers of the Sacred Band and  distinguished
single mercenaries  culled from  a score  of nations  and diverted,  by Tempus's
service  and Kitty-Cat's  gold, from  the northern  insurrection they'd  drifted
through Sanctuary en route to join.

He, too, ached to war, to fight a declared enemy, to lead his cohort north.  But
there was his word to  a Rankan faction to do  his best for a petty  prince, and
there was this thrice-cursed fleet of merchant warriors come to harbour  talking
'peaceful trade' while their vessels rode too low in the water to be filled with
grain or  cloth or  spices -  if not  barter, his  instinct told  him, the Burek
faction of Beysib would settle for conquest.

He was past caring; things in Sanctuary were too confused for one man, even  one
near-immortal, god-ridden avatar of  a man, to set  aright. He would take  Jihan
and go north, with  or without the Stepsons  - his accursed presence  among them
and the love they bore him would kill them if he let it continue: if the god was
truly gone, then  he must follow.  Beyond Sanctuary's borders,  other Storm Gods
held sway, other names were hallowed.  The primal Lord Storm (Enlil), whom  Niko
venerated, had heard a petition from Tempus  for a clearing of his path and  his
heart: he wanted to know what status his life, his curse, and his god-bond  had,
these days. He awaited only a sign.

Once, long ago, when he went abroad as a philosopher and sought a calmer life in
a calmer world, he had said that  to gods all things are beautiful and  good and
just, but men have  supposed some things to  be unjust, others just.  If the god
had died, or been banished, though it didn't seem that this could be so, then it
was meet that this  occurred. But those who  thought it so did  not realize that
one could  not escape  the intelligible  light: the  notice of  that which never
sets: the apprehension of the elder gods. So he had asked, and so he waited.

He had no doubt that the answer would be forthcoming, as he had no doubt that he
would not mistake it when it came.

On his way to the Maze he brooded over his curse, which kept him unloved by  the
living and spurned  by any he  favoured if they  be mortal. In  heaven he had  a
brace of lovers,  ghosts like the  original Stepson, Abarsis.  But to heaven  he
could not repair: his flesh  regenerated itself immemorially; to make  sure this
was still the case, last night he had gone to the river and slit both wrists. By
the time  he'd counted  to fifty  the blood  had ceased  to flow and healing had
begun. That gift of healing - if gift it was - still remained his, and since  it
was god-given, some power more than mortal 'loved' him still.

It was whim  that made him  stop by the  weapons shop the  mercenaries favoured.
Three horses tethered out  front were known to  him; one was Niko's  stallion, a
big black with  points like rust  and a jughead  on thickening neck  perpetually
sweatbanded with sheepskin to  keep its jowls modest.  The horse, as mean  as it
was ugly, snorted  a challenge to  Tempus's Tros -  the black resented  that the
Tros had climbed Niko's mare.

He tethered it at the far end of the line and went inside, among the  crossbows,
the flying wings, the steel and wooden quarrels and the swords.

Only a woman  sat behind the  counter, pulchritudinous and  vain, her neck  hung
with a wealth of baubles, her flesh  perfumed. She knew him, and in seconds  his
nose detected acrid, nervous sweat and the defensive musk a woman can exude.

'Marc's out with the boys in back, sighting-in the high-torque bows. Shall I get
him. Lord Marshal? Or may I help you? What's here's yours, my lord, on trial  or
as our  gift -'  Her arm  spread wide,  bangles tinkling,  indicating the racked
weapons.

'I'll take a look out back. Madam; don't disturb yourself.'

She settled back, not calm, but bidden to remain and obedient.

In the ochre-walled yard ten men were gathered behind the log fence that  marked
the  range;  a  hundred  yards  away three  oxhides  had  been  fastened  to the
encircling  wall,  targets  painted  red upon  them;  between  the  hides, three
cuirasses of four-ply hardened leather armoured with bronze plates were  propped
and filled with straw.

The smith  was down  on his  knees, a  crossbow fixed  in a  vice with its owner
hovering close by. The smith hammered the sights twice more, put down his  file,
grunted and  said, 'You  try it,  Straton; it  should shoot  true. I  got a hand
breadth group with it this morning; it's your eye I've got to match...'

The  large-headed,  raw-boned  smith,  sporting a  beard  which  evened  a rough
complexion, rose with  exaggerated effort and  turned to another  customer, just
stepping up to the  firing line. 'No, Stealth,  not like that, or,  if you must,
I'll change the tension -'  Marc moved in, telling Niko  to throw the bow up  to
his shoulder  and fire  from there,  then saw  Tempus and  left the group, hands
spreading on his apron.

Bolts  spat and  thunked from  five shooters  when the  morning's range  officer
hollered 'Clear' and 'Fire',  then 'Hold', so that  all could go to  the wall to
check their aim and the depths to which the shafts had sunk.

Shaking his head, the  smith confided: 'Straton's got  a problem I can't  solve.
I've had it truly sighted  - perfect for me -  three times, but when he  shoots,
it's as if he's aiming two feet low.'

'For the bow, the name is life, but  the work is death. In combat it will  shoot
true for him; here, he's worried  how they judge his prowess. He's  not thinking
enough of his weapon, too much of his friends.'

The smith's keen eyes shifted; he rubbed his smile with a greasy hand. 'Aye, and
that's the truth. And for you. Lord Tempus? We've the new hard-steel, though why
they're all so hot to pay twice the price when men're soft as clay and even wood
will pierce the boldest belly, I can't say.'

'No steel, just a case of iron-tipped short-flights, when you can.'

'I'll select them myself. Come and watch them, now? We'll see what their nerve's
like, if you call score ...'

'A moment or two. Marc. Go back to your work, I'll sniff around on my own.'

And so he approached  Niko, on pretence of  admiring the Stepson's new  bow, and
saw the shadowed eyes,  blank as ever but  veiled like the beginning  beard that
masked his jaw: 'How goes it, Niko? Has your maat returned to you?'

'Not  likely,'  the young  fighter,  cranking the  spring  and lever  so  a bolt
notched, said  and triggered  the quarrel  which whispered  straight and true to
centre his target. 'Did Crit send you? I'm fine, commander. He worries too much.
We can handle  her, no matter  how it seems.  It's just time  we need ...  she's
suspicious, wants us to prove our faith. Shall I, by whatever means?'

'Another week on  this is all  I can give  you. Use discretion,  your judgment's
fine with  me. What  you think  she's worth,  she's worth.  If Critias questions
that, your orders came from me and you may tell him so.'

'I will, and with pleasure. I'm not  his to wetnurse; he can't keep that  in his
head.'

'And Janni?'

'It's hard on  him, pretending to  be ... what  we're pretending to  be. The men
talk to him about coming back out to the barracks, about forgetting what's  past
and resuming his duties. But we'll weather it. He's man enough.'

Niko's hazel eyes flicked  back and forth, judging  the other men: who  watched;
who pretended he did  not, but listened hard.  He loosed another bolt,  a third,
and said quietly that  he had to collect  his flights. Tempus eased  away, heard
the  range  officer  call  'Clear' and  watched  Niko  go  retrieve his  grouped
quarrels.

If this one could not breach the witch's defences, then she was unbreachable.

Content, he left then, and found Jihan, his de facto right-side partner, waiting
astride  his  other  Tros  horse,  her  more  than  human  strength  and  beauty
brightening Smith Street's ramshackle facade  as if real gold lay  beside fool's
gold in a dusty pan.

Though one of the matters estranging him from his Stepsons was his pairing  with
this foreign  'woman', only  Niko knew  her to  be the  daughter of  a power who
spawned all contentious gods and even the concept of divinity; he felt the  cool
her flesh gave off, cutting the midday heat like wind from a snowcapped peak.

'Life to  you, Tempus.'  Her voice  was thick  as ale,  and he  realized he  was
thirsty. Promise  Park and  the Alekeep,  an east-side  establishment considered
upper class by  those who could  tell classes of  Ilsigs, were right  around the
corner, a block up the Street of  Gold from where they met. He proposed  to take
her there for lunch. She was delighted - all things mortal were new to her;  the
whole business of being in flesh and attending to it was yet novel. A novice  at
life, Jihan was hungry for the whole of it.

For  him,  she  served  a  special  purpose:  her  loveplay  was  rough  and her
constitution hardier than  his Tros horses  - he could  not couple gently;  with
her, he did not inflict permanent harm  on his partner; she was bom of  violence
inchoate and savoured what would kill or cripple mortals.

At the Alekeep, they were welcome. They talked in a back and private room of the
god's absence and what could be made of it and the owner served them himself, an
avuncular sort still grateful that Tempus's men had kept his daughters safe when
wizard weather  roamed the  streets. 'My  girl's graduating  school today.  Lord
Marshal - my youngest. We've a fete set and you and your companion would be most
welcome guests.'

Jihan touched his arm  as he began to  decline, her stormy eyes  flecked red and
glowing.

'... ah, perhaps we will drop by, then, if business permits.'

But they didn't,  having found pressing  matters of lust  to attend to,  and all
things that happened  then might have  been avoided if  they hadn't been  out of
touch with the  Stepsons, unreachable down  by the creek  that ran north  of the
barracks when sorcery met machination and all things went awry.

On their way to work, Niko and  Janni stopped at the Vulgar Unicorn to  wait for
the  moon  to rise.  The  moon would  be  full this  evening,  a blessing  since
anonymous death squads roamed the town -whether they were Rankan army  regulars,
Jubal's scattered hawk-masks, fish-eyed Beysib spoilers, or Nisibisi  assassins,
none could say.

The one  thing that  could be  said of  them for  certain was  that they weren't
Stepsons or Sacred Banders or nonaligned mercenaries from the guild hostel.  But
there was no convincing the terrorized populace of that.

And Niko and Janni - under the guise of disaffected mercenaries who had quit the
Stepsons, been thrown  out of the  guild hostel for  unspeakable acts, and  were
currently degenerating Sanctuary-style in the filthy streets of the town thought
that they were  close to identifying  the death squads'  leader. Hopefully, this
evening or the next, they would be asked to join the murderers in their  squalid
sport.                                      '

Not that murder was uncommon in  Sanctuary, or squalor. The Maze, now  that Niko
knew it like his horses' needs or Janni's limits, was not the town's true nadir,
only the  multi-tiered slum's  upper echelon.  Worse than  the Maze was Shambles
Cross, filled with the weak and the meek; worse than the Shambles was  Downwind,
where nothing moved  in the light  of day and  at night hellish  sounds rode the
stench on  the prevailing  east wind  across the  White Foal.  A tri-level hell,
then, filled with murderers, sold souls and succubi, began here in the Maze.

If the death squads had confined themselves to Maze, Shambles, and Downwind,  no
one would  have known  about them.  Bodies in  those streets  were nothing  new;
neither  Stepsons  nor  Rankan   soldiers  bothered  counting  them;   near  the
slaughterhouses cheap crematoriums flourished; for those too poor even for that,
there was the White Foal, taking  ambiguous dross to the sea without  complaint.
But the squads  ventured uptown, to  the east side  and the centre  of Sanctuary
itself where the palace hierophants and the merchants lived and looked away from
downtown, scented pomanders to their noses.

The Unicorn  crowd no  longer turned  quiet when  Niko and  Janni entered; their
scruffy faces and shabby gear and  bleary eyes proclaimed them no threat  to the
mendicants or the whores. Competition, they were now considered, and it had been
hard to float the legend, harder to live  it. Or to live it down, since none  of
the Stepsons  but their  task force  leader, Crit  (who himself  had never moved
among the barracks ranks, proud and shining with oil and fine weapons and  finer
ideals) knew that they  had not quit but  only worked shrouded in  subterfuge on
Tempus's orders to flush the Nisibisi witch.

But the emergence of the death squads had raised the pitch, the ante, given  the
matter a  new urgency.  Some said  it was  because Shadowspawn,  the thief,  was
right: the god Vashanka had died  and the Rankans would suffer their  due. Their
due or  not, traders,  politicians, and  moneylenders -  the 'oppressors' - were
nightly dragged out into the streets, whole families slaughtered or burned alive
in their houses, or hacked to pieces in their festooned wagons.

The  agents  ordered draughts  from  One-Thumb's new  girl  and she  came  back,
cowering but determined, saying that One-Thumb must see their money first.  They
had started this venture with the barman's help; he knew their provenance;  they
knew his secret.

'Let's kill the swillmonger. Stealth,' Janni  growled. They had little cash -  a
few soldats and some Machadi coppers  - and couldn't draw their pay  until their
work was done.

'Steady, Janni. I'll talk  to him. Girl, fetch  two Rankan ales or  you won't be
able to close your legs for a week.'

He pushed back  his bench and  strode to the  bar, aware that  he was only  half
joking, that  Sanctuary was  rubbing him  raw. Was  the god  dead? Was Tempus in
thrall to the Froth Daughter who kept his company? Was Sanctuary the honeypot of
chaos? A hell  from which no  man emerged? He  pushed a threesome  of young puds
aside and whistled piercingly when he reached the bar. The big bartender  looked
around  elaborately, raised  a scar-crossed  eyebrow, and  ignored him.  Stealth
counted to ten and then methodically began emptying other patrons' drinks on  to
the counter. Men were few here;  approximations cursed him and backed away;  one
went for a beltknife but Stealth had a dirk in hand that gave him pause.  Niko's
gear was dirty, but better than any of these had. And he was ready to clean  his
soiled blade in any one of them. They sensed it; his peripheral perception  read
their moods, though he couldn't read  their minds. Where his maat -  his balance
once had been was  a cold, sick anger.  In Sanctuary he had  learned despair and
futility, and these had introduced him  to fury. Options he once had  considered
last resorts, off the battlefield, came  easily to mind now. Son of  the armies,
he was learning a different kind of  war in Sanctuary, and learning to love  the
havoc his own right arm could wreak. It was not a substitute for the equilibrium
he'd lost when his left-side leader died  down by the docks, but if his  partner
needed souls to buy a better place in heaven, Niko would gladly send him  double
his comfort's price.

The ploy brought One-Thumb down to stop him. 'Stealth, I've had enough of  you.'
One-Thumb's  mouth  was swollen,  his  upper lip  crusted  with sores,  but  his
ponderous bulk  loomed large;  from the  corner of  his eye  Niko could  see the
Unicorn's bouncer leave his post and Janni intercept him.

Niko reached  out and  grabbed One-Thumb  by the  throat, even  as the man's paw
reached under  the bar,  where a  weapon might  lie. He  pulled him close: 'What
you've had isn't even  a shadow of what  you're going to get,  Turn-Turn, if you
don't mind your tongue.  Turn back into the  well-mannered little troll we  both
know and love, or you won't have  a bar to hide behind by morning.'  Then, sotto
voce: 'What's up?'

'She wants you,' the barkeep gasped, his  face purpling, 'to go to her place  by
the White Foal at high moon. If it's convenient, of course, my lord.'

Niko let him go before his eyes popped out of his head. 'You'll put this on  our
tab?'

'Just this one more time, beggar boy. Your Whoreson bugger-buddies won't lift  a
leg to help you; your threats are as empty as your purse.'

'Care to bet on it?'

They carried  on a  bit more,  for the  crowd's benefit,  Janni and  the bouncer
engaged in a staring match the while. 'Call your cur off, then, and we'll forget
about this - this once.' Niko turned, neck aprickle, and headed back towards his
seat, hoping that it wouldn't go any further. Not one of the four - bouncer, bar
owner. Stepsons - was entirely playing to the crowd.

When he'd reached his door-facing table, Lastel/One-Thumb called his bruiser off
and Janni backed towards Niko, white-faced and trembling with eagerness: 'Let me
geld one of them. Stealth. It'll do our reputations no end of good.'

'Save it for the witch-bitch.'

Janni brightened, straddling his seat, both arms on the table, digging  fiercely
with his dirk into the wood: 'You've got a rendezvous?'

'Tonight, high moon. Don't drink too much.'

It wasn't the drink  that skewed them, but  the krrf they snorted,  little piles
poured into  clenched fists  where thumb  muscles made  a well.  Still, the drug
would keep  them alert:  it was  a long  time until  high moon,  and they had to
patrol for  marauders while  seeming to  be marauding  themselves. It was almost
more than Niko could bear. He'd infiltrated a score of camps, lines and  palaces
on reconnaissance  sorties with  his deceased  partner, but  those were cleaner,
quicker actions than this protracted infiltration of Sanctuary, bunghole of  the
known world. If this evening made an end  to it and he could wash and shave  and
stable his horses better, he'd make a sacrifice to Enlil which the god would not
soon forget.

An hour later, mounted,  they set off on  their tour of the  Maze, Niko thinking
that not since the affair with the archmage Askelon and Tempus's sister Cime had
his  gut rolled  up into  a ball  with this  feeling of  unmitigated dread.  The
Nisibisi witch might know  him - she might  have known him all  along. He'd been
interrogated by Nisibisi before,  and he would fall  upon his sword rather  than
endure it again  now, when his  dead teammate's ghost  still haunted his  mental
refuge and meditation could not offer him shelter as it once had.

A boy came running  up calling his name  and his jug-head black  tossed its rust
nose high and snorted, ears back, waiting for a command to kill or maim.

'By Vashanka's sulphurous balls, what now?' Janni wondered.

They sat their mounts  in the narrow street;  the moon was just  rising over the
shantytops; people  slammed their  shutters tight  and bolted  their doors. Niko
could catch  wisps of  fear and  loathing from  behind the  houses' facades; two
mounted men in these streets meant trouble, no matter whose they were.

The youth trotted up, breathing hard. 'Niko! Niko! The master's so upset.  Thank
Us I've found you ...' The  delicate eunuch's lisp identified him: a  servant of
the Alekeep's owner, one of the few men Niko thought of as a friend here.

'What's wrong, then?' He leaned down in his saddle.

The boy raised a hand and the black snaked his head around fast to bite it. Niko
clouted the horse between the ears as the boy scrambled back out of range. 'Come
on, come here. He won't try it again. Now, what's your master's message?'

Tamzen! Tamzen's gone out  without her bodyguard, with  -' The boy named  six of
the richest  Sanctuary families'  fast-living youngsters.  'They said  they'd be
right back, but  they didn't come.  It's her party  she's missing. The  master's
beside himself.  He said  if you  can't help  him, he'll  have to  call the Hell
Hounds - the palace guard, or go  out to the Stepsons' barracks. But there's  no
time, no time!' the frail eunuch wailed.

'Calm down, pud. We'll find her. Tell her father to send word to Tempus  anyway,
it can't hurt to alert the authorities. And say exactly this: that I'll help  if
I can, but he knows I'm not empowered to do more than any citizen. Say it  back,
now.'

Once the  eunuch had  repeated the  words and  run off,  Janni said: 'How're you
going to be in two places at once. Stealth? Why'd you tell him that? It's a  job
for the regulars, not for us. We can't miss this meet, not after all the bedbugs
I've let chomp on me for this...'

'Seh!' The word meant offal in the Nisi tongue. 'We'll round her and her friends
up in short order. They're just blowing  off steam - it's the heat and  school's
end. Come on, let's start at Promise Park.'

When they got there, the moon showed round and preternatur-ally large above  the
palace and the wind had died. Thoughts of the witch he must meet still  troubled
Niko, and  Janni's grousing  buzzed in  his ears:  '... we  should check in with
Crit,  let the  girl meet  her fate  - ours  will be  worse if  we're snared  by
enchantment and no backup alerted to where or how.'

'We'll send word or stop by the Shambles drop; stop worrying.' But Janni was not
about  to  stop, and  Niko's  attempts to  calm  himself, to  find  transcendent
perception in  his rest-place  and pick  up the  girl's trail  by the heat-track
she'd left and the things she'd said  and done here were made more difficult  by
Janni's  worries, which  jarred him  back to  concerns he  must put  aside,  and
Janni's words, which startled him,  over-loud and disruptive, every time  he got
himself calmed enough to sense Tamzen's  energy trail among so many others  like
red/yellow/pink yarn twined among chiaroscuro trees.

Tamzen, thirteen and beautiful, pure and full of fun, who loved him with all her
heart and had made him  promise to 'wait' for her:  he'd had her,  a thing  he'd
never meant to  do, and had  her with her  father's knowledge, confronted by the
concerned man  one night when Niko, arm around  the girl's waist, had walked her
through the  park. 'Is  this how  you repay  a friend's  kindness. Stealth?' the
father'd  asked.  'Better me  than  any  of this  trash,  my  friend. I'll do it
right. She's ready, and  it wouldn't be long,  in any case,' he'd replied  while
the girl looked between the soldier,  twelve years older,  and her father,  with
uncomprehending eyes. He had to find her.

Janni, as  if in  receipt of  the perceptive  spirit Niko  tried now to reclaim,
swore and mentioned  that Niko'd had  no business getting  involved with her,  a
child.

'I'm not your type, and as for women, I drink from no other man's tainted  cup.'
So Niko broached an uneasy subject: Janni was no Sacred Bander; his  camaraderie
had limits;  Niko's need  for touch  and love  the other  man knew but could not
fill; they had an attenuated pairbond,  not complete as Sacred Banders knew  it,
and  Janni was  uncomfortable with  the innuendo  and assumptions  of the  other
singles, and Niko's unsated needs as well.

The silence come between  them then gave Stealth  his chance to find  the girl's
red time-shadow, a hot ghost-trail to follow south-west through the Maze...

As the moon climbed high its light shone brighter, giving Maze and then Shambles
shape and teasing light; colour was almost present among the streets, so  bright
it shone, a reddish cast like blood upon its face, so that when common Sanctuary
horrors lay revealed  at intersections, they  seemed worse even  than they were.
Janni saw two whores fight for a client; he saw blood run black in gutters  from
thugs and  just incautious  folk. Their  horses' hoofbeats  cleared their  path,
though, and Maze was left behind, as willing to let them go as they to leave it,
although  Janni muttered  at every  vile encounter  their presence  interrupted,
wishing they could intervene.

Once he thought they'd glimpsed a death squad, and urged Stealth to come  alert,
but the strange young fighter shook his head and hushed him, slouched loose upon
his horse  as if  entranced, following  some trail  that neither  Janni nor  any
mortal man with  God's good fear  of magic should  have seen. Janni's  heart was
troubled by this  boy who was  too good at  craft, who had  a charmed sword  and
dagger given  him by  the entelechy  of dreams,  yet left  them in the barracks,
decrying magic's price. But  what was this, if  not sorcery? Janni watched  Niko
watch the night and take them deep into shadowed alleys with all the  confidence
a mage would flaunt. The youth had  offered to teach him 'controls' of mind,  to
take him 'up through the planes and get your guide and your twelfth-plane name'.
But Janni was no connoisseur of witchcraft; like boy-loving, he left it to   the
Sacred Banders and the  priests.  He'd gotten into  this with Niko  for  worldly
advantage; the  youth  ten years his   junior was pure  genius in a  fight; he'd
seen him work at  Jubal's and marvelled even  in  the melee of  the sack. Niko's
reputation  for prowess in  the field was  matched  only by Straton's, and   the
stories  told  of  Niko's past.   The boy  had  trained  among Successors,   the
Nisibisi's bane,   wild guerrillas,   mountain commandos   who let  none through
Wizardwall's defiles  without gold  or life  in tithe,  who'd sworn   to reclaim
their  mountains  from the  mages   and the  warlocks  and held  out,   outlaws,
countering sorcery with swords. In a  campaign such as the northern one  coming,
Niko's skills  and languages  and friends  might prove  invaluable. Janni,  from
Machad, had no  love for Rankans,  but it was  said Niko served  despite a blood
hatred:  Rankans had  sacked his  town nameless;  his father  had died  fighting
Rankan  expansion  when the  boy  was five.  Yet  he'd come  south  on Abarsis's
venture, and stayed when Tempus inherited the band.

When they crossed  the Street of  Shingles and headed  into Shambles Cross,  the
pragmatic Janni spoke  a soldier's safe-conduct  prayer and touched  his warding
charm. A confusion of turns within the ways high-grown with hovels which cut off
view and sky, they heard commotion, shouting men and running feet.

They spurred their horses and careened round corners, forgetful of their pose as
independent reavers, for  they'd heard Stepsons  calling manoeuvre codes.  So it
was that they  came sliding their  horses down on  haunches so hard  sparks flew
from iron-shod hooves,  cutting off the  retreat of three  running on foot  from
Stepsons, and vaulted down to the cobbles to lend a hand.

Niko's horse, itself, took it in its mind to help, and charged past them,  reins
dragging, head held  high, to back  a fugitive against  a mudbrick wall.  ''Seh!
Run, Vis!' they heard, and more in a tongue Janni thought might be Nisi, for the
exclamation was.

By then Niko  had one by  the collar and  two quarrels shot  by close to Janni's
ear. He hollered out his identity and called to the shooters to cease their fire
before he was skewered like the second fugitive, pinned by two bolts against the
wall. The third quarry  struggled now between the  two on-duty Stepsons, one  of
whom called  out to  Janni to  hold the  second. It  was Straton's  voice, Janni
realized, and Straton's quarrels pinning the indigent by cape and crotch against
the wall. Lucky for the delinquent  it had been: Straton's bolts had  pierced no
vital spot, just clothing.

It was  not till  then that  Janni realized  that Niko  was talking to the first
fugitive, the one his horse had  pinned, in Nisi, and the other  answering back,
fast  and low,  his eyes  upon the  vicious horse,  quivering and  covered  with
phosphorescent froth, who stood watchful  by his master, hoping still  that Niko
would let him pound the quarry into gory mud.

Straton and his partner, dragging  the first unfortunate between them,  came up,
full of thanks and victory:'... finally got one, alive. Janni, how's yours?'

The  one he  held at  crossbow-point was  quiet, submissive,  a Sanctuarite,  he
thought, until Straton lit a torch. Then they saw a slave's face, dark and  arch
like Nisibisi's were,  and Straton's partner  spoke for the  first time: 'That's
Haught, the slave-bait.' Critias moved  forward, torch in hand. 'Hello,  pretty.
We'd thought you'd run or died. We've  lots to ask you, puppy, and nothing  we'd
rather  do tonight  ...' As  Crit moved  in and  Janni stepped  back, Janni  was
conscious that Niko and his prisoner had fallen silent.

Then the slave, amazingly, straightened up and raised its head, reaching  within
its jerkin. Janni levered his bow, but  the hand came out with a crumpled  paper
in it, and this he held forth, saying: 'She

freed me. She said this says so. Please ... I know nothing, but that she's freed
me ...'

Crit snatched the feathered parchment from him, held it squinting in the torch's
light. 'That's right, that's what it says here.' He rubbed his jaw; then stepped
forward. The slave flinched, his handsome face turned away. Crit pulled out  the
bolts that  held him  pinned, grunting;  no blood  followed; Straton's  quarrels
penetrated clothing only; the  slave crouched down, unscathed  but incapacitated
by his fear. 'Come as a free man, then, and talk to us. We won't hurt you,  boy.
Talk and you can go.'

Niko, then, intruded, his prisoner beside him, his horse following close behind.
'Let them go, Crit.'

' What? Niko, forget the game, tonight. They'll not live to tell you helped  us.
We've been needing this advantage too long -'

'Let them  go, Crit.'  Beside him  his prisoner  cursed or  hissed or  intoned a
spell, but did not  break to run. Niko  stepped close to his  task force leader,
whispering: 'This one's an ex-commando, a fighter from Wizardwall come upon hard
times. Do him a service, as I must, for services done.'

'Nisibisi? More's the reason, then, to  take them and break them-'

'No.  He's on the other side from  warlocks; he'll do  us more good free  in the
streets.  Won't you. Vis?'

The foreign-looking ruffian  agreed, his voice  thick with an  accent detectable
even in his three clipped syllables.

Niko nodded. 'See, Crit? This is Vis. Vis, this is Crit. I'll be the contact for
his reports. Go on, now. You, too, freedman, go. Run!'

And the two, taking Niko at his word, dashed away before Crit could object.

The third, in Straton's grasp, writhed wildly. This was a failed hawkmask,  very
likely, in Straton's estimation the prize of the three and one no word from Niko
could make the mercenary loose.

Niko  agreed that  he'd not  try to  save any  ofJubal's minions,  and that  was
that... almost. They had to keep  their meeting brief; any could be  peeking out
from windowsill or shadowed door; but as they mounted up to ride away, Janni saw
a cowled figure rising  from a pool of  darkness occluding the intersection.  It
stood, full up, momentarily, and  moonrays struck its face. Janni  shuddered; it
was a face with hellish eyes, too far to be so big or so frightening, yet  their
met glance shocked him like icy water and made his limbs to shake.

'Stealth! Did you see that?'

'What?'  Niko  snapped, defensive  over  interfering in  Crit's  operation. 'See
what?'

'That -  thing ...'Nothing  was there,  where he  had seen  it. 'Nothing...  I'm
seeing things.' Crit and Straton had reached their horses; they heard hoof beats
receding in the night.

'Show me where, and tell me what.'

Janni swung up on his  mount and led the way;  when they got there they  found a
crumpled body, a youth with bloated tongue  outstuck and rolled up eyes as if  a
fit had taken him, dead as Abarsis in the street. 'Oh, no ..." Niko, dismounted,
rolled the  corpse. 'It's  one of  Tamzen's friends.'  The silk-and-linened body
came clearer as Janni's eyes accustomed themselves to moonlight after the  glare
of the torch. They heaved the corpse up upon Janni's horse who snorted to bear a
dead thing but forbore to refuse outright. 'Let's take it somewhere. Stealth. We
can't carry it about all night.'  Only then did Janni remember they'd  failed to
report to Crit their evening's plan.

At his insistence, Niko agreed to ride by the Shambles Cross safe haven, caulked
and shuttered in iron, where  Stepsons and street men and  IIsig/Rankan garrison
personnel, engaged in chasing hawkmasks and other covert enterprises, made their
slum reports in situ.

They managed to leave  the body there, but  not to alert the  task force leader;
Crit had taken the hawkmask wherever he thought the catch would serve them best;
nothing was in the room but the  interrogation wheel and bags of lime to  tie on
unlucky noses and truncheons of sailcloth filled with gravel and iron filings to
change the most steadfast heart. They left a note, carefully coded, and  hurried
back on to the street. Niko's brow was furrowed, and Janni, too, was in a  hurry
to see if they might  find Tamzen and her friends  asa living group, not one  by
one, cold corpses in the gutter.

The witch Roxane had house snakes,  a pair brought down from Nisibis,  green and
six feet long, each one. She brought  them into her study and set their  baskets
by the hearth. Then, bowl of water by her side, she spoke the words that  turned
them into men. The facsimiles aped a pair of Stepsons; she got them clothes  and
sent them off. Then she took the water bowl and stirred it with her finger until
a whirlpool sucked and writhed. This she  spoke over, and out to sea beyond  the
harbour a like  disturbance began to  rage. She took  from her table  six carven
ships with Beysib sails, small and filled with wax miniatures of men. These  she
launched into the basin  with its whirlpool and  spun and spun her  finger round
until the flagships of the fleet foundered, then were sunk and sucked to lie, at
last, upon the bottom of the bowl. Even after she withdrew her finger the  water
raged  awhile. The  witch looked  calmly into  her maelstrom  and nodded   once,
content. The diversion would be timely; the moon, outside her window, was nearly
high, scant hours from its zenith.

Then it was  time to take  Jagat's report and  send the death  squads - or  dead
squads, for none of those who served in them had life of their own to lead  into
town.

Tamzen's heart was pounding, her mouth dry and her lungs burning. They had run a
long way. They were lost and all six knew it, Phryne was weeping and her  sister
was shaking and crying she couldn't run, her knees wouldn't hold her; the  three
boys left were  talking loud and  telling all how  they'd get home  if they just
stayed in a group - the girls had no need to fear. More krrf was shared,  though
it made things worse, not better, so that a toothless crone who tapped her stick
and smacked her gums sent them flying through the streets.

No one talked about Mehta's fate; they'd seen him with the dark-clad whore, seen
him mesmerized, seen  him take her  hand. They'd hid  until the pair  walked on,
then followed - the group had sworn to stay together, wicked adventure on  their
minds; all were officially adults now;  none could keep them from the  forbidden
pleasures  of men  and women  - to  see if  Mehta would  really lay  the  whore,
thinking they'd regroup right after, and find out what fun he'd had.

They'd seen him fall, and gag, and die once he'd raised her skirts and had  her,
his buttocks thrusting hard as he pinned her to the alley wall. They'd seen  her
bend down over him and raise her head and the glowing twin hells there had  sent
them pell-mell, fleeing what they knew was no human whore.

Now  they'd calmed,  but they  were deep  in the  Shambles, near  its end  where
Caravan Square began. There was light there, from midnight merchants engaged  in
double-dealing; it was not  safe there, one of  the boys said: slaves  were made
this way: children taken, sold north and never seen again.

'It's  safe here,  then?' Tamzen   blurted, her  teeth chattering  but  the krrf
making her bold  and angry. She  strode ahead, not  waiting to see  them follow;
they would; she knew this bunch better than their mothers. The thing to do,  she
was sure, was to stride bravely on until they came upon the Square and found the
streets  home, or  came upon  some Hell  Hounds, palace  soldiers, or  Stepsons.
Niko's friends would ride  them home on horseback  if they found some;  Tamzen's
acquaintance among the men of steel was her fondest prize.

Niko ... If he were here, she'd  have no fear, nor need to pretend  to valour...
Her eyes filled with tears, thinking what he'd say when he heard. She was  never
going to convince him she was grown if  all her attempts to do so made her  seem
the more  a child.  A child's  error, this,  for sure  ... and  one dead  on her
account. Her father would beat  her rump to blue and  he'd keep her in her  room
for a month. She began to fret -  the krrf's doing, though she was too far  gone
in the drug's sway to tell -  and saw an alley from which torchlight  shone. She
took  it; the  others followed,  she heard  them close  behind. They  had  money
aplenty; they would hire an escort, perhaps with a wagon, to take them home. All
taverns had men looking  for hire in them;  if they chanced Caravan  Square, and
fell afoul of slavers, she'd never see her poppa or Niko or her room filled with
stuffed toys and ruffles again.

The inn was called the  Sow's Ear, and it was  foul. In its doorway, one  of the
boys, panting, caught her  arm and jerked her  back. 'Show money in  that place,
and you'll get all our throats slit quick.'

He was right.  They huddled in  the street and  sniffed more krrf  and shook and
argued. Phryne  began to  wail aloud  and her  sister stopped  her mouth  with a
clapped hand. Just as  the two girls, terrified  and defeated, crouched down  in
the street and one of the boys, his bladder loosed by fear, sought a comer wall,
a woman appeared before them, her hood  thrown back, her face hidden by a  trick
of  light.  But  the  voice  was  a  gentlewoman's  voice  and  the  words  were
compassionate. 'Lost, children? There, there, it's all right now, just come with
me. We'll have mulled wine and pastries  and I'll have my man form an  escort to
see you home. You're the Alekeep owner's daughter, if I'm right? Ah, good, then;
your father's a friend of my husband ... surely you remember me?'

She gave a  name and Tamzen,  her sense swimming  in drugs and  her heart filled
with relief and  the sweet taste  of salvation, lied  and said she  did. All six
went along  with the  woman, skirting  the square  until they  came to a curious
house behind a high gate, well  lit and gardened and full of  chaotic splendour.
At its rear, the rush of the White Foal could be heard.

'Now sit, sit, little ones. Who needs to wash off the street grime? Who needs  a
pot?'  The  rooms were  shadowed,  no longer  well  lit; the  woman's  eyes were
comforting,   calming like  sedative draughts  for  sleepless  nights. They  sat
among the  silks and   the carven  chairs and  they drank  what  she offered and
began to giggle. Phryne  went and  washed, and her sister  and Tamzen  followed.
When they came back, the  boys were nowhere in sight. Tamzen  was just going  to
ask about that when the woman offered fruit, and somehow she forgot the words on
her tongue-tip, and even that  the boys had been there at all,  so fine was  the
krrf the  woman smoked  with them.  She knew  she'd remember  in a bit,  though,
whatever it was she'd forgot...

When Crit and Straton arrived with the hawkmask they'd captured at the  Foalside
home of  Ischade, the  vampire woman,  all its  lights were  on, it  seemed, yet
little of that radiance cut the gloom.

'By the  god's four  mouths, Crit,  I still  don't understand  why you let those
others go. And for Niko. What - ?'

'Don't ask me, Straton, what his reasons are; I don't know. Something about  the
one being of that Successors band, revolutionaries who want Wizardwall back from
the Nisibisi mages -there's more to  Nisibis than the warlocks. If that  Vis was
one, then he's an outlaw as far as Nisibisi law goes, and maybe a fighter. So we
let him go, do him a favour, see if  maybe he'll come to us, do us a service  in
his turn. But as for the other - you saw Ischade's writ of freedom - we gave him
to her and she let him go. If we want to use her ... if she'll ever help us find
Jubal - and she does know where he is; this freeing of the slave was a  message;
she's telling us we've got  to up the ante -  we've got to honour her  wishes as
far as this slave-bait goes.'

'But this ... coming here ourselves^. You know what she can do to a man ...'

'Maybe we'll like it; maybe it's time to  die. I don't know. I do know we  can't
leave it to the garrison - every  time they find us a hawkmask he's  too damaged
to tell us anything. We'll never recruit  what's left of them if the army  keeps
killing them slowly and  we take the blame.  And also,' Crit paused,  dismounted
his horse, pulled the trussed and  gagged hawkmask he had slung over  his saddle
like a haunch of meat down after  him, so that the prisoner fell heavily  to the
ground, 'we've been  told by the  garrison's intelligence liaison  that the army
thinks Stepsons fear this woman.'

'Anybody  with  a  dram  of common  sense  would.'  Straton,  rubbing his  eyes,
dismounted also, notched crossbow held at the ready as soon as his feet  touched
the ground.

'They don't mean that. You know what they mean; they can't tell a Sacred  Bander
from a straight mercenary. They think  we're all sodomizers and sneer at  us for
that.'

'Let  'em. I'd  rather be  alive and  misunderstood than  dead and   respected.'
Straton blinked,  trying to  clear his  blurred vision.  It was  remarkable that
Critias would undertake this action on his own; he wasn't supposed to take  part
in field  actions, but  command them.  Tempus had  been to  see him, though, and
since then the task force leader had been more taciturn and even more  impatient
than usual. Straton knew  there was no use  in arguing with Critias,  but he was
one of  the few  who could  claim the  privilege of  voicing his  opinion to the
leader, even when they disagreed.

They'd interrogated  the hawkmask  briefly; it  didn't take  long; Straton was a
specialist in exactly  that. He was  a pretty one,  and substantively undamaged.
The  vampire was  discerning, loved  beauty; she'd  take to  this one,  the  few
bruises on him might  well make him more  attractive to a creature  such as she:
not only would she have  him in her power but  it would be in her  power to save
him from a much worse death than that she'd give. By the look of the tall, lithe
hawkmask, by his clothes  and his pinched face  in which sensitive, liquid  eyes
roamed furtively, a pleasant death would be welcome. His ilk were hunted by more
factions in Sanctuary than any but Nisibisi spies. Crit said, 'Ready, Strat?'

'I own I'm not, but I'll pretend if you do. If you get through this and I don't,
my horses are yours.'

'And mine, yours.'  Crit bared his  teeth. 'But I  don't expect that  to happen.
She's reasonable, I'm wagering. She  couldn't have turned that slave  loose that
way  if  she wasn't  in  control other  lust.  And she's  smart  - smarter  than
Kadakithis's so-called "intelligence staff, or Hell Hounds, we've seen that  for
a fact.'

So,  despite sane  cautions, they  unlatched the  gate, their  horses  drop-tied
behind them, cut the hawkmask's ankle bonds and walked him to the door. His eyes
went wide above  his gag, pupils  gigantic in the  torchlight on her  threshold,
then squeezed shut as  Ischade herself came to  greet them when, after  knocking
thrice and waiting long, they were about to turn away, convinced she wasn't home
after all.

She  looked them  up and  down, her  eyes half-lidded.  Straton, for  once,  was
grateful for the  shimmer in his  vision, the blur  he couldn't blink  away. The
hawkmask shivered  and lurched  backwards in  their grasp  as Crit  spoke first:
'Good evening, madam. We thought the time had come to meet, face to face.  We've
brought you this gift,  a token of our  good will.' He spoke  blandly, matter-of
factly, letting her know they knew all about her and didn't really care what she
did to the unwary or the unfortunate. Straton's mouth dried and his tongue stuck
to the roof of it.  None was colder than Crit,  or more tenacious when work  was
under way.

The woman, Ischade, dusky-skinned  but not the ruddy  tone of Nisibis, an  olive
cast that made  the whites other  teeth and eyes  very bright, bade  them enter.
'Bring him in, then, and we'll see what can be seen.'

'No, no. We'll leave him - an article of faith. We'd like to know what you  hear
of Jubal, or his band - whereabouts, that sort of thing. If you come to think of
any such information, you can find me at the mercenaries' hostel.'

'Or in your hidey-hole in Shambles Cross?'

'Sometimes.' Crit stood firm. Straton, his relief a flood, now that he knew they
weren't going  in there,  gave the  hawkmask a  shove. 'Go  on, boy,  go to your
mistress.'

'A slave, then, is this one?' she  asked Strat and that glance chilled his  soul
when it  fixed on  him. He'd  seen butchers  look at  sheep like  that. He  half
expected her to reach out and tweak his biceps.

He said: 'What you wish, he is.'

She said: 'And you?'

Crit said: 'Forbearance has its limits.'

She replied: 'Yours, perhaps, not mine. Take him with you; I want him not.  What
you Stepsons think of me, I shall not even ask. But cheap I shall never come.'

Crit loosed  his hold  on the  youth, who  wriggled then,  but Straton held him,
thinking that Ischade was without doubt the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen,
and the hawkmask was luckier than most. If death was the gateway to heaven,  she
was the sort of gatekeep he'd like to admit him, when his time came.

She  remarked,  though  he had  not  spoken  aloud, that  such  could  easily be
arranged.

Crit, at  that, looked  between them,  then shook  his head.  'Go wait  with the
horses, Straton. I thought I heard them, just now.'

So Straton never did find out exactly  what was - or was not -  arranged between
his task force leader and the vampire woman, but when he reached the horses,  he
had his hands full  calming them, as if  his own had scented  Niko's black, whom
his grey detested above  all other studs. When  they'd both been stabled  in the
same barn, the din had been terrible, and stallboards shattered as regularly  as
stalls were mucked,  from those two  trying to get  at each other.  Horses, like
men, love .and hate,  and those two stallions  wanted a piece of  each other the
way  Strat  wanted  a  chance  at the  garrison  commander  or  Vashanka  at the
Wrigglies' Ils.

Soon after, Crit came sauntering down the walk, unscathed, alone, and silent.

Straton wanted to ask,  but did not, what  had been arranged: his  leader's sour
expression warned him off. And an hour later, at the Shambles Cross safe  haven,
when one of the  street men came running  in saying there was  a disturbance and
Tempus could not be found, so Crit would have to come, it was too late.

What they could do about waterspouts and whirlpools in the harbour was unclear.

When Straton and Crit had ridden away, Niko eased his black out from hiding. The
spirit-track he'd followed had led them here; Tamzen and the others were inside.
The spoor met up with the pale  blue traces of the house's owner near  the Sow's
Ear and did not separate thereafter.  Blue was no human's  colour, unless   that
human  was an  enchanter, a  witch,  accursed or charmed.  Both Niko  and  Janni
knew  whose  house  this  was,  but  what  Crit  and  Straton were  doing here,
neither wanted to guess or say.

'We can't rush the place. Stealth. You know what she is.'

'I know.'

'Why didn't  you let  me hail  them? Four  would be  better than  two, for  this
problem's solving.'

'Whatever they're doing here, I don't want to know about. And we've broken cover
as it  is tonight.'  Niko crooked  a leg  over his  horse's neck, cavalry style.
Janni rolled a smoke  and offered him one;  he took it and  lit it with a  flint
from his belt pouch just as two men with a wagon came driving up from  Downwind,
wheels and hooves thundering across the White Foal's bridge.

'Too  much traffic,'  Janni muttered,  as they  pulled their  horses back   into
shadows and  watched the  men stop  their team  before the  odd home's door; the
wagon was screened and  curtained; if someone was  within, it was impossible  to
tell.

The men went in and when they came out they had three smallish people with  them
swathed in robes and hooded. These were put into the carriage and it then  drove
away, turning on  to the cart-track  leading south from  the bridge -  there was
nothing down there but swamp, and  wasteland, and at the end of  it. Fisherman's
Row and the sea ... nothing, that is, but the witch Roxane's fortified estate.

'Do you think - Stealth, was that them?'

'Quiet, curse you; I'm  trying to tell.' It  might have been; his  heart was far
from quiet, and the passengers he sensed were drugged and

nearly somnambulant.

But from the house, he could no  longer sense the girlish trails which had  been
there, among the blue/archmagical/anguished ones of its owner and those of  men.
Boys' auras still remained there, he thought, but quiet, weaker, perhaps  dying,
maybe dead. It could be the fellow Crit had left there, and not the young scions
of east-side homes.

The moon,  above Niko's  head, was  near at  zenith. Seeing  him look  up, Janni
anticipated what he was going to say: 'Well Stealth, we've got to go down  there
anyway; let's follow the wagon. Mayhap we'll catch it. Perchance we'll find  out
whom they've got there, if we do. And  we've little time to lose - girls or  no,
we've a witch to

attend to.'

