Thieves' World Book #06
Wings of Omen

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin

EDITORIAL CLARIFICATION

Recently,  there  have  been  various  short  stories  and  one  novel published
involving a Thieves' World(tm) character. While the characters appearing in  the
stories in these anthologies remain the property of the individual  contributing
authors, there is just one Thieves' World universe. The events which impact  the
city of Sanctuary  are chronicled in  these anthologies and  authorized spin-off
products only. Do not be confused by the appearance of familiar names or figures
in other works.

We are endeavoring to have an  authorized Thieves' World product banner such  as
the one which appears on the cover  of this book printed on existing and  future
material  relating  to  the  Sanctuary  universe.  In  the  meantime,  for  your
information, a full list of tie-in works includes:

Anthologies	THIEVES' WORLD			Ace Fantasy Books
		TALES FROM THE VULGAR UNICORN	Ace Fantasy Books
		SHADOWS OF SANCTUARY		Ace Fantasy Books
		STORM SEASON			Ace Fantasy Books
		THE FACE OF CHAOS		Ace Fantasy Books
		WINGS OF OMEN			Ace Fantasy Books
		SANCTUARY (hard cover)		Science Fiction Book Club
		
Novels		BEYOND SANCTUARY		by Janet Morris (coming in
						May 1985 as a Berkley Trade
						Paperback)
		BEYOND WIZARDWALL		by Janet Morris
		BEYOND THE VEIL			by Janet Moms
		
Games		THIEVES' WORLD			(fantasy Chaosium role playing)
		TRAITOR				(FRP supplement)
		FASA DARK ASSASSIN		(FRP FASA supplement)
		FASA SPIRIT STONES		(FRP supplement)
		SANCTUARY			(board game) Mayfair Games

CONTENTS

Introduction					Robert Lynn Asprin

What Women Do Best				Chris and Janet Morris
Daughter of the Sun				Robin W. Bailey
A Breath of Power				Diana L. Paxson
The Hand That Feeds You				Diane Duane
Witching Hour					C. J. Cherryh
Rebels Aren't Born in Palaces			Andrew J. Offutt
Gyskouras					Lynn Abbey
A Fish With Feathers Is Out of His Depth	Robert Lynn Asprin

A Special Note From the Editors

INTRODUCTION

by Robert Lynn Asprin

The birds  of Sanctuary  are black.  From the  hawklike predators  to the  small
seedeaters the native birds are black as the heart of a thief.

Hakiem, once the town's leading storyteller, had never paused to reflect on  the
coloration of the birds before. At moments like this, however, when the business
of the Bey-sa's court was between  members of the Beysib clans and  conducted in
their own  incomprehensible tongue,  there was  little for  the Empress's native
adviser to do but fidget and reflect. Habits evolved during long years  drinking
at the Vulgar  Unicorn had positioned  him with his  back to a  wall and a clear
path to the doors-coincidentally he had gotten himself an equally clear view out
a window into the courtyard below. The movement of the birds caught his eye;  he
found himself watching their antics closely.

When the Beysib  arrived in Sanctuary  they brought, along  with their gold  and
their snakes, a substantial flock of non-migratory seabirds they called the  bey
art-as they called their snakes  beynit, their flowers beyosa and  their goddess
Mother Bey. Every  day they threw  bread and tablescraps  into the courtyard  to
feed their winged allies.  The birds of Sanctuary,  who could not tell  a palace
courtyard from the back door of a Maze slophouse, swarmed to this easy feast and
fought savagely among  themselves-though the Beysib  made sure there  was enough
for all. Some  black birds cawed  or shrieked to  drive off new  arrivals, while
others took vengeful pursuit  of any bird attempting  to make off with  a morsel
too large to be consumed on the spot.

Two  of  the  white  beyari-the birds  for  whom  the  food was  intended-soared
majestically into the courtyard. In an instant all individual differences  among
the black birds were forgotten; they rose  in a single, dark cloud to drive  off
the interlopers.  No, not  quite all,  the storyteller  observed. A few cleverer
birds remained behind,  hurriedly bolting food  while their comrades  and rivals
were momentarily distracted.

The  storyteller smiled  to himself.  From high  to low  everyone in   Sanctuary
behaved the same-even the birds.

A flicker of white on the roof  across from the window caught Hakiem's eye.  One
beyari  was  perched beside  a  black bird  half-again  its size.  There  was an
occasional flutter of wings and  much head-bobbing, but neither bird  was giving
ground. The storyteller was no regular bird-watcher; it seemed unlikely that the
two could mate-but they certainly weren't fighting. Perhaps-

"Hakiem!"