'Aye.' Niko reined his horse  around and set it at  a lope after the wagon,  not
fast enough to catch it  too soon, but fast enough  to keep it in earshot.  When
Janni's horse came  up beside his,  the other mercenary  called: 'Convenience of
this magnitude makes  me nervous; you'd  think the witch  sent that wagon,  even
snared those children, to be sure we'd have to come.'

Janni was right; Niko said nothing; they were committed; there was nothing to do
but follow; whatever was going to happen was well upon them, now.

A dozen riders materialized out of  the wasteland near the swamp and  surrounded
the two Stepsons; none had faces;  all had glowing pure-white eyes. They  fought
as best they could with mortal  weapons, but ropes of spitting power  came round
them  and blue  sparks bit  them and  their flesh  sizzled through  their  linen
chitons and, unhorsed, they were dragged  along behind the riders until they  no
longer knew where they were or what was happening to them or even felt the pain.
The  last  thing Niko  remembered,  before he  awoke  bound to  a  tree in  some
featureless grove,  was the  wagon ahead  stopping, and  his horse,  on its  own
trying to win  the day. The  big black had  climbed the mount  of the rider  who
dragged Niko on a tether, and he'd seen the valiant beast's thick jowls  pierced
through by arrows glowing blue with  magic, seen his horse falter, jaws  gaping,
then fall as he was dragged away.

Now he struggled, helpless in his bonds, trying to clear his vision and will his
pain away.

Before  him  he saw  figures,  a bonfire  limning  silhouettes. Among  them,  as
consciousness came  full upon  him and  he began  to wish  he'd never waked, was
Tamzen, struggling in grisly  embraces and wailing out  his name, and the  other
girls,  and Janni,  spreadeagled, staked  out on  the ground,  his mouth   open,
screaming at the sky.  'Ah,' he heard, 'Nikodemos.  So kind of you  to join us.'
Then a woman's face swam before him, beautiful, though that just made it  worse.
It was the Nisibisi witch and she was smiling, itself an awful sign. A score  of
minions ringed her, creatures roused from graves, and two with ophidian eyes and
lipless mouths whose skins had a greenish cast.

She began to tell him softly the things  she wished to know. For a time he  only
shook his head  and closed his  ears and tried  to flee his  flesh. If he  could
retire his mind to his rest-place, he could ignore it all; the pain, the screams
which split the night; he would know none of what occurred here, and die without
the shame  of capitulation:  she'd kill  him anyway,  when she  was done.  So he
counted determinedly backward, eyes  squeezed shut, envisioning the  runes which
would save  him. But  Tamzen's screams,  her sobs  to him  for help, and Janni's
animal anguish  kept interfering,  and he  could not  reach the  quiet place and
stay: he kept being dragged back by the sounds.

Still, when  she asked  him questions  he only  stared back  at her  in silence:
Tempus's plans and state of mind were things he knew little of; he couldn't have
stopped this  if he'd  wanted to;  he didn't  know enough.  But when  at length,
knowing it, he  closed his eyes  again, she came  up close and  pried them open,
impaling his lids  with wooden splinters  so that he  would see what  made Janni
cry.

They had staked the Stepson over a  wild creature's burrow - a badger, he  later
saw, when it  had gnawed and  clawed its way  to freedom -  and were smoking the
rodent out by setting fire to its tunnel. When Janni's stomach began to show the
outline of the animal within, Niko,  capitulating, told all he knew and  made up
more besides.

By then the girls had long since been silenced.

All he heard was the witch's voice; all he remembered was the horror of her eyes
and the message she bade  him give to Tempus, and  when he had repeated it,  she
pulled the  splinters from  his lids  ... The  darkness she  allowed him  became
complete, and he found a danker rest-place than meditation's quiet cave.

In Roxane's  'manor house'  commotion raged;  slaves went  running and men cried
orders, and in the court the caravan was being readied to make away.

She herself  sat petulant  and wroth,  among the  brocades of  her study and the
implements other  craft: water  and fire  and earth  and air,  and minerals  and
plants, and a globe sculpted from high peaks clay with precious stones inset.

A wave of hand would serve to load these in her wagon. The house spells' undoing
would take much less than that -  a finger's wave, a word unsaid, and  all would
be no more than  it appeared: rickety and  threadbare. But the evening's  errors
and all the work she'd done to amend them had drained her strength.

She sat, and Niko,  in a corner, propped  up but not awake,  breathed raspingly:
another error  - those  damn snakes  took everything  too literally,  as well as
being incapable of following simple orders to their completion.

The snakes she'd sent out, charmed to look like Stepsons, should have found  the
children in the streets; as Niko and Janni, their disguises were complete. But a
vampire bitch, a cursed and accursed third-rater possessed of meagre spells, had
chanced upon the quarry  and taken it home.  Then she'd had to  change all plans
and make the wagon and send the  snakes to retrieve the bait - the  girls alone,
the boys were  expendable - and  snakes were not  up to fooling  women grown and
knowledgeable of  spells. Ischade  had given  up her  female prizes, rather than
confront  Nisibisi magic,  pretending for  her own  sake that  she believed  the
'Stepsons' who came to claim Tamzen and her friends.

Had  Roxane not  been leaving  town this  evening, she'd  have had  to wipe  the
vampire's soul - or at least her memory - away.

So she took the snakes out once more from their baskets and held their heads  up
to her face. Tongues  darted out and reptilian  eyes pled mercy, but  Roxane had
forgotten mercy long ago. And strength was what she needed, which in part  these
had helped to drain away. Holding them high she picked herself up and,  speaking
words of power, took them both and  cast them in the blazing hearth. The  flames
roared up  and snakes  writhed in  agony and  roasted. When  they were  done she
fetched them out with silver tongs and ate their tails and heads.

Thus fortified, she turned to Niko,  still hiding mind and soul in  his precious
mental refuge, a version of it she'd  altered when her magic saw it. This  place
of peace and  perfect relaxation, a  cave behind the  meadow of his  mind, had a
ghost in it, a friend who loved him.  In its guise she'd spoken long to him  and
gained his spirit's trust. He was hers, now, as her lover-lord had promised; all
things he learned she'd know  as soon as he. None  of it he'd remember, just  go
about his business of war and  death. Through him she'd herd Tempus  whither she
willed and through him she'd know the Riddler's every plan.

For Nikodemos, the Nisibisi bondservant, had never shed his brand or slipped his
chains: though her lover had freed his  body, deep within his soul a string  was
tied. Any time, her lord could pull it; and she, too, now, had it twined  around
her pinky.

He remembered none  of what occurred  after his interrogation  in the grove;  he
recalled just what  she pleased and  nothing more. Oh,  he'd think he'd  dreamed
delirious nightmares, as he sweated now to feel her touch.

She woke him with a  tap upon his eyes and  told him what he was:  her pawn, her
tool, even that he  would not recall their  little talk or coming  here. And she
warned him  of undeads,  and shrivelled  his soul  when she  showed him,  in her
mirror-eyes, what Tamzen and her friends could be, should he even remember  what
passed between them here.

Then she put her pleasure by and touched the bruised and battered face: one more
thing she took from him,  to show his spirit who  was slave and who was  master.
She had him service her and took strength from his swollen mouth and then,  with
a laugh, made him forget it all.

Then she  sent her  servant forth,  unwitting, the  extra satisfaction - gleaned
from knowing  that his  spirit knew,  and deep  within him  cried and  struggled
giving the whole endeavour spice.

Jagat's men would see him to the road out near the Stepsons' barracks; they took
his sagging weight in brawny arms.

And Roxane, for a time, was free  to quit this scrofulous town and wend  her way
northward:  she might  be back,  but for  the nonce  the journey  to her  lord's
embrace was all she craved. They'd leave a trail well marked in place and  plane
for Tempus; she'd lie in  high-peak splendour, with her lover-lord  well pleased
by what she'd brought  him: some Stepsons, and  a Froth Daughter, and  a man the
gods immortalized.

It took  until nearly  dawn to  calm the  fish-faces who'd  lost their five best
ships; 'lucky' for everyone that the Burek faction's nobility had been  enjoying
Kadakithis's hospitality, ensconced in the summer palace on the lighthouse  spit
and not  aboard when  the ships  snapped anchor  and headed  like creatures with
wills of their own towards the maelstrom that had opened at the harbour's mouth.
Crit, through all, was  taciturn; he was not  supposed to surface; Tempus,  when
found, would  not be  pleased. But  Kadakithis needed  counsel badly;  the young
prince would give away his imperial  curls . for 'harmonious relations with  our
fellows from across the sea'.

Nobody could prove that this was other than a natural disaster; an 'act of gods'
was the unfortunate turn of phrase.

When at last Crit and Strat had  done with the dicey process of standing  around
looking inconsequential while in fact,  by handsign and courier, they  mitigated
Kadakithis's bent  to compromise  (for which  there was  no need  except in  the
Beysib matriarch's mind), they retired from the dockside.

Crit wanted to get  drunk, as drunk as  humanly possible: helping the  Mageguild
defend its innocence, when like as not some mage or other had called the  storm,
was  more than  distasteful; it  was counterproductive.  As far  as Critias  was
concerned,  the  newly elected  First  Hazard ought  to  step forward  and  take
responsibility for  his guild's  malevolent mischief.  When frogs  fell from the
sky, Straton prognosticated, such would be the case.

They'd  done  some  good  there:  they'd  conscripted  Wrigglies  and  deputized
fishermen and bullied the garrison duty officer into sending some of his men out
with the long boats and Beysib dinghies and slave-powered tenders which searched
shoals  and coastline  for survivors.  But with  the confusion  of healers   and
thrill-seeking civilians and boat owners and Beysibs on the docks, they'd had to
call in all the Stepsons and troops from road patrols and country posts in  case
the Beysibs took their loss too much to heart and turned upon the townsfolk. .

On  every  corner, now,  a  mounted pair  stood  watch; beyond,  the  roads were
desolate, unguarded. Crit worried that if diversion was some culprit's  purpose,
it had worked  all too well:  an army headed  south would be  upon them with  no
warning. If  he'd not  known that  yesterday there'd  been no  sign of southward
troop movement, he confided to Straton, he'd be sure some such evil was afoot.

To make things worse, when  they found an open bar  it was the Alekeep, and  its
owner was wringing his hands in a corner with five other upscale fathers.  Their
sons and  daughters had  been out  all night;  word to  Tempus at  the Stepsons'
barracks had  brought no  answer; the  skeleton crew  at the  garrison had  more
urgent things to do than attend to demands for search parties when manpower  was
suddenly at a premium; the fathers sat awaiting their own men's return and  thus
had kept the Alekeep's graveyard shift from closing.

They got out of there as soon as politic, weary as their horses and squinting in
the lightening dark.

The only place where peace and quiet could be had now that the town was  waking,
Crit said sourly, was the Shambles  drop. They rode there and fastened  the iron
shutters down  against the  dawn, thinking  to get  an hour  or so of sleep, and
found Niko's coded note.

'Why wouldn't the old barkeep have told us that he'd set them on his  daughter's
trail?' Strat sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

'Niko's legend says  he's defected to  the slums, remember?'  Crit was shrugging
into his chiton, which he'd just tugged off and thrown upon the floor.

'We're not going back out.'

'I am.'

'To look for Niko'! Where?

'Niko and Janni. And I don't know where. But if that pair hasn't turned up those
youngsters yet, it's no simple  adolescent prank or graduation romp.  Let's hope
it's just that their meet with  Roxane took precedence and it's inopportune  for
them to leave her.' Crit stood.

Straton didn't.

'Coming?' Crit asked.

'Somebody should be where authority is expected to be found. You should be  here
or at the hostel, not chasing after someone who might be chasing after you.'

So in the end, Straton won that battle and they went up to the hostel, stopping,
since the sun had  risen, at Marc's to  pick up Straton's case  of flights along
the way.

The shop's door was ajar, though the opening hour painted on it hadn't come yet.
Inside, the smith was hunched over a mug of tea, a crossbow's trigger  mechanism
dismantled before  him on  a split  of suede,  scowling at  the crossbow's  guts
spread upon his counter as if at a recalcitrant child.

He looked up when  they entered, wished them  a better morning than  he'd had so
far this day, and went to get Straton's case of nights.

Behind the counter an assortment of high-torque bows was hung.

When Marc returned with the  wooden case, Straton pointed: 'That's  Niko's isn't
it - or are my eyes that bad?'

'I'm  holding  it  for  him,  until  he  pays,'  explained  the  smith  with the
unflinching gaze.

'We'll pay for it now and he can pick it up from me,' Crit said.

'I don't know if he'd ...' Marc, half into someone else's business, stepped back
out of  it with  a nod  of head:  'All right,  then, if  you want. I'll tell him
you've got it. That's four soldats, three ... I've done a lot of work on it  for
him. Shall I tell him to seek you at the guild hostel?'

'Thereabouts.'

Taking it down from  the wall, the smith  wound and levered, then  dry-fired the
crossbow, its mechanism to his ear. A smile came over his face at what he heard.
'Good enough, then,' he declared and wrapped it in its case of padded hide.

This way, Straton realized, Niko would come direct to Crit and report when  Marc
told him what they'd done.

By the time dawn had cracked the world's egg, Tempus as well as Jihan was sated,
even tired. For a man who chased sleep like other men chased power or women,  it
was wondrous that this was so. For a being only recently become woman, it was  a
triumph.  They  walked  back  towards  the  Stepsons'  barracks,  following  the
creekbed, all pink and  gold in sunrise, content  and even playful, his  chuckle
and her  occasional laugh  startling sleepy  squirrels and  flushing birds  from
their nests.              .

He'd been  morose, but  she'd cured  it, convincing  him that  life might take a
better  turn,  if  he'd  just  let  it.  They'd  spoken  of  her  father, called
Stormbringer in lieu of name,  and arcane matters of their  joint preoccupation:
whether  humanity had  inherent value,  whether gods  could die  or merely  lie,
whether Vashanka was hiding out somewhere, petulant in godhead, only waiting for
generous sacrificers  and heartfelt  prayers to  coax him  back among his Rankan
people - or, twelfth plane powers forfend, really 'dead'.

He'd spoken openly to her of his affliction, reminding her that those who  loved
him died by violence and those he  loved were bound to spurn him, and  what that
could mean in the case of his Stepsons, and herself, if Vashanka's power did not
return to mitigate  his curse. He'd  told her of  his plea to  Enlil, an ancient
deity of universal scope, and that he awaited godsign.

She'd been relieved at that, afraid, she admitted, that the lord of dreams might
tempt him  from her  side. For  when Askelon  the dream  lord had  come to  take
Tempus's sister off  to his metaphysical  kingdom of delights,  he'd offered the
brother the boon of  mortality. Now that she'd  just found him, Jihan  had added
throatily, she could not bear it if he chose to die.

And she'd spent  that evening proving  to Tempus that  it might be  well to stay
alive with her, who loved life the  more for having only just begun it,  and yet
could not succumb to  mortal death or be  placed in mortal danger  by his curse,
his strength, or whatever he might do.

The high moon had laved them and  her legs had embraced him and her  red-glowing
eyes like her  father's had transfixed  him while her  cool flesh enflamed  him.
Yes, with Jihan beside him, he'd swallow  his pride and his pique and give  even
Sanctuary's Kadaki-this the benefit  of the doubt -  he'd stay though his  heart
tugged him northward, although he'd thought, when he took her to their  creekbed
bower, to chase her away.

When they'd slipped into his barracks  quarters from the back, he was  no longer
so certain. He heard from a lieutenant all about the waterspouts and whirlpools,
thinking while the  man talked that  this was his  godsign, however obscure  its
meaning,  and then  he regretted  having made  an accommodation  with the  Froth
Daughter:  all his  angst came  back upon  him, and  he wished  he'd hugged  his
resolve firmly to his breast and driven Jihan hence.

But when  the disturbance  at the  outer gates  penetrated to  the slaver's  old
apartments which he had  made his own, rousting  them out to seek  its cause, he
was glad enough she'd remained.

The  two  of them  had  to shoulder  their  way through  the  gathered crowd  of
Stepsons, astir with bitter mutters; no one made way for them; none had come  to
their commander's billet with news of what had been brought up to the  gatehouse
in the dawn.

He heard a harsh  whisper from a Stepson  too angry to be  careful, wondering if
Tempus had  sent Janni's  team deliberately  to destruction  because Stealth had
rejected the Riddler's offered pairbond.

One  who  knew better  answered  sagely that  this  was a  Mygdonian  message, a
Nisibisi warning of some antiquity, and he had heard it straight from  Stealth's
broken lips.

'What did that?' Jihan moaned, bending low over Janni's remains. Tempus did  not
answer her but  said generally: 'And  Niko?' and followed  a man who  headed off
towards the whitewashed barracks, hearing as  he went a voice choked with  grief
explaining  to  Jihan what  happens  when you  tie  a man  spreadeagled  over an
animal's burrow and smoke the creature out.

The Stepson, guiding him to where Niko lay, said that the man who'd brought them
wished to speak to  Tempus. 'Let him wait  for his reward,' Tempus  snapped, and
questioned the mercenary  about the Samaritan  who'd delivered the  two Stepsons
home. But the Sacred  Bander had gotten nothing  from the stranger who'd  rapped
upon the gates and braved the angry sentries who almost killed him when they saw
what burden he'd brought in. The stranger  would say only that he must wait  for
Tempus.

The  Stepson's  commander stood  around  helplessly with  three  others, friends
ofNiko's, until the barber-surgeon had finished with needle and gut, then chased
them all away, shuttering windows, barring doors. Cup in hand, then, he gave the
battered, beaten  youth his  painkilling draught  in silence,  only sitting  and
letting Niko sip while he assessed the Stepson's injuries and made black guesses
as to how the boy had come by green and purple blood-filled bruises, rope  burns
at wrist and neck, and a face like doom.

Quite soon he heard from Nikodemos, concisely but through a slur that comes when
teeth have been loosed or broken in a dislocated jaw, what had transpired:  they
had gone  seeking the  Alekeep owner's  daughter, deep  into Shambles where drug
dens and cheap  whores promise dreamless  nights, found them  at Ischade's, seen
them hustled into a wagon and driven away towards Roxane's. Following, for  they
were due to  see the witch  at high moon  in her lair  in any case,  they'd been
accosted, surprised  by a  death squad  •armed with  magic and  visaged like the
dead, roped and dragged from their horses. The next lucid interval Niko recalled
was one of  being propped against  dense trees, tied  to one while  the Nisibisi
witch used children's plights and spells and finally Janni's tortured, drawn-out
death to extract from him what little he knew of Tempus's intentions and  Rankan
strategies of defence for the lower land. 'Was I wrong to try not to tell them?'
Niko asked, eyes swollen half-shut but filled with hurt. 'I thought they'd  kill
us all, whatever. Then I thought I could hold out... Tamzen and the other  girls
were past help... but  Janni -' He shook  his head. 'Then they...  thought I was
lying, when I couldn't answer ... questions they should have asked of you - Then
I did lie, to please them, but she ... the witch knew...'

'Never mind. Was One-Thumb a party to this?'

A twitch of lips meant 'no' or 'I don't know'.

Then Niko found the strength to add: 'If I hadn't tried to keep my silence  I've
been interrogated before by Nisibisi ... I hid in my rest-place ... until  Janni
- They killed him to get to me.'

Tempus saw  bright tears  threatening to  spill and  changed the  subject: 'Your
rest-place? So your maat returned to you?'

He whispered, 'After a  fashion ... I don't  care about that now.  Going to need
all my anger ... no time for balance anymore.'

Tempus blew out a breath and set down Niko's cup and looked between his legs  at
the packed clay floor. 'I'm going north, tomorrow. I'll leave sortie assignments
and schedules with  Critias - he'll  be in command  here - and  a rendezvous for
those who want to join in the  settling up. Did you recognize any Ilsigs  in her
company? A servant, a menial, anyone at all?'

'No, they all look alike... Someone found us, got us to the gates. Some trainees
of  ours, maybe  - they  knew my  name. The  witch said  come ahead  and die  up
country. Each reprisal of ours, they'll match fourfold.'

'Are you telling me not to go?'

Niko struggled to sit up, cursed,  fell back with blood oozing from  between his
teeth. Tempus made  no move to  help him. They  stared at each  other until Niko
said, 'It will seem that you've  been driven from Sanctuary, that you've  failed
here ...'

'Let it seem so; it may well be true.'

'Wait, then, until I can accompany -'

'You  know better.  I will  leave instructions  for you.'  He got  up and   left
quickly, before his temper got the best of him where the boy could see.

The Samaritan who had brought their  wounded and their dead was waiting  outside
Tempus's quarters. His name was Vis and though he looked Nisibisi he claimed  he
had a message from Jubal. Because of his skin and his accent Tempus almost  took
him prisoner, thinking to give him to Straton, for whom all manner of men  bared
their souls,  but he  marshalled his  anger and  sent the  young man away with a
pocket full of  soldats and instructions  to convey Jubal's  message to Critias.
Crit would be in  charge of the Stepsons  henceforth; what Jubal and  Crit might
arrange was up to  them. The reward was  for bringing home the  casualties, dead
and living, a favour cheap at the price.

Then Tempus went to find  Jihan. When he did, he  asked her to put him  in touch
with Askelon, dream lord, if she could.

'So that you can punish yourself with mortality? This is not your fault.'

'A kind, if unsound, opinion. Mortality will break the curse. Can you help me?'

'I will not, not now, when you are like this,' she replied, concern knitting her
brows in  the harsh  morning light.  'But I  will accompany  you north.  Perhaps
another day, when you are calmer ...'

He cursed  her for  acting like  a woman  and set  about scheduling  sorties and
sketching maps,  so that  each of  his men  would have  worked out  his debt  to
Kadakithis and be in good standing with the mercenaries' guild when and if  they
joined him in Tyse, at the very foot ofWizardwall.

It took  no longer  to draft  his resignation  and Critias's  appointment in his
stead and send them off to Kadakithis than it took to clear his actions with the
Rankan  representatives  of the  mercenaries'  guild: his  task  here (assessing
Kadakithis  for  a  Rankan  faction  desirous  of  a  change  in  emperors)  was
accomplished; he could honestly say that neither town nor townspeople nor effete
prince was worth struggling to ennoble. For good measure he was willing to throw
into the stewpot of  disgust boiling in him  both Vashanka and the  child he had
co-fathered with the god, by means of whom certain interests thought to hold him
here: he disliked children, as a class, and even Vashanka had turned his back on
this one.

Still, there  were things  he had  to do.  He went  and found  Crit in the guild
hostel's common room and told him  all that had transpired. If Crit  had refused
the  appointment outright,  Tempus would  have had  to tarry,  but Critias  only
smiled cynically, saying that  he'd be along with  his best fighters as  soon as
matters here  allowed. He  left One-Thumb's  case in  Critias's hands; they both
knew that Straton could determine the degree of the barkeep's complicity quickly
enough.

Crit asked, as Tempus  was leaving the dark  and comforting common room  for the
last time, whether any children's bodies  had been found - three girls  and boys
still were missing; one young corpse had turned up cold in Shambles Cross.

'No,' Tempus said, and thought no more about it. 'Life to you. Critias.'

'And to you, Riddler. And everlasting glory.'

Outside, Jihan was waiting on one Tros horse, the other's reins in her hand.

They went first  southwest to see  if perhaps the  witch or her  agents might be
found at home,  but the manor  house and its  surrounds were deserted,  the yard
criss-crossed with cart-tracks from heavily laden wagons' wheels.

The caravan's track was easy to follow.

Riding north without a backward glance  on his Tros horse, Jihan swaying  in her
saddle on his right, he had one last impulse: he ripped the problematical  Storm
God's amulet from around  his throat, dropped it  into a quaggy marsh.  Where he
was going, Vashanka's name was meaningless. Other names were hallowed, and other
attributes given to the weather gods.

When he was sure he had successfully cast it aside, and the god's voice had  not
come ringing with awful  laughter in his ear  (for all gods are  tricksters, and
war gods worst  of any), he  relaxed in his  saddle. The omens  for this venture
were  good:  they'd  completed  their   preparations  in  half  the  time   he'd
anticipated, so that he could start it while the day was young.

Crit sat long at his customary table  in the common room after Tempus had  gone.
By rights it  should have been  Straton or some  Sacred Band pair  who succeeded
Tempus, someone ...  anyone but him.  After a time  he pulled out  his pouch and
emptied its contents on to the plank table: three tiny metal figures, a fishhook
made  from  an eagle's  claw  and abalone  shell,  a single  die,  an old  field
decoration  won in  Azehur while  the Slaughter  Priest still  led the  original
Sacred Band.

He scooped them up and threw them as a man might throw in wager: the little gold
Storm God fell beneath the lead figurine of a fighter, propping the man upright;
the fishhook embraced the die, which came to rest with one dot facing up Strat's
war name was Ace. The third figure, a silver rider mounted, sat square atop  the
field star -  Abarsis had slipped  it over his  head so long  ago the ribbon had
crumbled away.

Content with the omens his  private prognosticators gave, he collected  them and
put them away.  He'd wanted Tempus  to ask him  to join him,  not hand him fifty
men's lives to yea or nay. He took such work too much to heart; it lay heavy  on
him, worse than the task force's weight had been, and he'd only just begun.  But
that was why Tempus picked him - he was conscientious to a fault.

He sighed  and rose  and quit  the hostel,  riding aimlessly  through the foetid
streets. Damned town was a pit, a  bubo, a sore that wouldn't heal. He  couldn't
trust his task force  to some subordinate, though  how he was going  to run them
while stomping around vainly trying to fill Tempus's sandals, he couldn't say.

His horse, picking his route, took him by the Vulgar Unicorn where Straton would
soon be 'discussing sensitive matters' with One-Thumb.

By rights he should go up to  the palace, pay a call on Kadakithis,  'make nice'
(as Straton said) to Vashanka's priest-of-record Molin, visit the Mageguild  ...
He shook his head and spat over his horse's shoulder. He hated politics.

And what Tempus  had told him  about Niko's misfortune  and Janni's death  still
rankled. He remembered the foreign fighter  Niko had made him turn loose  - Vis.
Vis, who'd come to  Tempus, bearing hurt and  slain, with a message  from Jubal.
That, and what Straton had gotten  from the hawkmask they'd given Ischade,  plus
the vampire woman's own hints, allowed him to triangulate Jubal's position  like
a sailor navigating by the stars. Vis was supposed to come to him, though.  He'd
wait. If his hunch was right, he  could put Jubal and his hawkmasks to  work for
Kadakithis without either knowing - or at  least having to admit - that was  the
case.

If so, he'd  be free to  take the band  north - what  they wanted, expected, and
would now fret to do with Tempus gone. Only Tempus's mystique had kept them this
long; Crit would  have a mutiny,  or empty barracks,  if he couldn't  meet their
expectation of  war to  come. They  weren't babysitters,  slum police, or palace
praetorians; they  collected exploits,  not soldats.  He began  to form  a plan,
shape up a  scenario, answer questions  sure to be  asked him later,  rehearsing
replies in his mind.

Unguided, his horse led  him slumward - a  bam-rat, it was taking  the quickest,
straightest way home. When he looked up and out, rather than down and in, he was
almost through  the Shambles,  near White  Foal Bridge  and the vampire's house,
quiet now, unprepossessing  in the light  of day. Did  she sleep in  the day? He
didn't think  she was  that kind  of vampire;  there had  been no  bloodless, no
punctures on the boy stiff against the  drop's back door when one of the  street
men found it. But what did she do, then, to her victims? He thought of  Straton,
the way he'd looked at the vampire, the exchange between the two he'd  overheard
and partly  understood. He'd  have to  keep those  two quite  separate, even  if
Ischade  was putatively  willing to  work with,  rather than  against, them.  He
spurred his horse on by.

Across the bridge, he  rode southwest, skirting the  thick of Downwind. When  he
sighted the  Stepsons' barracks,  he still  didn't know  if he  could succeed in
leading Stepsons. He rehearsed it wryly in  his mind: 'Life to all. Most of  you
don't know me but by  reputation, but I'm here to  ask you to bet your  lives on
me, not once, but as a matter of course over the next months ...'

Still, someone  had to  do it.  And he'd  have no  trouble with  the Sacred Band
teams, who knew him in the old days, when he'd had a right-side partner,  before
that vulnerability was  made painfully clear,  and he gave  up loving the  death
seekers - or anything else which could disappoint him.

It mattered not a  whit, he decided, if  he won or if  he lost, if they  let him
advise them or deserted post and duty  to follow Tempus north, as he would  have
done  if  the  sly  old  soldier   hadn't  bound  him  here  with  promise   and
responsibility.

He'd brought Niko's  bow. The first  thing he did  - after leaving  the stables,
where he saw  to his horse  and checked on  Niko's pregnant mare  - was seek the
wounded fighter.

The young officer peered at him through swollen, blackened eyes, saw the bow and
nodded, unlaced its case  and stroked the wood  recurve when Critias laid  it on
the bed. Haifa dozen men were there when he'd knocked and entered - three  teams
who'd come with Niko and his partner down to Ranke on Sacred Band business. They
left, warning softly that Crit mustn't tire him - they'd just got him back.

'He's left me the command,' Crit  said, though he'd thought to talk  ofhawkmasks
and death squads and Nisibisi - a witch and one named Vis.

'Gilgamesh sat by Enkidu seven days, until a maggot fell from his nose.' It  was
the oldest legend the fighters shared, one from Enlil's time when the Lord Storm
and Enki (Lord Earth) ruled the world, and a fighter and his friend roamed far.

Crit shrugged and  ran a spread  hand through feathery  hair. 'Enkidu was  dead;
you're not. Tempus has just gone ahead to prepare our way.'

Niko rolled his head, propped against  the whitewashed wall, until he could  see
Crit clearly: 'He followed godsign; I know that look.'

'Or witchsign.' Crit squinted, though the light was good, three windows wide and
afternoon sun raying the room. 'Are you all right - beyond the obvious, I mean?'

'I lost two partners, too close in time. I'll mend.'

Let's hope, Crit thought but didn't say, watching Niko's expressionless eyes. 'I
saw to your mare.'

'My thanks. And for the bow. Janni's  bier is set for morning. Will you  help me
with it? Say the words?'

Crit rose; the operator in him  still couldn't bear to officiate in  public, yet
if. he didn't, he'd never hold these men. 'With pleasure. Life to you. Stepson.'

'And to you. Commander.'

And that was that. His first test, passed; Niko and Tempus had shared a  special
bond.      .

That night,  he called  them out  behind the  barracks, ordering  a feast  to be
served on the training  field, a wooden amphitheatre  of sorts. By then  Straton
had come out to join  him, and Strat wasn't bashful  with the mess staff or  the
hired help.

Maybe it would work out; maybe together they could make half a Tempus, which was
the least this endeavour needed, though Crit would never pair again ...

He put it  to them when  all were well  disposed from wine  and roasted pig  and
lamb, standing  and flatly  telling them  Tempus had  left, putting  them in his
charge. There fell a silence and in it he could hear his heart pound. He'd  been
calmer ringed with Tyse hillmen, or  alone, his partner slain, against a  Rankan
squadron.

'Now, we've got each other, and for good and fair, I say to you, the quicker  we
quit this cesspool for the clean air of high peaks war, the happier I'll be.'

He could  hardly see  their faces  in the  dark with  the torches snapping right
before his face. But it  didn't matter; they had to  see him, not he them.  Crit
heard a raucous growl  from fifty throats become  assent, and then a  cheer, and
laughter, and  Strat, beside  and off  a bit,  gave him  a soldier's sign: all's
well.

He raised a hand, and they fell  quiet; it was a power he'd never  tried before:
'But  the only  way to  leave with   honour is  to work  your tours  out.'  They
grumbled. He continued: 'The Riddler's left busy-work sorties enough - hazardous
duty actions, by guild book rules; I'll post  a list - that we can work off  our
debt to Kitty-Cat in a month or so.'

Someone nay'd that. Someone  else called: 'Let him  finish, then we'll have  our
say.'

'It means naught to me, who deserts to follow. But to us, to cadre honour,  it's
a slur. So I've thought about it, since I'm hot to leave myself, and here's what
I propose. All stay, or go. You  take your vote. I'll wait. But Tempus  wants no
man on his right at Wizardwall who hasn't left in good standing with the guild.'

When they'd  voted, with  Straton overseeing  the count,  to abide  by the rules
they'd lived  to enforce,  he said  honestly that  he was  glad about the choice
they'd made. 'Now I'm going to split you into units, and each unit has a choice:
find a person, a mercenary not among us now, a warm body trained enough to  hold
a sword and fill your bed, and call him "brother" - long enough to induct him in
your stead. Then we'll leave the town yet guarded by "Stepsons" and that  name's
enough, with what we've done here,  to keep the peace. The guild  has provisions
for man-steading; we'll collect  from each to fill  a pot to hire  them; they'll
billet here, and we'll  ride north a unit  at a time and  meet up in Tyse,  next
high moon, and surprise theRiddler.'

So he put it to them, and so they agreed.

NECROMANT

C. J. Cherryh

The  wind came  from the  north tonight,  out of  chilly distances,  sending  an
unaccustomed rain-washed freshness  through the streets  of Downwind, along  the
White Foal where traffic came and went across the only bridge. The Stepsons  had
finally done the obvious and set up a guard post here; in these fractious times,
things were bad indeed. Previous holders of power in Sanctuary had been  content
to watch and gather  information. Now (when subtlety  is lacking, one tries  the
clenched fist) they meant to control every move between Downwind and the Maze.

Tonight another guard was  dead, pinned to the  post beside the guardhouse;  the
second one - no one knew where. The word spread in all those quarters where folk
were interested to  know, so that  traffic on the  bridge increased despite  the
rumbles of oncoming thunder, and those who  for a day or two had been  caught on
one side of the  White Foal or the  other heard and went  skittering, windblown,
across the White Foal bridge, some shuddering at the erstwhile guard whose  eyes
still stared; some mocking the dead, how whimsical he looked, thus  open-mouthed
as if about to speak.

For those who knew, the stationing of that corpse was a signature: the  Downwind
knew and did not gossip, not even in the security of Mama Becho's, which sat,  a
scruffy, doors-open building, a tolerable walk from the. White Foal bridge. Only
the fact was reported there, that for the third time that week the bridge  guard
had come to grief; there was general grim laughter.

The news found its way to the Maze on the other side and drew thoughtful  stares
and considerably less mirth. Certain folk  left the Vulgar Unicorn with news  to
carry; certain ones called  for another drink; and  if there was gossip  of what
this chain of murders  might mean, it was  done in the quietest  places and with
worried looks. Those who had left did so with that skill of Maze-born  skulkers,
pretending indirection. They shivered at the sight of beggars in the streets, at
urchins and  old men,  who were  back again  at posts  deserted while the bridge
guard had (briefly) stood.

The  news  had  not  yet  reached the  strange  ships  rocking  to  the wind  in
Sanctuary's harbour, or the  glittering luxury ofKadakithis, who  amused himself
in his palace this  night and who would  not, without understanding more  things
than he  did, have  known that  the underpinnings  of his  safety trembled.  The
report did,  and soon,  reach the  Stepsons' Sanctuary-side  headquarters, after
which a certain man  sat alone with uncertainties.  Dolon was his name.  Critias
had left  him in  charge, when  the senior  Stepsons had  gone, quietly, band by
band, to  the northern  war. 'You've  got all  you need,'  Critias had said. Now
Dolon, in charge  of all there  was, sat listening  to the first  patter of rain
against the  wall and  wondering whether  he dared,  tonight, the  morale of his
command being  what it  was, send  a band  to the  bridge to  gather up  the one
available body before the dawn.

Of even  more concern  to him  was the  missing one,  what might  have become of
Stilcho; whether he had  gone into the river,  or run away, or  whether he might
have been carried  off alive, to  some worse and  slower fate, spilling  secrets
while he died. The house by the  bridge was a burned-out shell; but burning  the
beggars' headquarters and creating a  few Downwinder corpses had not  solved the
matter, only scattered it.

He heard steps outside the building, splashing through the rain. Someone knocked
at the  outside door;  he heard  that door  groan open,  heard the burr of quiet
voices as his  own guards passed  someone through. The  matter reached his  door
then, a second, louder rap.

'Mor-am, sir.' The door opened,  and his guard let in  the one he had sent  for,
this wreckage of a man. Handsome once  ... at least they said that he  had been.
The youth's  eyes remained  untouched by  the burn-scars,  dark-lashed and  dark
browed eyes. Haunted, yes; long habituated to terrors.

The commander indicated a chair and  the one-time hawkmask limped to it  and sat
down, staring at him from those dark eyes. The

nose was broken, scarred across the bridge; the fine mouth remained intact,  but
twitched at times with an uncontrollable  tic that might be fear -  not enviable
was Mor-am's state, nowadays, among latter-day Stepsons.

'There's a man,' Dolon said at once, in a low, soft voice, 'pinned to the  White
Foal bridge tonight. How would this go on happening? Shall I guess?'

The tic  grew more  pronounced, spread  to the  left, scar-edged  eye. The hands
jerked  as  well,  until  they  found  each  other  and  clasped  for stability.
'Stepson?' Mor-am asked needlessly, a hoarse  thin voice: that too the fire  had
ruined.

Dolon nodded and waited, demanding far more than that.

'They would,' Mor-am said, lifting  his shoulder, seeming to give  apologies for
those that had ruined him  for life and made him  what he was. 'The bridge,  you
know - they - h-have to come and go -'

'So now we and the hawkmasks have a thing in common.'

'It's the same t-thing. Hawkmasks and Stepsons. To t-them.'

Dolon  thought  on that  a  moment, without  affront,  but he  assumed  a scowl.
'Certainly,' he said, 'it's the same thing where you're concerned. Isn't it?'

'I d-don't t-take Jubal's pay.'

'You take your life,' Dolon whispered,  elbows on the desk, 'from us.  Every day
you live.'

'Y-you're not the same S-Stepsons.'

Now the scowl  was real, and  the moment's sneer  cleared itself from  the man's
ruined face.

'I don't like losing  men,' Dolon said. 'And  it comes to me  -hawkmask, that we
might find a use for you.' He  let that lie a moment, enjoying the  anxiety that
caused, letting the hawkmask sweat. 'You know,' he said further, 'we're  talking
about your life. Now there's this woman, hawkmask, there's this woman - we know.
Maybe you do. You will. Jubal's hired  her, just to keep her out of  play. Maybe
for more just now. But a hawkmask like yourself - maybe you could tell her  just
what you  just told  me ...  Common cause.  That's what  it is.  You know  who's
looking for you? I'm sure you know. I'm sure you know what those enemies can do.
What we might do; who knows?'

The tic became steady, like a pulse. Sweat glistened on Mor-am's brow.

'So, well,' Dolon said, 'I want you to go to a certain place and take a message.
There's those  will watch  you -just  so you  get there  safe and sound. You can
trust that. And you talk to this  woman and you tell her how Stepsons  happen to
send her a hawkmask for a messenger,  how you're hunted - oh, tell her  anything
you like. Or lie. It's all the same. Just give the paper to her.'

'What's it s-say?'

'Curiosity, hawkmask? It's an offer  of employ. Trust us, hawk-mask.  Her name's
Ischade.  Tell her  this: we  want this  beggar-king. More,  we've got  one  man
missing on  that bridge  tonight. Alive,  maybe. And  we want  him back.  You're
another matter ... but I'd advise you come back to us. I'd advise you don't look
her in the eye if you can avoid it. Friendly advice, hawkmask. And it's all  the
truth.'

Mor-am had gone  very pale. So  perhaps he had  heard the rumours  of the woman.
Sweat ran, in that portion of his  face unglazed by scars. The tic had  stopped,
for whatever reason.

The wind caught Haught's cloak as he ran, rain spattered his face and he let  it
go, splashing through the puddles  as he approached the under-stair  door within
the Maze.

He rapped a pattern, heard the stirring  within and the bar thrust up. The  door
swung inward, on light and warmth and a woman, on Moria, who whisked him  inside
and snatched his dripping wrap. He put chilled arms about her,'hugged her tight,
still shivering, still out of breath.

'They got a  Stepson,' he said.  'By the bridge.  Like before. Mradhon's  coming
another way.'

'Who?' Moria gripped his arms in violence. 'Who did they get?'

'Not him. Not your brother. I know that.' His teeth wanted to chatter, not  from
the chill. He remembered  the scurrying in the  alley, the footsteps behind  him
for a way. He had lost them. He believed he had. He left Moria's grasp and  went
to the fireside, to stand by  the tiny hearthside, the twisted, mislaid  bricks.
He looked back at  Moria standing by the  door, feeling aches in  all his scars.
'They almost got us.'

'They?'

'Beggars.'

She wrapped her arms about herself, rolled a glance towards the door as  someone
came racing up at speed, splashing through the rain. A knock followed, the right
one, and she whisked the door open  a second time, for Mradhon Vis, who  came in
drenched and spattered with mud on the left side.

Moria stared half a heartbeat and slammed shut the door, dropping the bar  down.
Mradhon stamped a muddy  puddle on the aged  boards and stripped his  cloak off,
showing a drowned, dark-bearded face, eyes still wild with the chase.

'Slid,' he said, taking his breath. 'There's a patrol out. There's watchers  You
get it?'

Haught reached inside his doublet, pulled  out a small leather purse. He  tossed
it at Mradhon Vis with a touch  of confidence recovered. At least this they  had
done right.

Then Moria's eyes  lightened. The hope  came back to  them as Mradhon  shook the
bright spill of coins into her palm,  three, four, five of them, good silver;  a
handful of coppers.

But the darkness came back again when she looked up at them, one and the  other.
'Where did you get it, for what?'

'Lifted it,' Haught said.

'Who from?' Moria's eyes blazed. 'You by-Shalpa double fools, you lifted it from
where?'

Haught shrugged. 'A greater fool.'

She hefted coin and purse, down-browed. 'At this hour, a merchant abroad in  the
Maze? No, not likely, not at all. What  did I teach you? Where did you get  this
haul? From what thief?' They neither one answered, and she cast the prize on  to
the table. Pour silver coins among the copper.

'Light-fingers,' Mradhon said. 'Share and share alike.'

'Oh, and share  the trouble too?'  She held up  the missing coin  and dropped it
down her bodice,  dark eyes flashing.  'Share it when  someone marks you  out? I
don't doubt I  will.' She walked  away, took a  cup of wine  from the table, and
sipped at it. She drank too much lately, did Moria. Far too much.

'Someone has to do it,' Haught said.

'Fool,'  Moria said  again. 'I'm  telling you,  there's those  about don't  take
kindly to amateurs  cutting in on  their territory. Still  less to being  robbed
themselves. Did you kill him?'

'No,' Mradhon said. 'We did it just the way you said.'

'What's this about beggars? You get spotted?'

'There was  one near,'  Haught said.  'Then -  there were  three of them. All at
once.'

'Fine,' said Moria in  steely patience. "That's fine.  You're not half good.  My
brother and I -'

But that was not a thing Moria spoke of often. She took another drink, sat  down
at the table in the only chair.

'We got the money,' Haught protested, trying to cheer her.

'And we're counting,' said Mradhon. 'You  go ahead and keep that silver,  bitch.
I'm not  going after  it. But  that's all  you get,  'til you're worth something
again.'

'Don't you tell me  who's worth something. You'll  get our throats cut,  rolling
the wrong man.'

'Then you by-the-gods do something. You want to lose this place? You want us  on
the street? Is that what you want?'

'Who's dead over by the bridge?'

'Don't know.'

'But beggars sent you running. Didn't they?'

Mradhon shrugged.

'What  more do  we heed?'  she asked.  'Stepsons. Now  Becho's vermin.  Thieves.
Beggars, for Shipri's sake, beggars sniffing round here.'

'Jubal,'  Mradhon said.  'Jubal's what  we need.  Until you  come through   with
Jubal's money -'

'He's going to send for us again.'  Her lip set hard. 'Sooner or later.  We just
go on checking the  drops. It's slow, that's  all: it's a new  kind of business,
this setting up again. But he won't touch  us if you get the heat on us;  if you
go off making your own deals. You  stay out of trouble. Hear me? You're  not cut
out for thieves. It's not in you. You want to go through life left-handed?'

'Stay sober enough to do it yourself, why don't you?' Mradhon said.

The cup came  down on the  tabletop. Moria stood  up; the wine  spilled over the
scarred surface, dripping off the edge.

But Haught thrust himself into Mradhon's way in his own temper. Something seized
up in him when he did; his gut knotted. Ex-slave that he was, his nerves did not
forget. Old reflexes. 'Don't talk to her that way.'

Mradhon stared at him, northron like himself, broad-shouldered, sullen.  Friend,
sometimes. A moment ago, if not now. More, he suspected Mradhon Vis of pity, the
way Mradhon stared at him, and that was harder than the blow.

Mradhon Vis turned  his shoulder and  walked away across  the room, leaving  him
nothing.

He put his hand on Moria's then, but she snatched it away, out of humour. So  he
stood there.

'Don't be scattering that mud about,' Moria said to Mradhon's back. 'You do  it,
you clean it up.'

Mradhon sat  down on  the single  bed, on  the blankets,  began pulling  off his
boots, heedless of puddles forming, of their bed soaking and blanket muddied.

'Get up from there,' Haught said, pushing it further.

But Mradhon only  fixed him with  a stare. Come  and do something,  it said, and
Haught stood still.

'You listen to me,' Mradhon said. 'It takes money keeping her in wine. And until
she comes across with some cash out of Jubal, what better have we got? Or  maybe
-' a second boot joined  the other on the floor.  'Maybe we ought to go  looking
for Jubal on our own. Or the Stepsons. They're running short of men.'

'Nof Moria yelled.

'They pay. Jubal dealt with them,.for the gods' sake.'

'Well, he's not dealing now. You don't make deals on your own. No: 'So when  are
you going out  again?  When are  you going to  make that  contact,  eh? Or maybe
Jubal's  dead. Or not  interested in you.  Maybe he's broke  as we are, hey?'

'I'll find him.'

'You know what  I begin to  think? Jubal's done.  The beggars seem  to think so.
They don't think it's enough to  take on hawk-masks. Now they take  on Stepsons.
Nothing they can't handle. They're loose. You understand that? This Jubal - I'll
believe he's something if he can take them on. The day he nails a beggar to that
bridge, I'll believe Jubal's worth something. Meanwhile - mean while, there's  a
roof over  our heads.  A bar  on the  door. And  we've got  money. We're  out of
Becho's territory. And keeping out takes money.'

'We're  never out,'  Haught said,  remembering the  beggars, the  ragged  shapes
rising out of the  shadows like spiders from  their webs, small moving  humps in
the  lightning-flash  that  might  have  showed  their  faces  to  these  beggar
witnesses.

The chill  had seeped  inward from  Haught's wet  clothes. He  felt cold, beyond
shivering. He sneezed, wiped  his nose on his  sleeve, went over to  the fire to
sit disconsolate. Quietly he  tried a small scrying,  to see something. Once  he
had had the means, but it had  left him, with his luck; with his  freedom. 'I'll
go out tomorrow,' Moria said, walking over near the fire. 'Don't,' said  Haught.
There was  a small  premonition on  him. It  might be  the scrying.  It might be
nothing, but he felt a deep unease,  the same panic that he had felt  seeing the
beggars moving through the dark. 'Don't let him talk you into it. It's not safe.
We've got enough for a little while. Let him find us, this Jubal.'

'I'll find him,' she said. 'I'll get  money.' But she said that often. She  went
and picked up the cup again, wiped the spilled wine with a rag. Sniffed  loudly.
Haught turned his back to her, staring at the fire, the leaping shapes. The heat
burned, almost to the point of pain, but it took that, to reach the cold  inside
his bones, in his marrow; easier to watch the future than to dwell on the  past,
to remember Wizardwall, or Carronne, or slavery.

This Jubal the  slaver who was  their hope had  sold him once.  But he chose  to
forget that too. He had nerved himself to walk the streets, at least by dark, to
look free men in the eye, to do a hundred things any free man took for  granted.
Mradhon Vis gave him that; Moria did. If they looked to Jubal, so  must he.  But
in the fire he saw  things, twisted shapes in the coals. A face started back  at
him, and its eyes -

Mradhon came over and dumped the boots by him, spread his clothes on the stones,
himself wrapped in a blanket. 'What  do you learn?' Mradhon asked. He  shrugged.
'I'm blind  to the  future. You  know that.'  A hand  came down on his shoulder,
pressed it, in the way of an apology. 

'You shouldn't talk to her that way,' Haught said again.

The hand pressed his shoulder a second time. He shivered, despite the heat.

'Scared?' Mradhon said. Haught took it for challenge, and the cold stayed in his
heart. Scared he was. He had not had a friend, but Mradhon Vis. Distrust  gnawed
at him, not bitter, but only the habit of weighing his value - to anyone. He had
learned that he was for using and when he stopped being useful he could not  see
what there was in  him that anyone would  want. Moria needed him;  no woman ever
had, not really. This man did, sometimes; for a while; but a shout from him -  a
harsh word - made him flinch, and reminded him what  he was even when  he had  a
paper that said  otherwise. Challenged, he  might fight from fear. Nothing else.
And never Mradhon Vis.

'I talk to her like that,' Mradhon said, not whispering, 'when it does her good.
Brooding over that brother others -'

'Shut up,' Moria said from behind them.

'Mor-am's dead,' Mradhon said. 'Or good as dead. Forget your brother, hear? It's
your good I'm thinking of.'

'My good.' Came a soft, hateful laugh. 'So I can steal again, that's the  thing.
Because Jubal knows me,  not you.' A chair  scraped. Haught looked round  as two
slim-booted feet  came beside  them, as  Moria squatted  down and  put a hand on
Mradhon's arm. 'You hate me. Hate me, don't you? Hate women. Who did that,  Vis?
You born that way?'

'Don't,' Haught said, to both of them. He gripped Mradhon's arm, which had  gone
to iron. 'Moria, let him be.'

'No,' Mradhon  said. And  for some  reason Moria  drew back  her hand  and had a
sobered look.              .

'Go to bed,' said  Haught. 'Now.' He-sensed the  violence beside him, sensed  it
worse than  other times.  He could  calm this  violence, draw  it to himself, if
there  was nothing  else to  do. He   was not  afraid of  that, viewed  it  with
fatalistic patience. But Moria was so small, and Mradhon's hate so much.

She lingered, looking at  them both. 'You come,'  she said, in a  quiet, fearful
voice, 'too.'

Mradhon said nothing, but stared into the fire. Go, Haught shaped with his lips,
nodded towards the bed, and so Moria went, paused by the table, and finished off
the wine all at a draught. -

'Sot,' Mradhon said under his breath.

'She just gets started at it sometimes,' Haught said. 'Alone - the storm...'

The rain spatted  against the door.  The wind knocked  something over that  went
skittering along the alley outside. The door rattled. Twice. And ceased.

Mradhon Vis looked that way, long and keenly. Sweat ran on his brow.

'It's just the wind,' Haught said.

Thunder cracked, distantly,  outside, and the  shingles of the  small riverhouse
fluttered like living things.  The gate creaked, not  the wind, and disturbed  a
warding-spell that quivered like a strand of spider web, while the spider within
that lair stirred in a silken bed, opened eyes, stretched languorous limbs.

The visitor took time getting to the door: she read his hesitancy, his fear,  in
the sound of uneven steps her hearing registered. No natural hearing could  have
pierced the  rain sound.  She slipped  on a  robe, an  inkiness in the dark. She
wished for  light, and  there was,  in the  fireplace, atop  the logs  that were
nothing but focus and never were  consumed; atop candles that smelled musty  and
strange and perfumed with something sweet and dreadful.

Her pulse quickened as  the visitor tried the  latch. She relaxed the  ward that
sealed the door,  and it swung  inward, a gust  that guttered the  candles, amid
that gust a  cloaked, hunched man  who smelled of  fear. She tightened  the ward
again and the door closed, against the wind, with a thump that made the  visitor
turn, startled, in his

tracks.

He did not try it. He looked back again, cast the hood back from a face fire had
touched. His eyes were dilated, wild.

'Why do  you come?'  she asked,  intrigued, despite  a life  that had long since
lacked variety. In the casual matter of the door she had dropped pretences  that
she wore like robes;  he knew, must know,  that he was in  deadly jeopardy. 'Who
sent you?' He seemed the sort not to plan, but to do what others planned.

'I'm one of the h-hawkm-masks.  M-mor-am.' The face jerked, twisting  the mouth;
the whole head nodded with the  effort of speech. 'M-message.' He fumbled  out a
paper and offered it to her in a shaking hand.

'So.' He was not  so unhandsome, viewed from  the right side. She  walked around
him, to that  view, but he  followed her with  his eyes, and  that was error, to
meet her stare  for stare. She  smiled at him,  being in that  mood. Mor-am. The
name nudged memory, and wakened interest. Mor-am. The underground pricked up its
ears in interest at that name - could this man be running Jubal's errands again?
Likely as summer frost. She tilted her head and considered him, this  wreckage.'
Whose message?' she asked.

'T-take it.' The paper fluttered in his hand.

She took it, felt of  it. 'What does it say?'  she asked, never taking her  eyes
from his.

'The Stepsons - t-there's another d-dead. They s-sent me.'

'Did they?'

'C-common problem. M-Moruth. The beggars. They're k-killing us both.'

'Stepsons,' she  said. 'Do  you know  my name,  Mor-am? It's  Ischade.' She kept
walking, saw the panic grow. 'Have you heard that name before?'

A violent shake of the head, a clamping of the jaw.

'But you are more  notorious than I-in certain  quarters. Jubal misses you.  And
you carry Stepson messages - what do they say to tell me?'

'Anyt-thing you a-asked m-me.'

'Mor-am.' She  stopped before  him, held  him with  her eyes.  Her hand that had
rested on his shoulder touched the side of his jaw, Stilled the tic, the jerking
of muscles, his rapid breathing. Slowly the contorted body straightened to stand
tall; the drawn  muscles of his  face relaxed. She  began to move  again, and he
followed her, turning as she wove  spells of compulsion, until she stood  before
the great bronze mirror  in its shroud of  carelessly thrown silks. At  times in
this mirror  she cast  spells. Now  she cast  another, and  showed him  himself,
smiled at him the while. 'So you will tell me,' she said, 'anything.'

'What did you do?' he asked. Even the voice was changed. Tears leapt to eyes, to
voice. 'What did you do?'

'I took the pain. A small spell. Not difficult for me.' She moved again, so that
he must turn to follow her, with  dreamlike slowness. 'Tell me - what you  know.
Tell me who you are. Everything. Jubal will want to know.'

'They caught me, the Stepsons caught me, they made me -'

She felt the  lie and sent  the pain back,  watched the body  twist back to  its
former shape.

'I - t-turned - traitor,' the traitor said, wept, sobbed. 'I s-s-sold them, sold
other hawkmasks - to the Stepsons. My sister and I -we had to live, after  Jubal
lost it all. I mean, how were we going  to live? - We didn't know. We had to.  I
had to. My sister  - didn't know.' She  had let go the  pain and the words  kept
coming, with the tears. His eyes strayed from her to the mirror. '0 gods -'

'Go on,' she said, ever  so softly, for this was  truth, she knew. 'What do  the
Stepsons want? What do you want? What are you prepared to pay?'

'Ge( Moruth. That's what they want. The beggar-lord. And this man - this man  of
theirs, they think the beggars have got, get him back - safe.'

'These are not trifles.'

'They'll pay - I'm sure - they'll pay.'

She unfolded the  note, perused it  carefully, holding it  before the light.  It
said much  of that.  It offered  gold. It  promised -  immunities - at which she
smiled, not humorously. 'Why, it mentions you,' she said. 'It says I might  lend
you back to Jubal. Do you think he would

be amused?'

'No,' he said. There was fear, multiplying fear: she could smell it. It prickled
at her nerves.

'But when  you carry  messages for  rogues,' she  said, 'you  should expect such
small jokes.' She folded  the note carefully, folded  it several times until  it
was quite small, until she opened her hand, being whimsical, and the paper  note
was gone.

He watched this, this magician's trick, this cheap comedy of bazaars. It  amused
her to confound him, to suddenly brighten all the fires 'til the candles gleamed
like suns, 'til he flinched and looked as if he would go fleeing for the door.

It would not have yielded. And he did not. He stood still, with his little shred
of dignity, his body clenched, the tic working at his face as she let the  spell
fade.

So this was a man. At least the  remnant of one. The remnant of what had  almost
been one. He was still young. She began  to pace round him, back of him, to  the
scarred left side. He turned the other way to look at her. The tic grew more and
more pronounced.

'And what if  I could not  do what they  wish? I have  turned their betters down
before. You come carrying their messages.  Is there nothing - more personal  you
would want?'

'The p-pain.'

'Oh. That. Yes, I can ease  it for a time. If you  come back to me. If you  keep
your  bargains.' She  stepped closer  still, took  the marred  face between  her
hands. 'Jubal, on the other hand, would  like you the way the beggars left  you.
He would flay you inch by inch.  Your sister -' She brushed her lips  across his
own, gazed close into  his eyes. 'She has  been under a certain  shadow for your
sake. For what you did.'

'Where is she? Ils blast you, whereT

'A place I know. Look at me,  go on looking, that's right. That's very  good. No
pain, none at all. Do you understand - Mor-am, what you have to do?'

'The Stepsons -'

'I  know.  There's  someone  watching  the  house.'  She  kissed  him  long  and
lingeringly, her arms twined behind his neck, smiled into his eyes. 'My  friend,
a hawkmask's a candle in the  wind these days; a hawkmask other  hawkmasks hunt 
- hasn't a chance  in the world. The   contagion's even gotten to   your sister.
Her  life,  you understand.   It's very  fragile.  The  Stepsons might take her.
Hawkmasks use  her only to talk  to Stepsons.  Right now they're not  talking at
all. Not to  these. Not to stupid men who've thrown  away every alliance  better
men had made.  Moruth,  too - Moruth the  beggar  knows your name.  And hers. He
remembers the fire, and you, and her, and it's a guess  where he casts the blame
-  as if he needed an  excuse at any time. What  will you pay for my help?  What
coin do you have, Mor-am?'

'What do you want?'

'Whatever. Whenever. That does change. As you can. Never forget that, hear? They
name me vampire. Not quite the case - but very close. And they will tell you so.
Does that put you off, Mor-am? Or is there worse?'

He grew brave then and kissed her on the lips.

'0 be very careful,' she said. ' Very careful. There will be times - when I tell
you go, you do not  question me. Not for your  life, Mor-am, not for your  soul,
such as it  is.' Another kiss,  lighter than all  the rest. 'We  shall go do the
Stepsons a favour, you and I. We shall go walking - oh, here and there  tonight.
I need amusement.'

'They'll kill me on the street.'

She smiled, letting him go. 'Not with me, my friend. Not while you're with  me.'
She turned away, gathering  up her cloak, looked  back again. 'It's widely  said
I'm mad. A  beast, they call  me. Lacking self-control.  This is not  so. Do you
believe me?'

And she  laughed when  he said  nothing. 'That  man of  theirs -go outside. Tell
Dolon's spy to keep to his own affairs tonight. Tell him - tell him maybe.'  She
dimmed the lights,  unwarded the door,  a howl of  wind and rain.  Mor-am's face
contorted in fright. He ran out to do as he was told, limping still, but not  so
much as before. She took  back the spell: he would  be limping in truth when  he
reached the watcher, would be the old Mor-am, in pain, to convince the Stepsons.
And that also amused her.

She shut the  door, walked through  the small strange  house, which at  one time
seemed to have one room and  disclosed others behind clutter - oddments,  books,
hangings, cloaks, discarded  garments, bits of  silk or brocade  which had taken
her fancy and lost it again, for  she never wore ornament, only kept it  for the
pleasure of having it; and the cloaks, the men's cloaks - that was another  sort
of amusement. Her bare feet trod costly silk strewn on time-smoothed boards, and
thick carpet of minuscule silk threads, hand knotted, dyed in rarest  opalescent
dyes -  collected for  a fee,  provenance forgotten.  Had someone  plundered the
hoard, she  might not  have cared  or missed  the theft  - or  might have  cared
greatly,  depending on  her mood.  Material comfort  meant little  to her.  Only
satiation  - when  the need  was on   her. And  lately -  lately that  need  had
quickened in a different way. One had affronted her. She had, in the  beginning,
dismissed the matter, clinging to her  indolence, but it gnawed at her.  She had
thought upon this thing, as one will think on an affront long after the  moment,
turning it from one side to the other to discover the motive of it, and she  had
discovered not malice, not  anger, but insouciance, even  humour on the part  of
the perpetrator, this witch, this northron demigoddess, be she what she was. The
affront lay there a good long  while, gnawing at the laissez-faire on  which her
peace was  founded -  for, without  that habit  of laziness,  she hungered  more
often; and that hunger led to tragedies.

Such a  thing had  happened because  she was  lazy, because  there were costs of
power she  had never  wished to  pay. This  witch slaughtered children, plucking
them from her  hands; and dropped  the matter at  her door. This  witch went her
way, indifferent, having fouled her nest, her eyes set on further ambitions,  in
professional disregard.  This was  worth, after  thought, a  certain anger;  and
anger eroded itself a place and  grew. She ought, Ischade thought, to  thank the
Nisi witch for this  discovery, that there were  other appetites, and one  great
one which could assuage that moon-driven hunger that had held her, so, so long.

She understood - oh, very much of what passed in the streets, having been on the
bridge, having been everywhere in  Sanctuary, black-robed, wrapped in more  than
robes when she chose to be. The world tottered. The sea-folk intruded,  assuming
power;  Wizardwall and  Stepsons fought,  with ambitions  all their  own;  Jubal
planned

- whatever Jubal planned; young hotheads  dealt in swords on either side;  death
squads invaded uptown; while across  the White Foal the beggar-king  Moruth made
his own  bid. All  the while  the prince  sat in  his palace  and intrigued with
thieves, invaders, all, a wiser fool than some; priests connived, gods  perished
in this and other planes

- and  Ranke, the  heart of  empire, was  in no  less disarray,  with every lord
conniving and every priest conspiring. She  heard the rain upon the roof,  heard
the thunder rattling the walls of the world and heard her own catspaw  returning
up the path.  She shod herself,  flung her cloak  about her, opened  the door on
Mor-am's rain-washed presence.

'Take a dry cloak,' she said, catching up a fine one, dark as hers. 'Man, you'll
catch your death.'

He was not amused; but she unwound the pain from him, cast one cloak aside,  and
adjusted the  finer one  about his  newly straightened  shoulders, tenderly as a
mother her son, looking him closely in the eyes.

'Gone?' she asked.

'They'll try to trick you.'

'Of  course  they will.'  She  closed the  front  door, opened  the  back, never
glancing at either. 'Come along,' she said, flinging up her hood, the wide wings
of her cape flying in the wind that swirled the random, garish draperies of  the
house  like multicoloured  fire. The  gust struggled  with the  candles and  the
fireplace and failed to extinguish them,  while mad shadows ran the walls,  'til
she winked the lights out, having no more need of them.

Something rattled. Mradhon Vis opened an eye,  in dark lit by the dying fire  in
its crooked hearth. Beside him Haught and Moria lay inert, lost in sleep, curled
together in the threadbare quilt. But this  sound came, and with it a chill,  as
if someone had opened a door on winter in the room, while his heart beat in that
blind terror only dreams  can give, or those  things that have the  unreality of
dreams. He had  no idea whether  that rattle had  been the door  - the wind,  he
thought, the  wind blowing  something; but  why this  night-terror, this  sickly
sweat, this conviction it boded something?

Then he saw the man standing in  the room. Not - standing - but  existing there,
as if  he were  part of  the shadows,  and light  from somewhere  (not the fire)
falling on golden curling  hair, and on a  bewildered expression. He was  young,
this man,  his shirt  open, a  charm hung  on a  cord about  his neck,  his skin
glistening with  wine-heat and  summer warmth  as it  had been  one night; while
sweat like ice poured down Mradhon's sides beneath the thin blanket.

Sjekso. But the man was dead, in an alley not so far from here. In some unmarked
grave he was food for worms.

Mradhon watched  the while  this apparition  wavered like  a reflection  in wind
blown water, all in dark, and  while its mouth moved, saying something  that had
no sound - as, suddenly, treacherously swift, it came drifting towards the  bed,
closer, closer, and the  air grew numb with  cold, Mradhon yelled in  revulsion,
waved his  arm at  it, felt  it pass  through icy  air, and  his bedmates  woke,
stirred in the nest -

'Mradhon!' Haught caught his arm, held him.

'The door,' Moria said, thrusting up from beside them, '0 gods, the door -'

Mradhon rolled, saw the lifting of the bar with no hands upon it, saw it  totter
- it  fell and  crashed, and  he was  scrambling for  the side  of the  bed, the
bedpost where his sword  hung even while he  felt the blast of  rain-soaked air,
while Haught and Moria likewise '  scrambled for weapons. He whirled about,  his
shoulders to  the wall,  and there  was no  one there  at all, but the lightning
flashes  casting a  lurid glow  on the  flooded cobbles  outside, and  the  door
banging with the wind.

Terror loosened  his bones,  set him  shivering; instinct  sent his hand groping
after a cloak, his feet moving towards the door, his sword in hand the while  he
whipped the cloak about himself, towellike. He leapt out suddenly into the  rain
swimming alley, barefoot, trusting the corners of his eyes, and swung at once-to
that side that had anomaly in it, a tall shape, a cloaked figure standing in the
rain.

And then he was easy prey for  anything, for that cloaked form, its height,  its
manner, waked memories. He heard a  presence near, Haught or Moria at  his back,
or both, but he could not have  moved, not from the beginning. That figure  well
belonged with ghosts,  with witchery, with  nightmares that waked  him cold with
sweat. Lightning flashed and showed him a pale face within the hood.

'For Ils' sake  get in!' Moria's  voice. A hand  tugging at his  naked shoulder.
But  it  was a   potential  trap, that   room,  lacking any   other  door; while
somewhere, somehow in  his most   secret nightmares  he knew,  had  known,  that
Ischade  had always known how to find him when she wished.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'Come to the bridge,' the witch said. 'Meet .me there.'

He had gazed once into those eyes. He could not forget. He stood there with  the
rain pelting him, with his feet  numb in icewater, his shoulders numb  under the
force of it off the eaves. 'Why?' he asked. 'Witch, why?'

The  figure  was blank  again,  lacking illumination.  'You  have employ  again,
Mradhon Vis.  Bring the  others. Haught  - he  knows me,  oh, quite, quite well.
'Twas I freed him, after  all; and he will be  grateful, will he not? For  Moria
indeed, this must be Moria -1 have a gift: something she has misplaced. Meet  me
beneath the bridge.'

'Gods blast you!'

'Don't trade curses with me, Mradhon Vis. You would not proft in the exchange.'

And with that the witch turned her back and walked away, merged with the  night.
Mradhon stood there, chilled  and numb, the sword  sinking in his hand.  He felt
distantly the touch against him, a hand  taking his arm - 'For Ils' sweet sake,'
Moria said, 'get inside. Come on.'

He yielded, came inside, chilled through, and Moria flung shut the door,  barred
it, went to the fire and threw a stick on it, so that the yellow light leapt  up
and cast fleeting  shadows about the  walls. They led  him to the  fire, set him
down, tucked the  blanket about him,  and finally he  could shiver, when  he had
gotten back the strength.

'Get my clothes,' he said.

'We don't have to go,' Moria said,  crouching there by him. She turned her  head
towards Haught, who came bringing the  clothes he had asked for.' We  don't have
to go.'

But Haught knew. Mradhon took the offered clothes, cast off the sodden  blanket,
and began to dress, while Haught started pulling on his own.

'Ils save us,' Moria  said, clutching her wrap to her. Her eyes  looked bruised,
her hair streaming wet about her face. 'What's the matter with you? Are you both
out of your minds?'

Mradhon fastened his belt and gathered up his boots, having no answer that  made
sense. In some  part of him  panic existed, and  hate, but it  was a further and
cooler hate, and held a certain peace. He did not ask Haught his own reasons, or
whether Haught even knew what he was doing  or why; he did not want to know.  He
went in the way he would draw his hand from fire: it hurt too much not to.

And with scalding curses at them  both, Moria began getting dressed, calling  on
them to wait, swearing impotence on them both in Downwind patois, in terms  even
the garrison had lacked.

'Stay here,'  he said,  'little fool;  you want  to save  your neck? Stay out of
this.'

He said it because somewhere deep inside he understood a difference between this
woman and the  other, which he  had never fully  seen, that Moria  with her thin
sharp knife was on his side and Haught's because they were fools themselves, and
three fools seemed better odds.

'Rot you,' Moria said, and when he took his muddy cloak and headed for the door,
when Haught overtook him  in the alley, Mradhon  heard her panting after,  still
cursing.

He gave  her no  help, no  sign that  he heard.  The rain  had abated, sunk to a
steady drizzle, a dripping off the eaves, a river down the cobbled alley,  which
sluiced filth along towards the sewers and so towards the bay where the  foreign
ships rode, insanity to heap upon the other insanities that life was here, where
the likes of Ischade prowled.

If he  could have  loved, he  thought, if  he could  have loved anything, Moria,
Haught, known a friend outside himself, he might have made that a charm  against
what drew him  now. But that  had gone from  him. There was  only Ischade's cold
face, cold purposes, cold needs: he could not even regret that Moria and  Haught
were with him: he felt safe now only because she had summoned them together, and
not called him alone, not alone into that house. And he was ashamed.

Moria came  up on  his left  hand, Haught  on his  right, and  so they took that
street  under the  eaves of  the Unicorn  and passed  on by  its light,  by  its
shuttered, furtive safety that did not ask what prowled the streets outside.

'Where?' Dolon asked, at his desk, the sodden watcher standing dripping on   the
floor before him. 'Where has he gotten to?'

'I don't know,' the would-be Stepson said: Erato, his partner, was still out. He
stood with his hands behind him, head bowed. 'He -Just said he had a message  to
take, to carry for her. He said her answer was maybe. I take it she wasn't  sure
she could do anything.'

'You take it. You take it. And  where did they go, then? Where's your  left-hand
man? Where's Stilcho? Where's our informer?'

'I -'  The Stepson  stared off  somewhere vague,  his face  contracted as  if at
something that just escaped his wits.

'Why didn't you do something?'

'I don't know,'  the Stepson said  in the faintest,  most puzzled of  voices. 'I
don't know.'

Dolon stared at the  man and felt the  flesh crawling on his  nape. 'We're being
used,' he said. 'Something's out of joint. Wake up, man. Hear me? Get yourself a
dozen men and get out there on the  streets. Now. I want a watch on that  bridge
not a guard, a watch. I want  that woman found. I want Mor-am watched.  Finesse,
hear me?  It's not  a random  thing we're  dealing with.  / want Stilcho back. I
don't care what it takes'

The Stepson left in  all due haste. Dolon  leaned head on hands,  staring at the
map that showed the Maze, the streets leading to the bridge. It was not the only
thing on  his desk.  Death squads.  A murder  uptown. Factions  were armed.  The
beggars were  on the  streets. And  somehow every  contact had  dried up, frozen
solid.

He saw  things slipping.  He called  in others,  gave them  orders, sent them to
apply force where it might loosen tongues.

'Make examples,' he said.

The streets gave way  to one naked rim  along the White Foal  shore, an openness
that faced  the rare  lights of  Downwind, across  the White Foal's rain-swollen
flood. The black water had risen far up on the pilings of the bridge and  gnawed
away at the rock-faced  banks, trying at this  winding to break its  confinement
and take  the buildings  down, this  ordinarily sluggish  stream. Tonight it was
another, noisier river, a shape-changer, full of violence; and Mradhon Vis moved
carefully along its edge, in this soundless darkness of deafening sound, in  the
lead because of  the three of  them, he was  most reckless and  perhaps the most
afraid.

So they  came up  in the  place he  had aimed  for, in  the underpinnings of the
bridge on the  Mazeward side; in  this deepest dark.  But a star  glimmered here
like swampfire, and above it was a pale, hooded face.

He felt one of his two companions set a warning hand on his arm. He kept walking
all the same,  watching his footing  on this treacherous  ground. He could  look
away from that face, or look back again, and a strange peace came on him, facing
this creature  who was  the centre  of all  his fears.  No more running. No more
evasion. There was a certain security in loss. He stopped, took an easy  stance,
there above the flood.

'What's the job?' he asked, as if  there had never been an interlude. The  light
brightened fitfully, in the witch's outheld hand.

'Mor-am,' she said. A shadow moved from among the pilings to stand by her. Light
fell on a ruined, still-familiar face.

'0 gods,' Mradhon heard beside him, Moria lunged and he caught her arm. Hers was
hard and tense; she twisted like a cat, but he held on.

'Moria,' her twin said, no longer twin, 'for Ils' sake listen -'

She stopped fighting then. Perhaps it  was the face, which was vastly,  horribly
changed. Perhaps it was  Haught, who moved in  the way of her  knifehand, making
himself the barrier, too careless of his life. Haught was a madman. And he could
win what no one else could.  Moria stood still, still heaving for  breath, while
Mor-am stood still at Ischade's side.

'See  what love  is worth,'  Ischade said,  smiling without  love at  all.  'And
loyalty, of course.' She walked a pace nearer, on the slanted stones.  'Mor-am's
loyalty, now - it's to himself, his own interests; he knows.'

'Don't,' Mor-am said, with more earnestness than ever Mradhon had heard from the
hardnosed,  streetwise seller  of his  friends; for  a moment  the face   seemed
twisted, the body diminished,  then straightened again -  a trick of the  light,
perhaps, but in the same moment Moria's arm went limp and listless in his hand.

'You'd live well,' Ischade said in  her quiet voice, an intimate tone  which yet
rose above the river-sound. 'I reward - loyalty.'

'With whatT Mradhon asked.

She favoured  Mradhon with  a long,  slow stare,  ophidian and,  at this moment,
amused.

'Gold. Fine wines. Your life and comfort. Follow me - across the bridge. I  need
four brave souls.'

'What for? To do what for you?'

'Why, to save a life,' she said, 'maybe. The bumed house. I'm sure you know  it.
Meet me there.'

The light went, the shadow rippled, and in the half-dark between the pilings and
the flagstone bank, one shadow deserted them. The second started then to follow.
'TTie patrols -'  he said to  the dark, but  she was gone  then. Mor-am stopped,
abandoned, his  voice swallowed  by the  river-sound. He  turned hastily, facing
them.

'Moria -1 had a reason.'

'Where have you been?' The knife  was still in Moria's hand. Mradhon  remembered
and took her by the sleeve.

'Don't,' Mradhon said,  not for love  of Mor-am, the  gods knew; rather,  a deep
unease, in which he wished to disturb nothing, do nothing.

'What's this about?' Moria asked. 'Answer  me, Mor-am.'

'Stepsons - They -  they hired her.  They sent - Moria, for Ils' sake,  they had
me locked up, they used me to bargain with - with her.'

'What are you worth?' Moria asked.

'She works for Jubal.'

That hung there on the air, dying of unbelief.

'She does,' Mor-am said.

'And you work for her.'

'I have to.' Mor-am  turned, amorphous in his  cloak, began to vanish  among the
pilings.

'Mor-am -' Moria started forward, brought up short in Mrad-hon'sgrip.

'Let him  go,' Mradhon  said, and  in his  mind was  a faint  far dream of doing
something rash,  breaking with  sanity and  heading for  somewhere safe.  To the
Stepsons, might be. But that was, lately, no way to a long life.

Haught  was  on his  way  - why,  he  had no  idea,  whether it  was  despair or
ensorcelment. 'Wait,' he called to Haught, losing control of things, but he  had
lost that when he had come out here, blind-sotted as Moria at her worst. He  let
her draw him up the stone facing, among the pilings, chasing after Haught at the
first, but then joining him in the open, where anyone might spy them.

There was the empty guard station, the pole standing vacant.

'They got him down,' Haught said.

'Someone did,' Mradhon muttered, looking about. He felt naked, exposed to  view.
The rain  spattered away  at the  board surface  of the  bridge, a shadowed span
leading through  the dark  to Downwind,  to Ischade.  A distant, solitary figure
flitted like illusion  at its other  end, lost itself  into Downwind, among  its
shuttered buildings. Here they stood,  neither one place nor the  other, neither
in the Maze of Sanctuary nor in the Downwind, belonging now to no one.

And there was no hiding now.

Haught started across the bridge.  Mradhon followed, with Moria beside  him, and
all he could think of now was how long it took to get across, to get out of this
nakedness.  Someone  was  coming  their way,  a  shambling,  raggedy  figure. He
clutched his cloak about him, gripped his sword as this beggar passed; he  dared
not look when the apparition had gone  by, but Moria swung on his arm,  feigning
drunkenness like some doxy.

''Sjust a beggar,' she said in  full voice, hanging on him, terrifying  him with
the noise.  Haught spun  half-about, turned  again, and  kept walking  like some
honest man with disreputable followers - but no honest man crossed the bridge.

'Beggar,' Moria whined, leaning on Mradhon's  arm. He jerked at her and  cursed,
knowing this mentality, this bloody-minded humour that he had had beside him  in
the  field, soldiers  who got  this affliction.  Heroes all.  Dead ones.   Soon.
'Straighten up,' he  said, knowing her,  knowing her brother,  knowing that this
was a game both played.  He twisted at her arm.  'You see your brother? You  see
what games won him?'

She grew quiet then. Subdued. She  walked beside him at Haught's back,  past the
tall end-pilings that themselves bore  nail-holes from the time that  hawkmasks,
not Stepsons, were the prey.

To the right, a  huddle of blackened timbers,  of tumbled brick, was  the burned
shell of a  house. Haught went  that way, entering  the shadow of  Downwind, and
they came after, out of choices now.

Erato slipped back into shadow, his pulse beating double-time, for a shadow  had
passed  that  disturbed  him. He  felt  a  presence at  his  shoulder,  where it
belonged, but he trusted nothing now.  He scanned the figure at near  range, his
heart still thumping away until he had (pretending calm) resolved his  left-hand
man still  beside him,  and not  some further  threat, some shape-changer, night
walker. He had no taste  for this witch-stalking. 'They're across,'  the partner
said.

'They're across. We're not  the only ones moving.  Get back along the  bank. Get
the squad  in place.  Get a  message back  to base.'  Erato moved back along the
alley, headed towards the river house.

It smelled of double-cross, the whole business. His partner jogged off,  holding
his  cloak tight  to him,  muffling his  armour. They  kept well  away from  the
grounds, wary of traps. This was the place to watch. Here. He was sure of  that.
He settled in  then, watching the  storm clouds lose  themselves on the  seaward
horizon in the dark, down that split that divided Downwind from Sanctuary,  poor
from rich, that division no bridge could span. He had been smug once, had Erato,
well-paid, well-armed as he was, convinced  of his own skill, of the  reputation
that would keep challenges  off his neck. And  somewhere in Downwind that  bluff
was called, and they dared not go  in, dared not pass the streets except  by day
had effectively lost nighttime access to their own base beyond the Downwind, the
slaver's old estate,  and relied more  and more on  the city command.  And their
enemies knew it.

It would be a long,  cold wait. It eroded morale,  that view of the bridge,  the
river, the Downwind. The realization came to him that he was sitting now in  the
same kind of position the bridge guard had been in, alone out here. Sounds  came
and went  in the  streets, rustled  in the  thin line  of brush  that rimmed the
river-shore. Wild fears dawned on him, to wonder whether the others were  there,
whether those  sounds masked  murder, creepings  through cover,  throats cut, or
worse, his comrades snatched away as Stilcho had gone. He wanted to call out, to
ask the others  were they safe;  but that was  craziness. He heard  the rustling
again near himself.

Some vermin creeping about; they grew  rats large here on riverside. So  he told
himself.  Something feeding  on the  garbage that  swept down  the sewers,   the
gutters, some  choice tidbit  brought down  from the  dwellings of  the rich, to
tempt the rats  and snakes. And  the fear grew  and grew, so  that he eased  his
sword from its sheath and crouched there with his back pressed to the stones and
his eyes constantly scanning the dark that he had view of.

There was nothing anywhere but the splash of rain, the steady drip off eaves  of
buildings that still had eaves. Beside  them, the shell, the timbers, the  loose
piles of brick.

One moved with a dull chink.  Mradhon whirled about, saw a figure  close against
the wall, at the corner.

'Come,' Ischade said.

'Where's my brother?' Moria asked.

But the witch was gone around the corner.

Mradhon cursed beneath his breath, adding  things as he went, as Haught  did, as
Moria stayed with them.  There was no way  of retreat, now, against  the flow of
things. The  beggar on  the bridge  - someone  was watching.  The body was gone.
There were  likely Stepsons  on the  loose. He  came round  the corner, down the
alley where once he  had waited in ambush,  where the three of  them had, before
the Stepsons  had chosen  to make  a bonfire  of the  place, to use the clenched
fist.

He knew this place. Knew it because he had lived here. They had. He knew the law
here, how it worked apart from Kadakithis's law, from Molin Torchholder's,  from
any governance of Ranke.  Law this side flowed  from a place called  Becho's. It
flourished on the  trade of vice,  on things that  went dear Across  the Bridge,
that most  men never  thought to  sell, or  never planned  to. He remembered the
smell of it, the reek that clung to clothes; the smell of Mama Becho's brew.

Haught stopped, for the  witch had, waiting in  their way, a tall  shadow-shape;
and a second had joined her.

'Now  you earn  your pay,'  Ischade said,  when they  had come  close. The  dark
surrounded  them, buildings  leaned close  overhead where  listeners could  have
heard, perhaps did  hear, but Ischade  seemed not to  care. 'I have  a matter to
discuss. A man who certain folk  want back, in whatever case. Mor-am  knows. The
second Stepson. Stilcho is his name.'

'Moruth,' Mradhon said.

'Oh, yes,  Moruth has  him. I  do think  this is  the case.  But Moruth  will be
reasonable, with me.'

'Wait,' Mradhon said, for she had moved  to drift away again. This time she  did
wait, looked  at him,  faceless in  the dark;  and this  time the  question died
stillborn. Why?

'Is there something?' she asked.

'What are we supposed to do - that you can't?'

'Why,  to have  mercy,' Ischade  said. 'This  man wants  rescuing. That's   your
business.'

And she was off again, a shadow along the way.

'Becho's,' Mor-am said, all hoarse,  keeping a safe distance from  them. 'Follow
me.'

But they knew the  streets, every route that  led to that place,  that centre of
this shell.

'No  luck,'  the  man  said,  in  the  commander's  doorway.  'Everything's gone
underground. This time of night -'

There was disturbance beyond; the outer doorway opened, creating a draught  that
blew papers out of order.  Dolon slammed his hand on  to them to stop the  fall.
'Get someone,' he said. 'I don't care -'

One of his  aides appeared behind  the man, signalling  with a nod  of his head.
'What?' Dolon said.

'Erato sends word,' the aide said, 'the woman's gone to the Downwind. Taken  the
informer with her.'

Dolon stood up. 'Who says? Get him in here.'

'By your leave,' the other said, trying graceful exit.

'You stay.' Dolon walked  round the desk and  met the man that  came in. Erato's
partner. 'Where's Erato now?'

'Set  up to  watch the  shore. Figuring  she'll come  home -  sooner or   later,
whatever she comes up with.'

Dolon drew a breath, the first easy one in hours. Something worked. Someone  was
where he ought to be, taking  advantage of the situation. 'All right,'  he said.
'You get back there right now -Tassi.'

'Sir,' the other said.

'Get ten  more men.  I want  them down  there on  that rivershore.  I want every
access under watch, from both directions.  I want no surprises out of  this. You
get down there. You get those streets  blocked. When the witch shows up, I  want
an account from  her. I want  names, places, bodies  - I don't  care how you get
them. If she cooperates, fine. If not - stop her. Dead. Understood?'

There was hesitance.

'Sir,' Erato's partner said.

'Understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'They say fire works on her sort. You get what you can.'

'She's-'

Heat rose to his face. Breath grew short.'- gone undependable. If she ever  was.
You cure it.  Hear? You get  what you can,  then you settle  her. I want Stilcho
quiet,  you  understand:  back  here  safe,  number  one;  but  if  he's  become
expendable, expend him. You know the rule. Now move!'

There was flight from the doorway, a clatter in the outer room, one  injudicious
unhappy oath. Dolon stood gathering his breath. Critias's list of reliables  was
itself the problem;  unstable informants; men  on double payrolls.  A witch, for
the gods' sake, an ex-slaver, a judge on the take.

There was,  he began  to reckon,  a need  to purify  that list.  His discretion,
Critias had said. Critias had delayed  too long in passing power, that  was what
it was. Uncertainty set in. The opportunists wanted convincing again.

Then the rest would fall in line.

It was near  Becho's. Mradhon Vis  knew that much,  and it set  off nerves, this
approach. Tygoth would be in his  alley, patrolling up and down, banging  at the
wall with his stick  to let all Downwind  know that Mama's property  was secure.
The surviving crowd of drunks would have collapsed in the streets. Gods knew who
might have inherited  that room in  the alley now.  He did not  want to know. He
wanted out of  this place, with  all his soul  he wanted out  of it, and  he was
where he had never looked to be again, following Mor-am through the labyrinth of
alleys, with Haught at his back -  and Moria between them. He glanced back  from
time to time, when there was too much silence; but they still followed.

And now  Mor-am stopped.  Waited, signalled  silence, outside  a street that had
gotten overbuilt with lean-tos.

Beggar-kingdom,  this.  Mradhon  grabbed  a  handful  ofMor-am's  cloak, pulled,
meaning retreat.

No, Mor-am insisted. He pointed just ahead, where suddenly a figure darker  than
the night  was treading  amid the  ragged, lumpish  shelters. Ischade paused and
beckoned to them.

Mor-am followed, and Mradhon did, taking it on himself whatever the others  did,
wishing now  they would  keep their  feckless help  out of  this. He gripped his
sword, meaning to kill a few if it came to that, but Ischade kept her pace slow,
down  that street  of furtive  eyes, of  watchers within  collections of  board,
canvas, anything that might  fend away rain and  wind. The stench rose  up about
them, of human waste, of something dead and rotting. He heard steps at his  back
and dared not turn his head, praying to Ilsigi gods that he knew who it was. His
eyes were all for Mor-am, for  the wand-slender darkness of Ischade, who  walked
before them through this aisle of misery.

And none offered to  touch, none offered violence.  A building made this  lane a
cul de sac, a dilapidated, boarded-up building, but light showed from the cracks
about the door.

Sound got out. Mor-am wavered at that whimpering, that human, wretched sound. At
voices. At laughter. He stopped altogether, and Mradhon shoved him, put him into
motion, not because  he wanted to  go, but because  it was not  a good moment to
stop, not  here, not  now, without  any path  of retreat.  There was a moment in
battles, the downhill moment past which there  was no way to stop, and they  had
reached it now. Things  seemed to slow, just  as they began to  move in earnest,
when the door flew open outward with no one touching it at all, when light flung
out into the dark and there were dark figures leaping to their feet inside  that
building, but none darker than Ischade's, who occupied that doorway.

And silence then,  after momentary outcry.  Dire silence, as  if everyone inside
had stopped, just stopped. Mor-am stood stock still. But Mradhon stepped up  the
single step to stand behind Ischade.

'Give him to me,' Ischade said  very quietly, as if everything was  sleeping and
voices ought to be hushed. 'Mradhon Vis -' She had never looked around, and knew
him, somehow, by means that set his teeth on edge. So did calling his name here.
'This man they have. Get him up.  Whatever you can do for him. Mor-am  knows the
way.'

He looked past her, to the wretch on the floor, to what this ragged, awful crowd
had left of a man. He had seen corpses, of various kinds. This one looked  worse
than most and might  still be alive, which  daunted him more than  death. But it
was a question of downhill. He  walked in, among the beggar-horde, among  ragged
men and women. Gods! there was a child, feral, with a rat's sharp, frozen  grin.
He bent above this seeming corpse and picked it up. not even thinking of  broken
bones, only struggling with limp weight;  the head lolled. It only had  one eye.
Blood was everywhere.

Haught met him, passing Ischade, got the other arm of this perhaps-living thing,
and they took it to the door. Moria was there. Mor-am stood against the wall.

'Mor-am,' Ischade said,  never turning her  head. 'Remember.' And  more quietly:
'Get him away now. I have further dealings with these here.'

The nightmare  lasted. The  silence held,  that chill  quiet lying  over all the
alley with its  sea of tents.  Not the look  of her eyes  that had wrought  this
quiet, no, Mradhon reckoned, but some subtler spell. Or fear. Perhaps they  knew
her. Perhaps here in Downwind she  was better understood than across the  river,
for what she was, and what her visitations meant.

'Come on,' Mradhon  said. He heaved  the limp arm  further across his  shoulder.
'Gods blast  you,' he  said to  Moria, 'get  going -'  for Mor-am  began to run,
limping, down the lane between the tents and shelters, off into the dark.

It would hold, he thought, only so long as Ischade was in the way, only so  long
as Ischade dealt with Moruth, who was somewhere in that room. What estate  would
distinguish a beggar king, he wondered in a mad distraction, panting through the
tents, managing  with Haught  to drag  the bleeding  half-corpse past obstacles,
boxes, litter and heaped-up offal of  the beggar-king's court. He wished he  had
known the face, had gotten the image  clear, but he had focused clearly on  none
of them, not one, the way he had not focused on the man he was carrying. He  had
nightmares enough to last him; he bore this  one with him,  past the end  of the
street,  around the corner. He twisted his neck to look to his side.

'Moria.  Little fool,'  he panted,  'get up  ahead, get  in front  of us,  don't
straggle.'

'Where's my brother?' she asked, her voice verging on panic. She had her  knife;
he saw the dull gleam. 'Where has he gotten to?'

'Back to the street,' Haught guessed, between breaths, and they laboured  along,
dragging  the dead  weight, back  the way  they had  come. No  sign of   Mor-am.
Nothing.

'Bridge,' Mradhon gasped, working with Haught  to run with their burden as  best
they could. 'Stepsons want this bastard, they get themselves out there and  hold
that Ils-forsaken bridge.'

It was a long way through the  streets, a long, long course, the noise  of their
footsteps, of their  ragged breathing like  the movement of  an army. Moria  ran
ahead of them, checked comers.

Then  one moment  she failed  to bob  into sight  again. Haught  began to   pull
forward, doubling his pace. Mradhon resisted.

Then Moria reappeared, dodging round the  comer, flat shadow, her hand up  as if
the  knife was  in it,  and another  shadow came  shambling round  wide of  her,
standing in the way - Mor-am was back.