He jerked his  attention back to  the court, discovering  that the business  had
been concluded and the parties dismissed. Shupansea, Beysa of the Beysib Empire,
had risen onto  one elbow from  the supine position  in which she  traditionally
conducted  state affairs  and was  staring at  him with  her large,  amber,  and
inhumanly unblinking eyes.  She was young,  not past her  mid-twenties, slender,
and fair-skinned with thigh-length blonde hair that cascaded onto the pillows in
a way  that only  the finest  of silks  could hope  to imitate. Her breasts were
bare, in the Beysib tradition, and so  firm with youth that even when she  moved
the dark, tattooed nipples regarded him as steadily as her eyes.

Of course, Hakiem  was himself sufficiently  advanced in age  that such a  sight
left him unmoved-almost.

"Yes, 0 Empress?"

He gave a slight bow, cutting his thoughts, and his glance, short before  either
progressed too far. As a street  storyteller he had always been polite  to those
who gave him a few coppers in return for his entertainments. Now, with the hefty
stipend he was receiving in gold, he was a paradigm of courtesy. .

"Come, stand beside us," she said, holding  out a dainty hand. "We fear we  will
need your advice in this next matter."

Hakiem bowed  again and  proceeded to  her side  with unhurried  dignity. As  he
walked he took  secret delight in  the jealous stares  directed at him  from the
other courtiers. During his short time at court, the storyteller and the Empress
had developed a mutual respect for each other. More importantly, they found they
liked  each  other, a  condition  which had  brought  Hakiem favored  treatment.
Privately he suspected that his elevated status was not so much a compliment  to
him as  it was  the Beysa's  way of  keeping her  own clanfolk  in line,  but he
reveled in the attention while he had it.

The  next  petitioners  were  ushered in  and,  dutifully,  Hakiem  directed his
attention to the problems at hand. He did not know the three Beysib in the group
save they weren't clan Burek aristocrats and therefore must be Setmur fishermen.
The townspeople  he recognized  at once  as the  pillars of  Sanctuary's fishing
community:  Terci,  Omat, and  the  one everyone  called  the Old  Man.  Usually
citizens of Sanctuary appeared at court  in the company of Beysib clansmen  when
one group or the other had a  serious grievance to air, but this group  radiated
no animosity at all.

"Greetings, Monkel Setmur, Clanchief," Shupansea intoned in the singsong  pidgin
Rankene which passed for a common dialect these days in the city. "Too long have
you  been absent  from our  presence. What  matter have  you brought  before  us
today?"

The smallest, and perhaps the youngest, of the Beysib stepped nervously forward.
"Greetings, 0 Empress. We... we have come before you this auspicious day to seek
your favor and blessing on a project."

The Beysa nodded thoughtfully, though Hakiem glimpsed puzzlement in her  manner.
It was clear enough to him: requests for money sounded the same  in any dialect.
"Tell us more,  Clanchief," she requested.

"It is well known that the arrival of our fleet has caused havoc among the local
food sellers," the  youth said carefully;  he had plainly  memorized his speech.
"As the nearby farmlands were already  overworked, it has fallen to the  fishing
boats  to provide  enough food  to feed  not only  us, but  the townspeople   as
well...."

"Yes, yes," Shupansea interrupted. "But what of your project?"

Monkel glanced at his colleagues  for support, then straightened his  shoulders.
"We-that  is,  clan  Setmur and  the  Sanctuary  fishermen-wish permission,  and
financial assistance, for building a boat."

"A boat?" The Beysa swiveled into  a sitting position. "We have fifty-odd  boats
rotting at anchor in the harbor. Use one of them if you need another boat."

The Clanchief nodded; he  had expected this response.  "0 Beysa, our boats  were
built for long sea voyages and the safe transport of passengers and cargo.  They
are ill-suited for chasing schools of fish. For months now we have put to sea in
our scout-craft  beside these  native fishermen  and learned  much of the waters
here. Our friends here, with their keelless boats, cannot chase the fish to deep
water where they feed in greater numbers; our scout-craft reach the deep  water,
but have no holds for the fish. We will make a new type of boat-as big inside as
a Sanctuary boat and as seaworthy as  our scouts. We ask your permission to  lay
the keel... and, er, for your support."

"But why can't the big boats...?"

Hakiem cleared his throat noisily.  Shupansea paused and waited for  her adviser
to  speak. "The  Beysa will  require time  to consider  your proposal  and  will
consult with  Prince Kadakithis  before making  a decision.  Return tomorrow for
your answer."

Monkel looked at his Beysa  with glazed eyes-totally shocked by  the impropriety
of a commoner speaking  for the Avatar of  Mother Bey-but she simply  nodded and
waved her hand in dismissal. "Thank  you, 0 Empress," he stammered while  bowing
and backing away from her. The others of his party duplicated his actions.

A short time later, after  dismissing all the other courtiers,  Shupansea patted
the comer of her divan and called  Hakiem to join her. "Tell us. Wise  One," she
said with a smile,"what do you see in this determination of the Setmur to  build
another boat that we do not see?"

The storyteller  sank heavily  onto the  cushions; formality  disappeared, as it
usually  did when  they were  alone. "When  one reaches  my age  one learns   to
appreciate the value of time. One of the few advantages of being an empress,  or
even a prince, is that you rarely have to make a decision in a hurry. In  short,
I was afraid that in your haste  to determine if the boat were truly  needed for
fishing you might overlook the greater problems involved here."

"You're speaking in riddles," the Beysa scolded. "We have always been frank with
each other. Is this new boat necessary?"

"I haven't any idea,  though I suppose I'd  trust the opinion of  those who make
their living catching fish. My point is that, needed or not, the boat should  be
built if you are to begin solving your greater problems."

"That is twice  you have mentioned  these greater problems.  Speak plainly, Wise
One;  after a  day with  our courtiers  and subjects  we have  no patience   for
riddles."

Hakiem rose and began pacing. "The greatest problem is the friction between  our
peoples. There is far too much killing and hating going on; every day it gets  a
little worse, not better. If we are going to live together in Sanctuary  without
destroying the town  and ourselves, there  must be peace,  and peace must  begin
somewhere."

Shupansea  leaned back,  regarding him  with hard,  staring eyes  that were  old
beyond their  years. For  a moment  she was  the Beysa  again, the Avatar of the
goddess Bey, and not a young woman. "We did not expect garlands and parades when
we came here," she explained flatly.  "The Set-mur have a saying: 'New  fish are
bought with blood.' We  knew there would be  hardship, maybe death, wherever  we
went; Beysib themselves are slow to  change and slower to accept change  they do
not want. That is  why we have restrained  our retribution when our  people have
been slaughtered.  We had  hoped gold  would be  enough; but  if it  must be our
blood, then it will be-and theirs as well."

Hakiem hawked and spat on the polished floor. The Beysa did not threaten  often,
nor well. "We have  a saying too," he  retaliated. "'Never pay the  asking price
-even if you can afford it.' Don't be blind to the first positive sign I've seen
wander through this room. Didn't you  look at that delegation? Beysib and  Ilsig
and Rankan, together, proposing a joint action other than slitting each  others'
throats! Who cares if the boat is necessary-just let them build it!"

The shapely breasts  rose and fell  in a great  sigh. "Ah... we  see your point.
Yes, the boat shall be built regardless of the cost or need."

"Nonsense," Hakiem  said with  a grin,  "never pay  the asking  price. Make them
submit an accounting;  question every board  and nail on  it. They'll cheat  you
anyway, but there's no sense in  letting them think you don't care  about money;
they care very much about it. But you must discuss the matter with the Prince."

"Why?" She was sincere, and that pained Hakiem even more.

"Wood is scarce in  Sanctuary, and the building  of a new boat  will require the
felling of trees.  For generations the  Governor has been  the protector of  our
little forests.  If you  have truly  left Kadakithis  as governor,  then he must
issue die edict about the trees-or you should not pretend that he is governor of
anything."

The Beysa smiled as she nodded her understanding of the situation, and was about
to say something else when the Prince strode into the room.

"Shupansea, I was wondering if... Oh, hello. Storyteller."

"Your Highness," Hakiem responded,  bowing as low for  the Prince as he  did for
the Beysa.

The Prince and his entourage were currently living in the Summer Palace, a  half
-finished  rambling  structure  out  beyond  Downwind,  having  surrendered  the
Governor's palace to the Beysa two days after the fleet arrived. Hakiem tried to
close  his  rumor-sensitive ears  to  the signs  of  ever-increasing familiarity
between the Prince and the Beysa,  but it was almost impossible. The  Prince was
never  at  the  Summer Palace  and  never  more than  a  few  moments away  from
Shupansea;  his courtesans  had been  spirited back  to the  capital, and  Molin
Torchholder, who should  have been above  such things, seemed  to be encouraging
the entire affair.

"Just one little matter, then we can be alone," Shupansea told Kadakithis with a
radiant smile. "Tell me, you don't care if  a few trees are cut down if it  will
get the townspeople and my people working together, do you?"

"If trees are what you want, take them all," the Prince said with a casual shrug
of his shoulders and an equally radiant smile.

"I think, then, that  I should withdraw now,  0 Empress. The matter  seems to be
settled now."

Hakiem paused  outside the  Presence Chamber,  trying to  control the irritation
and, yes, the dread that had been  generated by the exchange. Was the Prince  so
infatuated with Shupansea's overly obvious  charms that he had thrown  away what
little judgment and free will he possessed? Was Sanctuary a Beysib property now,
completely and without any recourse? The storyteller liked the Beysa and  always
advised her honestly,  but he was  Sanctuary's proudest citizen.  It grieved him
beyond speech to see what they were doing to his city.