'B-b-boat,' he  said. His  breath came  raw and  hoarse. 'Sh-she  says -  this p
place. 0 g-g-gods, c-come on.'

'The river's up,' Mradhon hissed, the limp weight sagging against his  shoulder,
the feel of chase  behind. 'The river's up  to the bridge bottom,  hear? No boat
can handle that current.'

'Sh-she says. C-come.'

Mor-am lurched off, dragging one foot.  Moria stood where she was, plastered  to
the wall. Wrong, a small faint voice was saying inside Mradhon Vis, a  prickling
of his nerves where Moria's twin was concerned. And another voice said she.  The
river. Ischade.

'Come on,' he said, deciding, and  Haught shouldered up his side as  they headed
after Mor-am.

Moria cursed as they passed and came  too, jogging along with them in the  dark,
under the dripping eaves. She took the lead again, serving as their eyes in this
winding gut of a street.

Now there were sounds, many of them.

'Behind us,' Haught gasped;  and where they were  Mradhon could not have  sworn,
but it sounded like behind. He threw all he had into running, pulled a stitch in
his side as Haught stumbled and recovered, and now Moria was gone again, in  the
turning of the streets.

They staggered the last  alley and on to  the downslope to the  river, splashing
through the outpourings of Downwind's streets,  past a low wall and down  again.
'This way,' Moria said, materializing again out of the brushy dark, in the sound
of the river, which lay like a black gulf downslope. Mradhon went, steadied  his
footing for Haught's sake.  There was the reek  of blood from their  unconscious
burden, and  now the  taste of  it was  in Mradhon's  mouth, coppery;  his lungs
ached; he was blind except that Moria was at his nght telling him come on,  come
on, down to the river, to the flooded dark, the curling waters that could snatch
any misstep and make it fatal. He flung his head up, sweat running in his  eyes,
sucked air, staggered on the uneven stony shore and nearly went to his knees  on
the rain-slick rock.

There was a boat. He saw Mor-am  struggling with it, and Moria running to  it, a
black shell amid the  brush, not distinguishable as  a boat if he  had not known
what it was. There was a muddy slide: boats were launched  here, from  Downwind,
in sane weather,   when the river   was tamer. But  this one hit  the water  and
rode calm, stayed close as if  there were no currents tearing  at it, as  if  it
and  the river obeyed  two madly different laws.

'G-get him  in,' Mor-am  said, and  coming to  the edge,  Mradhon took  the limp
weight  all to  his side,  going into   water to  the knee  to reach  the  boat,
staggering as he  flung the body  down. The boat  hardly rocked. He  gripped the
side of it, stood there, uselessly,  to steady it. Haught crouched on  the muddy
shore, head down, breathing in great gulps.

'Sh-she said w-wait,' Mor-am said.

Mradhon stood,  still leaning  on the  side, his  feet going  numb and the sweat
pouring down his face into his eyes. Go out in this against orders - no. He  saw
Moria collapsed, head  and arms between  her knees, in  the clearing of  the sky
that afforded them some starlight; saw Mor-am's  hooded shape  standing  further
up, holding   to the   rope. When  he glanced  across the   river, he could  see
Sanctuary's  lights,   few  at  this   hour,  could  see  the  bridge,  sane and
reasonable crossing.

And from the man they had carried all this way, there was no sound, no  movement
- dead, Mradhon thought.  They had just carried  a corpse away from  Moruth; and
everyone was robbed.

Stones rattled,  high among  the brush.  Heads lifted,  all round;  and she  was
there, coming down,  gliding down the  rocks like a  fall of living dark, making
only occasional sound.  'So,' she said,  reaching them. She  put out a  hand and
brushed Mor-am. 'You've redeemed yourself.'

He said nothing, but limped down to the water's edge, and Haught and Moria  were
on their feet.

'Get in,' said Ischade. 'It will take us all.'

Mradhon climbed aboard, stepping over the corpse, which moved, which moaned, and
his nerves  prickled at  that unexpected  life. Greater  mercy, he thought, with
this stirring between  his feet, to  use the sword:  he had seen  deaths such as
this Stepson faced when  the wounds went bad,  the gaping socket of  the missing
eye thus close to the brain - it would be bad, he thought, while the boat rocked
with the others getting in. He reached  over the side, dipped up water with  his
hand, passed it over the Stepson's lips, felt movement in response.

Ischade's robe brushed him as she took her place. She knelt there all too  close
for any comfort; she bent her head,  bowed over, her hands on the wounded  face.
There was suddenly outcry, a struggling of limbs beneath them ... 'For the gods'
sake!' Mradhon  exclaimed, his  gorge rising;  he thrust  at Ischade, shoved her
back, froze at the lifting of her face, the direction of that basilisk stare  at
him.

'Pain is life,' she said.

And the boat  began to move,  slowly, like a  dream, the while  the wind swirled
about them and the river roared beneath. His companions - they were hazy  shapes
in the  night about  Ischade. The  wounded man  stirred and  moaned, threatening
instability in the boat should his thrashing become severe. Mradhon reached down
and held him, gently. The witch  touched him too, and the struggles  took harder
and harder restraint. The moans were pitiful.

'He will live,' she said. 'Stilcho. I am calling you. Come back.'

The Stepson  cried out,  once, sharply,  back arching,  but the  river took  the
sound.

It was a boat, running on the  flood. Erato saw it, his first thought  that some
riverfisher's skiff had come untied in the White Foal's violence.

But the boat came skimming, running  slowly like a cloud before the  wind across
the  current, in  a straight  line no  boat could  achieve in  any river.  Erato
stirred in his concealment, hair rising at his nape. He scrambled higher amongst
the brush, disturbed one of his men.

'Pass the word,' he said. 'Something's coming.'

'Where?'

'River.'

That got a stare, a silence in the dark.

'Get the rest,' Erato hissed, shoving at the man. 'They're going to come ashore.
Hear me?  Tell them  pass it  on. The  back of  the house:  that's where they'll
come.'

The  man went.  Erato slipped  along the  bank at  the same  level, towards  the
brambles, which served as effective barrier.  The house they watched - they  did
not venture liberties with  it, did not try  the low iron gate,  the hedges. Try
reason, he thought.  He was in  command. It was  on him to  try reason with  the
witch; and it  had to be  the witch out  there: there was  nothing in all sanity
that ought to  be doing what  that boat did.  He moved quietly,  gathered up men
here and there while the boat came on.

The bow  grated on  to rock  and kept  grating, pushing  itself ashore,  and the
Stepson moaned anew, leaning against the gunwales of the boat.

'Bring him,' Ischade said, and Mradhon looked up as the witch stepped ashore, on
the landing which rose in  steps up to the brambles.  He flung an arm about  the
Stepson, accepted Haught's help as he stood up, as now the Stepson fought to get
his own feet under  him, more than dead  weight. The boat rocked  as Mor-am went
past and stepped out, close to Ischade. They went next, stepping over the bow to
solid if water-washed stone footing, and  Moria came up by Haught's side,  while
Ischade stood gazing into the dark beside them.

Men were there, armed and armoured. A half a dozen visible. Stepsons.

The foremost came out  a few steps. 'You  surprise us,' that one  said. 'You did
it.'

'Yes,' Ischade said. 'Now go away. Be wise.'

'Our man -'

'Not yours,' she said.

'There's more of them,' Mradhon muttered to her; there was the light of  torches
up on the  height of the  bank, just the  merest wink of  red through the brush.
'Give  him over,  woman.' He  was holding  the Stepson  still, and  the man  was
standing  much  on his  own  between himself  and  Haught, standing,  having  no
strength, perhaps, to speak for himself. Or no will to do so - as there seemed a
curious lack of  initiative on the  part of the  Stepsons who faced  them in the
dark.

'Go away,' Ischade said, and walked past, walked up to the iron gate that closed
the bramble hedge at the back of her house. She turned there and looked back  at
them, lifted her hand.

Come. Mradhon felt it, a shiver in his nerves. The man they were carrying took a
step on his own, faltering, and they went on carrying him, up the steps, to  the
gate Ischade held open for them,  into a garden overgrown with weeds  and brush.
The back  door of  the house  swung open  abruptly, gaping  dark; and  they went
towards this, up the backdoor steps - heard hasty footfalls behind them, Moria's
swift pace, Mor-am's dragging foot. The iron gate creaked shut.

'Get him in,' Ischade hissed at their  backs; and there was not, at the  moment,
any choice.

Light flickered, the beginnings of  fire in the fireplace, candles  beginning to
light all at once. Mradhon looked about  in panic, at too many windows, a  house
too open  to defend.  The Stepson  dragged at  him. He  sought a  place and with
Haught's help bestowed the man  on the orange silk-strewn bed,  the gruesomeness
of it all  niggling at his  mind - that  and the windows.  He looked about,  saw
Moria close to the shelf-cluttered wall, by  the window - saw the gleam of  fire
through the shutter-slats.

'Come out!' a thin voice cried, 'or burn inside.'

'The hedges,' Haught said, and Ischade's  face was set and cold. She  lifted her
hand, waved it  as at inconsequence.  The lights all  brightened, all about  the
room, white as day.

'The hedges,' said Mor-am. 'They'll burn.'

'They're close.' Moria had sneaked a look, got back to the safe solidity of  the
wall. 'They're moving up.'

Ischade ignored them all. She brought a bowl, dipped a rag, laid a wet cloth  on
the Stepson's ravaged face, so,  so tenderly. Straightened his hair.  'Stilcho,'
she addressed the man. 'Lie easy now. They'll not come inside.'

'They won't need to,' Mradhon said between his teeth. 'Woman, they don't care if
he fries along with us. If you've got a trick, use it. Now.'

'This is  your warning,'  the voice  came from  outside the  walls. 'Come out or
burn!'

Ischade straightened.

Beyond the window  slats a fire  arced, flared. Kept  flaring, sun-bright. There
were screams, a rush of wind. Mradhon  whirled, saw the blaze of light at  every
window and Ischade standing black and still in the midst of them, her eyes -

He averted his, gazed  at Haught's pale face.  And the screams went  on outside.
Fire roared  like a  furnace about  the house,  went from  white to red to white
again outside, and the screams died.

There was silence then. The fire-glow  vanished. Even the light of the  candles,
the fire in the fireplace sank lower. He turned towards Ischade, saw her let  go
a breath. Her face - he had never seen it angry; and saw it now.

But she walked to a table, quietly poured wine, a rich, rich red. She turned  up
other cups, two, four, the sixth.  She filled only the one. 'Make  yourselves at
home,' she said. 'Food, if  you wish it. Drink. It  will be safe for you.  I say
that it is.'

None of them moved. Not one. Ischade drained her cup and drew a quiet breath.

'There is night left,' she  said. 'An hour or more  to dawn. Sit down. Sit  down
where you choose.'

And she set the cup aside. She took off her cloak, draped it over a chair,  bent
and pulled off one boot and the other, then rose to stand barefoot on the litter
that carpeted this  place; she drew  off her rings  and cast them  on the table,
looked up again, for still no one had moved.

'Please yourselves,' she said, and her eyes masked in insouciance something very
dark.

Mradhon edged back.

'I would not,' she said, 'try the door. Not now.'

She walked out to the middle of the silk-strewn floor. 'Stilcho,' she said;  and
a man who had been near dead moved, tried to sit.

'Don't,' Moria said,  a strangled, small  voice - not  love of Stepsons,  it was
sure; Mradhon felt the same, a knot of sickness in his throat.

Ischade held out her  hands. The Stepson rose,  swayed, walked to her.  She took
his hands, drew him to sit, with her, on the floor; he knelt, carefully.

'No,' Haught said, quietly, a small, lost voice. 'No. Don't.'

But Ischade had  no glance for  him. She began  to speak, whispering,  as if she
shared secrets with the man. His lips began to move, mouthing words she spoke.

Mradhon seized Haught's arm, for Haught stood closest, drew him back, and Haught
got back against  the wall. Moria  came close. Mor-am  sought their corner,  the
furthest that there was.

'What's she doing?' Mradhon asked, tried to ask, but the room drank up sound and
nothing at all came out.

She dreamed, deeply dreamed. The man who touched her -Stilcho. He had been  deep
within that territory of dreams, as deep as it was possible to go and still come
back. He  wanted it  now: his  mind wanted  to go  fleeting away down those dark
corridors and bright - Sjekso, she chanted, over and over: that was the  easiest
to call of all her many ghosts. Sjekso. She had his attention now. Sjekso.  This
is Stilcho. Follow him. Come up to me.

The  young  rowdy  was there,  just  verging  the light.  He  attempted  his old
nonchalance, but he was shivering in  the cold of a remembered alleyway,  in the
violence of her wrath.

She named other names and called them; she sent them deep, deep into the depths,
remembering them - all her men, most ruffians, a few gentle, a few obsessed with
hate. One had been a robber, dumped his victims in the harbour after carving  up
their faces. One  had been a  Hell Hound: Rynner  was his name;  he used to play
games with prostitutes  - his commander  never knew. They  were hate, raw  hate:
there were some souls  that responded best to  them. There was a  boy, come with
tears on  his face;  one of  Moruth's beggars;  one ofKadakithis's court, silver
tongued, with honey hair  and the blackest, vilest  heart. Up and up  they came,
swirled near, a veritable cloud.

She spoke, through Stilcho's  lips, words in a  language Stilcho would not  have
known, that few living did. "Til dawn, 'til dawn, 'til dawn -'

The dream stretched wide,  passed beyond her control  in a moment of  panic. She
tried to call them back, but that would have been dangerous.

'Til dawn, she had said.

                                    *  *  *

There were so many pressing at the gates, so very many - Sanctuary, the  whisper
went. Sanctuary's open -  and some went in  simple longing for home,  for wives,
husbands, children; some in anger, many, many in anger - the town inspired that,
in those it trapped.

A wealthy widow  turned in bed  from the slave  she kept and  stared into a dead
husband's reproachful eyes: a  yell rang out through  marble halls, high on  the
hill.

A judge waked, feeling  something cold, and stared  round at all the  ghosts who
had cause  to remember  him. He  did not  scream; he  joined them, for his heart
failed him on the spot.

In the Maze there was the  sound of children's voices, running frenzied  through
the streets  - 0  Mama, Papa!  Here I  am! One  such wandered  alone, among  the
merchants' fine houses, and rapped on a door. I'm home - o Mama, let me in!

A thief stirred in his sleep,  rubbed his eyes and rubbed them  twice. 'Cudget,'
he said, knowing that  he was dreaming, and  yet he felt the  cold drifting from
the old man. 'Cudget?' The old man swore at him just as he used to do, and Hanse
Shadowspawn sat up in bed, petrified as his old mentor gazed on him, sitting  on
his foot.

Outside, the streets rustled with the  gathering of the dead. One hammered  at a
door with thin rattling result; Where's my money? it wailed. One-Thumb,  where's
my money?

The booths at the Vulgar Unicorn grew crowded, buzzed with whispers, and the few
diehard patrons went fleeing out the door.

Brother, a ghost said to the fat man  in an uptown bed, and to the woman  beside
him - is he worth it, Thea?

Screams rose, long ones, echoing above  the streets, a thin clamouring that  the
wind took and carried through the air.

A Beysib woman felt the stirring of  the snake that shared her bed, opened  dark
strange eyes and  stared in wonder  at the pale  night-gowned figure that  stood
within the room: Usurper, it said. Get out  of my bed. Get out of my house.  You
have no right.

No one had ever told her that. She blinked, confused, hearing the screams, as if
the town were being sacked.

Across the river Moruth hurried along, hastening in the night for a newer,  more
secure place, in the madness of the hour, in streets insane with screams.

He stopped, seeing the  way closed off. They  were hawkmasks. four of  them, who
began  to come  towards him;  he turned,  and there  were Stepsons,  armed  with
swords.

In the guardroom a  Hell Hound wakened, bleary-eyed  from drink, looked up  with
the  interest of  one who  hears the  step of  a friend  returning, a   singular
pattern, so familiar and loved among a thousand others; and then with a  sinking
of the heart remembered it impossible. But Zaibar looked all the same, and stood
up, overturning the chair with a crash.

Raskuli was standing there, unmarred, his head firmly on his shoulders. I  can't
stay long, he said.

And higher in the palace, Kadakithis  screamed and yelled for guards, waking  to
find strangers  in his  room, a  horde of  ghosts. some  with ropes  about their
necks; and soldiers all dusty in  tattered armour; and his grandfather, who  did
not belong in Sanctuary, wearing a shadow-crown.

Shame, his grandfather said.

Walegrin sat up  in bed, in  the barracks below  the wall -  heard the clash  of
bracelets, ominous and clear. He reached for his knife, beneath the pillow.  But
as the sound ceased,  faint as it was,  he heard screams from  beyond the walls,
and leapt up, knife in hand, to fling the window wide.

Jubal the ex-slaver waked, hearing  the murmur of a sea  - and not a sea,  but a
horde of slaves about his bed,  lacking limbs, with scars, some clutching  their
entrails to them. He spat at them, and felt the cold at the same time.

It's your fault, Kurd said, and  from that ghost the others fled,  deserting the
place, leaving only the  pale old man, the  visitor with hollow eyes.  We should
sit and talk, Kurd said.

S/r? asked a wan,  lost ghost, accosting a  drunk who staggered by  the Unicorn,
stopping up his ears. Sir? What street is  this? I got to get home, me wife  'II
kill me, sure.

On the street of gods a priestess screamed, waking to find a tiny ghost lying at
her breast, all wet and dripping with riverweed, an infant of dark and  accusing
eyes.

A clatter of  hooves rang through  the Stepson barracks  courtyard, a rattle  of
armour, a breath of cold wind.

And in the headquarters in the town, Dolon gave orders, dispatched men here  and
there -  stopped cold  as, alone,  he realized  other men  had come,  with their
blackened skin and flesh hanging from their limbs.

We've lost, Erato said.

Fool! A different presence burst among them, whose armour shone, whose look  was
bronze and gold; he came striding in from out of the wall itself and the  others
fled. The air smelled suddenly of dust and heat. Ofool, what have you done?

And Dolon backed away, knowing legend when he saw it.

The presence faded and left cold in its stead.

Ischade stirred,  feeling the  pain of  long-rigid limbs.  A heavy weight poured
against her, Stilcho in collapse. And  one last thing she did, without  thinking
of it, holding the  Stepson in her arms:  'Come back,' she said,  knowing it was
dawn.

No, the almost-ghost  said, weeping, but  she compelled it.  The body grew  warm
again. Moaned with pain.

'Help me,' she said, looking up at the others who sat huddled in the corner.

It was Haught  who came. Even  Mor-am was too  afraid; but Haught  - who touched
her, with his hands and  in a different way, like  the flickering of a fire.  He
took Stilcho up; Mor-am helped, and Vis, and Moria last of all.

Ischade drew herself to her feet,  walked over to the window and  unshuttered it
by hand, considerate of her guests. There were some things they might bear  with
in the dark of night; but by day - that seemed unkind, and she felt washed clean
this morning. A bird was perched on the untouched hedge. It was a carrion  crow;
it hopped down out of sight, in a fluttering of unseen wings.

Mradhon Vis strode along the street in the silence of the morning free, inhaling
air that had, even  with its stench, a  more wholesome quality than  that within
the riverhouse.

Haught,  Moria, Mor-am  - they  were afraid.  The Stepson  slept, unharmed,   in
Ischade's silken bed, while the witch herself - gods knew where she was.

'Come on,' he  had pleaded, with  Haught - with  Moria, even. Mor-am  he had not
asked. Even the Stepson: him he would have gotten out of there if he could.  But
maybe it would be a corpse he was carrying before he had gotten to the street.

'No,' Moria had said, seeming shamed. Haught had said nothing, but a hell was in
his eyes, so he had it bad. 'Don't - touch her,' Mradhon had said then,  shaking
him by the shoulders. But Haught  turned away, head bowed, passed his  hand over
one of the dead candles. A bit of  smoke curled up on its own. Died. So  Mradhon
knew what hold Ischade had on Haught.  And he went away, went out the  door with
no one to stop him.

She would find him if she wished. He was sure of that. There was a long list  of
those who might be interested  to find him - but  he walked the street past  the
bridge by daylight in the town.  Traffic had begun, if late. There  were walkers
on the street, folk with unhappy, hunted looks.

'Vis,' someone said. He heard rapid steps. His heart turned in him as he  looked
back and saw a man of the garrison. 'Vis, is it?'

He thought of his sword, but daytime,  on the streets - even in Sanctuary  - was
no time or place for that kind of craziness. He struck an easy stance, impatient
attention, nodded to the man.

'Got a message,' the soldier said. 'Captain wants to see you. Mind?'

THE ART OF ALLIANCE

Robert Lynn Asprin

A large blackbird perched on the  awning of the small jeweller's shop,  its head
cocked to fix the approaching trio with an unblinking eye, as if it knew of  the
drama about to unfold.

'There it is. Bantu, just like I told you. I'm sure it wasn't there last week.'

The leader  of the  group nodded  curtly, never  taking his  eyes from the small
symbol  scratched  on  one of  the  awning  posts. It  was  a  simple design:  a
horizontal line curved downward  at the left, with  a small circle at  its lower
right end.  No rune  or letter  of any  known alphabet  matched it, yet it spoke
volumes to those in the know.

'Not last week,'  Bantu said, his  jaw muscles tightening,  'and not next  week.
Come on.'

The three were so  intent on their mission  within that they failed  to note the
loiterer  across  the street,  who  regarded them  with  much the  same  careful
scrutiny that they  had given the  symbol. As they  vanished into the  shop, the
watcher closed his eyes to evaluate the details of what he'd seen.

Three youths  ... well  monied from  the cut  and newness  of their  clothes ...
swords and  daggers only  ... no  armour ...  none of  the habitual  wariness of
warriors about them ...

Satisfied that the facts  were clear in his  mind, the watcher opened  his eyes,
turned,  and  made  his way  quickly  down  the street,  suddenly  aware  of the
pressures of time in the performance of his duties.

There was  a middle-aged  couple in  the shop,  but the  youths ignored  them as
completely  as  they  did  the displays.  Instead  they  moved  to confront  the
shopkeeper.

'Can ... may I show you gentlemen something?' that notable inquired hesitantly.

'We'd like to  know more about  the sign scratched  on the post  outside,' Bantu
proclaimed bluntly.

'Sign?'  the shopkeeper  frowned. 'There's  no sign  on my  posts. Perhaps   the
children ...'

'Spare  us your  feigned innocence,  old fool,'  the youth  snapped,  swaggering
forward. 'Next you'll be telling us you don't even recognize Jubal's mark.'

The shopkeeper paled at the mention of the ex-crimelord's name, and shot a quick
glance at his other  customers. The couple had  drawn away from the  disturbance
and were attempting to appear unaware that anything was amiss.

'Tell us what that mark means,' Bantu said. 'Are you one of his killers or  just
a spy? Are these goods you're selling stolen or merely smuggled? How much  blood
was paid for your stock?'

The other customers exchanged a few  mumbled words and began edging towards  the
door.

'Please,' the storekeeper begged, 'I...'

'That black bastard's  power has been  smashed once,' the  youth raged. 'Do  you
think honest citizens will  just stand by while  he spreads his web  again? That
sign ...'

The shop door flew open with a crash, cutting off the customers' escape. Half  a
dozen figures crowded into the limited space, swords drawn and ready.

Before Bantu had finished turning, the newcomers had shoved his comrades roughly
against the  walls of  the shop,  pinning them  there with  bared blades against
their throats.  The youth  started to  reach for  his own  weapon, then  thought
better of it and let his hand fall away from his sword hilt.

These men had the  cold, easy confidence of  those who make their  living by the
sword. There was near-military precision  to their movements, though no  soldier
ever worked with such silent efficiency.  As confident as he was at  terrorizing
storekeepers, Bantu knew he was now  outclassed; there was no doubt in  his mind
what the outcome would be if he or his comrades offered any resistance.

A short, swarthy man came forward with  a step that was more a glide.  He leaned
casually in front of the storekeeper,  yet never took his eyes from  Bantu. 'Are
these boys bothering you, citizen?'

'No, these ... men were just asking about the sign on my post outside. They  ...
seemed to think it was Jubal's mark.'

'Jubal?'  the  swarthy man  repeated,  raising his  eyebrows  in mock  surprise.
'Haven't  you  heard,  lad? The  Black  Devil  of Sanctuary's  dead  now,  or so
everybody says. Lucky for you, too.'

A knife glinted suddenly in the man's hand as he advanced on Bantu, a glint that
was echoed in his narrowed eyes.

'... because if he were alive, and  if this shop were under his protection,  and
if he or his men caught you coming between him and a paying customer, then  he'd
have to make an example of you and your friends!'

The man was close  now, and Bantu's throat  tightened as the knife  moved up and
down in the air between them, gracefully serving as a pointer during the speech.

'Maybe your ears should be cut off to save you from hearing troublesome  rumours
... or your tongue cut out to keep you from repeating them ... Better still  the
nose ... yes, chop off the nose to keep it out of other people's business ,..'

Bantu felt faint now. This couldn't  be happening. Not in broad daylight  on the
east side of town. These things might  happen in the Maze, but not here!  Not to
him!

'Please, sir,' the shopkeeper interrupted. 'If anything happens in my shop ...'

'Of course,' the swarthy man continued, as if he hadn't heard, 'all this is pure
conjecture. Jubal is dead, so nothing need be done ... or said. Correct?'

He turned away abruptly, summoning his men  back to the door with a jerk  of his
head.

'Yes, Jubal is dead,'  he repeated, 'along with  his hawkmasks. As such,  no one
need concern themselves with silly  symbols scratched on shopfronts. I  trust we
did not  interrupt your  business, citizens,  for I'm  sure you  are all here to
purchase some of this man's excellent stock ... and you will each buy  something
before you leave.'

Jubal, the  not-so-dead ex-crimelord  of Sanctuary,  paced the  confines of  the
small room like a caged animal. The process that had healed his terrible  wounds
after the raid on his estate had aged him physically. Mentally, however, he  was
still  agile,  and  that  agility rebelled  at  these  new  restrictions on  his
movement. Still, it was a small price to pay for rebuilding his lost power.

'So the alliance is finalized?' he  asked. 'We will warn and guard  the Stepsons
whenever possible  in return  for their  abandoning the  hunt for  the remaining
hawkmasks?'

'As you  ordered,' his  aide acknowledged.  Jubal caught  the tone  of voice and
hesitated  in  his pacing.  'You  still don't  approve  of this  treaty,  do you
Saliman?'

'Tempus and his  Whoresons raided our  holdings, wounded you  nearly unto death,
scattered our power, and  have since been occupying  their time killing our  old
comrades. Why  should  I object  to  allying with  them  ... any  more  than I'd
object to bedding a mad dog that's bitten me not once, but several times.'

'But  you  yourself  counselled   not  seeking  vengeance  on   him!'

'Avoiding confrontation is one thing. Pledging to help an enemy is yet  another.
Forming an alliance was your idea, Jubal, not mine.'

Jubal smiled slowly, and for a moment Saliman saw a flash of the old  crimelord,
the one who had once all but ruled Sanctuary.

'The alliance  is at  best temporary,  old friend,'  the ex-gladiator  murmured.
'Eventually there will be a reckoning. In the meantime, where better to study an
enemy than from within his own camp?'

'Tempus is smarter than that,' his aide argued. 'Do you really • think he'll  be
trusting enough to relax his guard?'

'Of course not,' said Jubal. 'But Tempus has moved north to fight at Wizardwall.
I have less respect for those he's left behind. However, their efforts to locate
old hawkmasks are an annoyance we can ill afford at this time.'

'The rebuilding  goes well.  Resistance is  minimal, and  ...'

'I'm  not  talking about  the rebuilding,  and you  know it!'  Jubal interrupted
viciously. 'It's those Beysib  that  have  me worried.'

'But everyone   else in town is   unconcerned.'

'They're fools!  Not   a  one of  them can   see   beyond  their own   immediate
gains.  Merchants don't  understand  power.  Power  understands power.   I  know
those  fish  folk better than  most, because I  know  myself.  They didn't  come
to   Sanctuary to help the  town. Oh, they'll make a  big show of  the  benefits
of   their  arrival   to the    citizens, but    eventually  there'll    come a
parting  of   the ways.    A  situation   will arise    when  they'll  have   to
choose  between  what's   good  for   their  new neighbours and  what's good for
the  Beysib,  and there's no doubt in my mind  as to how they'll choose.   If we
let  them   get  strong   enough. Sanctuary    will be  lost  when  their chance
goes against  the city.'

'They are not exactly weak now,' Saliman observed, thoughtfully chewing his lip.

'That's right,' Jubal growled, 'and that's why they concern me. What we must  do
... what the town must do, is to gain strength through our association with  the
fish-folk, while at the same time blocking their growth, actually sapping  their
strength whenever possible. Fortunately, this is a role Sanctuary is well suited
to.'

'There are those  who would confuse  your zeal for  self-interest rather than  a
defence of the town,' Saliman said carefully. 'The Beysib do constitute a threat
to your effort to rebuild your power base.'

'Of  course,' the  hawkmaster smiled.  'Like the  invaders, I  work for  my  own
benefit... Everyone does, though most don't admit it. The difference is that  my
success is linked to  the continuance of Sanctuary  as we have known  it. Theirs
isn't.'

'Of course, your success will not happen by itself,' his aide reminded him.

'Yes, yes. I know. Affairs of  business. Forgive my ramblings, Saliman, but  you
know I find details tedious now that I've attained old age.'

'You found them tedious well before your aging,' came the dry response.

'... which is why you are so  valuable to me. Enough of your nagging.  Now, what
pressing matter do you have that simply must be dealt with?'

'Do you recall the shop that was displaying our protection symbol without having
paid for the services?'

'The artifact shop? Yes, I remember. Synab  never struck me as the sort who  had
that kind of courage.'

For all his grumbling and protests about detail, Jubal had an infallible  memory
for money and people.

'Well?' the slaver continued, 'What of it? Has the investigation been completed,
or does his shop still stand?'

'Both,' Saliman smiled. 'Synab claims to be innocent of offence. He says that he
didpa.y us for protection.'

'And you believed him? It's not like you to be so easily bluffed.'

'I believed him, but only because we located the one who has been dealing in our
name.'

'A poacher?' Jubal scowled. 'As if  we didn't have enough problems. All  we need
is to have every cheap crook  in Sanctuary borrowing our reputation for  his own
extortions. I want the offender caught and brought to me as soon as possible.'

'He's waiting outside,' the aide smiled. 'I thought you would want to see him.'

'Excellent, Saliman.  Your efficiency  improves daily.  Give me  a moment to get
into this wretched mask and bring him in.'

To maintain appearances, Jubal always  wore one of the outlawed  blue hawkmasks,
as well as a hooded cloak  when interviewing underlings and outsiders. It  would
not do to have the word spread that  his youth had fled him, nor did it  hurt to
capitalize on  the terror  inspired by  a featureless  leader. In  an effort  to
maximize the latter effect, the ex-crimelord doused all candles but one and laid
his sword on the table in front of himself before signalling that the  captive's
blindfold should be removed.

Their prisoner was an  unwashed urchin barely into  his teens. His type  were as
numerous as rats in Sanctuary, harassing store owners and annoying shoppers with
their arrogant stares  and daring sorties.  There was no  defiance in this  one,
though. Cowed  and humble,  he stood  blinking, trying  to clear  his eyes while
standing with the trembling  stillness of a tethered  goat trying to escape  the
notice of a predator.

'Do you know who I am, boy?'

'J ... Jubal, sir.'

'Louder! The name came  readily enough to you  when you represented yourself  to
Synab as my agent.'

'I ...  everyone said  you were  dead, sir.  I thought  the symbols  were a  new
extortion racket and didn't see any harm in trying to cash in on it myself.'

'Even if I were dead, it's a  dangerous name to be using. Weren't you  afraid of
the guardsmen? Or the Stepsons? They're hunting hawkmasks, you know.'

'The Stepsons,' the boy sneered. 'They aren't  so much. One of them had me  cold
with my hand in his purse yesterday.  I knocked him down and got away  before he
could untangle himself enough to draw his sword.'

'Anyone can be  surprised, boy. Remember  that. Those men  are hardened veterans
who've earned their reputation as well as their

pay.'

'They don't scare me,' the boy argued, more defiantly.

'Do I?'

'Y ... Yes, sir,' came the reply, as the youth remembered his predicament.

'... but not enough to keep you from posing as one of my agents,' Jubal finished
for him. 'How much did you get from Synab, anyway?'

'I don't know, sir.'

The ex-crimelord raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

'Really!' the urchin insisted. 'Instead of  a flat fee, I demanded a  portion of
his weekly sales. I told him that we ... that you would be watching his shop and
would know if he tried to cheat on the figure.' ,

'Interesting,' Jubal murmured. 'How did you arrive at that system?'

'Well, once I knew that he was scared enough to pay, I suddenly realized that  I
didn't know how much to ask for. If I asked for too little, he'd get suspicious,
but if I named a figure too high,  he'd either ruin his shop, trying to pay  it,
or simply refuse ... and then I'd have to try to make good my threats.'

'So what portion did you ask for?'

'One in five. But, you see, linking his payment to his sales, the fee would grow
with his business, or adjust itself if times grew lean.'

The hawkmaster pondered this for a time.

'What is your name, boy?'

'Cidin, sir.'

'Well, Cidin, if  you were in  my place, if  you caught someone  using your name
without permission, what would you do to him?'

'I ... I'd kill him, sir,' the boy admitted. 'You know, as an example, so  other
people wouldn't do the same thing.'

'Quite right,' Jubal nodded, rising to  his feet. 'I'm glad you understand  what
would have to be done.'

Cidin braced himself  as the ex-crimelord  reached for the  sword on the  table,
then blinked in astonishment as the weapon was returned to its scabbard, instead
of being wielded with deadly intent.

'...  fortunately  for  both of  us,  that  isn't the  case  here.  You have  my
permission to use my name  and work as my agent.  Of course, two thirds of  what
you collect will be paid to me for the use of that name. Agreed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You might  also think  of recruiting  some of  your friends  to help you ... if
they're as quick of wit as they are of foot.'

'I'll try, sir.'

'Now wait here for a moment while I  fetch my aide. I want you to tell  him what
you  told  me  about  portions  instead  of  flat  fees.  It's  an  idea   worth
investigating.'

He started for the door, then paused, studying the boy with a thoughtful eye.

'You  don't  look like  a  hawkmask... but  then  again, maybe  that's  what our
rebuilding  needs. I  think the  days of  swaggering swordsmen  are numbered  in
Sanctuary.'

'Have you reached a decision yet on Mor-am and Moria?'

Jubal shook his  head. 'There's no  rush,' he said.  'Mor-am is ours  anytime we
want him. I  don't want to  eliminate him until  I've made my  mind up on Moria.
Those two were close  once, and I'm still  unconvinced she has totally  quelched
her feelings for her brother.'

'It's said she has developed a taste for wine. If we wait too long, she may  not
be worth the recruiting.'

'All  the more  reason to  wait. Either  she is  strong enough  to stand  alone,
without brother  or wine,  or she  isn't. We've  no room  for employees who need
tending.'

'They were good people,' Saliman said softly.

'Yes, they were. But we can ill  afford generosity at this time. What about  the
other? Is there any danger our spies in Walegrin's force will be discovered?'

'None that we know of. Of course, they have an advantage over the rest of us.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Only  that they're  exempt from  the order  to assist  the Stepsons,   whenever
trouble arises. I've told you before, it's a dead giveaway to come to the aid of
those mercenaries every time they get into  a scrape. No one else in town  likes
them, except the whores,  and it breeds suspicion  when one of ours  takes their
side in a quarrel.'

'Have they honoured their pledge not to hunt the old hawk-masks?'

'Yes,'  Saliman  admitted grudgingly.  'In  a way,  they  still go  through  the
motions, but they have been notably ineffective since the alliance.'

'Then we'll honour our side of  the bargain. If our forces are  drawing unwanted
attention, instruct them to be more subtle with their assistance. There are ways
of helping without openly taking sides in a brawl.'

'We tried that, and  the Stepsons proved inept  in battle. You were  the one who
said we must do whatever necessary to keep them alive.'

'Then keep doing it!' Jubal was suddenly tired of the argument. 'Saliman, I fear
your dislike of this alliance  has slanted your reports. Those  "inept" Stepsons
drove our entire force out of our  mansion. I find it hard to believe  that they
are suddenly unable to survive a simple street skirmish.'

The  small  snake raised  its  head to  study  its captors,  then  went back  to
exploring the confines of its jar with the singleminded intent characteristic of
reptiles.

'So this is one of the dread beynit,' Jubal mused, resting his chin on his hands
to study the specimen. 'The secret weapon of the Beysib.'

'Not all that secret,' his aide retorted. 'I've told you of the bodies that have
appeared marked with snakebite. The  fish-folk are not always discreet  in their
use of their secret weapons.'

'Let's  not  fall  victim  to  our own  tricks,  Saliman.  We  were  never above
scattering a few extra corpses around  to confuse the issue. I don't  think it's
safe to assume that every snakebit body  is the work of the Beysib. You're  sure
this snake won't be missed?'

'It cost the life of one of their women, but that's unimportant. Hers isn't  the
only life they've lost lately. They seem remarkably stubborn about not  adapting
to Sanctuary's nightlife. Wherever they come from, they're used to being able to
travel the streets alone.'

'Their carelessness may give us the advantage we need,' Jubal said, tapping  the
side of the jar to  make the snake raise its  head again. 'If we can  unlock the
secret of this venom, we'll be that  much ahead if we ever have to  confront the
fish-folk.'

He straightened and pushed the jar across the table to his aide.

'Pass this to someone  well-versed in toxins and  include enough money for  test
slaves. I  want an  antidote for  this poison  within the  month. Too bad Tempus
revenged himself on Kurd. We could use the vivisectionist's services.'

'Tempus has a knack for making our life difficult,' Saliman agreed, dryly.

'That reminds  me. How  are things  going with  the Stepsons?  You haven't  said
anything lately, so I assume the situation has stabilized.' 

'No, it hasn't. However, you told me in no uncertain terms that you didn't  want
to hear any more complaining about the Alliance.'

'No more complaints, but that didn't mean I would reject all reports.'

'Yes, it did. All I get is complaints about the Whoresons and their inability to
save themselves from the simplest of conflicts.'

'All right, Saliman,' Jubal sighed.  'Perhaps I have discounted the  reports too
much. Now, can you give me an impartial briefing as to what has been happening?'

The aide paused to collect his  thoughts before reporting. 'The Stepsons, as  we
knew them when they first arrived  in town, were hardened warriors, able  to not
only survive but triumph in most situations involving armed conflict. They  were
feared but  respected by  the people  of Sanctuary.  This has  changed radically
since  our alliance  with them.  They have  grown more  quarrelsome, and   their
ability to defend  themselves seems to  have diminished nearly  to the point  of
nonexistence. A major portion of our agents' time and energies is being diverted
into keeping the  Stepsons out of  trouble, or saving  them when our  preventive
measures fail.'

The ex-crimelord digested this. 'We both  know that field soldiers left in  town
too long become troublesome as  their fighting trim and discipline  deteriorate.
Is this what's happened to the Stepsons?'

Saliman shook his head. 'Such deterioration  would not be so rapid or  complete.
These warriors could not be more ineffectual if they were trying to lose.'

'You may have the answer there. We know the Stepsons to be fearless, willing  to
follow Tempus's orders even unto  death. They could be testing  us, deliberately
exposing themselves to  danger to measure  our intent or  ability to honour  our
alliances. Either that, or there may  be more to Tempus's leadership than  meets
the eye. It has been established that he derives support from at least one  god.
Perhaps he has found a way to transmit  that power to his troops ... a way  that
has grown tenuous operating at such a distance.'

'Either  way, we're  still investing  too much  of our  time maintaining  a  bad
alliance.'

'But until we know for sure, we can't tell if it's more to our advantage to keep
or dissolve the agreement. Find me the answers and I'll reconsider. Until  then,
we'll maintain our current position.'

'As you will.'

Jubal smiled as Hakiem was led  blindfolded into the room. It was  not necessary
to wear  the hawkmask  for this  interview, and  he was  glad, for  he wanted an
unobstructed view of his guest. Had he not been forewarned, he never would  have
recognized the old storyteller. He  waited until the blindfold had  been removed
before making  his examination,  walking slowly  around the  tale-spinner, while
Hakiem stood blinking  in the light.  New clothes, hair  and beard trimmed,  the
gauntness gone from his  rib cage, and ...  Yes! The fragrant odour  of perfume!
Hakiem had bathed!

'I have a  job,' the storyteller  broke the silence,  almost embarrassed by  his
newfound wealth.

'I know,'  Jubal said.  'In the  new court,  as advisor  to the  Beysa.'

'If you already knew  that, why'd  you drag  me here  all blindfolded,'   Hakiem
snapped, returning momentarily to his old gutter temper.

'Because I also know you're thinking of quitting.' There were several heartbeats
of silence; then the storyteller heaved a sigh. 'So instead of my asking why I'm
here, I guess the question is "Why am I quitting?" Is that it?'

'You've put it  a bit more  bluntly than I  would have, but  you've captured the
essence of the matter.'

Jubal sank into a chair and waved Hakiem to take the seat across from him.  '...
and help yourself to the wine. We've known each other too long for you to  stand
on ceremony.'

'Ceremony!'  the  old  tale-spinner  snorted,  accepting  both  chair  and wine.
'Perhaps that's what bothers me. Like you, I come from the streets and  gutters.
All the pomp and bother of court life bores me and, if nothing else, my time  in
Sanctuary has taught me to be impatient with boredom.'

'Money pays for much patience, Hakiem,' Jubal observed. 'That I've learned  from
this town. Besides, I've had call to discover your beginnings are not as  humble
as  you  would  have  others  believe.  Come  now,  the  real  reason  for  your
discontent.'

'And what business is it of yours?  Since when did you concern yourself with  my
thoughts or livelihood?'

'Information is my  business,' the ex-gladiator  shot back. 'Especially  when it
concerns the power structure of this town. You know that. You've sold me rumours
often enough. And besides ...'  Jubal's voice dropped suddenly, losing  its edge
of anger and  authority. '... Not  long ago I  considered changing careers.  Two
men, an old friend and a penniless storyteller, ignored my temper and  convinced
me to examine my own motives. I haven't  paid all my debts in life, but I  don't
forget them either.  Will you let  me try to  return the favour  you paid me? Of
being both gadfly and confessor at a time you feel most alone?'

Hakiem stared into  his wine for  several moments. 'I  love this town,'  he said
finally, 'as you do,  though we love it  differently and for different  reasons.
When  the foreigners  ask me  my opinions  of the  townfolk, to  appraise  their
trustworthiness or weakness, I feel  I'm somehow betraying my friends.  The gold
is nice, but it leaves  a slime on me that  all the perfumed baths in  the world
cannot remove.'

'They  ask no  more than  I did  when you  served as  my eyes  and ears,'  Jubal
suggested.

'It's not the  same,' Hakiem insisted.  'You are a  part of this  town. like the
Bazaar of the Maze. Now I deal with strangers, and I'll not spy against my  home
for mere gold.'

The ex-crimelord weighed this carefully, then poured them each another round  of
wine.

'Listen to me, Hakiem,' he said at last. 'And think well on what I say. Your old
life is gone. You know you could no more return to being an innocent storyteller
than I could go back to being a slave. Life moves forward, not backward. Just as
I've had to adapt to my sudden advance in age, you must learn to live with  your
new station in life. No. Hear me out.

'What you tell the invaders, they would learn whether you supplied it or not. As
a fellow gatherer of information, I swear  to you this is true. There is  always
more than one way to  learn any fact. If, however,  you were not there, if  they
chose someone else to advise them, there would be a difference. Another would be
too swelled with his own importance, too in love with the sound of his own words
to hear and see what was actually  going on around him. That, storyteller, is  a
weakness you have never had.

'What goes on in that court, and  the logic that the newcomers use to  arrive at
their decisions,  can be  of utmost  importance to  the future  of our  town. It
worries me, but not so much as  it would if anyone but yourself were  monitoring
their activities. Trading information we know for that which we do not is a fair
enough bargain, especially when what we gain is so valuable.'

'All this  talk comes  very smoothly,  slaver,' the  talesmith scowled. 'Perhaps
I've underestimated you again.  You didn't bring me  here to ask my  reasons for
quitting. It seems my thoughts were already known to you. What you really wanted
was to recruit me as your spy.'

'I suspected your reasons,' Jubal admitted. 'But spy is an ugly word. Still, the
life of a spy is dangerous and would command a high wage ... say, fifty in  gold
each week? With bonuses for particularly valuable reports?'

'To betray the  other powers of  Sanctuary while feeding  your strength.' Hakiem
laughed. 'And what if the Beysib ask about you? They'll grow suspicious if there
is a blind spot in my reporting.'

'Answer them as truthfully as you would when questioned about anyone else.'  The
ex-gladiator shrugged. 'I'm hiring you to gather information, not to protect  me
at  your  own  expense.  Admit  everything,  including  that  you  have  ways of
contacting me, should  the need arise.  Tell the truth  as often as  you can. It
will increase the odds  of them believing you  when you do find  it necessary to
lie.'

'I'll consider it,' the storyteller said. 'But I'll tell you the only reason I'd
even think about such  a pact is that  you and your ghosts  are one of the  last
effective forces in Sanctuary, now that the Stepsons have left.'

Something nickered across Jubal's face, then was gone.