He was  suddenly aware  that the  room behind  him was  perfectly quiet now; the
lovers had  escaped. His  eyebrows went  up as  his lips  tightened. Perhaps the
white bird could mate with  the black one. And if  they did, what became of  all
the other birds who were left?

WHAT WOMEN DO BEST

by Chris & Janet Morris

From a  hunting blind  of artfully  piled garbage  guarded by  a dozen fat, half
-tamed rats, an Ilsig head, then  another, and another, caught the moonlight  as
the death squad emerged from the tunnels to go stalking Beysibs in the Maze.

They called their leader "Zip," when they called him anything at all. He  didn't
encourage  familiarity; he'd  always been  a loner,  a creature  of the  streets
without family  or friends.  Even before  the Beysib  had come  and the waves of
executions had begun, the street urchins and the Maze-dwellers had stayed  clear
of the knife-boy who was half Ilsig and half some race much paler, who hired out
for copper to any  enforcer in the Maze  or disgruntled dealer in  Downwind. And
who, it was said, brought an eye or tongue or liver from every soul he  murdered
to Vashanka's half-forgotten altar on the White Foal River's edge.

Even his death squad was  afraid of him. Zip knew.  And that was fine with  him:
every now  and again,  a member  was captured  by the  Rankan oppressors  or the
Beysib oppressors: the less these idealists of revolution knew of him, the  less
they could reveal under torture or  blandishment. He'd had a friend once,  or at
least a close acquaintance-an Ilsig thief called Hanse. But Hanse, with all  his
shining  blades and  his high-toned  airs, had  gone the  way of  everything  in
Sanctuary since the Beysibs' ships had docked: to oblivion, to hell in a basket.

Standing up straight for a moment in the moon-licked gloom to get his  bearings.
Zip heard laughter rounding a comer,  saw a flash of pantaloon, and  ducked back
with a hiss and a signal to his group, who'd been trained by Nisibisi insurgents
and knew this game as well as he.

The moonlight wasn't bright  enough to tell the  color of the Beysib  males'-Zip
didn't think of them as "men"- pantaloons, but he'd be willing to bet they  were
of claret velvet or shiny purple silk. Killing Beysibs was about as exciting  as
killing ants, and as fruitless: there were just too damned many of them.

The three coming toward his hunting party were drunk as Rankans and limp as  any
man might be who'd just come out of the Street of Red Lanterns empty of seed and
purse.

He could almost see their fish-eyes bulging; he could hear their jewelry  clank.
For pussy-whipped sons  of snake-women, these  were loud and  brash, taller than
average,  and  with  a  better  command  of  street-Rankene:  from  under  their
glittering, veil-draped hats, profanity worthy of the Rankan Hell-Hounds cut the
night.

There remained nearly the whole Street of Red Lanterns between the two  parties.
"Pre-position," Zip breathed,  and his two  young squad members  slipped away to
find their places.

They'd done this every night since Harvest  Moon; the only result of it Zip  had
seen was a  second, then a  third wave of  Beysib ritual executions.  .But since
those ceremonially slaughtered were hated Rankan overlords and IIsigs who served
the Rankans  and the  Bey, it  wasn't keeping  any of  the revolutionaries up at
night.

And you had to do something. Kadakithis  had been a harsh ruler, but the  Rankan
barbarians were spoken  of wistfully and  with something bordering  on affection
now that  the Beysib  had come:  a matriarchy  complete with female mercenaries,
assassins, magicians more utterly ruthless than men could ever be. It was enough
to have brought  Zip into the  orb of the  Revolution-his manhood was  something
he'd fight  to keep.  It was  going to  take more  than a  few exposed fish-folk
titties to make him bow his head or renege on his heritage.

Right now,  he was  going to  kill a  couple of  Beysib boy-toys  and lay  their
pertinent equipment on Vashanka's  Foal-side altar: maybe the  Rankan murder-god
could be  roused to  action; Death  knew that  the Ilsig  gods were out of their
depth with these women-despots whose spittle  was as venomous as the pet  snakes
they kept and the spells they spoke. The Revolution could use the publicity  and
Zip could use  the money their  jewelry was going  to bring once  Marc melted it
down.

Down the street came the Beysib boywhores, laughing in deeper voices than Beysib
men usually dared. Zip could make out some words now: "-porking town down on its
porking hands and knees with its butt in the air while those porkers pork it-"

Another voice cut in: "I've told you  once, Gayle, to watch your mouth. Now  I'm
making it an order. Beysibs don't- God's balls!"

Without  warning, and  according to  plan. Zip's  two cohorts  jumped out   from
concealment as the three Beysibs passed them.

Zip readied his throwing knives: once the Beysibs were herded his way, they were
as good as dead. He widened his stance, feeling his pulse begin to pound.

But  these  Beysibs  didn't  run:  from  under  their  cloaks  or  out  of their
pantaloons, weapons  suddenly appeared:  Zip could  hear the  grate of  metal as
swords left their  scabbards and the  dismayed shouts from  his cohorts as  they
tried to engage swordsmen with rusty daggers and sharpened wooden sticks.

Zip had a wrist  slingshot; it was his  emergency weapon. He didn't  mean to use
it;  he  was still  thinking  to himself  that  he was  better  off not  getting
involved, that these weren't your  average Beysibs-maybe not Beysibs at  all-and
that  he didn't  owe the  death-squad members  anything, when  he found  himself
letting fly once, then again, with his wrist slingshot and making as much  noise
as he could while running pell-mell toward the fray.

One of his missiles found its target: with a yelp, a pan-talooned figure went to
its  knees. Another  turned his  head, cursing  like a  soldier, and   something
whizzed past Zip's ear. He felt warmth, wetness, and knew he'd been grazed.

Then he realized that neither of his squad members were standing: he slowed to a
walk, his  breathing heavy,  trying to  see if  the two  lying in  the dirt were
moving. He thought one was; the other seemed too still.

His adversaries, whoever they were, seemed to want to continue the argument: the
two with the  swords moved toward  him, parallel to  one another, splitting  the
street into defensible halves, far enough  away from the buildings to avoid  any
more  lurkers in  doorways, and  from each  other to  give each  room to  handle
anything  that  might come  his  way. Neither  spoke;  they closed  on  him with
businesslike economy and a certain eagerness that gave Zip just enough time  for
second  thoughts:  These  were  professional  tactics,  put  into  practice   by
professionals. When  times had been  easier in  Sanctuary and  an old   warhorse
named  Tempus had  formed  a special forces unit  of Stepsons and  then  invited
any Ilsigs who  dared  to train  for a  citizens'  militia.  Zip had   taken the
opportunity to  leam all  he could about the  Rankan enemy: Zip had  been taught
"street control" by the  same book as those  now advancing down this  particular
street toward him.

Two to one against professionals, there was no chance that he could win.

He raised his hands as if in surrender.

The two soldiers-in-disguise growled low to one another in what might have  been
Court Rankene.

Before they could  decide the obvious-to  take him alive  and spend the  evening
asking him questions it would  be painful, perhaps crippling, not  to answer-Zip
did what he had to do: let fly with a palmed dagger and then a specially pronged
slingshot missile.

Both casts sped murderously true-not into the probably armored chests of the two
big men with swords (whose companion was  now on his feet and falling in  behind
them, perfectly  and by-the-drill  covering every  move they  made) but into the
exposed  neck  and  chest of  Zip's  own  two men:  no  revolutionary   could be
captured alive;   everyone knew   too much;  they'd all  signed suicide pacts in
blood but,  in this  case. Zip  knew he'd  better help  these two  along. Rankan
interrogation could be very nasty.

Then as  the rear  man yelled,  "Get the  bastard," and  the two in front lunged
toward him. Zip wheeled and dove for the tunnel entrance, down among the garbage
and the rats, pulled  the cobble-faced cover in  place behind him, and  shot the
stout interior bolt.

Two days later,  Hakiem was sitting  on a bench  in Promise Park-not  one of his
accustomed haunts.

He considered himself,  as a storyteller,  a neutral party  in this war  between
Ranke and  the Harka  Bey for  control of  Sanctuary. In  his innermost heart he
couldn't help but  take sides, though,  and since his  side was the  side of the
Ilsigi, whose land  this once was  and whose sorrow  he now shared,  he'd gotten
just a little bit involved with helping the Revolution.

This was nothing new for Hakiem: he'd been  a little involved with Jubal the  ex
slaver, a little involved with Prince/Governor Kadakithis's Hell-Hounds...  with
everything, if truth be known, that concerned his beloved, benighted town.

He kept  telling himself  that there  was a  good story  in whatever  it was  he
shouldn't be getting  involved in. The  Revolution, which might  be the greatest
story Sanctuary would ever offer him,  was also the most dangerous. Involved  in
it were Rankans and  Ilsigs, fighting together- though  some didn't know it  and
others wouldn't admit it- against the heinous matriarchy of the Beysibs.

But, Hakiem reminded himself as he waited  for his contact to appear, he was  an
old man: he wouldn't have  lived to be old if  he were too foolish. And  Hakiem,
who'd been safe on  the sidelines, an observer  and a certified neutral  all his
life, was beginning to feel the tug of revolutionary fervor himself-politics, he
well knew, was  an old man's  game: old men  sent young men  out to  lose  their
lives for principles. He'd  have  to be careful   not to  become as   deluded as
those the  Ilsigi populace  fought:  the Beysibs, the Rankans, the Nisibisi  and
whoever else wanted to put their stamp on his poor little sandspit of a town.