'The Stepsons?' he asked. 'When last I heard, they still ruled the streets. What
makes you think they're gone?'

'Don't toy with me, Hawkmaster,' Hakiem scolded, reaching for more wine, only to
find the bottle empty. 'You, who know even what's going on in my own head,  must
know that those clowns in armour who  parade the streets these days are no  more
Stepsons than I'm a Hell Hound. Oh,  they have the height and the hair  of those
they replaced,  but they're  poor substitutes  for the  mercenaries who long ago
followed Tempus off to the Northern Wars.'

'Of course.'Jubal smiled vaguely.

A small purse found its way from his tunic to his hand, and he pushed it  across
the table to the storyteller.

'Here,' he instructed, 'use  this to buy yourself  a charm, a good  one, against
poison. Violence in the courts is quieter, but no less rough than that you  know
from the Maze, and tasters are not always reliable.'

'What I really need  is a guard against  their snakes,' Hakiem grimaced,  making
the purse vanish with a wave of his hand. 'I'll never get used to having so many
reptiles about.'

'Check with me next week,' Jubal answered absently. 'I have people working on an
antidote for that particular poison. That is, of course, assuming you decide  to
retain your position. A street storyteller has no need of such protection.'

'You  have  one of  the  beynit?' the  talesmith  asked, impressed  in  spite of
himself.

'They aren't that hard to come by,' the ex-crimelord responded casually,  'which
reminds  me.  If you  need  a tidbit  to  keep your  patroness  happy with  your
services, tell her that not all  the snakebite victims appearing lately are  her
people's work.  There are  those who  would discredit  her court  by duplicating
their methods.'

Hakiem raised his eyebrow in silent question, but Jubal shook his head.

'None of mine,' he declared, 'though the idea bears further study in the future.
If you'll excuse  me now, I  have other matters  to attend to  ... and tell your
escort I said to see that you reach your next destination safely.'

The sound of Jubal's laughter brought Saliman hurrying into the room.

'What is it?'  he asked, half-puzzled,  half-concerned by the  first outburst of
gaiety he'd witnessed from Jubal for many months. 'Did the old storyteller  have
an amusing tale? Tell me, I could use a good laugh these days.'

'It's  very  simple,' the  Hawkmaster  explained, regaining  partial  control of
himself. 'We've been betrayed. Double-crossed.'

'And you're laughing about it?'

'It's not the intent, but  the method that amuses me.  Though I have no love  of
being tricked, even I must admit this latest effort displays a certain style.'

With a few brief sentences, he sketched out what he had learned from Hakiem.

'Substitutes?' Saliman frowned.

'Think about  it,' Jubal  argued. 'You  know at  least some  of the  Stepsons on
sight. Have you seen  any familiar faces in  those uniforms lately? Perhaps  the
one who made the alliance with us?  It explains so much, like why the  so-called
Stepsons suddenly  don't know  which end  of a  sword to  grasp. And  to think I
expected to take advantage of a naive second-in-command.'

'So what are we going to do now?'

'That I decided as soon as I learned of the deception.'

All signs of  laughter faded from  Jubal's eyes, to  be replaced by  a dangerous
glitter.

'I make alliances with men, not uniforms.  Now it just so happens that the  men,
the Stepsons, whom our alliance is with are now somewhere to the north,  putting
their  lives and  reputations on  the line  for the  dear old  Empire. In  their
efforts to be in two places at once, though, they've left themselves vulnerable.
They've turned their name  over to a batch  of total incompetents, hoping  their
reputation will suffice to bluff their replacements' way through any crisis.

'While we have an  alliance with the Stepsons,  we have no obligation  at all to
the fools they  left behind in  their stead. What's  more, we know  from our own
difficulties in rebuilding exactly how fragile a reputation can be.'

The eyes were narrow slits now.

'Therefore, here are my orders to all under my command. All support for those in
town who currently call themselves  Stepsons is to be withdrawn  immediately. In
fact, any opportunity to harass,  embarrass, or destroy those individuals  is to
take priority over any assignment  save those directly involving the  Beysib. In
the shortest  possible time,  I want  to see  the name  of the  Stepsons held in
somewhat  less  regard by  the  citizens of  Sanctuary  than that  shown  to the
Downwinders.'

'But what  will happen  when word  of this  reaches the  real Stepsons?' Saliman
asked.

'They will be faced with a choice. They can either stay where they are and  have
their name slandered in  the worst hell-hole in  the Rankan Empire, or  they can
return  at  all  speed,  risking  the  label  of  deserter  from  the  forces at
Wizardwall. With any luck, both will happen. They'll desert their post and  find
they are unable to reestablish their reputation here.'

He  locked gazes  with his  aide, then  winked slowly.  'And that,  Saliman  old
friend, is why I'm laughing.'

THE CORNERS OF MEMORY

Lynn Abbey

1

A door that had been obscured  by shadows opened to admit a  hunched-over figure
in dark,  voluminous robes.  The laboured  wheezing of  the intruder  filled the
little room as,  with quick, bird-like  movements, the winding  sheet was opened
and the  naked corpse  revealed. Light  entered the  austere room  from a single
barred window high on one wall, illuminating  the face of a young woman who  lay
on a narrow, wooden table, masking her waxen pallor so that it seemed she rested
in the gentle sleep of youth, rather than the deeper sleep of eternity.

Ulcerous fingers uncurled from the depths of the shapeless robe sleeves, fingers
more morbid and repellent than the corpse they probed. From within the cowl came
a sound like  a laugh -  or a sob  - and the  grotesque hands brushed  the young
woman's hair away from  her neck. His dark  robes concealed her as  the crippled
creature sighed, sniffed, and bent to  her throat. He stepped back, examining  a
slim phial of blood in the faint light.

Still silent, except for his  strained breathing, the robed figure  lurched back
into the shadows,  where he conjured  an intense blue  light and, drop  by drop,
emptied the blood into it. He inhaled the vapours, extinguished the light with a
gesture, and returned his attention to the corpse. His fingers re-examined every
part of her  without finding any  mark other than  the small bruise  on her neck
from which he had removed the blood.

Sighing, he drew the edges of the shroud together again and carefully rearranged
the folds of coarse linen. He smoothed her ash-brown hair over the bruise on her
neck and, reluctantly, folded the cloth over her face. There was no doubt,  this
time, that a sob  escaped from the shadowed  depths of his cowl.  There had been
many women when he had been young and handsome. They had pursued him and he  had
squandered his love on them. Now he could remember no face more clearly than the
one he had just covered with the linen.

The mage, Enas Yorl, shuffled back into the shadows, lit an ordinary candle, and
sat at a rough-plank  desk, his face cradled  in his unspeakable hands.  She had
been a woman from the Street  of Red Lanterns; from the Aphrodisia  House, where
blue-starred Lythande was a frequent guest.  Yet they'd brought her to Enas  for
the postmortem. And now he understood why.

Dipping the stylus in the inkwell, he began his report in a script that had been
antique in his own youth. '  Your suspicions are confirmed. She was  poisoned by
the concentrated venom of the beynit serpent.'

Lythande had  most likely  suspected as  much, but  the Order  of the  Blue Star
neither knew nor  taught everything. It  fell to such  as himself, more  shunned
than feared, to research the arcane minutiae of the eon; to recognize the poison
for what it was or was not. Enas Yorl continued:

        The mark on her neck concealed two punctures - like those of the
        beynit serpent, though, my colleague, I  am not at all   certain
        that a  serpent  slithered  up her  arm to  strike her.  Our new
        ruler, the Beysa Shupansea, has  the venom within  her -  as she
        has shown  at  the  executions. It   is said  that  the Blood of
        Bey, the envenomed blood, flows  only in the veins  of  the true
        rulers of  the Beysib,   but you  and  I,  who  know  magic  and
        gods,   know that   this is   most likely   untrue. Perhaps  not
        even Shupansea  knows how  far the  gift is  spread, but  surely
        she knows she is not the only one ...

A weeping ulcer on Yorl's hand burst with a foul odour, and a vile ichor  seeped
on to the parchment. The ancient, cursed magician groaned as he swept the  fluid
away. A ragged hole remained on the parchment; grey-green bone poked through the
ruined flesh of his hand. The movement, and the pain, had loosened his cowl.  It
fell back to reveal thick,  chestnut-coloured hair, which glittered crimson  and
gold in the candlelight - his own hair - if the truth were known or anyone still
lived who remembered him from before the curse.

He did not often feel the pain of his assorted bodies; the curse that  disguised
him in ever-shifting forms did not truly affect him. He still felt as he'd  felt
the instant before  the curse had  claimed him. Except  - except rarely  when in
mocking answer to a yearning he  could not quite repress, he was  himself again:
Enas Yorl,  a man  twice, three  times the  age of  any other  man. A shambling,
rotted-out wreck who could not die; whose bones would never be scoured clean  in
the earth. He hid the radiant, unliving, and therefore uncursed, hair.

The ulcer was congealing with a faintly blue, scaly iridescence. Yorl prayed, as
much as he ever prayed and to  gods no mortal would dare worship, that  sometime
it would end for him  as it had ended for  the woman on his table.  He no longer
wished that the curse be removed.

The  blueness was  beginning to  spread, bringing  with it  dis-orientation  and
nausea.  He would  not be  able to  complete his  message to  Lythande. With   a
trembling hand, he clutched the stylus and scrawled a final warning:

        Go. or send someone you trust, to  the Beysib wharf where  their
        ships  still   lie  at  anchor.  Whisper   'Harka  Bey'  to  the
        waters; then  leave quickly,   without looking back -

The transformation sped through him,  blurring his vision, softening his  bones.
He folded the  paper with a  gross, awkward gesture  and left it  on the shroud.
Paralysis had claimed  his feet by  the time he'd  fumbled the door  open and he
retreated back to his private quarters, crawling on his hands and knees.

There was much more  he could have told  Lythande about the powerful,  legendary
beynit venom and the equally powerful and legendary Harka Bey. A few months  ago
even he had thought that the assassin's guild was only another Ilsigi myth;  but
then the fish-eyed folk had come from beyond the horizon and it now seemed  some
of the  other myths  might be  true as  well. Someone  had gone  to considerable
trouble, using distilled venom and a knife  point to make the wound, to make  it
seem as if the Harka Bey had slain the courtesan. He did not personally  believe
the Harka Bey would  trouble themselves over a  Red Lanterns woman -  and he did
not truly  care why  she had  been killed  or who  had killed  her. His thoughts
surrounded the knowledge that the methods of the Harka Bey, at least, were  real
and might be turned towards ending his own misery.

2

Of late life had been  kinder to the woman known  in the town simply as  Cythen.
Her high leather boots were not only new but had been made to fit her. Her warm,
fur-lined  cloak  was new  as  well: made  by  an old  Downwinds  woman who  had
discovered that, since the arrival of the Beysib and their gold, there were more
things to do with a stray cat than eat it. Yes, since the Beysib had come,  life
was better than it had been -

Cythen hesitated, repressed a wave of remembrance and, reminding herself that it
was dangerous folly to remember the past, continued on her way. Perhaps life was
better for the Downwinds woman; perhaps her own life was now better than it  had
been a year before, but it was not unconditionally better.

The young woman  moved easily through  the inky, twilight  shadows of the  Maze,
avoiding the  unfathomed pools  of detritus  that oozed  up between  the ancient
cobblestones. Tiny pairs of eyes focused on her at the sound other approach  and
scampered  noisily  away. The  larger,  more feral  creatures  of the  hell-hole
watched in utter silence from the  deeper shadows of doorways and blind  alleys.
She strode past them all, looking neither right nor left, but missing no flicker
of motion.

She paused by an  alley apparently no different  from any of the  dozens she had
already passed by  and, after assuring  herself that no  intelligent eyes marked
her, entered it. There was no light now; she guided herself  with her fingertips
brushing the grimy  walls, counting  the doorways: one,  two, three,   four. The
door was  locked, as  promised, but  she quickly found  the handholds  that  had
been chipped  into the  outer walls. Her cloak  fell back  as she  climbed  and,
had there  been light  enough to   reveal anything, it would have shown  a man's
trousers under a  woman's tunic and  a  mid length  sword slung low  on her left
hip. She swung herself over the cornice  and dropped into the littered courtyard
of a long-abandoned shrine.

A single patch  of moonlight, brilliant  and unwelcome here  in the Maze,  shone
amid the rubble of what had been an  altar. Holding her cloak as if it were  the
source of  all bravery  and courage  itself, Cythen  knelt among  the stones and
whispered: 'My life for Harka Bey!' Then,  as no one had forbidden it, she  drew
her sword and laid it across her thighs.

Lythande  had said  - or  rather implied,  for magicians  and their  ilk  seldom
actually said anything  - that the  Harka Bey would  test her before  they would
listen to her questions. For Bekin's sake and her own need for vengeance, Cythen
vowed that they would  not find her wanting.  The slowly shifting moonlight  fed
her terror, but she sat still and silent.

The darkness, which  had been a  comfort while she  had been a  part of it,  now
lurked at the edge of her vision, as her memories of better times always  lurked
at the edge of her thoughts. For a heartbeat she was the young girl she had once
been and the darkness  lunged at her. A  yelp of pure terror  nearly escaped her
lips before she pushed both memory and old feats aside.

Bekin  had been  her elder  sister. She  had been  betrothed when  disaster  had
struck. She had witnessed  her lover's bloody death  and then had been  made the
victim of  the bandits'  lust in  the aftermath  of their  victory. None  of the
brigands had noticed Cythen: slight, wiry Cythen, dressed in a youth's  clothes.
The younger sister had escaped from the carnage into the darkness. Waiting until
the efforts of drinking,  killing, and raping had  overcome each outlaw and  she
could bundle her senseless sister away to the relative safety of the brush.

Under Cythen's protection,  Bekin's bruises had  healed, but her  mind was lost.
She lived  in her  own world,  believing that  the bulge  in her  belly was  the
legitimate child of  her betrothed, oblivious  to their squalor  and misery. The
birthing,  coming  on an  early  spring night,  much  like this,  with  only the
moonlight for  a midwife,  had been  a long  and terrifying  process for both of
them. Though Cythen had seen midwives  start a baby's life with a  spanking, she
held this one still, watching Bekin's exhausted sleep, until there was no chance
it would  live. Remembering  only the  half-naked outlaws  in the firelight, she
laid the little corpse on the rocks for scavengers to find.

Again Bekin  recovered her  strength, but  not her  wits. She  never learned the
cruel lessons that hardened Cythen and never lost the delusion that each strange
man was actually  her betrothed returning  to her. At  first Cythen fought  with
Bekin's desires and agonized with guilt whenever she failed. But she could  find
no work to get them food, while the  men often left Bekin a trinket or two  that
could be pawned or sold in the next  village - and Bekin was willing to go  with
any man.  So, after  a time,  Bekin earned  their shelter  while Cythen, who had
always preferred  swordplay to  needlework. learned  the art  of the garrote and
dressed herself in dead men's clothes. .

When the pair reached Sanctuary, it  was only natural that Cythen found  a place
with Jubal's  hawkmasked mercenaries.  Bekin slept  safely in  the slaver's  bed
whenever he desired her and Cythen  knew a measure of peace. When  the hell-sent
Whoresons had raided Jubal's Downwinds estate, the younger sister again came  to
the aid of the elder. This time, she took her to the Street of Red Lanterns,  to
the  Aphrodisia  House  itself,  where  Myrtis  promised  that  only  a  select,
discriminating  clientele  would  encounter the  ever-innocent  Bekin.  But now,
despite Myrtis' promise, Bekin was four days dead of a serpent's venom.

The pool  of moonlight  shifted as  the night  aged and  Cythen waited.  She was
bathed in  silvery light  and blind  to the  shadows beyond  it: undoubtedly the
Harka Bey had chosen the rendezvous carefully. She held only her sword hilt  and
endured the cramps the cold stone left  in her legs. Rising above the pain,  she
sought the mindlessness she had first discovered the day her world had ended and
the future closed. It was not the fantastic mindlessness that had claimed Bekin,
but rather an alert emptiness, waiting to be filled.

Even so, she  missed the first  hint of movement  in the shadows.  The Harka Bey
were  within  the ruins  before  she heard  the  faint rustle  of  shoes on  the
crumbling masonry.

"Greetings,' she whispered as one figure separated from the rest and whipped out
a short,  batonlike sword  from a  sheath she  wore slung  like a bow across her
back. Cythen was  glad of the  sword beneath her  palms and of  the sturdy boots
that let her spring  to her feet while  the advancing woman drew  a second sword
like the first. She remembered all Lythande had been able to tell her about  the
Harka  Bey:  they were  women,  mercenaries, assassins,  magicians,  and utterly
ruthless.

Cythen backed  away, masking  her apprehension  as the  woman spun  the pair  of
blades around her with a blinding,  deadly speed. By now, five months  after the
landing,  almost everyone  had heard  of the  dazzling swordwork  of the  Beysib
aristocracy, but few had  seen even practice bouts  with wooden swords and  none
had seen such lethal artistry as advanced towards Cythen.

She assumed the static en garde of  a Rankan officer - who until the  Beysib had
been the best swordsmen  in the land -  and fought the mesmerizing  power of the
spinning steel. The  almost invisible sphere  the Beysib woman  constructed with
the whirling blades was both offence and defence. Cythen saw herself sliced down
like wheat before a peasant's scythe - and cut down in the next few heartbeats.

She was going to die.                     .        .

There was serenity in that realization. The nausea dropped away, and the terror.
She still couldn't see  the individual blades as  they twirled, but they  seemed
somehow slower.  And no  one, unless  the Harka  Bey were  demons as well, could
twirl the steel forever. And  wasn't her own blade demon-forged,  shedding green
sparks when  it met  and shattered  inferior metal?  The voice  of her father, a
voice she thought she had forgotten, came to her: 'Don't watch what I do,'  he'd
snarled good-naturedly after batting aside  her practice sword. 'Watch what  I'm
not doing and attack into that weakness!'

Cythen hunched down behind her sword and no longer retreated. However fast  they
moved, those blades could  not protect the Harka  Bey everywhere, all the  time.
Though still believing she would die in the attempt, Cythen balanced her  weight
and brought her sword blade in line with her opponent's neck: a neck which would
be,  for  some invisible  fraction  of time,  unprotected.  She lunged  forward,
determined that she would not die unprotesting like the wheat.

Green sparks showered as Cythen absorbed  the force of two blades slamming  hard
against her own. The Beysib steel did not shatter - but that was less  important
than the fact that all three blades were entrapped by each other and the tip  of
Cythen's blade  was a  finger's width  from the  Harka Bey's black-scarved neck.
Cythen had the  advantage with both  hands firmly on  her sword hilt,  while the
Harka Bey still had her two swords,  and half the strength to hold each  of them
with. Then Cythen  heard the unmistakable  sound of naked  steel in the  shadows
around her.

'Filthy,  fish-eyed  bitches!'  Cythen  exclaimed.  The  local  patois,  usually
unequalled for expressing contempt or derision, had not yet taken the measure of
the invaders, but there was no mistaking the murderous disgust in Cythen's  face
as she beat her sword free and stepped momentarily back out of range.

'Cowards!' she added.

'Had we  wished to  slay you,  child, we  could have  done so  without revealing
ourselves. So, you see,  it was simply a  test; which you passed,'  her opponent
said in slightly breathless, accented tones. She sheathed her swords and, unseen
still in the darkness, her companions did the same.

'You're lying, bitch.'

The Harka Bey ignored Cythen's remark, but began unwinding the black scarf  from
her face, revealing a woman only  a little older than Cythen herself.  The clear
racial stamp of the Beysib unsettled Cythen as much, or more than, the  twirling
swords. It  wasn't just  that their  eyes were  a bit  too round and bulging for
mainland taste  but -flick  - and  those eyes  went impenetrable  and glassy. To
Cythen it was like being watched by the dead, and with the corpse of her  sister
still foremost in her mind, the comparison was not at all comforting.

'Do we truly seem so strange  to you?' the Beysib woman asked,  reminding Cythen
that she, too, was staring.

'I had expected someone... older: a crone, from what the mages said.'

The Harka Bey hunched her shoulders;  the glassy membrane over her eyes  flicked
open, then closed  without interrupting her  stare. 'No old  people came on  the
ships with us. They would not have  survived the journey. I have been Harka  Bey
since my  eyes first  opened on  the sun  and Her  blood mingled  with mine. You
needn't fear that I am not Harka Bey.  I am called Prism. Now, what do you  wish
from the Harka Bey?'

'A woman from the Street of Red Lanterns has been murdered. She slept secure  in
the most guarded House in Sanctuary and yet someone was able to kill her leaving
the mark  of serpent  fangs on  her neck.'  Cythen spoke  the words Lythande had
taught her, though they were far from the ones she would have freely chosen.

Though the  Sanctuary woman  believed it  impossible. Prism's  eyes grew  wider,
rounder and  the glassy  membrane fluttered  wildly. Finally  her eyelids closed
and, as if on cue,  the loose, dark clothing she  wore began to writhe from  her
waist to her breasts, from her breasts to her shoulders, until the bloodred head
of the woman's familiar peeked above her collar and regarded Cythen with  round,
unblinking eyes. The serpent opened its mouth, revealing an equally crimson  maw
and glistening  ivory fangs.  Its tongue  wove before  Cythen's face,  drawing a
faint murmur of disgust from her.

'You needn't fear her,' Prism assured  Cythen with a cold smile, 'unless  you're
my enemy.'

Cythen silently shook her head.

'But you do think that I, or my sisters, killed this woman who was, in some way,
dear to you?'

'No - yes. She was mad; she was my sister. She was protected there and there was
no reason for anyone to  want her dead. She lived  in the past, in a  world that
doesn't exist any more.'

The cold smile nickered across Prism's  face again. 'Ah, then, you see  it could
not have been Harka Bey. We would never kill without reason.'

"There were no marks besides the snakes fangs' puncture anywhere on her.  Myrtis
even called Lythande to examine the body -and he arranged for Enas Yorl to study
the poison. And Enas Yorl sent us to you.'

Prism  turned to  the shadows  and spoke  rapidly in  her own  language.  Cythen
recognized only the names of the  two magicians; the native Beysib language  was
very different  from the  mix of  dialects common  in Sanctuary.  A second woman
joined  them in  the moonlight.  She unwound  her scarf  to reveal  a face  that
shimmered orchid as it stared at Cythen. Cythen let her  hand rest once again on
her sword hilt while the  two women conversed rapidly in  their incomprehensible
tongue.

'What else  did your  magician, Enas  Yorl, tell  you about  us -besides  how to
contact us along the wharves?'

'Nothing,'  Cythen replied,  hesitating a  bit before  continuing. 'Enas  Yorl's
cursed. We left  Bekin's corpse in  his vestibule and  returned later to  find a
note tucked in her  shroud. Lythande said it  was incomplete; that the  shifting
curse had claimed him again. Beyond  saying that you, the Harka Bey,  would know
the truth, the note was indecipherable.'

There was another brief  exchange of foreign words  before Prism spoke again  to
Cythen. 'The shape-changer  is known to  us - as  we are known  to him. It  is a
serious charge you and he bring before us. This woman, your sister, was not  our
victim. You, of  course, do not  know us well  enough to know  that we speak the
truth in this; you will have to trust us that this is so.'

Cythen opened her mouth to protest, but the woman waved her back to silence.

'I have  not doubted  the truth  of your  words,' Prism  warned. 'Do  not be  so
foolish as to doubt mine. We will study this matter closely. The dead woman will
be avenged. You will be remembered. Go now, with Bey, the Mother of us all.'

'If it  wasn't you,  then who  was it?'  Cythen demanded,  though the women were
already melting back into the shadows. 'It couldn't have been one of us. None of
us has the venom, or knows of the Harka Bey ...'

They continued  to vanish,  as silently  and mysteriously  as they  had arrived.
Prism lingered  the longest;  then she,  too, vanished  and Cythen  was left  to
wonder if the alien women had been there at all.

Still full of the  delayed effects of her  terror, Cythen clambered loudly  over
the wall. The Maze was still black as ink, but now it was silent, caught in  the
brief moment  between the  activities of  night and  those of  the day. Her soft
footfalls echoed and she pulled the  dark cloak high around her face,  until the
Maze was  behind her  and she  was in  the Street  of Red  Lanterns, where a few
patrons still lingered in the doorways, shielding their faces from her eyes. The
great lamps  were out  above the  door of  the Aphrodisia  House. Myrtis and her
courtesans would not rise  until the sun beat  on the rooftops at  noon. But her
staff, the ones who  were invisible at night,  were working in the  kitchens and
took Cythen's hastily scribbled,  disappointed message, promising that  it would
be delivered as soon as Madame had breakfasted. Then, weary and yawning,  Cythen
slipped back into the garrison barracks where Walegrin, in deference to her sex,
had allotted her a private, bolted chamber.

She slept well into the day watch, entering the mess hall when it was  deserted.
The gelid remains of breakfast remained on the sideboard, ignored by the endemic
vermin. It would  taste worse than  it looked, though  Cythen was long  past the
luxury of tasting the food she ate:  one ate what was available or one  starved.
She filled her bowl and sat alone by the hearth.

Bekin's death was still unexplained and unavenged and that weighed more  heavily
upon her than the  greasy porridge. For more  years than she cared  to remember,
her only pride had been that she had somehow managed to care for Bekin. Now that
was gone and she stood emotionally naked to her guilts and unbidden memories. If
the Harka Bey had  not appeared, she might  still have blamed them  but, despite
their barbaric coldness, or  perhaps because of it,  she believed what they  had
said. The  warmth of  tears rose  within her  as her  brooding was broken by the
sound of a  chair scraping along  the floor in  the watchroom above  her. Rather
than succumb to the waiting tears, she went to confront Walegrin.

The straw-blond man didn't notice as she opened the door. He was absorbed in his
square of parchment and  the cramped rows of  figures he had made  upon it. With
one hand on the door, Cythen hesitated. She didn't like Walegrin; no one  really
did,  except maybe  Thrusher -  and he  was almost  as strange.  The  garrison's
officer  repelled  compassion  and  friendship alike  and  hid  his  emotions so
thoroughly  that  none  could  find them.  Still,  Walegrin  managed  to provide
leadership and direction when it was needed  - and he reminded Cythen of no  one
else in her troubled past.

'You missed curfew,' he  greeted her after she  closed the door, not  looking up
from his figures. His hands were filthy with cheap ink, the only kind  available
in Sanctuary. But the numbers themselves,  Cythen saw as she moved closer,  were
clear and orderly. He could read and write as well as swing a sword; in fact, he
had education and experience equal to her own, and at times her feelings for him
threatened  to take  wild leaps  beyond friendship  or respect.  Then she  would
remind  herself  that  it was  only  loneliness  that she  was  feeling  and the
remembering of things best left forgotten.

'I left word for you,' she stated without apology.

He kicked a stool towards her. 'Did you find what you were looking for?'

She shook  her head  and sat  on the  stool. 'No,  but I  found them  all right.
Beysib, and from  the palace, by  the look of  them.' She shook  her head again,
this time  recalling the  strange faces  of the  two women  she had  seen. 'They
sneaked up on me; I couldn't see how  many there were. One came after me with  a
pair of those long-hiked swords of theirs. She spun them so fast I couldn't  see
them any more. Fighting with them's like walking into the mouth of a dragon.'

'But you fought and survived?' A faint trace of a smile creased Walegrin's face.
He set his quill aside.

'She said they were  testing me - but  that's because she couldn't  kill me like
she'd planned. Her swords couldn't stop  mine, and mine didn't break hers;  that
Beysib steel is good. I guess we  were both surprised. And then she figured  she
better talk to me, and listen ... But she never blinked while I talked to her so
this Harka Bey, whatever  it is, really must  be from the palace  and around the
Beysa, right? The closer they are to the Imperial blood the more fish-eyed  they
are, right? And  while I was  talking to her  a snake, one  of those damned  red
mouthed vipers,  crawled up  out of  her clothes  and wound  up around her neck,
lookin' at me as if its opinion was the one that really mattered. And the  other
one - the one who came forward after the test - her face was shiny and purple!'

'Then she should  be fairly easy  to identify if  she's the one  who killed your
sister.'

Cythen froze on the stool, searching the past few days, the past few months  for
any slip of the tongue when she might  have let him know what Bekin was to  her;
that she pursued  the killer of  a Red Lanterns  courtesan out of  anything more
than outrage or simple compassion.

'Molin told me,' Walegrin explained. 'He was looking for a pattern.'

'Molin Torchholder? Why  in the name  of a hundred  stinking little gods  should
Vashanka's torch know  anything about me  or my sister?'  The anxiety and  guilt
transformed themselves into anger; Cythen's rich voice filled the room.

'When  Myrtis asks  Lythande and  Lythande asks  Enas Yorl  and they  ask for  a
specific person to  escort the corpse  from pillar to  post then, yes  - somehow
Molin Torchholder hears about it and gets his answers.'

'And you're his errand boy? His messenger?' She had touched a sore point between
them in her anger, and by the darkening of his face she knew to regret it.  Back
in the first days of chaos after the Beysib fleet heaved over the horizon, Molin
Torchholder  had  been  everywhere. The  archetypical  bureaucrat  had kept  his
beleaguered temple open for business; his Prince well-advised, the Beysib amused
and, ultimately, Walegrin and his band  employed in the service of the  city. In
return, Walegrin had begun  to hand back a  portion of the garrison's  wages for
Molin's speculations. It was not such a bad partnership. Walegrin's duties  kept
him apprised of the merchant's activity anyway, and Molin seldom lost money. But
for Cythen, whose family,  when she'd had a  family, had been rich  in land, not
gold, the rabid pursuit of more gold than you needed was degrading. And,  though
she would never admit it directly, she did not want Walegrin degraded.

'He  told  me,'  Walegrin  replied after  an  uncomfortable  silence,  his voice
carefully even, 'because you are still part of this garrison and if something is
going to make you act  rashly he would want me  to know about it. Bekin's  death
isn't the only one that's  got us edgy. Each night  since she died at least  two
Beysib have  been found  dead, mutilated,  and the  lord-high muckety-mucks  are
thinking about showing some muscle around here. We're all under close watch.'

'If he was so damned all-fired concerned about how rashly I might act, then  why
in his departed god's name didn't he keep Bekin from getting killed in the first
place?'

'You hid her too well.  He didn't know who she  was until she was dead,  Cythen.
You bought  Myrtis's silence;  she was  the only  one beside  you who knew - and
maybe Jubal, I guess.  But, did you know  she was working the  Beysib traffic on
the Street?' Walegrin paused and let Cythen absorb the information she obviously
had not had before. 'Most  of the women won't, you  know. I guess it's not  just
their eyes that're different. But she was killed by a Beysib serpent - a jealous
wife maybe?  And, now  that Beysibs  are getting  killed by  an ordinary rip-and
slash  artist  in  numbers  and  places  that  can't  all  be  written  off   to
carelessness, you are a suspect, you Know.'

The  anger  had burned  itself  out, leaving  Cythen  with gaping  holes  in her
defences; the grief slipped  out. 'Walegrin, she was  mad. Every man looked  the
same to her  - so of  course she'd work  the Beysib, or  Jubal. She didn't  live
here. She couldn't have  known anything, or done  anything to make someone  kill
her.  Damn, if  Molin cares  who services  the Beysib  stallions he  could  have
protected her anyway.' A few tears  escaped and, shamed by them, Cythen  hid her
face behind her hands.

'You should tell him that yourself. You're  not going to be any use to  me until
you do.' Walegrin rolled the parchment,  then stood up to fasten his  sword-belt
over his hips. 'You won't be needing anything - let's go.'

Too  surprised to  object, Cythen  followed him  into the  palace forecourt.   A
handful of gaudy Beysib  youths, brash young men  and lithe, bold women,  pushed
loudly  past them,  the exposed,  painted breasts  of the  women flashing   from
beneath their capelets in the sunlight. Walegrin affected not to notice; no  man
in Sanctuary would notice  the flaunted flesh -  not if he valued  his life. The
Beysib had made that  very clear in the  first, and - thus  far - only, wave  of
executions. Cythen  stared, though  not as  well as  the Beysib  could stare, at
their faces and  finally looked away,  unable to find  any individuality in  the
barbaric features. Prism  could have walked  beside her and  she would not  have
known it.

One of the Beysib  lords strode by, magenta  pantaloons billowing around him,  a
glittering  fez perched  atop his  shaved head,  and a  well-scrubbed  Sanctuary
urchin struggling with a great silk parasol behind him. Both Walegrin and Cythen
halted and saluted  as he passed.  That was the  way now, if  you accepted their
gold.

She was grateful for the shadows of  the lower palace and the familiar sound  of
servants shouting in Rankene at  each other as they approached  the much-reduced
quarters of Kadakithis and his retainers. In truth, though, she no longer wanted
to see  the priest,  if indeed  she had  ever wanted  to see  him. Her anger had
escaped and now she only wanted to return to her tiny room. But Walegrin pounded
on the heavy door and forced it open before the Torch's pet mute could lift  the
latch.

Molin set down  his goblet and  stared at Cythen  in the old-fashioned  way that
said: What has the  cat dragged in this  time? Cythen tugged at  her tunic, well
aware that the clothes of a garrison soldier, no matter how clean or cared  for,
were unseemly  attire for  a woman  - especially  one who  had been an earling's
daughter. And if he knew about Bekin, then he might have known the rest as well.
She would  have run  from the  chamber, had  that been  an option,  but since it
wasn't, she squared her  shoulders and matched his  appraising look with one  of
her own.

The priest  was Rankan  and he'd  managed to  retain all  the implied  power and
majesty  that that  word had  ever carried,  despite the  low ceilings  and  the
laundry-women battling outside his window.  Bands of gold decorated the  hems of
his robes, adorned  his boots, and  circled his fingers.  His midnight hair  was
combed to surround his face like a lion's mane - yet it was not so dark or shiny
as his eyes.  If the Torch's  god had been  vanquished, as some  claimed; if the
Prince was  simply a  puppet in  the hands  of the  Beysa; if  his prospects for
wealth and honour had been reduced, then none of it  showed in his appearance or
demeanour. Cythen looked away first.

'Cythen has some questions I can't  answer for her,' Walegrin said boldly  as he
laid the parchment on  the priest's table. 'She  wonders why you didn't  protect
Bekin when you first suspected there might be danger in dealing with the Beysib,
as she did.'

The Torch calmly unrolled the parchment. 'Ah, three caravans yesterday;  seventy
five soldats. We've almost  enough. They agree the  first boat should be  bought
with Rankan gold, you know. The longer  we can keep the capital ignorant of  our
situation here, the better it will be for all of us. If they knew how much  gold
was floating in  our harbour, they'd  bring half the  army down here  to take it
from us - and neither we nor they want that.' He looked up from the parchment.

'Have you found me a  man to take the gold  north yet? I'll have other  messages
for him to carry as well. The war's not going well; I think we can lure   Tempus
back to his Prince.  We're going  to need that  man's unique and  nasty  talents
before this  is  over.' He  rerolled  the parchment  and  handed it over  to the
mute.

Walegrin scowled. He had no desire to have Tempus back in the town. Molin sipped
at his wine and seemed to notice Cythen for the first time again. 'Now then, for
your  companion's  questions.  I  was  not  aware  of  the  unfortunate  woman's
relationship to Cythen until  after she was dead.  And I certainly did  not know
there was danger in bedding a Beysib until it was too late.'

'But you were watching her. You must have suspected something,' Cythen  snarled,
grinding her heel into the lush wool-and-silk carpet and banging her fist on the
priest's fine parquet table.

'She was,  I believe,  a half-mad  - or  totally mad,  you'd know  better than I
harlot at the Aphrodisia.  I can not imagine  the dangers or delights  of such a
life. She entertained a variety of Beysib men, one of the few who would, and  as
the welfare of the Beysib is important to me, I kept tabs on them, and therefore
her. It is a pity she was murdered  - that is what happened, isn't it? But,  mad
as she was - sleeping with the Beysib - isn't it better that she's departed? Her
spirit is free now to be reborn on a higher, happier level.'

Theology came easily and sincerely to  the priest. And Cythen, who knew  her own
sins well enough, was tempted to believe the resonant phrases.

'You knew something,' she said pleadingly, clutching her resolve. 'Just like the
Harka Bey suspected something when I told them.'

Torchholder swallowed his pious words  and looked to Walegrin for  confirmation.
The blond, ice-eyed man simply nodded  his head slightly and said: 'It  had been
suggested by  Yorl. Cythen  seemed the  most appropriate  one for  the task; she
volunteered anyway.'

'Harka Bey,' the priest repeated, mulling  over the words. 'Vengeance of Bey,  I
believe, in their  language. I've heard  rumours, legends, whatever  about them,
but  everybody's denied  that there's  anything to  the legends.  Poison-blooded
female assassins? And real enough  that Cythen met with them?  Very interesting,
but not at all what I'd expected.'

'I believe, your Grace,  that Yorl only suggested  contacting the Harka Bey.  It
seems unlikely  that they  would have  killed the  girl: Indeed  they  deny it,'
Walegrin corrected,  clenching Cythen's  upper  arm  in a bruising grip  to keep
her quiet.

'What did you expect?' Cythen demanded of Molin, wrenching free of Walegrin  and
raising her voice. 'Why is it so  important that she slept with the Beysib  men?
Which one of them do you suspect of murder?'

'Not so loudly, child,' the priest pleaded, remember, we survive on  sufferance;
we can have no suspicions.' He gestured to the mute, who went to the window  and
began playing a loud folktune on his pipes. 'We have no rights.' Taking Cythen's
arm, he ushered her into a cramped, windowless alcove, hidden behind one of  his
tapestries.

Molin began to speak in a hoarse whisper. 'And keep quiet about this,' he warned
her. 'The Aphrodisia is the favourite gaming place of our new lords and masters,
especially the younger, hot-headed ones. There's an element among them that does
not  appreciate the  current policy  of restraint.  Remember, these  people  are
exiles; they've just  lost a war  at  home; they've  got something to  prove  to
themselves. Sure,  the older  men say  "Bide your  time," "We'll  go home   next
year, or  the   year after  that,  or the   one  after that." They   weren't the
ones on  the battlefields getting their asses kicked.

'The Beysa Shupansea listens to the old men, but now, with the murders of  their
own people, she is becoming nervous herself. The clamour for a stronger hand  is
rising ...'

Molin was interrupted by  the sound of someone  banging on the outer  door. 'The
palace is a sponge,' he complained, and he was in a position to know the  truth.
'Wait here and stay quiet, for god's sake.'

Walegrin  and Cythen  pressed back  into the  shadows and  listened to  a  loud,
unintelligible conversation between Molin and one of the Beysib lords. They  did
not need to understand  the words; the shouts  told them enough. The  Beysib was
angry and upset. Molin  was having small success  at calming him down.  Then the
Beysib stormed out of the room,  slamming the door behind him, and  Molin rushed
back into the alcove.

'They want results.' He rubbed his hands together nervously, releasing the scent
of the oils he used on his skin. 'Turghurt's out there calling for vengeance and
his people are listening. After all, no Beysib would kill another Beysib in such
a crude manner!' Molin's voice spewed  sarcasm. 'I've got no great love  for the
natives of this town  but one thing they  are not, to a  man, woman or child  of
them - stupid enough to taunt the Beysib like this!'

Walegrin frowned. 'So they  believe it's a Sanctuary  man, or woman, behind  it.
But at least  one of the  bodies was found  on the rooftops,  right here, in the
palace compound. This place is guarded, Molin. We guard it; they guard it.  We'd
have seen him, at least.'

'Exactly what I've told them. Exactly why  I'm sure it isn't one of us.  But no;
they've been frightened. They're convinced the town is smouldering against  them
- they don't intend to be pushed any further and they're not about to listen  to
me.

'I figure  it works  this way:  there are  malcontents in  this court  just like
anywhere else. I knew the bulk of the hotheads congregated at the Aphrodisia.  I
didn't think  there was  danger to  it; I  just meant  to keep  those young  men
watched. Their  leader is  the eldest  son of  Terrai Burek,  the Beysa's  prime
minister. And a child more unlike  the father you can't imagine. It's  no secret
the boy hates his father and would do  anything to spite the old man - though  I
expect bullying  the townspeople  would come  naturally to  him anyway. Yet, the
father protects his son and the common laws of Sanctuary can't reach him.'

'You're  talking  about  Turghurt,   aren't  you?'  Walegrin  asked,   obviously
recognizing  the  name, though  Cythen  didn't recall  having  heard it  before.
'Still, Cythen's sister was killed by venom - and the Harka Bey are all women.'

'True enough, but if the  Harka Bey is real then  it's likely a number of  other
things are - like the rings with reservoirs for venom and razor-sharp blades  to
simulate the fangs.  They've told me  the venom can't  be isolated, but  I don't
believe them now -'

'Who is this Terket Buger?' Cythen inquired, her thoughts warming to the idea of
a name  and face  she could  blame and  take vengeance  upon. 'Would I recognize
him?'

'Turghurt Burek,' Walegrin  corrected. 'Yeah, you've  probably seen him.  He's a
big man, a troublemaker. Taller  than most of the Beysib  men here by a head  or
more. He's a coward, I'm sure, because we can never find him alone. He's  always
got a handful of cronies around. We can't lay a hand on him anyway - though this
time we're talking about killing.' He looked hopefully to the priest.

'Not this time, either.'

They were  once again  interrupted by  a hammering  on the  outside door and the
sounds  of masculine  voices shouting  in the  Beysib language.  Molin left  the
alcove to deal with the intrusion and fared worse this time than before. He  was
roundly berated  by two  men who,  it appeared,  had made  up their  minds about
something. The priest returned to the alcove, visibly shaken.

'It fits  together now,'  he said  slowly. 'The  boy has  boxed us  all. Another
Beysib woman has  been found dead  - and mutilated,  I might add  - down by  the
wharf.  Young Burek  has played  his hand  masterfully. That  was him,  and  his
father, to tell me that the  populace must be controlled or wholesale  slaughter
of the townsfolk  will be on  my conscience. The  men of Bey  will not see their
women defiled.'

'Turghurt Burek was here?' Cythen  asked, her hands moving instinctively  to her
hip, where she usually wore her  sword. She cursed herself for not  having dared
to lift the tapestry a fraction to see his face.

'The same, and he's convinced his father now as well. Walegrin, I don't know how
you'll do it, but you've  got to keep the peace  until I can get the  old man to
see reason - or catch the murderers bloody-handed.' The priest paused, as if  an
idea had just occurred to him. He  looked hard at Cythen and she fairly  cringed
from the plotting she saw in his face. 'Catch them bloody-handed! You -  Cythen;
how much do you want your revenge?  What will you sacrifice to get it?  Turghurt
is full of himself, and he'll likely go back to the Aphrodisia to celebrate this
victory. He hasn't been back since your sister died, but I doubt he'll wait much
longer. If not  tonight, then tomorrow  night. He'll go  back because he  has to
gloat - and because his kind  get no satisfaction from these high-handed  Beysib
women.

'Now, somehow your sister learned something she shouldn't have and died for  it.
Could you lure him into the same mistake and survive to let me know of it?  I'll
need proof  absolute if  I'm going  to confront  his father.  Not a  corpse, you
understand; that will only  fan the flames. What  I'll need is Turghurt  and the
proof. Can you get it for me?'

Cythen found herself nodding, promising the Rankan priest that she would get her
vengeance as she got him his proof; as she spoke another hidden part of  herself
froze into numb paralysis. The meeting  had become a dream from which  she could
not seem to awaken: a continuation of  all the nightmares that made her past  so
unpleasant to remember. Bekin was dead - but not gone.

She stood mute while the priest  and Walegrin made their plans. Her  silence was
taken for attentiveness, though she heard nothing above the screaming other  own
thoughts. The priest patted her on the shoulder as she left his rooms, following
Walegrin into the forecourt again. Knots of Beysibs had gathered there,  talking
among themselves with their backs to  the Sanctuary pair as they walked  back to
the garrison. One  of the men  did turn to  stare at her.  He wasn't tall  so he
wasn't Turghurt, but all the same. the feel of the cold fish-eyes regarding  her
finally loosened her tongue.

'Sabellia preserve me! I know nothing of Bekin's trade. I'm still a virgin!'  It
was as much of a prayer as she  had muttered since her father went down with  an
arrow in his throat.

Walegrin stopped short, appraising her in surprise. 'You told me you'd worked on
the Street of Red Lanterns?'

'I told you  that I'd tried  to work on  the Street of  Red Lanterns and  that I
couldn't. Don't look at me like  that; it's not that unreasonable. Don't  I have
my own quarters now, and no one who'd dare to bother me there? A woman who lives
with the garrison is safe  from all other men, and  a woman who is part  of that
garrison is safe from her cohorts as well.'

'Then you've got more courage than I thought,' he replied, shaking his head, 'or
you're an utter fool.  You'd better let Myrtis  know when you get  there; she'll
know how to turn it to our advantage.'

Cythen grimaced and tried not to think of that evening, or the next evening. She
left her sword in Walegrin's care and made her way to the Street. It was nearing
dusk by the time she got there and some of the poorer, more worn women, who  did
not dwell in any of the major establishments, were already on the prowl,  though
the Aphrodisia was not yet open for  business. One of them jeered at her  as she
climbed  the  steps to  the  carved doors:  'They  won't take  your  type there,
soldier-girl.'