Whoever had sent him the note which had bade him come here (Hakiem, for the tale
most worth telling this season, meet me  at the bench under the parasol pine  in
Promise Park at midday, two days hence.) was willing to take outrageous chances:
even in daylight, the Beysib discouraged public gatherings. Two, these days, was
a public gathering.

Still, this was the first time the rebels had tried to contact him, although  it
seemed to Hakiem that they should have realized they needed him sooner:  without
rumor, without  the proper  stirring stories  of heroism  and success, without a
vision of the Revolution to come, no insurgency could succeed.

Two  blond,  bare-breasted  Bey  women went  by,  their  bulging  eyes downcast,
demurely veiled, Beysib males prancing behind them, and behind those, Ilsig boys
carrying sunshades.

When they'd gone, Hakiem took a deep breath. He didn't have any assurances  that
it was the revolutionaries who'd sent him the note: he'd made an assumption, one
that might not be true. Either of the fish-women with their trained serpents who
now receded  into the  distance, their  entourage behind,  could have  sent that
note.

Hakiem rubbed his face, bleary-eyed and weary: this final indignity heaped  upon
luckless Sanctuary was almost too much for him to bear. Daily, the rubble  piles
grew  greater  and the  body  count mounted.  Orphans  now outnumbered  parented
children,  and child  gangs as  deadly as  the Nisibisi-sponsored  death  squads
roamed the town at night when (everywhere but in the Maze, which was  impossible
to police) the Beysib curfew was in force.

Once, the town  of Sanctuary had  been sneered at  as the anus  of Empire-but at
least then  it had  been part  of something  comprehensible: the  Rankan Empire,
venal and vicious, was a creation of men and manpower, not of women and sorcery.
The Harka Bey and their sorceresses  imposed a rule of supernatural terror  upon
Sanctuary that all priests- Ilsig and Rankan alike-agreed would soon bring  down
the wrath of the elder gods.

An Ilsigi priest, in his fiery sermons (held surreptitously north of town in the
Old Ruins), had warned that the gods  might send Sanctuary to the bottom of  the
sea if the populace did not unite and oust the Bey.

Some had hoped Kadakithis  might show his face  there last night; but  no one in
the  city  had  seen  the poor  Prince/Governor  up  close  since the  takeover:
sometimes  a personage  who looked  very like  Kadakithis appeared  at the  high
window in  the Hall  of Justice,  but the  whispers were  that this  was only  a
simulacrum of Kadakithis,  that the Prince/  Governor languished, all  but dead,
under the  Beysa Shupansea's  spell. And  the rumors  were not  so far  from the
truth, though Kadakithis was held in thrall by love, not magic.

Things were so  much worse now  than they'd been  when the Nisibisi  witches had
come down  from the  north preaching  Ilsig liberation  and prophesying  a great
upheaval to  come that,  had the  most terrible  Nisibisi witch-Roxane,  Death's
Queen-appeared  now before  Hakiem and  demanded his  soul in  payment for   the
opportunity to tell  a tale of  Sane-   f tuary's  freedom, Hakiem would  gladly
have given it.

Things were so damned depressing, sometimes he wanted to cry.

When he wiped his eyes and took his old, gnarled hands away, a woman stood there
before him.

He drew in a shocked breath and  almost cowered: was it a witch? Was  it dreaded
Roxane, come back from the northern  war? Roxane, who had all but  destroyed the
Stepsons and  made undead  slaves of  her conquests?  Had he  just pacted with a
witch? By the  mechanism of a  thought, just an  errant thought? Surely,  no one
could lose their soul so easily, so offhandedly....

The woman was tall and broad-shouldered, with a turn chin and clear narrow eyes;
her  hair  was as  black  as a  wizard's,  her clothes  nondescript  but cut  to
facilitate easy  movement-her tunic  vented, her  Ilsig leggings  bloused at the
knees and disappearing into calf-high, laced boots.

"Hakiem, are you? I'm Kama. Shall we walk?"

"Walk? I'm... waiting  for someone-my apprentice,"  he lied lamely.  Was this  a
Bey mercenary? He didn't know they  covered their breasts or wore pants.  Was he
to be arrested? That would be  a story- "Inside a Beysib Interrogation  Cell"-if
only he might live to tell it....

"Walk." The woman's  voice was throaty  as she chuckled.  "It's safer, for  this
kind of meet. And  the someone you're waiting  for, I hope, is  me." She smiled,
and there  was something  familiar about  her eyes,  as if  an old  acquaintance
looked out of them. She extended her hand to him as if he were infirm, some  old
woman to be  helped to her  feet. Women were  getting altogether out  of hand in
Sanctuary this season.