She stood there uncomfortably, ignoring  the comments from the street  below and
remembering why  she always  came in  the morning.  The doorman  recognized her,
however, and at length the doors swung open to her. The downstairs was beginning
to  come to  life with  music and  women dressed  in brilliant,  flower-coloured
dresses. Cythen watched them as the doorman guided her to the little room  where
Myrtis was getting ready for the evening herself.

'I had  not expected  to see  you again,'  Myrtis said  softly, rising  from her
dressing table and  discreetly closing the  account book, which  crowded out the
cosmetic bottles.  'Your note  said your  meeting did  not go  well. You had not
mentioned returning here.'

'The meeting didn't go well.' Cythen eyed Myrtis's smooth, clenched white  hands
as she spoke. There  was a barely perceptible  nervousness in the madam's  voice
and a  barely perceptible  rippling to  the edge  of the  table rug  beneath the
account books. Both could have any number of benign explanations, but Cythen had
brought Bekin here  expecting, and paying  for, her sister's  safety. Myrtis had
not provided the services she had been paid for and Cythen's vengeance could  be
expected in several different ways.

'I've seen the priest, Molin Torchholder, and  he's made a plan; a way to  snare
the one  he suspects.   I thought  he would  have sent  you a   message by now,'
Cythen said quickly.

Myrtis shrugged, but without unclenching her fists. 'Since Bekin there have been
other deaths:  gruesome murders,  many of  them Beysib  women. All  the reliable
couriers have  been kept  busy. There  isn't time  for the  death of a Sanctuary
girl. Perhaps you  can tell me  who Molin Torchholder  suspects of using  beynit
venom when the Harka Bey denies all knowledge of it?'

'He suspects a man, a Beysib man. He suspects that the death of my sister is not
so different from the Beysib deaths.'

'Has he given you a name?'

'Yes, Turghurt Burek.'

'The son of the prime minister?'

'Yes, but the Torch suspects him anyway. He comes here, doesn't he?'

'That man has spies everywhere!' Myrtis  grimaced as she relaxed and raised  her
fist towards the smouldering hearth. Cythen heard a small click; then watched as
the  flames leapt  high and  crimson. 'Once  primed, it  must be  shot,'  Myrtis
explained, while Cythen shuddered. 'We called him Voyce here; and he was  always
a  gentleman -  for all  that he's  fish-folk. Bekin  was special  to him;  such
childlike innocence is not at all common among their women. He grieved over  her
death and hasn't been back since she died.

'But he  was also  the second  person to  suggest the  Harka Bey  to us.' Myrtis
paused, and just  when Cythen despaired  of being believed  at all, the  starkly
beautiful woman continued: 'I like him very much; he reminds me of a love I once
had. I was blinded. I have hiot been blinded for ... for a long time. The  signs
were there; my suspicions should  have been roused. Does Molin  Torchholder have
some notion  of how  we're to  bring the  son of  the Beysib  prime minister  to
justice before there is war in the town and we turn to Ranke for help?'

'Molin believes  that since  Bekin was  the only  Sanctuary woman  who has  been
slain,  she must  have learned  something dangerous  to him.  Molin thinks  that
Turghurt will make the same mistake again, now that he's convinced his father to
see everything his way. But I will be less easy to kill than she was, and  snare
him instead.'

'You play a dangerous game between the priest and this Beysib, Cythen. Molin  is
no less ruthless than the fish-folk. And, here Burek is Voyce; none of my  women
knows the true names of the men here, and if you value your life you'll remember
that. The Aphrodisia is a place apart; a man need not be himself here - and they
expect me to protect them.                         '

'Now Voyce is clever, strong  and cruel, yet it would  be a simple matter to  be
rid of him,  if that would  serve our purposes.  The Harka Bey  are not the only
women who understand killing. But he  must be exposed, not slain, and  that will
be all the more dangerous.'

'I've come for my vengeance,' Cythen warned.

'He will not expose himself to a garrison soldier, my dear, neither figuratively
nor literally.' Myrtis gave Cythen  a slightly condescending smile. 'His  tastes
do not  run towards  strong-willed women,  such as  he was  raised with  and his
father  serves. You  do not  have the  yielding nature  that madness  gave  your
sister.'

'I'll become whatever I must be to trap him.'

As she spoke, Cythen yanked loose the cord that bound her hair, shaking her head
until the brown strands rose like an untidy aura around her face.

'Good intentions will  not deceive him,  either.' Myrtis had  become kind-voiced
again. 'Your need for vengeance will not make you a courtesan. There are  others
here who can bell our cat.'

'No,' Cythen protested. 'He'll come here  again and make his mistake again,  and
he might kill another of your courtesans.  Isn't it to your advantage to let  me
risk my life rather than sacrificing one of those who belong to you?'

'Of course  it would  be to  my advantage,  child, if  I owned  anyone. But just
because I keep account books on love a.nd pleasure, do not think I am completely
without conscience.  If Voyce  is all  he is  suspected of  being, I would be as
guilty of your death, or anyone's death, as he would be.'

Cythen shook her head and took a step closer to Myrtis, resting her fists on the
table.  'Don't lecture  me about  death or  guilt. For  five years  since  those
bandits swept  down and  attacked us,  I travelled  with Bekin,  protecting her,
bringing her men, and killing them if I had to. It would have been better if she
had died that  first night. I'm  not sorry she's  dead, only sorry  that she was
murdered by a man she trusted, as she trusted all men. I don't blame you, or me,
but I can't get her out of  my memory until I've avenged her. Do  you understand
that? Do you understand that I must close the circle completely, myself, if  I'm
to have peace, if I'm to be free of her?'

Myrtis met Cythen's  rabid stare and,  whether she understood  the dark emotions
and memories that drove the younger woman or not, she finally nodded. 'Still, if
you are  to have  a chance  at all,  you must  abide by  what I  tell you to do,
Cythen. If he  does not find  you attractive, he  will search elsewhere.  I will
give you her chambers and her clothes;  that will give you an advantage. I  will
send Ambutta to bathe you, to help you dress and to arrange your hair.

'When he returns again, if he returns  again, he will be yours. You may  stay as
long as you please, but he is not to be harmed in this house! Now then, you must
also seem  to belong  here, and  it will  rouse suspicion  if you take no others
while you wait. I will set aside your portion -'

'I'm a virgin,' Cythen interrupted in a far from steady voice. When her mind was
focused on the fish-eyed murderer other  sister, she could manage to ignore  the
implications of the plan she had  agreed to; but faced with the  pragmatic logic
of the madam, she began to realize that vengeance and determination might not be
enough.

Myrtis  nodded, 'I  had suspected  as much.  You would  not want  your  sister's
slayer, then, to be the first -'

'It won't matter.  Just tell everyone  that I'm being  saved for just  the right
man. That's often the way of it anyway, isn't it? A special prize for a  special
customer?'

Myrtis hardened. 'In those  places where courtesan and  slave are the same  that
may be so.  But my women  are here because  they wish to  be here; I  do not own
them. Many leave for other lives after they've grown tired of a life of love and
earned a healthy portion of gold.  But pleasure is not your talent,  Cythen; you
wouldn't understand. Men have  nothing you desire and  you have nothing to  give
them in return.'

'I have a talent for deceit, Myrtis, or neither Bekin nor I would have  survived
at all. Honour your promise. Give him to me for one night.'

With a gesture of worried resignation, Myrtis consented to the arrangement.  She
summoned Ambutta, who some  said was her daughter,  and had Cythen led  into the
private sections of the house where, for  a night and a day she was  fussed over
and transformed. Before sundown of the  next day she was ensconced in  the plush
seraglio where Bekin  had lived, and  died. Her garrison  clothes and knife  had
been hidden in the dark panelled walls and she herself was now draped in lengths
of diaphanous rose-coloured silk  - a gift to  Bekin from the man  who had slain
her.

Staring into the mirror as the sun  set, Cythen saw a woman she had  never known
before: the self she  might have become if  tragedy had not intervened.  She was
beautiful, as Bekin had been, and she preferred the feel of silk to the  chafing
of the  linen and  wools she  normally wore.  Ambutta had  skilfully wound beads
through Cythen's hair, binding it into a fanciful shape that left Cythen  afraid
to turn quickly, lest the whole affair come tumbling down into her face.

'There was a  message for you  earlier,' Ambutta, a  disturbingly wise woman  no
older than thirteen, said as she daubed a line of kohl under Cythen's eyes.

'What?' Cythen  jerked away  in anger,  her stance  becoming that  of a fighter,
despite the silk.

'You were bathing,'  the child-woman explained,  twirling the brush  in the inky
powder, 'and men do not come upstairs by day.'

'All right, then, give it to me now.' She held out her hand.

'It was spoken only, from your friend Walegrin. He says two more fish-folk  have
been found murdered: Actually  it's three -another was  found at low tide  - but
the message came before that. One of them was a cousin to the Beysa herself. The
garrison is  ordered to  produce the  culprit, or  any culprit,  by dawn  or the
executions will begin. They  will kill as many  each noon as fish-folk  who have
already died. Tomorrow they'll kill thirteen - by venom.'

Though the room was warm and draughtless, Cythen felt a chill. 'Was that all?'

'No, Walegrin said Turghurt is horny.'

The chill became a finger of ice along her spine. She did not resist as  Ambutta
moved closer to  finish applying the  kohl. She saw  her face in  the mirror and
recognized herself as the frightened girl beside the wise Ambutta.

The hours  wore on  after Ambutta  left her.  Two knobs  had burnt  off the hour
candle and  none had  come to  her door.  The music  and laughter  that were the
normal sounds of an  evening at the Aphrodisia  House grated on her  ears as she
listened for  the telltale  accent that  would betray  the presence  of the fish
folk, whatever common Ilsigi or Rankan name Myrtis gave them.

Couples  walked noisily  past her  closed door;  women already  settled for  the
night. The smells of love-incense grew strong enough to make her head ache.  She
stood on a pile of pillows to open the room's only window and to look out on the
jumble of the Bazaar stalls and the dark roofs of the Maze beyond them. Absorbed
by the panorama of the town, she did not hear the latch lift nor the door  open,
but she felt someone staring at her.

'They told me that they had given you her room.'

She  knew, before  she turned,  that he  had finally  come. He  spoke the  local
dialect well, but without any attempt to conceal his heavy accent. Her heart was
fluttering against her ribs as she turned to face him.

He had  left his  cloak downstairs  and stood  before her  in fish-folk  finery,
filling the doorway with his bulk. It was no wonder Bekin had adored him - she'd
had a child's delight in colour and shine. His pantaloons were a deep turquoise,
embroidered with  silver. His  tunic was  a lighter  shade, slashed  open to the
navel with sleeves that shone and rippled  like the rose silk she wore. His  fez
was encrusted with glittery stones; he removed it with a smile; his shaved scalp
glistened in the candlelight. Despite herself, Cythen flattened against the wall
and regarded him with a  mixture of fear and awe.  His eyes shone as he  watched
her without blinking, and after a moment she looked away.

'There is no need to be frightened. Little Flower.'

His arms circled the  rose silk and drew  her tightly against him.  Strong blunt
fingers pressed around  her neck, digging  in behind her  ears so she  could not
resist as he forced her lips apart. She willed herself to numbness when he found
the knots  that bound  the silk  around her  and undid  them. Screams of outrage
echoed in  her mind,  but she  clung silently,  unprotestingly, to  his powerful
arms.

'You are still frightened?'  he asked after a  while, running a finger  over the
curve other hip  as she lay  limp on the  pillows beside him.  He was strong, as
Walegrin had said he would be, but she did not quite have the nerve to find  out
if he was a coward as well.

She shook her head when he asked if she was afraid, but could not stop her hands
from coming to rest on top of  his, stopping his incessant motion. He bent  over
her, caressing  her breast  with his  lips, tongue  and teeth.  With a strangled
whimper, she stiffened away from him.

'You will see. There's nothing to be frightened of. Just relax.'

He was staring at  her: cold fish-eyes peering  into her body and  soul. All the
warnings that Myrtis, Walegrin, and even  Ambutta had given her chorused out  of
her memory and she wished she was Bekin: either dead or willing to love any man.
Her confidence went out like a guttered candle. She felt him loosening the heavy
belt that bound his  pantaloons and knew she  could not stifle the  next screams
that would rise from her throat.

There would be no second chance. She  would fall, and probably die here in  this
room with her sister's ghost hovering in  her thoughts. But she was a master  of
deceit, as she had claimed, which was much more than simple lying or pretending.

'Yes, I'm frightened,' she whispered in a coy, little girl's voice she had  just
discovered, using the truth to buy a few more moments. She shivered and clutched
the discarded silk against her as he  let her slide away from him. 'Do  you know
what happened to the girl who lived in this room? While she slept, someone let a
serpent into here and it bit her. She died horribly. Sometimes I think I hear it
on the pillows, but they won't let me have another room.'

There are no snakes in this room. Little Flower.'

In the shadows, she could not be certain of his expression, and his accent  made
it difficult to read the sound of his voice. Recklessly, she continued.

'That's what they tell me. The only snakes in Sanctuary which are poisonous  are
the Beysa's holy snakes - and those never go far from her in the palace. But she
was killed by snake venom. Someone had to have put it in here. But she was  only
a mad  girl from  the Street  of Red  Lanterns, so  no one  will search  for her
killer.'

'I'm sure your Prince will do all that he can. It would be a crime among us,  as
well, if someone had stolen the Beysa's serpent.'

'I'm afraid. Suppose they  didn't need to steal  the serpent, suppose they  only
needed the venom. Suppose the Harka Bey are angry because men like you come here
to women like me.'

He took her in  his arms again, brushing  the sweat-dampened hair back  from her
face. 'The Harka Bey is a tale for children.'

She caught  his hand  in hers  and felt  the design  of the  ring on his hand: a
serpent, with fangs that rasped on  the ridges of her fingertips. He  pulled his
hand quickly away.

'I'm afraid, Turghurt, of what will become of me -'

He struck like  a snake, grabbing  at her throat  and wrenching her  head around
into the candlelight. Her right arm  was hopelessly twisted in the silk  and her
left bent backwards into agony.

'So Myrtis thinks it's me, does she?'

'No,' Cythen gasped, aware now that she had used his real name, as she had  been
warned not to do. 'She knows it  could not have been you who killed  Bekin. Only
women handle the  serpents...' but they  were both staring  at the serpent  ring
shining in the candle-light.

'What are you?' he demanded, shaking her jaw until something ripped loose in her
neck and she could not  have answered him if she  had wanted to. 'Who sent  you?
What do you know?' He bent her wrist back until it was in the candle flame. 'Who
told you about our plans?'

Tears flowed through the kohl, washing the black powder into her eyes - but that
was the least of her pain. She screamed, finally, though wrenching her jaw  free
of him was almost enough to make her faint. He caught her again, but it was  too
late. Even  as he  beat her  head against  the wall,  someone was banging on the
door. She  fell back  on the  candle, extinguishing  it with  her body, and they
struggled against each other in the darkness.

She broke free more than once, digging her filed nails into whatever  vulnerable
skin she could grab. But she did  not have the strength to break his  bones with
her hands  and could  not find,  in the  darkness, the  panel that concealed her
knife. Someone  was using  an axe  on the  door now,  and she thought perhaps it
would not all have been in vain if they caught him for her death.

He caught her by  the shoulder and brought  his fist crashing into  her weakened
jaw. The force and the pain stunned her. She hung limp in his grip,  defenceless
against his second punch. He heaved her body into a corner, where it hit with  a
dead-weight thud; then he began  moving frantically through the darkness  as the
axe continued to bite against the door.

Cythen had not lost consciousness, though she wished she had. Her mouth and  jaw
were on fire, although, ironically, one or another of his punches had undone the
dislocation, along with loosening  a few of her  teeth. She could have  screamed
freely now, as she  heard his glittery clothing  dropping to the floor,  but the
anguish of her failure was too great.

A piece of wood  had splintered away from  the door. Light from  the lanterns in
the hallway  glinted off  the serpent  ring which  he held  before his eyes. She
realized that he must think her  dead or unconscious, and she thought  she might
survive if she continued to  be silent, but he came  at her as a second,  larger
piece of wood came loose. The glistening serpent's head rose above his fist.

She lunged away from him and felt something strike her shoulder. In the swirl of
pain and panic she did not know if the fangs had pierced her; she knew only that
she was still alive, still wrapped around  his legs and trying to bite him  with
her  already  battered  and  bloody teeth.  He  kicked  free  other with  little
difficulty and  made a  leap for  the window  as a  hand reached around into the
darkness and worked the latch.

Though the door was  open almost at once,  Turghurt had heaved himself  clear of
the window before they reached him.  And though Cythen protested her health  and
survival, they made more of  a fuss over her and  the ruined silk than they  did
over the escaping Beysib.

'He won't get far. Not without any clothes,' Myrtis assured her, holding up  the
discarded turquoise pantaloons.

'He'll be bleedin' naked!' one of the other women tittered.

Cythen had already learned that the pain was bearable so long as she didn't  try
to talk, so  she ignored the  chaos of conversation  and searched for  the panel
that concealed her proper  clothes and knife. The  Beysib wasn't naked, she  was
sure of that. Somehow he'd managed to exchange his bright silks for dark clothes
such as the Harka Bey had worn. He hadn't been able to change his boots, though,
and the light leather should be easy to spot - if he wasn't already safe at  the
palace by now. She shoved Ambutta aside and pulled on her own boots.

'You aren't going after him, are you?  The garrison has men at both ends  of the
Street. They'll have him by now. I've already sent for a physician to see  you.'
Myrtis reached gently towards Cythen's battered face, and Cythen warned her away
with an animal growl.

With her hair still loose and glittering, she shoved her way to the door.  Maybe
Walegrin  really was  out there;  it would  be the  first good  thing that   had
happened. Maybe  they had  already caught  Turghurt. She'd  rather have Thrusher
tend her v/ounds than  some cathouse doctor. She  kicked at the doorman  when he
tried to stop her and burst out into the Street.

Although the  walls of  the Palace  were closer,  they were  more dangerous. She
guessed Turghurt would have gone south past the Bazaar and into the Maze  before
heading back to the palace. It had not occurred to her that he might still be on
the Street until a hand loomed out of the shadows and closed over her mouth. Her
throat tore with an almost soundless  shriek and she lashed back with  her heels
and fists before hearing a familiar voice.

'Damn you,  bitch! We've  got him  cornered in  a loft  not a hundred steps from
here.'

She pried Walegrin's fingers from her face and stood before him, tears streaming
down her cheeks and her whole body trembling.

'What happened to you?'

'I... got... hit,' she said slowly, moving her mouth as little as possible.

'Did you get the proof?'

She shrugged. Was the ring and his attempt to kill her proof he had killed Bekin
or the Beysib men and women?

'C'mon, Cythen.  He broke  out of  there like  a bull.  He didn't  punch you out
'cause you're ugly -'

She shook her head and tried to explain what had happened, but her mouth was too
sore for so many words and he could make no sense of her gestures.

'Well, all right, anyway.  Maybe we can pry  something out of him  now. We think
he's found a regular hideout behind some of the older Houses.' Walegrin led  the
way off the street to a dark jumble of buildings where two of his men waited.

'It's as  quiet as  a tomb  up there,'  the soldier  informed his captain; then,
noticing Cythen, added: 'What happened to you?'

'She got hit. Don't ask questions. Now, you're sure he's still up there?'

'There's only two ways out and he ain't used either of them.'

'Okay.' Walegrin turned back to Cythen. 'You get him at ally She shook her  head
to say no and he looked away. 'Okay. Thrush, you come with me. Jore, you  bellow
if you see something. And Cythen,' he tossed her a scabbard. 'Here's your sword;
redeem yourself.'

They dashed  across an  open space  and flattened  themselves against  the rough
stucco walls of  the building. It  had been abandoned  for some time.  Chunks of
stonework broke loose as they made their way to the gaping doorway. The  central
column of  stairs to  the upper  room was  only wide  enough for  one person and
missing a good third  of its boards as  well. Walegrin drew his  Enlibrite sword
and started up them, motioning for the others to remain behind.

He moved  smoothly and  silently until,  while he  was raising  his leg over two
missing steps, the lower  board gave way. The  blond man lurched forward,  using
his sword for balance,  not defence, and another  sword swished through the  air
above him and bit deep into his  arm. Metal began to sing loudly against  metal;
green sparks danced in the air. By their faint light it was clear that Walegrin,
with a cut in his  shoulder and his legs entangled  in the ruins of the  stairs,
was taking a beating.

Thrusher shouted outside for help, though with Walegrin wedged in the  stairway,
there was no easy way to reach  Burek, nor to protect their captain -  but there
was one way. While Thrusher watched  in surprise, Cythen drew her own  sword and
prepared to get up to the second  floor by running up and over Walegrin.  With a
handful  of his  hair and  one foot  planted hard  on his  thigh, she  propelled
herself over him, hoping  that the sheer audacity  of her move would  keep Burek
guessing for the moment it would take for her to regain her balance. She  raised
her sword  just as  his blade  arced towards  her -  and Walegrin reached out to
parry it aside.

The Beysib circled away  from the stairwell, and  Cythen edged along the  walls.
This room was not the dusty wreckage  the lower parts of the building had  been.
Someone had been using it recently. Knives littered an otherwise clean table and
a crude map of the town hung on the wall. There was another curved Beysib  sword
on the wall as well,  but Turghurt hadn't taken it.  The room was too small  for
the swirling double-sword style the Harka Bey had used. His stance was not  that
much different from her own, though his reach was substantially longer.

Walegrin,  still  struggling to  free  himself from  the  stairs, broke  through
another board and fell  from sight, shaking the  entire structure as he  landed.
From the commotion, Cythen  knew they were trying  to improvise a human  ladder,
but at that moment  Turghurt was easily parrying  her best cuts and  she doubted
they'd reach her in time.

She wouldn't have the strength to  ward off many of his thunderous  attacks. She
could stall and hope they'd get something together in time, or she could  charge
him and hope for the  same sort of clear shot  as she'd gotten at the  Harka Bey
though that would kill him and might make everything worse.

He guessed her intention to  attack and back-pedalled across the  room, laughing
to himself. He was silhouetted by a hole in the walls where a window might  once
have been and he seemed very large,  but perhaps his laughing had made him  drop
his guard just a fraction. She sprang at him.

His eyes went wide with disbelief. He was falling towards her before she touched
him, the disbelief  becoming a fixed,  deathlike stare. His  momentum pushed her
backwards  and off  balance, knocking  her sword  aside. But  he was  no  longer
attacking, only falling. They both went crashing to the floor and through it, as
the old  wood gave  way beneath  them. Cythen  heard a  scream -  her own - then
nothing.

3

The sun was bright  in the courtyard of  the palace. Cythen, the  swelling still
apparent in  her face,  and Walegrin,  his arm  in a  sling, stood with the Hell
Hounds in the places  of honour. There were,  as yet, no Beysibs  in sight. Enas
Yorl let the curtain fall from his hand and sat back in the shadowed privacy  of
his study. It  seemed the whole  population of the  town had crammed  around the
high platform whereupon the Beysa would pronounce judgement.

'Would  you have  stopped him  for the  courtesan's sake  alone?' he  asked  the
darkness beside him.

'The girl-soldier has conquered her fears and her past. We have made her a  part
of our sisterhood. We, too, must adapt.  Her vengeance is ours,' the voice of  a
Beysib woman replied.

'Ah, but that wasn't the question. If all you knew was that the Blood of Bey, as
you call it, had been used to  slay an innocent courtesan, and that it  had been
done to make the suspicion fall on you; if there had been no other crimes, would
you have stopped him?'

'No. We have always been blamed for crimes  we do not commit. It is part of  the
balance we  have with  the Empire.  One insignificant  life would  have made  no
difference.'

Trumpets blared out a fanfare. Yorl lifted the curtain again. Sunlight fell on a
four-fingered, ebony hand. The Beysa had arrived at the platform, her breasts so
heavily  painted  they  scarcely  seemed naked.  Her  long  golden  hair swirled
plumelike in the light breeze. The moment had arrived and the crowd grew  quiet.
Terrai  Burek, the  prime minister,  ascended the  platform and  behind him,  in
chains, came his son, Turghurt.

The young  man stumbled  and the  guards rushed  forward to  get him back on his
feet. Even at  this distance, it  was plain that  something had happened  to the
young man and that he had no  clear idea why his aunt, the Beysa  Shupansea, was
standing in the sun, telling everyone that he was going to die for the deaths of
his own people and for the death of a Sanctuary courtesan. Yorl let the  curtain
drop again.

'Then why did you use just enough venom on your dart to destroy his mind but not
enough to kill him?'

The Beysib  woman laughed  melodically. 'He  overstepped himself.  He thought to
arouse Shupansea's rage by slaying Sharilar, her cousin, while they walked along
the wharf. But he killed  not only Sharilar, but Prism  - and that we could  not
forgive.'

'But  you could  have killed  him  outright.  Wouldn't that  have been the  true
vengeance of Bey?'

'Bey is a goddess of many moods; she is life as well as death. This is a  lesson
for everyone: for town  and Beysib. They will  respect each other a  little more
now. Shupansea, herself,  needed to pronounce  this judgement. She  must rise to
rule here or Turghurt will be only the first.'

There was a collective  gasp from the crowd  and Yorl drew back  the curtain for
the third time. The Beysa was  holding a small, bloody knife, while  her serpent
wound around her arm. Turghurt was already dead. The crowd broke into  cheering,
just as Yorl felt the sharp prick of fangs on his own neck.

Poison burned and  gripped him in  hands of red-hot  iron. The sunlit  courtyard
grew dim, then black. The homed  gateway to the seventh level of  paradise shone
before him. The  ancient magician's spirit  stumbled forward and  fell, with the
gate just beyond his reach.

Failure -  and with  the land  of death  almost within  his grasp.  He wept  and
brushed the tears away with a shaggy paw. The room was dark and filled with  the
odour from the pyre on which they'd immolated the criminal, depriving his spirit
of eternal life within the goddess Bey.  And Yorl was left with only the  memory
of death to sustain him.

VOTARY

David Drake

'Hai!' called the Beysib  executioner as his left  blade struck. The tip  of his
victim's index finger  spun thirty feet  across the Bazaar  and pattered against
Samlor's boot. 'Hai!'  and the right  sword lopped the  ends off the  fourth and
middle fingers together,  so that the  victim's right hand  ended in a  straight
line, the four  fingers all the  length of the  least, the only  one to which  a
fingernail remained for the moment. 'Hai!'

The auction  block in  the centre  of the  Bazaar had  been used  for punishment
before, but this particular technique was new to Samlor hil Samt. It was new  as
well  to  many of  the  longer-term residents  of  Sanctuary, judging  from  the
expressions on their faces as  they watched. The victim had  been spread-eagled,
belly against a vertical  wooden barrier. That gave  the audience a view  of the
executioner's artistry, which an  ordinary horizontal chopping block  would have
hidden. And the Beysib - Lord Tudhaliya, if Samlor had understood the crier  was
an artist, no doubt about that.

Tudhaliya held his  swords each at  its balance and  twirled them as  he himself
pirouetted. The blades glittered like lightning in the rain. The Beysib bowed to
the  onlookers before  he spun  in another  flurry of  cuts. The  gesture was  a
sardonic one,  an acknowledgement  of the  audience's privilege  of watching him
work. Tudhaliya was not  nodding to the locals  as peers or even  as humans. For
his performance, the executioner had stripped to a clout that kept his  genitals
out of the way when he moved. His arrival had been in a palanquin, however,  and
the richly brocaded Beysib who stood by as a respectful backdrop to the activity
were clearly subordinates. And at the  moment, his lordship was slicing off  the
fingers of a screaming victim like so many bits of carrot.

Well, the  governance of  Sanctuary had  never been  Samlor's concern. Blood and
balls! How the Cirdonian caravan-master wished that he had no other concern with
this cursed city either.

The first link of the information he needed had come from an urchin for a copper
piece, sold as blithely as the boy would have sold a stale bread twist from  the
tray  balanced  on his  head.  The name  of  a fortune-teller,  a  S'danzo whose
protector was a blacksmith? Oh yes,  Illyra was still in Sanctuary... and  Dubro
the smith, too, if the foreign master's business was with him.

Samlor's  intended  business  was  in  no  way  with  the  blacksmith,  but  the
information was  none the  less good  to know.  Before entering  the booth,  the
Cirdonian  set his  thumbs on  his waist  belt and  tugged the  broad leather  a
fraction, to the side. That was less obtrusive than adjusting the  belt-sheathed
fighting knife directly.

'Welcome, master,' said the woman who had been reading the cards to herself on a
stool. Samlor looped the sash across the doorway hangings. There were the  usual
paraphernalia and a table that could be slid between the S'danzo and the  lower,
cushioned seat for clients. The young woman's eyes were very sharp, however. The
Cirdonian knew that her quick appraisal of  him as he slid aside the curtain  of
pierced shells gave often as much  information as a reading would require,  when
retailed  back  to  the sitter  over  cards  or his  palms  or  through 'images'
quivering in a dish of water.

'You came about the luck of your  return -' and Samlor would have said  that his
face was impassive, but it was not, not to her. 'No, not a journey but a  woman.
Come, sit. The cards,  I think?' Her left  hand fanned the deck,  the brilliant,
complex signs that some said reflected the universe in a subtlety equal to  that
of the icy stars overhead.

'Lady,' said Samlor.  He turned up  his left palm  and the silver  in it. It was
uncoined bullion, stamped each time it was assayed in a Beysib market. 'You gave
a man I met true readings. I need a truth that you won't find in my face.'

The S'danzo looked  at the caravan-master  again, her smile  still professional,
but something new behind her eyes. Samlor's boot heels were high enough to  grip
stirrups, low enough for walking, and worn more by flints than by pavements.  He
was stocky and no  longer young; but his  waist still made a  straight line with
his rib cage, with none of the  bulge that time brings to easy living.  Samlor's
tunic was of dull red cloth, nearly the shade of his face. His skin never seemed
to tan in the sun and wind that beat it daily. His only touch of ornament was  a
silver medallion, its face hidden until the man moved to show the bullion in his
calloused palm. Then  toad-faced Heqt flashed  upward, goddess ofCirdon  and the
Spring rains - and the S'danzo gasped, 'Samlor hil Samt!'

'No!' the man said  sharply in answer to  the way Illyra's eyes  flicked towards
the  doorway,  towards  the  ringing  of  hot  iron  heard  through  it.   'Only
information, lady. I  wish'you no harm.'  And he did  not touch the  hilt of his
belt knife, because  if she remembered  Samlor, she remembered  the tale of  his
first visit to Sanctuary.  No need to threaten  what his reputation had  already
promised, wish  it or  not. 'I  want to  find a  little girl,  my niece. Nothing
more.'

'Sit, then,' the S'danzo said in a guarded voice. This time the visitor  obeyed.
He held the silver out to her  between thumb and forefinger, but she opened  his
palm and held it for her gaze a moment before taking her payment. 'There's blood
on them,' she said abruptly.

'There's an execution in the square,' Samlor said, glancing at his cuff. But  it
was unmarked,  and even  his boot  had been  too dusty  for overt sign where the
severed  fingertip had  touched it.  'Oh,' he  said in  embarrassment. 'Oh.'  He
raised his  eyes to  the S'danzo's.  'Life can  be hard,  lady... and  there are
matters of honour. Not my honour since I went into trade -' his lip quirked in a
wormwood grimace - 'but  of the family, of  the House ofKodrix, yes.  I've found
little enough  that brings  me pleasure.  But not  that, not  slaughter. Life is
hard, that's all.'

Illyra released his palm. The silver clung  to her fingers in what was almost  a
sleight of hand, professional in that,  though the reading was no longer  simply
professional or simple at all. 'Tell me about the child,' the S'danzo said.

'Yes,' the stocky man agreed slowly. Little enough of pleasure, and none at  all
in some memories.  'My sister Samlane  was ...' he  said, and he  paused, 'not a
slut, I  suppose, because  she didn't  bed just  anybody, and  the decision  was
always hers. And not a whore, except as  a lark, as little coin as there was  to
be had in our House ... She had a disdain for trade that did credit to the noble
House of Kodrix. Our parents were proud  of her, I think, as they never  were of
me after I  found an honest  way to buy  their food -  and replenish their  wine
cellar.' The grimace again, calling attention to a joke that bit the teller like
a shark.

The woman was quiet, as cool as the shells that whispered in the door curtain.

'But she was very - experimental.  So we shouldn't have been surprised,'  Samlor
continued, 'that she'd  whelped a bastard  before her marriage,  while she still
lived in Cirdon. Samlane's personal effects were sent back after she, she died '
Six inches  of steel,  her brother's  boot knife,  were buried  in her womb, and
vision as clear  in Samlor's mind  as the edge  of the knife  with which he  had
replaced that one. 'I think Regli wanted to pretend she'd never been born.  Alum
won't hide  stretch marks,  but she'd  passed for  a virgin  with Regli. I guess
Rankan nobles are even stupider than I'd thought. The tramp! Gods! The worthless
tramp!'

'Go on,' Illyra said  with unexpected gentleness, as  if she heard the  pain and
tortured love beneath the curses.

'The  story was  there in  a diary,  enough of  it,' Samlor  continued. He   was
deliberately opening his hands, which had clenched in fury at nothing  material.
'The child was a girl, fostered with  a maid of Samlane's, Reia. I probably  saw
her myself  -' he  swallowed '-playing  in the  halls with  the other  servants'
brats. You could get lost in the house, a whole wing could crumble over you  and
you'd never be found.' The hands clenched again. 'My parents tell me they  never
knew about the child, about Samlane, in  that big house. Pray god I never  learn
otherwise, or I'll have their hearts out though they are my parents.'

The S'danzo touched  his hands, relaxing  them again. He  continued, 'She's four
years old by now. She has a birthmark on the front of her scalp, so the hair  is
streaked white on the black curls. They  called her Star, my sister did and  the
maid. And  I came  back to  Sanctuary -'  Samlor raised  his eyes and his voice,
neither angry but as hard and certain as a sword's edge'- to this hell-hole,  to
find my niece. Reia  had married here, a  guardsman, and she'd stayed  after the
after what happened  when my sister  died. And she'd  kept Star like  one of her
own, she told me, until  a month ago, and the  child disappeared, no one to  say
where.

'That's how late I was, lady,' the Cirdonian went on in a wondering voice. 'Just
a month. But I will find Star. And I'll find any one or any thing that's  harmed
the child before then.'

'You've brought something  of the girl's  for me to  touch, then?' said  Illyra.
Professional calm had reasserted itself in her voice as she approached her task.
This was the crystalline core on which all the mummery, all the 'dark strangers'
and 'far journeys' were based.

'Yes,' said Samlor, calm again himself. With his right hand, his knife hand,  he
held out a medallion like the one around his own neck. 'It's a custom with us in
Cirdon, the  birth-token consecrating  the newborn  to Heqt's  bounty. This  was
Star's. It was found in the mews of the barracks where she lived. Another  child
picked  it up,  a friend,  so she   brought it  to Reia  instead of  keeping  it
herself.'

Illyra's hand cupped the  grinning face of Heqt,  but her eyes glanced  over the
ends of the thong that had  suspended the medallion. The surface of  the leather
was dark with years of sweat and body oils, but its core at the ends was a clear
yellow. 'Yes,' Samlor said, 'it had been cut off her, not stretched and  broken.
Help me find Star, lady.'

The S'danzo nodded. Her eyes had slipped .off into a waking trance already.

Illyra's gaze stayed empty for seconds  that seemed minutes. Her • fingers  were
brown and capable and heavy with rings. They worked the surface of the medallion
they held, reporting the sensations not to the woman's mind but to her soul.

Then, like a castaway flailing herself  up from the sea, the S'danzo  spluttered
again to conscious alertness. Her thin lips formed a brief rictus, not a  smile,
at the memory of things she had just seen. Samlor had let his own breath out  in
a rush  that reminded  him that  he had  not breathed  since Illyra  entered her
trance.

'I wish,' said the woman  softly, 'that I had better  news for you, or at  least
more. No -' for Samlor's face  had stiffened to the preternatural calmness  of a
grave  stele'- not  dead. And  I can't  tell you  who, master  -' the  honorific
professional as habit reasserted itself'- or even where. But I think I have seen
why.'

With one hand  Illyra returned the  medal as carefully  as if it  were the child
herself. With the fingers of the other hand, she touched her own  kerchief-bound
hair. 'The mark that you call the "star" is the "porta" to some of the Beysib. A
sea-beast with tentacles ... a god, to some of them.'

Samlor turned his eyes towards the curtain that hid the execution, as within him
his heart turned to murder. 'That one?' Nodding, his voice as neutral as if  all
the fury at Lord Tudhaliya were not foaming over his mind as he spoke.

'No, not the rulers,'  Illyra said positively. 'Not  the Burek clan at  all, the
horsemen. But the  fisher-folk and boatwrights  who brought the  Burek here, the
Setmur - and not all of them.' The woman smiled at the trace of a memory so grim
that its fullness wiped  her face with loathing  an instant later. 'There  was,'
she explained,  looking away  from the  caravan-master, 'a  cult of  Dyareela in
Sanctuary in the  - recent past.  The Porta cult  is like that.  Only a few, and
those  hidden because  it's sacrilege  and treason  to worship  other than   the
Imperial gods.'

'The Beysib have closed the temples here?' Samlor asked. Her last statement  had
jarred him into the interjection.

'Only to  human beings,'  Illyra said.  'And the  Setmur are  human, even to the
Burek.' She  smiled again  and this  time held  the expression.  'We S'danzo are
accustomed to being animals, master. Even in cities Ranke conquered as long  ago
as she did Cirdon.'

'Go on,' said Samlor evenly. 'Do these Beysib think to sacrifice Star to their '
he shrugged '- octopus, their squid?'

The S'danzo woman  laughed. 'Master -  Samlor,' she demanded,  'is Heqt a  giant
toad that you might  find near the right  pond?' The man touched  his medallion,
and his eyes narrowed at the blasphemy.  Illyra went on, 'Porta is a god,  or an
idea - if there's a difference. A fisher-folk idea. Some of them have always had
images, little carvings on stone or shells, hidden deep in their ships where the
nobles never venture for the stink ... And now they have something else to bring
them closer to their  god. They have -'  and she looked from  the child's medal,
which had told  her much, to  the Cirdonian's eyes,  which in this  had told her
even more '- the girl you call your niece.'

Samlor hil Samt stood with the controlled power of a derrick shifting a cargo of
swords. The booth was  suddenly very cold. 'Lady,'  he said as he  paused in the
doorway. 'I thank you for your service.  But one thing. I know that the  Rankans
say their storm-god bedded his sister.  But we don't talk about that  in Cirdon.
We don't even think about it!'

Except when we 're drunk, the stocky man's mind whispered as his hand flung down
the sash. His legs thrust him  through the pattering curtain and again  into the
square. Except when we're very drunk, but not incapable ... may Samlane burn  in
the Hell she earned so richly!

Amazingly, the execution  was still going  on. Lord Tudhaliya's  breechclout was
black with sweat. His body gleamed as it moved through its intricate dance.  His
swords shone as they spun, and the air was jewelled with garnet drops of blood.

The victim's forearm was gone. Tudhaliya's blades were sharp, but they were  too
light to shear  with a single  blow the thick  bone of a  human upper arm. Right
sword, left sword - placing cuts only, notching ... Tudhaliya pivoted, his  back
to his victim,  and the blades  lashed out behind  him, perfectly directed.  The
stump of the victim's elbow bounded  away from the block. She moaned,  a bestial
sound...  but  she  had never  been  human  to Tudhaliya,  had  she?  The Beysib
entourage gave well-bred applause to the pass. Their left fingertips pattered on
their right palms.

Samlor strode  out of  the Bazaar.  He was  thinking about  a child.  And he was
thinking that murder might not always be without pleasure, even for him.

In the years since Samlor's first visit to Sanctuary, the tavern's sign had been
refurbished. The  unicorn's horn  had been  gilded, and  his engorged  penis was
picked out  with red  paint, lest  any passerby  miss the  joke. The common room
stank as before, though it was too  early to add the smoky reek of  lamp flames.
There were a few soldiers present, throwing knucklebones and wrangling over  who
owed  for the  next round.  There were  also two  women who  would have   looked
slatternly even by worse light than what now streamed through the grimy windows;
and, by the wall, a man who  watched them, and watched the soldiers, and  - very
sharply - watched" Samlor as he entered the tavern.

No one was paying any attention to the fellow in the corner with the sword,  the
lute, and  a sneer  of disgust  at the  empty tankard  before him. 'Ho, friend,'
Samlor called to the slope-shouldered  bartender. 'Wine for me, and  whatever my
friend  with the  lute is  drinking.' The  instrument had  inlays of  ivory  and
mother-of-pearl, but Samlor had noticed  the empty sockets, which must  recently
have been garnished with gems.

The women were already in motion, lurching from their stools - remoras thrashing
towards the  shark they  hoped would  find their  next meal.  It was to the pimp
against the wall that Samlor turned with a bright smile, however. 'And for  you,
sir -'  he said.  His thumb  spun a  coin through  the air.  Its arc  would have
dropped it in the pimp's lap if  the fellow had not snatched it in  with fingers
like eagle's talons. The  coin was silver, minted  in Ranke, a day's  wage for a
man and as much  as these blowsy whores  together could expect for  a night. 'If
you keep  them away  from me.  Otherwise, I  take back  the coin, even if you've
swallowed it.' Samlor  wore a smile  again, but it  was not the  same smile. The
women were backing off even before the pimp snarled at them.

The minstrel had risen to  take the cup Samlor handed  him from the bar. It  was
wine, though poverty  had drunk ale  on the previous  round. 'I thank  you, good
sir,' the man said as he took the cup. 'And how may Cappen Varra serve you?'

Samlor passed his left hand over the sound box of the lute. The coin he  dropped
sang on the strings as it passed. 'A  copper for a song from home,' he said.  He
knew, and  from the  sound the  minstrel knew  also, that  the coin had not been
copper or even  silver. 'And another  like it if  you'll sing to  me out on  the
bench, where the air has less - sawdust in it.'

Cappen Varra followed with a careful expression. He gave the lute a gentle  toss
in his hand, just  enough to make the  gold whisper again in  the sound chamber.
'So, what sort of a song did you have in mind, good sir?' he asked as he  seated
himself facing Samlor. The minstrel had set his wine cup down. His left leg  was
cocked under him on the bench; and his right hand, on the lute's belly, was  not
far from the serviceable hilt of his dagger.

'A little girl's missing,' said Samlor. 'I  need a name, or the name of  someone
who might know a name.'

'And how little a girl?' asked Varra,  even more guarded. He set down the  lute,
ostensibly to take the cup in his left hand. 'Sixteen, would she be?'

'Four,' said Samlor.

Cappen Varra spat out the wine as he stood. 'It shouldn't offend me, good  sir,'
said the minstrel as he up-ended the lute, 'there's folk enough in this city who
traffic in such goods. But  I do not, and I'll  leave your "copper" here in  the
gutter with your suggestion!'

'Friend,' said Samlor. His hand shot out and caught the falling coin in the  air
before the sun winked on  the metal. 'Not you, but  the name of a name.  For the
child's sake. Please.'

Cappen Varra took a deep breath and seated himself again. 'Your pardon,' he said
simply. 'One lives in Sanctuary, and  one assumes that everyone takes one  for a
thief and  worse ...  because everyone  else is  a thief  and worse, I sometimes
fear. So. You want  the name of someone  who might buy and  sell young children?
Not a short list in this city, sir.'

'That's not quite what I want,'  the Cirdonian explained. 'There is -  reason to
think that she was taken by the Beysib.'

The minstrel blinked. 'Then I really can't  help you, much as I'd like to,  good
sir. My songs give me no entree to those folk.'

Samlor nodded. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'But it might be that you knew who in the local
community -  fenced goods  for Beysib  thieves. Somebody  must, they  can't deal
among themselves, a closed group like theirs.'

'Oh,' said Cappen Varra. 'Oh,' and his right hand drummed a nervous riff on  the
belly of his instrument. When he  looked up again, his face was  troubled. 'This
could be very dangerous,' he said. 'For you, and for anyone who sent you to this
man, if he took it amiss.'

'I was serious  about the payment,'  Samlor said. He  thumbed a second  crown of
Rankan gold from his left hand into the right to join the piece already there.

'No,  not  that,'  said  the  minstrel, 'not  for  this.  But...  I'll  give you
directions.  Go after  dark. And  if I  thought you  might mention  my name,   I
wouldn't tell you a thing. Even for a child.'

Samlor smiled wanly. 'It's possible,'  the caravan-master said, 'that there  are
two honourable men  in Sanctuary this  day. Though I  wouldn't expect anyone  to
believe it, even the two of us.'

Cappen Varra  began fingering  an intricate  sequence of  chords from  his lute.
'There's  a temple  of Ils in the  Mercer's Quarter,'  he began  in a   rhythmic
delivery. It  would have  suited the  love lyrics  his face  was miming. 'Just a
neighbourhood chapel. Go through it and turn right in the alley behind ...'

It had been three hours to sundown  when Samlor left the Vulgar Unicorn, but  it
took him most of the remaining daylight to shop for what he would require during
the  interview. Nothing  illicit, but  the city  was unfamiliar;  and the  major
purchase was uncommon enough to take some searching. He found what he needed  at
last at an apothecary's.

The streets of Sanctuary had a different smell after dark, a serpent-cage miasma
that  was  more  of  the  psychic  atmosphere  than  the  physical.  Under   the
circumstances, Samlor did not feel it would be politic to carry his dagger  free
in his hand as he might otherwise  have done. He kept a careful watch,  however,
for the casual footpads who might waylay him for his purse, or even for the wine
bottle whose neck projected from his scrip.

The chapel of Ils had once had a gate. It had been stolen for the weight  of its
wrought iron. There was nothing pertaining to the cult in the sanctuary except a
niche in which the deity was painted. There might at one time have been a statue
in the niche instead; but if so, it had gone the way of the gate. Samlor slipped
through unobtrusively, though he was by  no means sure that the drunk  asleep in
the corner was only what he seemed.

The alley behind  the chapel was  black as a  politician's soul, but  by now the
Cirdonian was close enough to operate  by feel. A set of rickety  stairs against
the  left wall.  A second  staircase. The  things that  squelched and   crunched
underfoot did  not matter.  There were  other, stealthy  sounds; but  the guards
Samlor expected would not attack without  orders, and they would fend away  less
organized criminals as the Watch could not dream of doing.

A ladder was pinned against the wall. It had ten rungs, straight up into a  trap
door in the  overhanging story. Samlor  climbed two rungs  up and rapped  on the
door. He was  well aware of  how extended his  body was if  he had misjudged the
guard's instructions.

'Yes?' grunted a voice from above.

'Tarragon,' Samlor whispered. If the  password had been changed, the  next sound
would be steel grating through his ribs.

The door flopped open. A pair of men reached down and heaved Samlor inside  with
scant ceremony. Both of them were masked, as was the third man in the room.  The
third was the obvious leader, seated  behind the oil lamp and the  account books
on a desk. The men who held Samlor were bravos; more perhaps than their  muscles
alone, but certainly there  for their muscles in  part. The leader was  a black.
The mask obscuring his face was battered from age and neglect, but the eyes that
glittered behind it were as bright as those of the hawk it counterfeited.

The black watched during the silent, expert search. Samlor held himself  relaxed
in the double grip as the guards' free hands twitched away his knife, his purse,
his scrip; snatched off his boots, the sheath in the left one empty already  but
noted; ran along his arms. his torso, his groin. The only weapon Samlor  carried
this night was the openly sheathed dagger.  To leave it behind as well would  in
this city have been more suspicious than the weapon.

When the guards were finished, they stepped back a pace to either side. Samlor's
gear lay in  a pile at  his feet, save  for the dagger,  slipped now through the
belt of one of the burly men who watched him.

Unconcerned, the Cirdonian knelt and pulled on his left boot. The man behind the
desk waited for  the stranger to  speak. Then. as  Samlor reached for  his other
boot,  the masked  leader snarled,  'Well? You're  from Balustrus,  aren't  you?
What's his answer?'

'No, I'm not from Balustrus,' Samlor said. He straightened up. holding the  wine
bottle. He pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it on to the floor before  he
went on. 'I  came to buy  information from you,'  Samlor said, and  he slurped a
mouthful from the bottle.

The mask  did not  move. An  index finger  lifted minusculely  for the  chopping
motion that would have ended the  interview. Samlor spat the fluid in  his mouth
across the desk, splattering the topmost ledger and the lap of the seated man.

The hawk-masked leader  lunged upward, then  froze as his  motion made the  lamp
flame gutter.  There was  a dagger  aimed at  Samlor's ribs  from one side and a
long-bladed razor an inch from his throat on the other; but the Cirdonian  knew,
and the guards knew  ... and the man  across the desk most  certainly knew that,
dying or not,  Samlor could not  be prevented from  hurling the bottle  into the
lamp past which he had spat so nearly.

'That's right,' said Samlor with the bottle poised. 'Naphtha. And all I want  to
do is talk to you nicely, sir, so send your men away.'

While the leader hesitated, Samlor hawked and spat. It would take days to  clear
the petroleum foulness  from his mouth,  and the fumes  rising into his  sinuses
were already giving him a headache.

'All right,' said  the leader at  last. 'You can  wait below, boys.'  He settled
himself carefully back on  his stool, well aware  of the stain on  his tunic and
the way the ink ran where the clear fluid splashed his ledgers.

'The knife,' said Samlor when the  guard who had disarmed him started  to follow
his fellow through the  trap. An exchange of  eyes behind masks; a  nod from the
leader; and the weapon  dropped on the floor  before the guard slipped  into the
alley. When the door closed above the men, Samlor set the potential firebomb  in
a corner where it was not likely to be bumped.

'Sorry,' said the caravan-master with a  nod towards the leader and the  blotted
page. 'I  needed to  talk to  you, and  there wasn't  much choice.  My niece was
stolen last  month, not  by you,  but by  Beysibs. Some  screwball cult  of them
fishermen.'

'Who told you where I was?' asked the black man in a voice whose mildness  would
not have deceived a child.

'A fellow in Ranke, one eye, limps,' Samlor lied with a shrug. 'He'd worked  for
you but ran when the roof fell in.'

The leader's fists clenched. 'The password - he didn't tell you that!'

'I  just  mumbled  my  name.  Your  boys  heard  what  they  expected.'   Samlor
deliberately turned his back on the  outlaw to end the line of  discussion. 'You
won't have contacts with their religious loonies, not directly. But you'll  know
their thieves, and a  thief wili've heard something,  know something. Sell me  a
Beysib thief, leader. Sell me a thief from the Setmur clan.'

The other man laughed. 'Sell? What are you offering to pay?'

Samlor turned,  shrugging. 'The  price of  a four  year old  girl? That'd run to
about four coronations in  Ranke, but you know  the local market better.  Or the
profit on the thief you give me.  Figure what he'll bring you in a  lifetime ...
Name a figure, leader. I don't expect you to realize what this giri means to n",
but - name a figure.'

'I won't  give you  a thief,'  said the  masked man.  He paused deliberately and
raised a restraining finger,  though the Cirdonian had  not moved. 'And I  won't
charge you a copper. I'll give you a name: Hort.'

Samlor frowned. 'A Beysib?'

The mask trembled negation. 'Local boy. A fisherman's son. He and his father got
picked up by Beysib patrols at sea before the invasion. He speaks their language
pretty well - better than any of them I know speaks ours. And I think he'll help
you if he can.' The mask hid the speaker's face, but the smile was in his  voice
as well as he added, 'You needn't tell  him who sent you. He's not one of  mine,
you see.'

Samlor bowed. 'I  couldn't tell him,'  he said. 'I  don't know who  you are.' He
reached for the latch of the trap door. 'I thank you. sir.'

'Wait a minute,' called the man behind the desk. Samlor straightened and met the
hooded eyes. 'Why  are you so  sure I won't  call down to  have you spitted  the
moment you're through this door?'

The Cirdonian shrugged  again. 'Business reasons,'  he said. 'I'm  a businessman
too. I understand  risks. You'll be  out of this  place-' he waved  at the dingy
room - 'before I'm clear of the alley. No need to  kill me to  save a  bolt-hole
that  you've written   off already.  And  there's not one  chance in a  thousand
that I could  get past what you  have waiting below,  but -' calloused palm  up,
another shrug- 'in the  dark ... You  have people looking  for you, sir,  that's
obvious. But none of them so far  would be willing to burn  this city down block
by  block to flush you, if he had to.'

Samlor reached again for the latch, paused again. 'Sir,' he said earnestly, 'you
may think I've lied to you tonight...  and perhaps I have. But I'm not  lying to
you now. On the honour of my House.' He clenched his fist over the medallion  of
Heqt on his breast.

The mask nodded.  As Samlor dropped  through the trap  into darkness, the  harsh
voice called from above, 'Let him go! Let him go, this time!'

There was  nothing ugly  about the  harbour water  with the  noon sun on it. The
froth was pearly, the fish-guts  iridescent; and the water itself,  whatever its
admixture of  sewage, was  faceted into  diamond and  topaz across  its surface.
Samlor sipped his ale in the dockside cantina as he had done at noon on the past
three days. As before, he was waiting for Hort to return with information or the
certain lack of it. The Cirdonian wondered what Star saw when she looked  around
her; and whether she found beauty in it.

There was commotion on  one of the quays,  easily visible through the  cantina's
open front. A  trio of Beysib  had been stepping  a new mast  into a trawler. As
they worked, a squad of cavalry - Beysib also, but richly caparisoned in  metals
and brocades  - had  clattered along  the quay.  The squad  halted alongside the
boat. The men on the trawler had seemed as surprised as other onlookers when the
troopers dismounted  and leaped  aboard, waggling  their long  swords in  visual
emphasis of the orders they shouted.

Nine of the horsemen were involved either in trussing the startled fishermen  or
acting as horseholders for the rest. The tenth man watched coldly as the  others
worked. He wore a  helmet, gilded or gold,  with a feather-tipped triple  crest.
When he turned as if in  disdain for the proceedings, Samlor saw  and recognized
his  profile.  The  man  was   Lord  Tudhaliya,  the  swordsman  who   had  been
demonstrating his skill on an Ilsig animal the other day.

The fishermen continued to babble until ropes with slip knots were dropped  over
their throats. Then they needed all their breath

to scramble  after the  cavalrymen. \  The troopers  remounted with  a burst  of
chirruping cross-chat  which sounded  undisciplined to  the caravan-master,  but
which detracted nothing  from the efficiency  of the process.  Three of the  men
tied off the nooses  to their saddle pommels.  Tudhaliya gave a sharp  order and
the squad rode at a canter back  the way it had come. Citizens with  business on
the quay dodged hooves as best they might. The fishermen blubbered in terror  as
they tried to run with the horses. They knew that a misstep meant death,  unless
the rider to whom they were tethered reined up in time. Nothing Samlor had  seen
of Lord Tudhaliya suggested his lordship would permit such mercy.

There were half a dozen regulars in the bar, fishermen and fish-merchants.  When
Samlor looked away from the spectacle, he found the local men staring at him. He
gave a scowl of surprise when he noticed them; but even as the locals  retreated
into their mugs in confusion, Samlor  understood why they had looked at  him the
way they had. The Cirdonian had nothing to do with the arrests on the docks just
now; but he had nothing to do  with this tavern, either. He had sat  here during
three noons and drunk ale ... and  on the third day, the Beysibs made  an arrest
on the dock below. To the vulnerable, no coincidence is chance. These  fishermen
were unusually vulnerable  to all the  powers of the  physical world as  well as
those of the political one. No  wonder the Beysib counterparts of these  men had
turned to a god their overlords would not recognize; a personification, perhaps,
of mystery and of the typhoons that  could sweep the ocean clear of small  boats
and simple sailors.

Hort slipped into the cantina. He was dressed a little on the gaudy side. Still,
he wore his clothes  with the self-assurance of  a young man instead  of a boy's
nervous gibing at the world. He raised a finger. The bartender chalked the slate
above him and began drawing a mug of ale for the newcomer.

'I'm not sure you want to be seen  with me,' Hort muttered to Samlor as he  took
his ale.  'The fellows  they just  carried off  -' he  nodded, as he slurped the
brew, towards the trawler bobbing high on its lines with the mast still swinging
above it from the  sheer legs. 'Kummanni, Anbarbi,  Arnuwanda. I talked to  them
just last night. About what you needed to know.'

'That's why they were arrested?' the caravan-master asked. He tried to keep  his
voice as  calm as  if he  were asking  which tailor  had sewn  the younger man's
jerkin.

'I  would  to god  I  knew,' Hort  said  with feeling.  'It  could be  anything.
Tudhaliya is - Minister  of Security, I suppose.  But he likes to  stay close to
things. To keep his hand in.'

'And his swords,' Samlor  agreed softly. His eyes  traced the path the  horsemen
had taken  as they  rode off,  towards the  palace and  the dungeons beneath it.
'Would enough money to let you travel be a help?'

Hort shrugged, shuddered. 'I don't know.' He drained his mug and slid it to  the
bartender for a refill.

'I'm not afraid to be seen with you,' Samlor said. 'But I'm not sure you want to
tell me about the -  cult - with so many  other people around.' He smiled  about
the cantina. The men there had just furnished him with a tactful way to prod the
frightened youth into his story.

Hort drank and shuddered again. He  said, 'Oh, I was raised with  everyone here.
Omat's my godfather. They won't tell tales to the Beysib.'

It wasn't  the time  for Samlor  to comment.  He assumed  it was obvious anyway.
Anyone will talk if the questions are put with sufficient forcefulness. But Hort
must have known that  too. The local man  was not a coward,  and he was not  the
worse for never  having asked questions  the way Lord  Tudhaliya would. The  way
Samlor hil Samt had done, when need arose, might Heqt wash him . with mercy when
she gathered him in ...

'There's a  boat went  out last  month at  the new  moon,' Hort  said beneath  a
moustache of beer foam.  'A trawler, but not  fishing. Do you know  what Death's
Harbour is?'

'No.' Samlor had  poled a skiff  as a boy,  when he hunted  ducks in the marshes
south ofCirdon. He knew  little of the sea,  however, and nothing at  all of the
seas around Sanctury.

'Two currents meet,' Hort explained. 'Any flotsam in the sea gets swept into the
eye of it. Wrecks,  sometimes. And sometimes men  on rafts, until the  sun dries
their skin to parchment shrouding their bones.' He laughed. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I
forget what sort of story I meant to tell you.' The smile faded. 'Nobody  fishes
in Death's  Harbour. The  bottom is  deeper than  anyone here  ever set  a line.
Scooped out by the currents, I suppose.  The fish won't shoal there, so it's  no
use to us. But a Beysib trawler went there last month, and it's coming back  now
slower than there's any  reason for. Except that  it's going to arrive  tonight,
and the moon is new again tonight.'

'Star's  aboard her,  then?' Samlor  asked and  sipped more  ale. The  brew  was
bitter, but less bitter than the gall  that flooded his mouth at the thought  of
Star in Beysib hands.

'I think  so,' Hort  agreed. 'Anbarbi  didn't approve.  Of any  of it,  I think,
though none of them said what was really going on. We'd seen the boat at sea, my
father, all of us from Sanctuary that go to sea ourselves. That's what we talked
about, though they didn't much want to  talk. But from what Anbarbi let drop,  I
think there was a child on the trawler. At least when it put out.'

'And it'll dock here this evening?' the Cirdonian said. He had set down his  mug
and was flexing  his hands, open  and shut, as  if to work  the stiffness out of
them.

'Oh -' said  Hort. He was  embarrassed not to  be telling his  story more in the
fashion of an intelligence summary than of an entertainment with the discursions
which added  body to  the tale  and coin  to the  teller's purse. 'No, not here.
There's a cove  west a league  of Downwind. Smugglers  used it until  the Beysib
came. There are  ruins there, older  than anybody's sure.  A temple, some  other
buildings.  Nobody much  uses them  now, though  the Smugglers'11  be back  when
things settle down,  I suppose. But  the boat from  Death's Harbour will  put in
there at midnight. I think, sir. I  tell stories for a living, and I've  learned
to sew them together from this word and that word I hear. But it doesn't usually
matter if my pattern is the same one that the gods wove to begin with.'

'Well,' Samlor said after  consideration, 'I don't think  my first look at  this
place had better be  after dark. There'll be  a watchman or the  like, I suppose
... but we'll deal with that when we find it. I -' he paused and looked straight
at the younger  man instead of  continuing to eye  the harbour. 'We  agreed that
your pay would be the full story when I had it to tell ... and you'll have that.
But it may be I won't be talking much after tonight, so take this,' his clenched
hand  brushed  Hort's  flexed to  empty  into  the other's  palm,  'and  take my
friendship. You've - acted  as a man in  this thing, and you  have neither blood
nor honour to drive you to it.'

'One thing more,' said the  youth. 'The Beysib - the  Setmur clan, I mean -  are
real sailors, and  they know their  fishing, too ...  But there are  things they
don't know about the harbourages here, around Sanctuary. I don't think they know
that there's a tunnel through the  east headland of the cove they've  chosen for
whatever they're going to do.' Hort  managed a tight smile. Sweat beaded  on his
forehead. The risk he was taking by getting involved with the stranger was  very
real, though most of  the specific dangers were  more nebulous to him  than they
were to Samlor. 'One end of the tunnel opens under the corniche of the headland.
You can row right into it at high tide. And when you lift the slab at the  other
end, you're in the temple itself.'

Hort's coda had drawn from his listener all the awed pleasure that a story  well
told could  bring. The  local man  stood up,  strengthened by  the respect  of a
strong  man.  'May your  gods  lead you  well,  sir,' Hort  said,  squeezing the
Cirdonian's hand in leave-taking. 'I look forward to hearing your story.'

The youth  strode out  of the  cantina with  a flourish  and a  nod to the other
patrons. Samlor shook his  head. In a world  that seemed filled with  sharks and
stonefish, Hort's bright courage was as admirable as it was rare.

To say that Samlor felt like an idiot was to understate matters. It was the only
choice he could come up with at short notice, however, and which did not involve
others. At this juncture, the Cirdonian was not willing to involve others.

He had rented a mule cart. It had provided a less noticeable method of  scouting
the cove than a horse would have done. The cart had also transported the punt he
had bought to the  nearest launching place to  the headland that he  could find.
The roadstead on which Sanctuary was  built was edged mostly by swamps,  but the
less-sheltered shore to the west had  been carved away by storms. The  limestone
corniche rose ten to fifty feet above  the sea, either sheer or with an  outward
batter. A  lookout on  the upper  rim could  often not  see a vessel inshore but
beneath him. That was  to Samlor's advantage; but  the punt, the only  craft the
Cirdonian felt competent to navigate, was utterly unsuited to the ocean.

Needs  must when  the devil  drives. Samlor's  great shoulders  braced the  pole
against the cliff face, not the shelving bottom. Foam echoed back from the rocks
and balanced  the surge  that had  tried to  sweep him  inward with  it. In that
moment of stasis,  Samlor shot the  punt forward another  twenty feet. Then  the
surf  was  on him  again,  his muscles  flexing  on the  ten-foot  pole as  they
transferred the sea's power to the rock, again and again.

Samlor had launched the punt at sunset.  By now, he had no feeling for  time nor
for the distance he had yet to struggle across to his once-glimpsed goal. He had
a pair  of short  oars lashed  to the  forward thwart,  but they would have been
totally useless for keeping him off this hungry shore. Samlor was a strong  man,
and determined; but the sea was stronger, and the fire in Samlor's shoulders was
beginning to make him fear that the sea was more determined as well.

Instead of spewing  back at him,  the next wave  continued to be  drawn into the
rock. It became a long  tongue, glowing with microorganisms. Samlor  had reached
the tunnel mouth  while he had  barely enough consciousness  to be aware  of the
fact.

Even that was not the end of the struggle. The softer parts ofth& rock had  been
worn away into edges that could have gobbled the skiff like a duckling caught by
a turtle. Samlor let the next surge carry  him in to the depth of his pole.  The
phosphorescence  limned a  line of  bronze hand-holds  set into  the stone.  The
powerful Cirdonian dropped  his pole into  the boat to  snatch a grip  with both
hands. He held it for three racking breaths before he could find the strength to
drag the punt fully aground, further up the tunnel.

The tunnel was  unlighted. Even the  plankton cast up  by the spray  illuminated
little more than the surfaces to which it clung. Samlor spent his first  several
minutes ashore striking a spark from flint and steel into the tinder he  carried
in a wax-plugged tube. At first  his fingers seemed as little under  his control
as  the fibres  of the  wooden pole  they had  clutched so  fiercely.  Conscious
direction returned to them the fine  motor control they would need later  in the
night.

By  the  time a  spark  brightened with  yellow  flame instead  of  cooling into
oblivion, Samlor's mind  was at work  again as well.  His shoulders still  ached
while the blood  leached fatigue poisons  out of his  muscles. He had  been more
tired than this before, however. The very respite from wave-battering  increased
the Cirdonian's strength.

With the tinder  aflame, Samlor lighted  the candle of  his dark lantern.  Then,
carrying a ten-gallon cask under one arm  and the lantern in the other hand,  he
began to walk up the gently  rising tunnel. The lantern's shutter was  open, and
its horn lens threw an oval of light before him.

The tunnel  was not  spacious, but  a man  of Samlor's  modest height could walk
safely in it by hunching only a little in his strides. He could not imagine  who
had cut the passage through the rock, or why. Scraps - a buckle, a broken knife;
a boot even  - suggested that  the smugglers used  it. Samlor could  imagine few
circumstances, however, in which it would pay smugglers to off-load beneath  the
surf-hammered corniche rather  than in the  shelter of the  cove. For them,  the
tunnel might be useful storage; but the  smugglers had not built it, and in  all
likelihood they had as little knowledge  of its intended purpose as Samlor  did,
or Hort.

Samlor set down the  cask at what he  estimated was the halfway  point along the
tunnel. The  cask had  been an  awkward burden  in the  narrow confines, and its
weight of a talent or  more was as much as  a porter would be expected  to carry
for even a moderate distance. Because it used muscles in a way that the punt had
not, however, the hundred yards Samlor had carried the cask were almost

relaxing.

The only thing certain about the escape he hoped to make in a few hours was that
he would have very little time. Now the Cir-donian set the cask on end and  drew
his fighting knife.  The blade was  double-edged and a  foot long. It  was stout
enough at the cross-hilt to take the shock of a sword and was sharpened to edges
that would hold as they cut  bronze, rather than something that its  owner could
shave with. Samlor had razors for shaving. The knife was a

different sort of tool.

He set the point at the centre of one of the end-staves, using his left hand  to
keep the weapon  upright. The butt  cap was bronze,  flat on top,  and a perfect
surface for Samlor to hammer with the heel of his right hand. The blade  hummed.
The beechwood cracked and sagged away  from the point. Working the knife  loose,
Samlor then punched across the grain of  the other four end staves as well.  The
line of perforations did not quite open  the cask, but they would permit him  to
smash his heel through the weakened boards quickly

when the need arose.

He was more aware than before of the lantern's hot shell as he paced the rest of
the tunnel's length. He could hear someone above him when he reached the end  of
the tunnel. The susurrus could  have been anything, wind-driven twigs  as easily
as the slippers  of a guard  on the floor  above. There was  a sharper sound  to
punctuate that whispering, however; a spear  grounded as the man paused, or  the
tip of a  bow. The stone  conducted sounds very  well, but it  conducted them so
well that Samlor could not get a precise fix on where the guard was in  relation
to the trap door.  For that matter, the  caravan-master had no idea  of how well
the upward-pivoting  door was  concealed. It  might very  well flop  open in the
centre of the room above.

The good news was that the sounds  did not include speech. Either the guard  was
alone, or the party was more stolid than the random pacing seemed to suggest.

Samlor needed more information than he  could get in the tunnel. There  would be
no better time to learn more. He shuttered his lantern and slid the worn  bronze
bolt from its socket in  the door jamb. There were  stone pegs set into the  end
wall as a sort of one-railed ladder.  Samlor set his right foot on the  midmost,
where his leg was flexed just enough to give him its greatest thrust. His  right
hand held the dagger  while his left readied  itself on the trap  door. Then the
Cirdonian exploded upward like a spring toy.

As it chanced, the door was quite well hidden in an alcove, though the  hangings
that would once have completed the camouflage were long gone. There was no  time
to consider might-have-beens,  no time for  anything but the  pantalooned Beysib
who turned, membranes flicking in shock across his eyes. He was trying to  raise
his bow, but there was no time to fend Samlor away with the staff, much less  to
nock one of the bone-tipped arrows. Samlor punched the smaller man in the pit of
the stomach,  a rising  blow, and  the point  of the  long dagger  grated on the
Beysib's spine in exiting between his fourth and third ribs.

The Beysib  collapsed backwards,  his motion  helping Samlor  free the knife for
another victim  if one  presented himself.  None did.  The nictitating  membrane
quivered over the Beysib's  eyes. In better light,  it would have shown  colours
like those on  the skin of  a dying albacore.  The blow had  paralysed the man's
lungs, so that the only sound the guard made as he died was the scraping of  his
nails on the stone floor.

Samlor slid  the body  back through  the trap  door, from  whence its  death had
sprung. He hoped the victim was not a friend of Hort; he sympathized with simple
folk looking for solace apart from the  establishment of such as Lord Tudhaliya.
But they  had made their bed when they stole  a child from the House of Kodrix.

The temple had been a single, circular room. It was roofless now, and its girdle
of fluted columns had  fallen; but the curtain  wall within those columns  still
stood to shoulder height  or above. That wall  had been constructed around  only
three-quarters of the circumference, however. A 90° arc looked out unimpeded  on
the waters of the cove, which lapped almost to the building's foundations.

And  out at  the mouth  of the  cove, its  hull black  upon the  phosphorescence
through which sweeps drove  it languidly, was a  trawler. The vessel's sail  was
furled because of the breeze that began to push against the rising ride when the
land cooled faster than the sea.

There were sounds  outside the temple.  Mice, perhaps, or  dogs; or even  tramps
looking for at least the semblance of shelter.

More likely not. Nothing Hort had  said suggested that the ceremony planned  for
tonight  would  be limited  to  the boatload  who  had carried  Star  to Death's
Harbour. Not all the Setmur would be  involved, but at least a few others  would
slip in from  the greater community.  The tunnel was  as good a  hiding place as
could be found; and if the guard had been placed in the temple, it was at  least
probable that Star would be brought to it by her captors.

Samlor slipped  back the  way he  had come.  He set  the tip  of the  Beysib bow
between the edge  of the trap  door and its  jamb. That wedged  the door open  a
crack, through  which Samlor  could hear  better and  see; and  be seen, but the
lights would be  dim against discovery,  and the alcove  was some protection  as
well. Then Samlor waited, with a reptile's patience, and the chill certainty  of
a reptile as well.

The firstcomers were blurs bringing  no illumination at all. Shawls,  pantaloons
like those  the guard  had worn,  sweeping nervously  through Samlor's  field of
vision. They  chattered in  undertones. Occasionally  someone raised  a voice to
call what might have been a name: 'Shaushga!' The corpse stiffening at  Samlor's
feet made no reply.

Then a hull grated on the strand. There were more voices, and more of the voices
were male.  Water slopped  between shore  and hull  as at  least a dozen persons
dropped over  the trawler's  gunwale. Then  the temple  floor rasped beneath the
horn-hard soles of barefooted fishermen. A tiny oil lamp gleamed like the sun to
light-starved eyes.

In the centre of  the open room, a  Beysib in red robes  set down the burden  he
carried. It was Star, had to be Star. She was dressed also in red. Her hair  had
been plaited into short tendrils so that the blaze above her forehead seemed  to
have eight white arms.

'I don't  want to,'  the child  cried distinctly.  'I want  to go  to bed.'  She
refused to  support herself  with her  legs, curling  to the  pavement when  the
Beysib set her down.

The man in red  and a woman as  nondescript as the others  in a brown and  black
shawl bent to the child. They spoke urgently and simultaneously in Beysib and  a
melange of  local dialects.  The latter  were almost  equally unintelligible  to
Samlor for  the accent  and poor  acoustics. The  man in  red held  Star by  the
shoulders, but he was coaxing rather than trying to force her to rise.

The trawler  had been  crabbed further  into the  cove so  that Samlor  could no
longer see it from his vantage point. The Cir-donian held his body in a state of
readiness,  but  at not  quite  the bowstring  tautness  of the  instant  before
slaughter. There would  be slaughter, nothing  could be more  certain than that;
but for the moment,  Samlor continued to wait.  There were ten, perhaps  twenty,
Beysib within the temple wall at the moment. Some of them were between Star  and
the hidden door. That would not keep Samlor from striking if the need arose, but
there was at  least a chance  that some of  those now milling  in the room would
spread out if the ceremony began.

Star had gotten to her feet. She was pouting in the brief glimpse Samlor had  of
her face as she turned. He could  not imagine how anyone had taken Star  for the
maid's daughter. Even the set other lips was a mirror of Samlane's.

The Beysib chattering ceased. Their  feet brushed quickly to positions  flanking
the temple opening. It  was much as Samlor  had hoped. Star stretched  her hands
out, palms forward, towards the cove. The man in red was still with her, but the
woman had joined the others just outside the building. Star began chanting in  a
bored  voice. The  syllables were  not in  any language  with which  Samlor  was
familiar. From the regularity of the sounds, it was possible that they were from
no language at all, merely  forming a pattern to concentrate  nonverbal portions
of the brain.

Samlor tensed. He  had already chosen  the spot through  which his dagger  would
enter the kidneys of the man  in red. Then, suddenly, Lord Tudhaliya's  troopers
swept into the gathering with cries of bloody triumph.

The security forces might have intended  to take a few prisoners, but  as Samlor
bolted from his hiding place, he saw a woman cut in half. The trooper who killed
her had a sword almost four  feet long in the blade. His  horizontal, two-handed
cut took her in the small of the back and bisected her navel on the way out.

The  troopers had  approached dismounted,  of course.  Even so,  they had  shown
abnormal skill for cavalrymen in creeping  up among the ruins. There was  no way
of telling how many of them there were, but it was certainly more than the squad
that had made  the arrests that  morning. Lights began  to flare, dark  lanterns
like Samlor's own still hissing in the tunnel below.

The red-garbed Beysib bawled in horror and tried to enfold Star in his cloak, as
if that  would serve  as any  protection from  what was  about to happen. Samlor
smashed the Beysib down with the dagger's hilt to his forehead, not from  mercy,
but because  the point  might have  caught and  held the  weapon for moments the
Cirdonian  did not  have to  lose. Samlor  grabbed the  screaming child  by  the
shoulder and spun for the tunnel mouth.

A Beysib  cavalryman leaped  from the  crumbling wall.  He was  aiming a kick at
Samlor's head.

The angle was different,  but too many camels  had launched feet at  the caravan
master for Samlor  to be caught  unprepared. The boot  slashed by his  ear as he
pivoted. The Beysib's sword  was cocked for a  blow that the fellow  had to hold
until he  landed, or  he risked  lopping off  his own  feet. The long weapon did
nothing to keep the Beysib's momentum from impaling him on the Cirdonian dagger.
Samlor slipped the hilt as it punched home. He tossed Star to the trap door  and
rammed her through as he jumped in himself.

When Samlor tried to bang the stone door to, a Beysib sword shot through the gap
and kept the edges from meeting.  Instead of tugging against the springy  steel,
Samlor  let the  Beysib's own  pull open'the  trap again.  Samlor lunged  upward
through the opening. Before the sword could be transformed once more from a  pry
bar into  a weapon,  the Cirdonian  had buried  his boot  knife in the trooper's
throat.

The sword dropped into the tunnel as Samlor shot the bolt which closed the door.
The last thing the caravan-master had  seen before stone met stone was  the face
of Lord Tudhaliya  turned to a  fright mask by  fury and speckles  of blood. The
Beysib  noble  was  lunging  to  take  the  place  of  his  dying  trooper.  His
outstretched sword sang against the marble even as the bolt snicked home.

'Come  on. Star,  I'm your  uncle!' Samlor  shouted as  he grabbed  the  nearest
handful of the child.  He did not particularly  care whether she obeyed  or even
understood, for there was no time now to wait on a four-year-old's legs. He  let
the Beysib  sword lie,  because he  needed his  right hand  for the lantern. Its
unshuttered light  seemed shockingly  bright in  the closeness.  Samlor ran bent
over, the girl under his arm as the cask had been when he came from the punt.

Even as  Samlor's heels  hit the  floor on  his second  stride, hands  and sword
blades wrenched the bronze latch into fragments. A file of Beysib troopers  with
lamps and swords plunged into the tunnel behind Lord Tudhaliya.

Samlor's plan had  been based on  the assumption that  his sudden assault  would
startle the gathering of fisher-folk and give him the thirty seconds or so  that
he needed to block his escape route. This security troop was as well-trained  as
any force the  Cirdonian had encountered,  and they were  already primed to  rip
open hiding places. Presumably Tudhaliya thought he was after fugitives from the
ceremony, but that mattered as little to him as it did to Samlor.

The Cirdonian  smashed open  the cask  and kicked  it over.  The naphtha  gushed
across  the  stone, darkening  it,  and began  to  flow sluggishly  back  in the
direction Samlor was  fleeing. Samlor dared  not ignite the  fluid until he  was
clear of it. He took a stride and another stride, ignoring Star's wailing as her
shoulder brushed  the tunnel  wall. The  Cirdonian turned  and flung his lantern
towards the  naphtha. Lord  Tudhaliya batted  the light  back past the fugitives
with the flat of his sword.

Then the second Beysib  trooper stumbled over the  cask and banged his  own lamp
down into  the naphtha.  The tunnel  boomed into  red life.  It singed  Samlor's
eyebrows, even though Lord Tud-haliya  shielded the Cirdonian from the  worst of
it.

The Beysib noble pitched forward. Samlor  ran for the boat, clutching the  child
now in both arms. The capering fire threw their shadows down the tunnel ahead of
them.

Samlor set  Star in  the stern  of the  punt and  began shoving  the vessel back
towards the water. The  sea had retreated since  he dragged the punt  out of it.
While Samlor thrust at the boat, he glanced back over his shoulder. The  blazing
petroleum was  creeping down  the slope  of the  tunnel. Just  ahead of  it, his
clothes afire but a sword gripped still in either hand, came Lord Tudhaliya. The
swordsman's hair  and flesh  stank as  they burned,  but there  are men  whom no
degree of pain will turn from a task. Samlor recognized the mind-set very well.

The Cirdonian still had a push dagger sheathed on his left wrist, but it was  as
useless against this opponent as the knives he had left in bodies cooling on the
temple floor. Samlor snatched up the punt pole, sliding it forward in his  grip.
As Tudhaliya feinted with his left sword, Samlor thrust the pole into the centre
of  the Beysib's  chest. With  enough room  to manoeuvre,  Tudhaliya would  have
avoided the clumsy  attack. Instead, his  sluggish reflexes bounced  him against
the tunnel wall,  and the end  of the pole  knocked him back  into the spreading
flames.

The Beysib stood up. Samlor poked at his groin, missed, but caught his  opponent
in the ribs with  enough force to topple  him again. Tudhaliya's swords  snicked
from either side, inches short of where Samlor gripped the pole. Chips flew, but
the pole was seasoned ash and as  thick as a man's wrist. Samlor thrust  himself
away, and the Beysib recoiled on to his back in the fire.

The naphtha sucked a fierce breeze from the tunnel to feed its flames. The glare
flickered now around Tudhaliya's face, as instinct forced him to breathe.  There
was no  help in  that influx,  only red  tendrils that  shrank lung  tissues and
blazed back out of Tudhaliya's mouth as he finally screamed.

'My sweet, my love,' Samlor whispered as he turned back to the girl. 'I'm  going
to take you home, now.' The punt's flat bottom jounced easily over the stone  as
if the executioner's death had doubled the rescuer's strength.

'Are you taking me back to Mama Reia?' Star asked. She had watched Tudhaliya die
with great eyes, which she now focused on Samlor.

The man splashed beside the boat for a few paces while the shingle foamed.  Then
he hopped aboard and thrust outwards for the length of the pole. Since the  tide
had turned, there was  no longer need to  fend off from the  corniche. When they
were thirty  feet out,  the Cirdonian  set down  the pole  and worried loose the
lashings of his  oars with his  spike-bladed push dagger.  'Star,' he said,  now
that he had leisure for an answer,  'Maybe we'll send for Reia. But we're  going
back  to your  real home  - Cirdon.  Do you  remember Cirdon?'  Inexpertly,  the
caravan-master began to fit  the looms through the  rope bights that served  the
punt for oarlocks.

Star nodded with solemn enthusiasm. She said, 'Are you really my uncle?'

Poling had raised  and burst blisters  on both Samlor's  hands. The salt-crusted
oar handles ground  like acid-tipped glass  as he began  the unfamiliar task  of
rowing. 'Yes,' he  said. 'I promised  your mother -  your real mother.  Star, my
sister ... I  promised her -'  and this was  true, though Samlane  was two years
dead when her brother shouted the words to the sky - 'that I'd take care of  oh.
Oh, Mother Heqt. Oh, to have brought us so close.'

Lord Tudhaliya had not  trusted his men on  the shore to sweep  up the cultists.
Someone in the boat  Tudhaliya had stationed off  the headland had seen  the man
and  child. The  Beysib craft  was a  ten-oared cutter.  It began  to close  the
distance from the first strokes that roiled the phosphorescence and brought  the
cutter to Samlor's attention.

An archer  stood upright  in the  cutter's bow.  His first  shot was' wobbly and
short by fifty of the two hundred yards. He nocked another shaft, and the cutter
pulled closer.

Samlor dropped his  oars. He knelt  and raised his  hands. He did  not trust his
balance to standing up. 'Star,' he said, 'I'm afraid that these men have  caught
us after all. If I try to get away, something bad may happen to you by accident.
And I can't fight them, I don't have any way to fight so many.'

Star peered over her shoulder at the Beysib cutter, then turned back to  Samlor.
'I don't want to go with them. Uncle,' she said pettishly. 'I want to go back to
Cirdon. I want to play in the big house.'

'Honey,' Samlor said, 'sweetest ... I'm sorry. But we can't do that now, because
of  that boat.'  The cutter  was too  big to  overturn, the  caravan-master  was
thinking. But perhaps if he jumped into the larger boat with his push dagger, in
the confusion they might -

The Beysib archer pitched into the water.

It was a moment before Samlor  realized that the man had fallen  forward because
the cutter had come to an abrupt halt beneath him. The swift craft had thrown up
a bone of glowing  spray. Now the spray's  remnant curled forward and  away from
the cutwater as a diminishing furrow on the sea.

'Now can we go to Cirdon, Uncle?'  the little girl asked. She lowered the  hands
she had turned towards  the cutter. Either her  voice had dropped an  octave, or
the caravan-master's mind was freezing down in sudden terror. The white tendrils
of Star's hair blazed and seemed to writhe.

The cutter's bow lifted. The boat disappeared stern-first with a rush and a roar
and the screams of her crew. A huge, sucker-blotched tentacle uncoiled a hundred
feet skyward, then plunged back into the glowing sea.

Samlor's hands found  the oars again.  His mind was  ice, and his  muscles moved
like flows  of ice.  'Yes, Star,'  he heard  his voice  say. 'We  can go back to
Cirdon now.'

MIRROR IMAGE

Diana L. Paxson

The big mirror glimmered balefully from the wall, challenging him.

Even from across the room, Lalo could  see himself reflected - a short man  with
thinning, gingery hair, tending  to put on weight  around the middle though  his
legs were thin; a man with haunted eyes and stubby, paint-stained hands. But  it
was not his reflection empty-handed that frightened him. The thing he feared was
his own image copied on to a canvas,  if he should dare to face the mirror  with
paintbrush in hand.

A shout from the  street startled him and  he went softly to  the window, but'it
was only  someone chasing  a cutpurse  who had  mistaken their  cul-de-sac for a
shortcut between  Slippery Street  and the  Bazaar. The  strangeness of  life in
Sanctuary since the  Beysib invasion, or  infestation, or whatever  it should be
called, gave simple theft an almost nostalgic charm.

Lalo gazed out over the jumble of  roofs to the blue shimmer of the  harbour and
an occasional flash where the sun caught  the gilding on a Beysib mast. Ils knew
the Beysib were colourful enough, with their embroidered velvets and jewels that
put a sparkle  in even Prince  Kitty-Cat's eye, but  Lalo had not  been asked to
paint any of them so far. Or to  paint anything else, for that matter - not  for
some time now. Until the good folk of Sanctuary figured out how to transfer some
of their new neighbours' wealth into their own coffers, no one was going to have
either  the resources  or the  desire to  hire Sanctuary's  only notable  native
artist to paint  new decorations in  their halls. Lalo  wondered if Enas  Yorl's
gift to him would work on a Beysib. Did the fish-eyes have souls to be revealed?

Without willing it, Lalo found himself turning towards the mirror again.

'Lalo!'

Gilla's voice broke  the enchantment. She  filled the doorway,  frowning at him,
and he flushed guiltily. His preoccupation with the mirror bothered her, but she
would have been more than bothered if she had known why it fascinated him so.

'I'm going shopping,' she said abruptly. 'Anything you want me to get for you?'

He shook his head. 'Am I supposed to be watching the baby while you're gone?'

Alfi thrust  past her  flowing skirts  and looked  up at  his father with bright
eyes.

'I'm t'ree years old!' said Alfi. 'I a big boy now!'

Lalo laughed suddenly and bent to ruffle  the mop of fair curls. 'Of course  you
are.'

Gilla towered above him like the statue of Shipri All-Mother in the old  temple.
'I'll take him with me,' she said.  'The streets have been quiet lately, and  he
needs the exercise.'

Lalo nodded and, as he straightened, Gilla touched his cheek, and he  understood
what she could so rarely manage to put into words, and smiled.

'Don't let the fish-eyes gobble you up!' he replied.

Gilla snorted. 'In broad daylight? I'd like to see them try! Besides, our  Vanda
says they're only people like ourselves, for all their funny looks, and  serving
that Lady Kurrekai,  she should know.  Will you trust  Bazaar tales or  your own
daughter's word?' She  backed out of  the doorway, hoisted  the child on  to one
broad haunch, and scooped up the market basket.

The building shook beneath Gilla's heavy tread as she went down the stairs,  and
Lalo moved  back to  the window  to see  her down  the street.  The hot sunlight
gilded her fading hair until it was as bright as the child's.

Then she was gone, and he was alone with the mirror and his fear.

A man  called Zanderei  had asked  Lalo if  he had  ever painted a self-portrait
whether he had  ever dared to  find out if  the gift the  sorcerer Enas Yorl had
given him of painting the truth of a man would enable him to make a portrait  of
his own soul. In return, Lalo had given Zanderei his life, and at  first he  had
been so glad to be  alive himself that he did not worry about Zanderei's  words.
Then the  Beysib fleet   had appeared  on the  horizon,  with  the sun  striking
flame from their mastheads  and their  carven prows, and no one had  had leisure
to worry about anything else  for awhile. But now things were quiet and Lalo had
no commissions to  occupy him, and  he could not  keep his eyes  from the mirror
that hung on the wall.

Lalo heard a dog barking furiously in the street and two women squabbling in the
courtyard below and, more faintly, the perpetual hubbub of the Bazaar; but  here
it was  very still.  A stretched  canvas sat  ready on  his easel  - he had been
planning to spend this  morning blocking out a  scene of the marriage of Ils and
Shipri. But there was no one else in the house now - no one to peer through  his
doorway and ask what he thought he was doing - no one to see.

Like a sleepwalker, Lalo lifted the easel to one side of the mirror,  positioned
himself so that the light from the  window fell full on his face, and  picked up
the paintbrush.

Then, like a lover losing himself for the first time in the body of his beloved,
or an outmatched  swordsman opening his  guard to his  enemy's final blow,  Lalo
began to paint what he saw.

Gilla heaved the basket of groceries on to the table, rescued the sack of  flour
from the child's  exploring fingers, and  poured it into  the bin, then  found a
wooden spoon  for Alfi  and set  him down,  where he  began to  bang it  merrily
against the floor. She stood for a moment, still a little out of breath from the
stairs, then began to put her other purchases away.

It did not take long. The influx of Beysib had strained Sanctuary's food supply,
and their wealth had sent prices  climbing, and though Gilla had hoarded  a fair
amount of  silver, there  was no  telling how  long it  would be  until Lalo was
working regularly again. So it was back  to rice and beans for the family,  with
an occasional fish in the stew. Now that so many new ships had been added to the
local fleet, fish were the one item in ample supply.

Gilla sighed.  She had  enjoyed their  affluence -  enjoyed putting  meat on the
table and experimenting with  the spices imported from  the north. But they  had
subsisted on coppers for more years  than she liked to remember, and  few enough
of those. She was an expert on feeding a family on peas and promises. They would
survive the Beysib as they had survived everything else.

Alfi's short  legs were  carrying him  determinedly towards  the door  to Lalo's
studio. Gilla  scooped him  up and  held him  against her,  still squirming, and
kissed his plump cheek.

'No, love, not in there - Papa's working and we must leave him alone!'

But it was odd  that Lalo had not  at least called a  welcome when he heard  her
come in. When he  was painting a sitter,  Vashanka could have blasted  the house
without his noticing, but there had been no commissions for some time, and  when
Lalo painted for pleasure he was usually  glad for an excuse to break off  for a
cup of tea. She called to Latilla to take her little brother into the children's
room to play, then coaxed a fire to life in the stove and put the kettle on.

Lalo still had not stirred.

'Lalo, love - I've got water heating; d'you want a cup of tea?' She stood for  a
moment, hands on hips, frowning at the shut, unresponsive door; then she marched
across the floor and opened it.

'You could at least answer me!' Gilla stopped. Lalo was not at his easel. For  a
moment she thought  he must have  decided to go  out, yet the  door had not been
locked. But there was something different  about the room. Lalo was standing  by
the far  wall, for  all the  world like  a piece  of furniture.  It took another
moment for her to  realize that he had  not moved when she  came in. He had  not
even looked at her.

Swiftly she went to him.  He stood as if he  had backed across the room  step by
careful step until he  ran into the wall.  The paintbrush was still  clenched in
one hand; she tugged  it free and set  it down. And still  he did not move.  His
eyes were fixed, unseeing, on the easel  across the room. She glanced at it  - a
man's face, and at this distance she saw nothing remarkable - then turned to him
again.

'Lalo, are you all right? Did you hear me? Shipri All-Mother have mercy -  Lalo,
what's wrong?' She shook his arm and still he did not respond to her, and a sick
fear uncoiled itself beneath her heart and began to grow.