He brushed her hand aside and got up stiffly, hoping she wouldn't notice.

She  was  saying, "-your  apprentice?  That idea's  not  half-bad. I'd  probably
qualify,  having won  first prize  at the  last Festival  of Man,  wouldn't  you
think?"

"First prize? Festival of Man?" Hakiem  repeated dumbly. "What did you say  your
name was?" The Festival of Man was held once every four years, far to the north.
It was  a festival  for kings  and armies,  a matter  of war  games and athletic
events, and there was a poetry  contest for historians of the field  and tellers
of heroic tales  that every storyteller  alive dreamed of  winning. But even  to
attend you had to be sponsored by a king, a greatful army, a powerful lord.  Who
was this woman? She'd  told him, but he  was so melancholy and  so depressed-no,
let's face it, fool: you're getting old!-he couldn't recall what she'd said.

"Can I trust you, old man? Or am I safe because, though I told you once,  you've
already forgot?" Her  mouth twisted in  a defensive little  grin that definitely
reminded him of someone else. But who?

Hakiem said carefully, "You  can trust me if  your heart is in  the right place.
Candy." That was what she'd said, he thought-or close enough to make her correct
him.

She looked at her booted feet as they scuffed up autumn dirt and when she raised
her head she looked right at him:  "I'm Kama,  of the  Rankan 3rd  Commando.  If
your heart's   in the   right place,  you'll put  me in  touch with  the rebels.
Otherwise," she shrugged, "you  folks are going to  have a lot of  dead amateurs
and a stillborn Revolution."

"What? What are you talking about? Rebels? I know no rebels-"

"Wonderful. I like your spirit, old man. You're the ears of this town, and  some
say the mouth. Tell whomever you don't know that I'll be at Marc's Junky Weapons
Shop an hour before curfew and  thereafter, tonight, to make sure we  don't have
another little problem like we had on the Street of Red Lanterns two nights ago.
If we're going to kick some Beysib pantaloons, we'll need every man we've got."

Hakiem had the distinct  feeling that this Kama  of the Rankan 3rd  Commando had
forgotten that she, herself,  was a woman. "I  can't promise anything," he  said
politically. "After all, I've only your word and-"

"Just  do it,  old man;  save the  talk for  those who'll  listen. And  show  up
tonight, if you dare,  to hear some tales  you'll die from telling.  Even if you
don't, I'll be telling everyone I meet I'm your apprentice-do try to remember my
name."

She increased her pace, leaving him behind as if he were standing still.

Watching her draw away, Hakiem stopped  trying to catch up. There were  too many
Bey around. If he wanted a story worth dying for, he could drop by Marc's.

He  wasn't  sure if  he  would, or  sure  that not  going  would save  him  from
involvement by implication. But then, she- Kama-knew that. He'd been too daunted
by her talk  of the Festival  of Man and  her whole bearing  to consider much of
what she'd said.

Now, walking unseeingly Mazeward, toward the Vulgar Unicom for the first of many
drinks, he did: the Rankan 3rd Commando were rangers with a very bad  reputation
since the real Stepsons had left town, filling their ranks with locals, to fight
the Wizard Wars  in the north,  there had been  no force on  the side of  Empire
worth rallying round. If the 3rd Commando was here, then the Empire hadn't given
up on Sanctuary, all was not lost, and resistance was really possible.

Of course, given  the stories  about the  3rd's brutality  and their  provenance
they'd been formed by Tempus  long ago to quash just  such a revolt as might  be
brewing in Sanctuary-the  cure for Sanctuary's  Beysib ills might  well be worse
than the disease.

Straton wasn't at all sure this was  going to work. He hadn't seen Ischade,  the
vampire  woman who  lived down  by the.  White Foal,  since before  the war  for
Wizardwall, when he'd been an on-duty  Stepson, with the whole cadre behind  him
and Critias  beside him,  and the  only troubles  in Sanctuary  were sorcery and
refractory death squads and the occasional assassination: all standard stuff.

Strat wished  Crit was  here, then  slid off  his horse  before Ischade's  oddly
shadowed house and, crossbow at the  ready, tethered his big bay horse  outside.
Crit would be along, one  of these days. The whole  unit was drifting in, a  man
here, a pair there;  along with Sync's 3rd  Commando, they had a  good chance of
putting things to rights-if they could just figure out what "rights" were.  Sync
thought they should put every Beysib in  town on one big funerary pyre and  give
'em to the gods, for starters.

Straton wasn't taking orders  from Sync: with Crit  still upcountry and Niko  in
transit with Tempus, Straton was in  charge of the Stepsons, who wanted  only to
kill every idiot who'd  made the unit designation  "Stepson" a slur and  a curse
here while they'd been gone.