Gilla gathered him into her ample embrace and for a moment held him unresisting.
His body was warm, and she could feel his heart beating very slowly against  her
own. but she knew  with dreadful certainty that  he was no longer  there. Biting
her lip,  she guided  him to  the pallet  and arranged  him on  it as one of the
children might arrange a doll.

Fear's chill  tentacles extended  all the  way to  her fingertips  now. and  she
remained kneeling before Lalo, chafing his hands less for his sake than for  her
own. His eyes were unfocused, the  pupils darkly dilated. He was not  looking at
her. He had not been looking at the painting either, although his face had  been
turned towards it when she came in. These eyes were focused on something  beyond
Sanctuary - some inner darkness into which a man might fall forever and find  no
rest.

Shivering, Gilla tried to close his eyelids, but they slid open again upon  that
awful, sightless stare. She could feel a scream crouched in her breast,  waiting
for her to give way to horror and  set it free. but she set her teeth  painfully
and heaved herself to her feet.

Hysterics would  do neither  of them  any good  now. Time  enough to release the
grief that was building in her when - if - there was no hope for him. Perhaps it
was some strange seizure that would soon  pass, or a new sickness that time  and
her strict  nursing would  cure. Or  perhaps (her  mind probed  delicately at  a
darker thought and flinched away), perhaps it was sorcery.

'Lalo -' she said softly, as if  her voice could still reach him somehow,  'Lalo
my darling,  it's all  right. I'll  get you  a doctor;  I'll make you get well!'
Already her mind was considering. If he did not wake of himself by tomorrow  she
would have to find a physician - perhaps Alien Stulwig - she had heard that  his
potions saved more lives than they took.

The teakettle began to wail, and as she hurried across the room. her hip set the
easel teetering. Without  stopping, she picked  it up and  set it in  the corner
with the picture facing the wall.

Lalo peered uneasily through  murky clouds that roiled  about him like the  mage
wind that had devastated  Sanctuary the year before.  But his life was  still in
him, though the stink was enough to  drive the breath from a man's lungs.  For a
moment he thought himself back in the sewers of the Maze, but there was too much
light. So where in the name of Shalpa Shadow-lord had he gotten to?

He took a step  forward, then another, his  feet finding their own  way over the
uneven ground.  The colours  that streaked  the clouds  nauseated him  - sulphur
yellow  that  shaded into  a  livid pink  like  an unhealed  scar,  and then  to
something else - an unnameable colour that made his eyes hurt so that he had  to
look away.

Perhaps I am dead, he thought then.  Poor Cilia will grieve for me, hut  she has
her hoard, and the  older children are earning  money of their own.  She will do
better without me  than I would  if she had  left me alone  ... The thought  was
bitter, and he found himself weeping as he stumbled along. But the tears had  no
substance and after a little they disappeared. He returned to his probing, as  a
man will tongue the sore space where a tooth has gone.

All  of the  priests were  wrong, both  the ones  who said  that the  gods  take
departed souls to paradise and those who are convinced one is condemned to Hell.
Or perhaps I  have such a  spineless soul that  I have deserved  neither, and so
they have sentenced me to wander here!

Lalo had spent half his life dreaming  of escape from Sanctuary. But now he  had
lost Sanctuary, and he  was astonished by the  passion of his longing  to see it
again.

Something scurried by him and he jumped. Was it a rat? Were there rats here? And
surely now he  could see cobblestones  beneath his feet.  Trembling, Lalo stared
around him as  dim forms precipitated  from the shadows  - walls, perhaps,  with
arched doorways and the eaves of roofs peaking like broken teeth against a lurid
sky. There  - surely  that was  the broad  facade ofJubal's  place, but that was
impossible - the Stepsons had burned it, hadn't they? And then he was certain of
the wrongness,  for next  to it  he saw  the familiar  skewed sign of the Vulgar
Unicorn,  but the  unicorn's eyes  glowed evilly,  and blood  dripped down   its
spiralled horn.

Abruptly he realized  that he was  beginning to hear  sounds, too -  the kind of
drunken laughter that comes from men who watch a bully's fist smash a boy's face
to raw meat, or who take a woman one after another: the kind of screaming he had
heard once  when he  hurried past  Kurd's workshop,  and the  choked gurgle  the
hanged men made as they died in  the Palace Yard. He had heard all  those sounds
in Sanctuary, and closed his ears to  them, but he could not ignore the  sobbing
that seemed  to come  from somewhere  just before  him, the  hushed, incredulous
whimpering of an abused child.

I was wrong, he thought, I am in Hell after all!

Lalo began to run forward, and  suddenly figures were all around him.  Hawkmasks
and Stepsons  struggled as  lopped limbs  flew like  scythed wheat  and drops of
blood splattered the cobbles like rain. A man staggered by him and Lalo  thought
that it was Zanderei;  then the figure turned  and he reeled back,  for the face
was gone.

Another  came towards  him -  Sjekso Kinsan,  with whom  he had  shared a  drink
sometimes in the Vulgar  Unicorn, and behind him  a woman with long  amber hair.
Lord Regli's wife. Samlane.  whom Lalo had painted  long ago before he  met Enas
Yorl.  before  the  woman  had  died.  There  were  others  whom  he  thought he
recognized, thieves whose  contorted features he  had seen on  the gallows. Hell
Hounds or mercenaries whom he had seen  in Sanctuary for awhile and then saw  no
more.

They  were looking  at him,  now. and  closing around  him. Lalo  began to  run,
burrowing through the  dark maze of  this shadow Sanctuary  like a maggot  in an
ancient corpse, seeking some unimaginable safety.

'Woman, you were fortunate to get  me here at all!' Alten Stulwig  said stiffly.
'My patients come to me. and I am certainly not accustomed to visiting this part
of town!'

'But you know that  my husband has influential  friends who might object  if you
let their pet artist  die unseen, don't you!'  said Gilla nastily. 'So  you stop
avoiding my eyes like a whore with  her first customer and tell me what's  wrong
with him!' She lifted  an arm as broad  as Stulwig's thigh and  he swallowed and
glanced nervously down at the man on the pallet.

'It's  a  complex  case,  and  there's  no  need  to  confuse  you  with medical
terminology.' He cleared his throat. 'I am afraid '

'Now that I will believe!' Gilla snatched his satchel and held it to her massive
breast.

'What - what are you doing? Give me that!'

'I don't need your leech's twaddle, nor your evasions either. Master Alten.  You
just find something in this bag of yours that will make my man well!' She thrust
it back at him and he shrugged, sighed, and opened it.

'This is a stimulant,  dograya. You steep it  into a tea and  spoonfeed him four
times a  day. It  will strengthen  his heart,  and who  knows, it  may bring him
around.' He tossed the little packet on the coverlet and rummaged around in  the
bag again, bringing  out several yellowish  cones wrapped in  a twist of  cloth.
'And you can try burning  these - if the smell  doesn't arouse him I don't  know
what will.' He straightened and held out his hand. 'Two sheboozim -gold.'

'Why Alien,  I'm surprised  - aren't  you going  to ask  me to  share your bed?'
Gilla's laughter covered bitterness  she had not allowed  herself to feel for  a
long time as he blanched and looked away. She drew from between her breasts  the
thin chamois bag in which she kept  her reserve of gold. There was more,  hidden
cunningly beneath floorboards or in the wall  - even Lalo did not know where  it
was- but  a house  could burn.  Better to  keep something  on her person against
emergencies.

She slapped  the coins  into Stulwig's  moist palm  and watched,  glaring, as he
packed up his satchel and picked up the staff he had leaned against the door.

'The blessing of Heqt upon the healing -' he mumbled.

'And upon the hands of the  healer,' Gilla responded automatically, but she  was
thinking, I have wasted  my money. He doesn't  believe his paltry herbs  will do
any good either. She listened to the hurried clatter of Stulwig's sandals on the
stairs as he  hastened to reach  his own lodging  before darkness fell,  but her
eyes were on Lalo's still face.

And suddenly it seemed to her that his breathing had deepened and there was  the
suggestion of a  crease between his  brows. She stiffened,  watching, while hope
fluttered in  her heart  like a  trapped moth,  until his  features grew  smooth
again. She  thought of  the great  waves that  sometimes slapped  at the wharves
though the sky  was clear, that  fishermen said were  the last ripple  from some
great storm far out to sea.

Oh my beloved, she thought in anguish, what bitter storms are raging in the  far
reaches where you wander now?

The children were waiting for her when  she came out of the studio, all  of them
except for her  oldest, Wedemir, who  was ajunio"-master with  the caravans. Her
daughter Vanda had gotten  leave from her Beysib  lady when Gilla sent  for her,
and  sat  now  with  Alfi  on  her  lap,  looking  at  her  mother  with  a fair
approximation of the flat Beysib stare. Even her second boy, Ganner, had  begged
time  from his  apprenticeship with  Herewick the  Jeweller to  come home.  Only
eight-year-old Latilla, playing with her doll on the floor. seemed oblivious  of
the tension in the room.

Gilla glared back at them, knowing they must have heard her argument with  Alten
Stulwig. What did they expect her to say?

'Well?'  she snapped.  'Stop looking  at me  like a  batch of  gaffed cod!   And
somebody put the teakettle on!'

Lalo was following the scent, familiar  as the stink of a man's  own closestool,
of sorcery.

He knew this  much about the  strange existence he  was caught in  now - even  a
dauber whose only  magic had flowed  through his .  fingers could smell  sorcery
here, and though in that  other life Lalo had been  wary of wizards, he had  not
been quite wary  enough, and that  was the start  of the road  that had led  him
here.

There, for  instance, was  the gaudy  presence of  the Mageguild.  a mixture  of
odours  from  the  faint  aromas of  the  magelings  to  the full-blown,  exotic
outpourings of  the Hazard-class  wizards who  were their  masters - a potpourri
with all the mixed fascination of Prince Kitty-Cat's garbage bin. Here also  was
the alien  tang of  Beysib ritual,  and the  fuggy flavours  produced by all the
little hedge-wizards and crones, and the wavering scents of those who served  in
the temples of the gods.

But what he was seeking was not in the temples, though it came from a place that
was close by - a house whose very foundations were sorcery. Someone was  working
a spell there even now, elegant  magics that sent spirals of power  smoking into
the  dim  air. Lalo  had  known that  flavour  before, though  he  had not  then
recognized it - the unique atmosphere that surrounded Enas

Yorl. Focusing, he found that he could interpret what he was sensing

as colour, a line of light that snaked outward, another crossing it and another,
a net to capture any spirit that  might be wandering there. And Lalo could  feel
the presence of those Others, beings less conscious than the ghosts he fled, but
more active and aware.

A  Symbol flickered  into being  in the  centre of  the knot,  pulsing  lividly,
colour,  shape,  and  flavour  all combined  to  lure  its  intended prey.  Lalo
shuddered as something swept by him. The glowing lines distorted and the  Symbol
in  their midst  dissolved and  then reformed,  imprisoning a  roil of  writhing
energy and forcing it  into a form that  human eyes could, however  unwillingly,
see. But the Gateway that had opened for the creature was still there, and Lalo,
frantic for contact, thrust himself through.

"Ehas, barabarishti, azgeldui m 'hai tsi!  Oh thou who dost know the  secrets of
Life and Death, come to me! Yevoi! YevadF The Voice snapped shut the gap and set
the imprisoned entity  to whirling in  a shower of  nitrate and sulphur-smelling
sparks.

Lalo contracted like an upset snail,  seeking to avoid the touch of  that light,
the sound of  those words. They  were the language  of the plane  from which the
spirit had come,  and Lalo's present  condition gave him  the power to  directly
apprehend them,  and to  realize that  there were  worse places  than the one in
which he found himself now.

'Evgolod sheremin,  shinaz, shinaz,  tiserra-neh, yevoi!'  The Voice  rolled on,
conjuring the creature to bring to him the knowledge of how to separate the soul
from a body to which it had been obscenely and indissolubly fettered by sorcery,
of a  way, though  the price  of it  might be  annihilation, to  set such a soul
forever free. Lalo cowered from knowledge that was never meant for his ears.

But presently the Voice stilled, the echoes died away, and Lalo allowed  himself
to  focus on  tlie insubstantial  figure that  stood within  its own  shimmering
circle beyond the triangle within which  Lalo and the demon shared an  unwilling
captivity. It  was Enas  Yorl -  it must  be -  yes, he  would always know those
glowing eyes.

And at the same moment Enas Yorl appeared to realize that his summoning had been
more successful than he intended. A  wand rose, and power swirled and  eddied in
the still air.

'Begone, oh ye intruding spirit, to thine own realm where thou shall wait  until
I do summon thee!'

Lalo was tumbled by a  riptide of power and for  a moment knew a desperate  hope
that the sorcerer's  instinctive house-cleaning would  send him home.  But where
was home, now?

Then the power ebbed, and Lalo sat  up, still in the triangle. The demon  in the
sigil beside him spat and reached for him with flaming claws.

'Oh thou spirit  who hast come  to my summoning,  I conjure thee  to tell me thy
name.'  Enas  Yorl  seemed unmoved  by  his  first failure,  and  Lalo  began to
understand the patience and plain nerve required for wizardry.

He got to  his feet and  approached the edge  of the triangle  as closely as  he
dared. 'It's me, Lalo the Limner. Enas Yorl, don't you recognize me?'

And  as he  waited for  the sorcerer  to reply,  Lalo realized  that he  himself
recognized Enas Yorl, and  that was very strange,  for the essence of  the curse
that tormented the sorcerer was that  his form should never remain for  long the
same. With a kind  of horrified fascination, Lalo  looked into the true  face of
Enas Yorl.

He read  there passions  and evils  at the  limit of  his comprehension,  barely
confined by lines of vision and tormented love. In that face all that was  great
and terrible were joined  in an eternal conflict  that only the slow  erosion of
hopeless years might ever hope to reconcile. And those years had already  become
so long. It  was a face  whose planes had  been chiselled out  by the relentless
blade of power, ground down again by a kind of patient, painful despair. At last
he understood  why Enas  Yorl had  refused to  let Lalo  paint his  portrait. He
wondered which part of it the sorcerer feared most to see.

'Enas Yorl, I know you, but I don't know what I am, or why I am here!'

The sorcerer certainly saw  him now, and he  was laughing. 'You're not  dead, if
that's what was worrying you, and there's no stink of magic about you. Were  you
fevered, or did that mountain you are married to knock you senseless at last?'

Lalo sputtered, denying it,  while he tried to  remember. There was nothing  - I
was painting; I was alone, and -'

Abruptly the sorcerer grew grave.  'You were painting? Yourself, perhaps?  Now I
understand. Poor little pond-fish - you have opened the forbidden weir and  been
swept through  it into  the great  sea. Those  whose portraits  you have painted
could reject the truth  they saw, but you  could not reject what  you painted on
the canvas without denying all you are!'

Lalo was silent, testing  his memories. He had  been painting a picture,  and he
had stepped back from the canvas when he was done, and he had seen ... Awareness
lurched beneath  him, dizzying  - he  glimpsed depths  and distances,  upwelling
springs of light and darkness that could drown him equally, a universe of  power
that had been trapped beneath the facade that was the self he knew.

'And so you have run away from both the truth and its image, and your body  lies
abandoned somewhere. I can return you to it, if you truly desire - but don't you
understand? Now you are free! Do you know what I would give to achieve what  you
have inadvert-ently -' the sorcerer stopped himself, 'but I forgot. Your body is
whole, and young ...'

Lalo scarcely heard. His first sight of the vastness within had been  sufficient
to send him in frantic retreat into the shadow-realm. But whence could he escape
from here?  The meaning  of his  vision hovered  on the  edge of  comprehension,
terrifying, tantalizing, beating at his awareness like mighty wings.

And then  the wings  were outside  of him  as well  as within; the captive demon
spiralled away in pinwheels of foul  sparks like burning wool and the  exquisite
lattices of power within which Enas  Yorl had imprisoned it were shattered  by a
rift between the worlds through which dark wings sliced like swords.

Pain dismemoried and dismembered him, and Lalo's consciousness was whirled away.
trailed by the sorcerer's unavailing cry -

'Sikkintair, sikkintair!'

Gilla  pulled  her cloak  more  tightly around  her  and hurried  over  the worn
cobblestones ofPrytanis Street, hoping that the patter she had heard behind  her
was only wind-drifted  leaves. The Jewellers'  Quarter was supposed  to be safer
for foot travellers than the Bazaar,  but everyone on her home ground  knew that
Gilla was not worth tackling.

But of course she was, today. Nervously  she fingered the bag at her neck  where
the remainder of her  little hoard of gold  weighed so heavily. The  services of
wizards  came  high.  Gilla  cursed  them  all;  cursed  Alten  Stulwig  for his
incompetence and Illyra the half-S'danzo who had been able to tell her only that
wizardry was somehow involved, cursed Lalo for having gotten into this mess  and
most of all, cursed herself for her fear.

And the  rustle behind  her resolved  into the  thud of  running feel, and Gilla
wheeled, fear-fuelled anger strengthening the massive arm that smacked into  the
first cutpurse as he came on. He buckled with a sound like a sliced bladder, and
a knife  glittered through  the air  to rebound  with a  tinny clatter  from the
nearest wall. Gilla brought her other fist down on the man's head and waded into
his  companion  before  he  quite  realized why  his  point  man  was  down; she
belaboured his ears with all the obscenities that a lifetime on the edge  of the
Maze had taught her as she put her full weight into her blows.

The blood was singing in her veins and most of her fear had been washed away  by
adrenalin by the time Gilla dusted herself off and resumed her progress.  Behind
her two battered figures stirred, groaned, and subsided again.

That martial energy carried her all  the way past the last of  the carpetmakers'
shops and  the stares  of their  owners, rolling  up their  wares now as the sun
descended and painted the city with its  fiery glow. It carried her all the  way
to the door of Enas Yorl.

But there she halted, her eye mazed by the sinuous swirl of brazen dragons  that
adorned it, her hand on the chill metal of the knocker, not quite daring to  let
it go. All the tales she had ever  heard of the sorcerer yammered at her in  the
voices her children had used when she told them what she meant to do.

What am I doing here? Who am  I to meddle with wizards? The voices  were gentle,
reasonable, and then, from some deeper part of her being came the thought:  Lalo
passed through this door and came home to me. Where he has gone, I can go too.

Gilla fet the knocker fall.

The door opened silently. The blind  servant of whom she had heard  was standing
there, with a silken blindfold in his hand. Licking lips that were suddenly dry,
Gilla tied it around her head and let the servant take her hand.

At least she had the advantage of knowledge. Lalo had told her about Darous, and
the blindfold, and  the peculiar guardians  that laired in  the sorcerer's entry
hall. But the sound of scales on stone and the sense of myriad bodies slithering
about her nearly undid  her, for snakes were  her particular fear. They  're not
snakes', she told herself. They're only basilisks'. But her fingers tightened on
the cool hand  of her guide  and she was  breathing hard when  they emerged into
another chamber in which some musky incense mingled sick-eningly with the  smell
of sulphur.

The blindfold was taken away and Gilla looked around her with a sigh. The  stone
walls were stained with carbon, and a melted tangle of metal that had once  been
a brazier lay in the middle of the floor. A daybed was set into an embrasure  in
the marble  walls, and  after a  moment Gilla  realized that  the huddle of rich
fabrics upon  it covered  a man.  She crossed  her arms  beneath her breasts and
stared at him.

'After the bull, the cow,* Enas Yorl said tiredly. 'I might have known.'

'Lalo?' Gilla  saw the  thin hand  that lay  upon the  velvet quiver, shift, and
become a more muscular member whose  skin bore a thin dusting of  bluish scales.
Gilla swallowed and forced herself not  to look away. 'Lalo's been in  some kind
of trance for two weeks  now. I want you to  get him back into his  body again.'
She reached for the bag at her neck.

'Keep your gold,' the sorcerer said querulously. 'Your husband already asked  me
that question and  I agreed -  it would be  amusing to see  what Sanctuary would
make of a man who has faced his own soul - but Lalo is beyond my reach now.'

'Beyond your  reach?' Gilla's  voice echoed  painfully. 'But  they call  you the
greatest wizard in the Empire!' She met the red glow of the sorcerer's eyes, and
after a moment it dimmed and he looked away.

'I am great  enough to know  the limits of  my power,' he  answered bitterly. 'I
cannot  speak  for  the  Beysib,  but no  mage  of  Sanctuary  will  meddle with
Sikkintair. The Flying Knives have taken  your husband, woman. Go to the  Temple
of Ils and see if Gordonesh the priest will listen  to you. Or  better still, go
home - Lalo is gods' business now.'

The Sikkintair devoured Lalo's flesh and scoured his bones until the wind harped
through his rib cage and drummed out a rhythm with the long bones of his thighs.
His clever painter's hands,  stripped of the muscle  that had made their  magic,
rattled like winter-bared twigs against the sky.

And when they  were done with  the skeleton they  let it fall,  and mother earth
laid down new  flesh around his  bones. He lay  thus enwombed for  a season or a
century, and when his time was' accomplished he found himself naked in a  forest
glade starred with flowers like jewels, his  new body as supple and strong as  a
honed blade.

He jumped  up and  began to  walk, content  for the  moment simply  to enjoy the
colours and the  soft air and  the singing power  of this new  body of his.  And
presently he heard music and turned his steps towards the sound.

Where the  oak trees  thinned, a  grassy lawn  sloped down  to a  pool fed  by a
gurgling waterfall. A table had been set there, covered with a cloth of  crimson
damask  fringed  with  gold,  and upon  that  cloth  crystal  flagons with  wine
ofCarronne,  platters of  roasted meats  and loaves  of white  bread and  silver
dishes heaped with oranges from Enlibar. A feast fit for the gods, thought Lalo.
And indeed, the gods were feasting there.

'We have been expecting you,' said a voice at his elbow. A maiden more beautiful
than the fairest of Prince Kadakithis's concubines held out a robe of blue  silk
embroidered with dragons  for him to  put on, then  knelt to ease  his feet into
sandals of gold. Her black hair curled to her hips, shimmering with blue  lights
in the  sun, and  when she  looked up  he recognized  in her  features the  face
ofValira, the little  whore whom he  had painted as  Eshi, Lady of  Love, and he
trembled, understanding Who was serving him.

She led him to a seat at the end of the table and he began to eat, grateful that
for the moment the other gods were continuing to talk among themselves. Next  to
Eshi sat one whom he could only suppose to be Anen - paunched and red-nosed like
the bibbers who had been Lalo's  companions in the days when he  sought oblivion
in the bottom of a  mug of cheap wine. But  the god's fat was opulence,  and his
flushed cheeks  burned with  a glow  to lighten  the hopeless heart. Remembering
favours granted in times past, Lalo solemnly saluted him.

And the god saw, and looked at him, and meeting those deep eyes Lalo  recognized
a mute  sorrow and  remembered that  this was  the god  who yearly  dies and  is
reborn. Then Anen smiled, and as joy fountained in Lalo's heart, he saw that his
goblet was filling with wine like the blood of a star.

The  wine gave  him courage  to look  at the  others -  gentle Theba  the  peace
bringer, and swift-footed Shalpa like a shadow beside her, whose face, when Lalo
glimpsed it, reminded him strangely of  someone he had seen often in  the Vulgar
Unicorn, though he could not for the  moment think whom. But he saw the  face of
every mercenary he  had ever known  in the harsh  features of Him-whom-we-do-not
name, armed and weaponed even here, and  the sharp good humour of the women  who
haggled over fabric in  the dyers' stalls in  the face of bright-haired  Thilli,
until he began to realize that he  recognized all of them - that he  had painted
all of them, that he had lived among them all in Sanctuary and never known.

'Father, you have disposed ofVashanka, at least for the present, but the priests
of Savankala still hold  a place of honour  in Sanctuary!' Eshi was  speaking to
the blaze of light at the head of the table, whom Lalo had still not quite dared
to look upon.

'Until a new body for Vashanka to  use matures, his power is broken,' the  voice
shimmered in Lalo's ears. 'The Rankan gods do not trouble Me now. It is this new
goddess, this Bey, that we must consider here.'

'Her worshippers in Sanctuary are fugitives  and the empire they fled from  must
still be Her  first concern. How  much power can  She have in  Sanctuary?' asked
Thilli.  For a  moment her  husband Thufir  leaned forward  to listen  and  Lalo
flinched away from his eagle glance. The priests called Thufir the friend of the
Sikkintair as Ils was their master. They had taught him their far-seeing. Had he
ordered them to bring Lalo here?

'I am tired of  all this quarrelling,' sighed  Shipri. 'I thought that  when you
had bested  the Rankans  we would  have peace  again. I  have finally come to an
understanding with Sabellia, and I suppose that this new goddess and I will have
to do the same. At least She is a goddess, and therefore more likely than a  god
to be sensible about things.'

Lalo sat back,  relieved. He had  painted his own  wife as Sabellia,  and in the
past few minutes he had begun to fear Shipri's jealousy. But Gilla resembled the
Sharp-Tongued  One  less and  less  these days,  and  he thought  he  would have
portrayed her as the nurturing Mother ofllsig now.

Then the splendour  of the face of Ils was  turned fully upon  him, and, even in
this remade  body unable  to gaze  into that  light, Lalo  cried out and hid his
eyes.

'Son of Ils, come here...'  Sound was light, slivering painfully through  Lalo's
shut lids. He shook his head.

'Lord, I have served in the temple of your enemies, and I am afraid.'

'But I have defeated those enemies. Stand on your feet and come to Me!'

I have already  died, thought Lalo.  What else can  He do to  me? He opened  his
eyes. Thufir Far-Seer  was waiting to  guide him to  his Father, who  masked his
radiance with the face of the great marble statue in the Temple of Ils.

'You have painted many portraits since  the Mage touched you, Limner -  what did
you see?'

Lalo fixed his  eyes upon the  silver necklace that  glittered from beneath  the
god's  dark  beard.  'Beasts...'  he  muttered,  'and  demons,  sometimes,   and
sometimes... gods.'

'And when you turned your  sorcerer's gift upon yourself?' the  implacable voice
went on.

Lalo  shuddered, but  Thufir's grip  held him  to this  reality. He  had seen  a
pleasure in pettiness that shamed him and beyond that a longing for annihilation
that terrified him and a capacity for love that terrified him even more. He  had
seen the depths of his own unguessed, untapped creative power.

'As you served Enas Yorl and the priests of Savankala, so now, my son, you shall
serve Me,' said the Voice of Ils.

Before him  Lalo saw  a white  canvas, and  brushes that  surpassed his own as a
Downwinder's donkey is surpassed by a horse of Tros, and a palette with pigments
for whose secret the colour-grinders of Sanctuary would have given their  souls.
Lalo's right hand prickled  with power that built,  built - it must  be grounded
somehow - he groped for a paintbrush  and dipped it into a colour that  was more
than scarlet, touched  it to the  canvas and felt  power surge through  it in an
explosive release like the climax of love.

His hand  moved swiftly,  splashing the  canvas with  scarlet, then  down to the
palette for a  lambent gold, and  lastly a shading  of opalescent blue.  Then he
stepped back, the brush  falling from his fingers,  and the thing on  the canvas
stretched, flexed, and launched itself glittering into the air.

Eshi laughed and clapped  her white hands, and  Thufir smiled his slow,  patient
smile. Lalo stared as the miniature sikkintair that had come to life beneath his
hands soared off through the trees.

'Before, you were  able to paint  the truth behind  reality,' the whisper of Ils
echoed through the deepest chambers ofLalo's soul. 'Now you will give Reality to
the Truth you see. Do you not yet understand Who you are?'

			Oh Thou Blessed Mother of All Living,
			We wander, children who have lost our way-
			Guard us from all danger, and forgiving,
			Guide us homeward at the close of day.

'Holy  Shipri, All-Mother,  as Thou  dost love  Thine own  lord, hear  me  now!'
Gilla's murmur was lost in the hymn's sweet harmonies. 'Hear me and guide my own
man back to me ...'

Here in the  chapel of the  Mother, flickering candles  struck sparks of  colour
from the  mosaics and  one scarcely  noticed the  rough repairs where Vashanka's
thunderbolt had cracked the  wall. Gilla huddled in  the shadows while the  blue
robed priestesses passed back and forth before the marble image of the  Goddess,
continuing their song.

			Whatever men destroy is for Thy mending,
			Forever feeding from Thy fruitful breast;
			Thou art the source of life, and at its ending,
			Once more within Thy holy womb we rest.

And what if Lalo is already  safe within Her arms? Gilla wondered  then. Perhaps
the gods need a court painter, and what does Sanctuary have to offer that  could
compare?  She  bowed  her  head,  rocking  back  and  forth  while  the chanting
continued, sweetly counselling acceptance of  life's eternal round of birth  and
death, and the tears she had so  long suppressed fell like rain upon the  marble
floor.

The priestesses had finished and the  chapel was silent when Gilla felt  Vanda's
touch on her shoulder and let her daughter lead her out into the harsh  sunlight
of Sanctuary.

'Don't  tell  me,'  said  Vanda. 'Goronesh  wouldn't  even  see  you, and  those
hypocrites who served Shipri told you that loss is part of the burden that women
must bear.'

Gilla looked  back at  the golden  dome of  the Temple,  still half-sheathed  in
scaffolding. 'Am I selfish  to want Lalo back?  I thought I was  the strong one,
but I need him!'

'Of course you do!' said Vanda stoutly. 'And so do we!' Her hair in the sunlight
was the same bright copper Lalo's had been when he was young, but her grey  eyes
were troubled. Gilla swallowed the last of her tears and briskly wiped her eyes.
'You're right -I don't know what got into me!'

'And now will  you come with  me to see  the Lady Kurrekai?'  For the first time
since leaving the Temple, Gilla  took note other surroundings, and realized that
instead  of turning  down the  Avenue of  Temples towards  the town   they  were
walking along  the outer wall of  the Palace Square. She sighed.

'Very well. Let us see what the  foreigner can do, for it's certain I'll  get no
help from mage or god of Sanctuary!'

The Prince  had obligingly  offered rooms  for the  Beysa and  her court  in the
Palace, though perhaps he was only making a virtue of necessity. Gilla  wondered
how they  all managed  to fit  inside. Certainly  the place  seemed abustle with
Beysib functionaries in laced breeks and loose doublets or the flared skirts and
high collars they all affected. It seemed to her that they even outnumbered  the
silk-sashed Palace servants who went  about their duties with such  ostentatious
solemnity.

Gilla looked at her  daughter, already aping Beysib  fashion in a gown  cut down
from an  old petticoat  of her  lady's whose  borders glittered  with threads of
gold. Whether this Beysib  female was any help  or no, certainly Gilla  and Lalo
had done a good piece of work when they used his Palace connections to get Vanda
a position here. The Lady Kurrekai occupied a chamber on the second floor of the
Palace, close to  the roomier apartments  near the roof  garden, which had  been
taken over by the Beysa. If Gilla  understood what Vanda had told her of  Beysib
politics, Kurrekai was a cousin of  Shupansea the Queen, not in direct  line for
the lost Imperial throne,  but royal enough to  keep one of the  sacred serpents
and to have been trained as a priestess.

Gilla shuddered,  thinking of  the beynit.  Enas Yorl's  basilisks had  been bad
enough, and now she  must face this imported  horror. / must love  that man, she
thought glumly, or I would be running for home.

And then they were at the door,  and the choice was gone. She smelled  some kind
of incense, like bitter sandalwood.

'Ah. the mother of  my little friend. You  are welcome ...' A  voice rather deep
and slightly accented  greeted them. The  figure that rose  as they entered  was
tall and strongly built enough to  make Gilla almost feel small. She  blinked at
the  magnificence  of the  quilted  petticoat, whose  crimson  brocade had  been
overlaid with gold-work  until its original  pattern could hardly  be discerned,
surmounted by panniers of deep blue cut velvet and a corset of the same material
with long,  tight sleeves.  She had  not realized  before now  that beneath  the
cloaks  that  Beysib  noblewomen wore  outside,  their  breasts were  displayed.
Kurrekai's breasts were large, firm, and bore nipples that had been  intricately
painted with a pattern in scarlet and gold.

'Do be seated. I will send for tea.' Lady Kurrekai clapped her hands,  subsiding
back on to  her couch in  a rustle of  silk. Vanda thrust  a hassock behind  her
mother, and Gilla, who  was finding that her  knees had an alarming  tendency to
give way, sat down gratefully.

'Your daughter has been very helpful to me,' the lady continued languidly.  'She
is quick, and oh, such pretty hair.'

Vanda blushed and took the tea tray from the Beysib woman who had brought it  to
the door, set it on  a low table of some  intricately carven dark red wood,  and
began to  pour. The  tea service  was made  from a  porcelain so  fine it seemed
translucent, and  Gilla was  abruptly conscious  of the  fact that  she had  not
changed her gown since Lalo fell ill, and that her hair was coming down.

She wanted to get to the point of this visit and get out of here, but the Beysib
noblewoman was  inhaling the  fragrance of  her tea  as if  nothing else  in the
universe mattered just now. Vanda  remained kneeling before her, until  Kurrekai
nodded and finally took  one ceremonial sip; then  she swivelled around to  pour
tea into her mother's  cup and her own.  Gilla tasted the brew  suspiciously and
found it oddly pleasant. She drank it quickly and then held her cup awkwardly in
her lap while the lady, with endless deliberation, absorbed her own.

Then, finally, she sighed and set the cup down.

'My Lady,' said Vanda eagerly, 'I told you about my father's strange illness. We
have found no one in this city who can bring him back, but your people are wiser
than we. Will you help us now?'

'Child, your sorrow is my own, but  what do you suppose I could do?'  Kurrekai's
head turned within the stiff collar and her slow voice held concern.

'I have heard,' Vanda swallowed and her voice went up a note, 'I have heard that
the venom of the beynit has many properties ...'

'Ah, my companion,' sighed Kurrekai. She leaned back, and from within one hollow
pannier appeared  a flicker  of crimson,  followed by  a slim  black body as the
serpent slid slowly out  of hiding and coiled  itself lazily in the  fold of her
petticoat.  Gilla stared,  fascinated, at  the darting  scarlet tongue  and  the
jewelled eyes.

'What you say is true. The venom  can be a powerful stimulant if it  is properly
... changed ... But your father is  not of my people. For him, only  the venom's
fatality would be sure.'

'But there is  a chance?' All  the anguish of  the past three  weeks met in this
moment and Gilla found her voice at last. This woman must agree to help them!

'I do not wish to,  kill a man of Sanctuary.'  The turn of Lady Kurrekai's  head
held finality.

But Gilla  rose, and  while Vanda  still stared  and the  Beysib woman  was just
beginning to look  around, launched herself  across the room.  When she stopped,
the beynit was barely a foot from her outstretched hand. The crimson head darted
upward like a flame and began to sway.

'Mother, don't mover Vanda's shocked whisper hissed in the air.

Gilla remained still, now that she  had reached her goal, looking for  the first
time directly into Lady Kurrekai's round  eyes. 'And a woman of Sanctuary?'  she
said hoarsely. 'Why not? Lalo will die anyway and I will die too. Why not here?'

For an endless moment, Gilla held the other woman's unblinking stare. Then  Lady
Kurrekai shrugged, and with an  almost careless movement interposed her  fingers
between Gilla and the red blur that was striking at her hand.

Stomach churning, Gilla  sagged back on  her heels. For  perhaps the space  of a
minute the beynit hung with its fangs still embedded in the fleshy part of  Lady
Kurrekai's thumb. Then it began to  wriggle, and the Beysib woman grasped  it by
the middle, with  a little shake  detached it, and  encouraged it to  slide back
into the .shelter of her pannier once more.

'In the name of  Bey the Great Mother,  the Holy One!' Kurrekai  spoke suddenly,
strongly, and then became  very still, and though  her eyes were open,  they had
become as lightless as Lalo's. Gilla watched, shivering with nightmares of  what
would happen if a woman of the Beysib died here. Vanda had crept to her side and
was holding to her as she used to when she was a little girl.

There was a long  sigh as the lady  moved at last, and  Gilla was not sure  from
which of the three of  them it had come. A  great drop of blood like  a cabochon
garnet was welling from Lady  Kurrekai's thumb. She looked around,  gesturing to
Vanda with a movement of her head.

'Get me the little crystal vial fronrthe cabinet - the one with the dipper  that
used to hold perfume.'

Vanda got  to her  feet to  obey as  Lady Kurrekai  faced Gilla  again. 'I  have
attempted to transform the venom by altering the nature of my blood, but it must
be used immediately. Scratch  your husband's flesh so  that the blood comes  and
touch a drop of this to the wound.' She took the stopper from the vial Vanda was
holding out to her, touched it to the drop of blood, and inserted it back in the
vial with  a little  shake, squeezed  her hand  to produce  a second drop, and a
third.

'Go now as I have told you, and quickly.' She thrust the stopper home firmly and
handed it to Gilla,  then delicately licked the  smear of blood from  her thumb.
'And remember I warned you - it may fail.'

'The blessing of the All-Mother be on you. Lady, and be you free of any  blame.'
Gilla was already on her feet. 'At least you were willing to try!'

They hurried  down the  corridor, Vanda  skipping to  keep up  with her mother's
longer strides and trying to keep her voice down.

'Mother, how could you do that? I was terrified! Mother, you could have died!'

Gilla forged  ahead silently,  while those  they encountered  scattered from her
path.  It was  not until  they had  crossed the  Square and  passed through  the
Westgate that opened out on to the familiar streets of Sanctuary that she paused
for breath and turned to meet her daughter's wide eyes.

'Vanda, you are a woman now, old enough to take care of the younger ones if  you
must, and old enough,  perhaps, to understand. If  this works, you must  promise
never to tell your father what I have done for him.'

'And if it doesn't?' Vanda said in a very small voice.

Gilla gazed at the teeming life around her, sunlight glaring harshly off browned
faces, sounds of quarrelling and laughter,  the rich mixture of odours from  the
street, and for a moment felt as if she had lost her skin and had become a  part
of all of these.

'I have borne seven children and seen two die, and lived with the same  contrary
man for twenty-six  years,' she said  slowly, 'and I  have just realized  that I
would sacrifice this  whole city for  one lock of  his hair. If  this stuff I am
going to give him kills him,' she  shook the hand in which the crystal  vial lay
hidden, 'I'm sorry, Vanda, but I will go after him.'

Lalo the god was creating a woman, a goddess as beautiful as Eshi, as  bountiful
as  Shipri, as  wise as  Sabellia, as  dear to  him as  someone -  he could  not
remember, but the brush splashed gold like sunlight across Her hair. There,  the
ripeness of breasts that  could feed a dozen  babes, and the opulence  of haunch
and thigh, and  skin smoother than  the silk of  Sihan ... Lalo  smiled, and the
brush moved as if of  itself to suffuse that white  flesh with a rosy glow  like
the inside of a shell.

And then he  stepped back from  the easel, smiling,  and the figure  he had been
painting turned to him and took him by the hand.

He had expected  that, and he  reached with his  other arm embrace  Her, but She
continued to turn in his grasp,  drawing him after her, faster and  faster until
the green meadow blurred around him.

'Wait! Where are we going? Beside the river there is a shady bower where we  can
lie, and -' Damn! If only She would stop and face him for a moment he would know
Her name!

Clouds boiled around him with a  roar of thunder. The difference between  up and
down was disappearing and the paintbrush was torn from his hand.

'Who are you?' he shouted. 'Where are you taking me?'

And then he  was hurtling through  winds that tore  away his awareness  until he
knew  nothing  but  the  implacable  grip that  held  his  hand.  The  world had
disintegrated into pain and darkness, but through the clouds that whirled around
him he glimpsed brief images - the pretentious splendours of a great city  where
a beleaguered emperor's banner flew;  armies crawling like lines of  ants across
the plains; mountains that  shuddered with the struggles  of men and mages,  and
here and there a pocket of greater darkness where forces worse than human strove
for mastery.

And then he saw below him a familiar curve of harbour and a tangle of houses and
a tarnished golden dome. and pain clapped great hands around him and he fell.

Lalo's mouth tasted like the midden of the Vulgar Unicorn and he felt as if  the
Stepsons had been practising manoeuvres on  the inside of his skull. Except  for
an annoying throbbing in his arm, he could hardly feel his body at all.

And Gilla was calling him.

Holy Anen  blast me  if I  ever touch  that wine  again! he thought muzzily, and
perhaps presently he would remember just what wine it had been. But now that  he
considered, he could  not remember anything  about what must  have been an  epic
binge, and that worried him. Gilla would  be furious if she had had to  drag him
home, and from the taste in his  mouth he must have been sick, too.  He groaned,
wishing fervently that he could pass out again.

'Lalo! Lalo my  darling, you've got  to wake up!  You wretched man,  I heard you
open your eyes and look at me!'

Something wet  ran down  his neck  and someone  near him  stifled a  sob. Gilla?
Gilla? But she would never weep over him after a drinking bout - a pail of  cold
water, maybe, but not tears. How long had he been unconscious, anyway?

As if he were trying to work an old lock with a rusty key, Lalo-opened his eyes.

He was lying on the pallet in his studio. Alfi and Latilla crouched at the  foot
of it, watching him  with wide, awed eyes.  Vanda was behind them,  but her face
held the look  of one who  has been suddenly  released from fear.  He turned his
eyes - he did not yet trust himself  to move his head - to the bedside,  and saw
Gilla. Her face  was puffy and  her eyes red  from weeping, and  as his gaze met
hers they glistened with another tear.

Without thinking, he reached up and brushed it from her cheek: then he stared at
his hand, pallid and veined and thin. And now that awareness of the rest of  his
body was returning, he realized that he felt curiously light, and his other hand
clutched at the bedclothes as if to hold him there.

'Gilla, have I been ill?'

'Ill! You might call it that - and I'd rather not know what else it might be  -'
exploded Gilla, and Vanda got to her feet.

'Father, you've been lying in some  kind of trance for almost three  weeks now,'
Vanda added.

Three weeks? But just this afternoon  he had been ... painting... He  had looked
in the mirror and then ... Lalo began to tremble as memory came back to him. His
eyes filled  with tears  for the  beauty of  the other  world, but Gilla's hands
closed on his shoulders. and she shook him back to her own reality.

Lalo stared at her, and through the veil of her swollen features he saw the face
of the goddess who had brought him home. It took a kind of inner focussing,  and
he found that now he could see another face beneath his daughter's familiar mask
of cheerfulness  too. Only  the two  younger children  remained essentially  the
same.

So, he thought, perhaps I will not need a paintbrush to do my seeing now. He lay
back, trying to assimilate the truth of what had happened to him into his memory
of the man he used to be.

'So, how  do you  feel? Is  there anything  you want  me to  get you now?' Gilla
finished wiping her eyes and resolutely blew her nose on a corner other apron.

Lalo smiled. 'Well, I haven't eaten for three whole weeks -'

'Vanda, there's soup on the stove,' Gilla said sharply. 'Go heat it up, and  you
little ones go with her. You've seen him, and Father doesn't need you  underfoot
here. Everything will be all right now.'

Gilla bustled nervously  about the room,  smoothing the covers,  heaping pillows
behind Lalo so that  he could sit, pushing  a chair back against  the wall. Lalo
flexed his fingers, feeling them tingle as blood began to circulate freely  once
more, and wondered how he had gotten the scratch on his arm.

Beside the pallet were piled some scraps of paper and a piece of charcoal. Can I
still draw? he wondered, and seeing that Gilla was not watching him, he pulled a
piece  of paper  towards him,  picked up  the charcoal  and drew  a line,   then
another,  then  some  shading,  and   the  paper  showed  him  a   deftly  drawn
representation of a common Sanctuary dunghill fly. He stared at it for a  moment
with a  question he  dared not  even put  into words,  but it remained unchanged
before him - a drawing of a fly.

Lalo smiled a little wryly and set the charcoal down. What did I expect, here?

Gilla came back  to him with  the bowl of  steaming soup in  her hands, sat down
beside the pallet, and dipped in the  spoon. Lalo blew gently on his drawing  to
get rid of the charcoal dust and laid it aside. When Gilla held the spoon to his
lips he opened his mouth obediently. / could do this myself, he thought, but  he
realized that feeding  him fulfilled some  need of Gilla's  own. The hot  liquid
soothed his throat, and his body seemed to absorb the moisture like a sponge.

'That's enough for now,' said Gilla, taking it away.

'It was  very good.'  Lalo looked  at her  face, wondering  how he had ever seen
anything but  the goddess  there. Then  he frowned.  'I was  painting a picture,
Gilla. What happened to it?'

She nodded towards the corner. 'It's over there. Do you want to see?' Before  he
could stop  her she  had gone  to pick  up the  painting and  brought it to him,
leaning it against the wall.

He stared  at it,  reading it  as he  had read  Gilla's face  a moment  ago, and
knowing that he would never be able to forget the journey from which he had just
returned. It would take some getting used to.

'A self-portrait,' said Gilla meditatively. 'Of course. I didn't really want  to
look at it before.'

After a moment he cleared his throat, knowing that in this knowledge, at  least,
they were equals now. 'Well?'

'Well,' she said slowly, 'you must know that this is the way you always look  to
me.'

Her hand moved to enfold his,  and feeling suddenly light-headed. Lalo lay  back
against the  pillows again.  His ears  were buzzing  - no  - it  was only  a fly
circling in the middle of the room. He thought a moment, then, feeling a  little
foolish, glanced down at the piece of paper that still lay on the coverlet.

It was  blank. Lalo  looked up  quickly and  saw the  fly spiral  across to  the
mirror, for a moment hover there, then buzz purposefully through the window  and
away.