But Kama had prevailed on Strat  to try enlisting the vampire woman's  aid. Kama
was Tempus's daughter; Strat still respected her for that-not for anything she'd
done or earned, just for being his commander's progeny.

So he'd come back here, despite the fact that Ischade the vampire woman was more
dangerous than a bedroom  full of Harka Bey,  to "invite" Ischade to  the little
party Sync and he were throwing at Marc's.

He'd probably have come anyway, he told himself: Ischade was dangerous enough to
be interesting, the sort of woman you never forget once you look into her  eyes.
And he'd looked into them: deep, hellhole eyes that made him wonder what kind of
death she offered her victims....

Nothing for it but to knock on the damn door and get it over with, then.

He pulled on his leather tunic and  assayed the walk up to her threshold;  as he
did, the interior lights flickered and  dimmed weirdly. The last time he'd  been
here, his  eyesight had  been bothering  him. It  wasn't, anymore,  thanks to  a
benign spell cast during his northern sortie.

So he'd really see her, this time.

On her doorstep, he hesitated; then he muttered a prayer that consigned his soul
to the appropriate god should he die here, and knocked.

He heard movement within, then nothing.

He knocked again.

This time, the movement came closer  and the lights in her front  windows winked
out.

"Ischade," he called out gruffly, a dagger in hand to pick the lock or slice its
thong or pound upon the wooden door with all his might, "open up. It's-"

The door seemed  to disappear before  him; off balance,  for he'd been  about to
thump on it hard with his dagger's hilt, he took a stumbling step forward.

"I know,"  said a  velvet voice  coming from  a wraithlike  face cowled  in inky
shadows, "who you are. I remember you.  Have you tired of giving death? Or  have
you brought me another gift?" Her eyes lifted up to his, her hood fell back, and
yet, somehow, backlit in her doorway, her face was still in shadow.

Her eyes, however, were not.

Straton found himself forgetful of his purpose. He wasn't a womanizer; he wasn't
an impressionable  boy; yet  Ischade's gaze  was like  some drug  which made the
world recede  and all  he wanted  to do  was look  at her,  touch her, brave the
danger of her, and do to her what he was nearly certain none of the sheep  she'd
fed upon had ever managed to do.

He said, "Invite me in."

She said, "I have a visitor, within."

He replied, "Get rid of him."

She smiled: "My thought exactly. You will wait here?"

He agreed: "Don't be long."

When her door closed, it  was as if a bond  had broken, a leash been  snapped, a
drug worn off.

He found that he was shivering, and it wasn't anywhere near as cold in  autumnal
Sanctuary as it had  been on Wi-zardwall; despite  his shaking hands, there  was
sweat beading on his upper lip. He wiped it and regretted shaving for this court
enterprise.

Either he was lucky, and  she'd be sated by whatever  meat she had in there,  so
that he could talk to her, convince her, make some sort of deal with her, or  he
was walking into serious trouble, without Crit or any of his team to get him out
if he got in too deep.

About the time he was deciding that no one would ever think the worse of him  if
he just walked away from this  one, left Ischade's stone unturned, and  said she
hadn't been at home, the door reopened and a delicate, white hand reached out to
him: "Come  in, Straton,"   said the  vampire  woman.  "It's been   a long  time
since one such as you has come to me."

Sync had saved the fabled crimelord Jubal for himself. The Sanctuary veterans he
had on staff had warned him about the vicious squalor of Downwind, but he hadn't
believed them.

Now  he  believed,  but  he  believed  more  in  his  good  right  arm  and  the
attractiveness of the offer he had to make.

This Jubal was black and stout as  a gnarled tree, older than Sync had  been led
to believe by half,  and sporting a fey  blue hawkmask that would  have bothered
Sync  more if  the sycophants  around the  ex-slaver weren't  verifying  Jubal's
identity by every deferential move they made.

The head bootlicker here was named Saliman; the hovel was reasonably  commodious
once you got inside, but the band of pseudo-beggars ranged around it would  give
Sync a strenuous  afternoon if he  had to cut  his way through  them to get out.
He'd unbridled his horse as a precaution: if he whistled. Sync was going to have
twelve hundred Rankan pounds  of iron hooves and  snapping jaws to back  him up.
3rd Commando  training told  him he  didn't need  more than  that: one  man, one
horse, one holocaust on demand.

Sync  wasn't a  politician; he  was a  field commander.  But he  wasn't in  this
Downwind potty to fight; he was here to talk.

Jubal, in a flurry of feathered robes, sat down on something very like a  throne
and said-in a muffled voice through his mask: "Talk, mercenary."

Sync replied: "Get rid of the mask  and your playmates, and we'll talk. This  is
between us, or not at all."

Jubal responded, "Then perhaps it's not at all. But then you've wasted our time,
and we don't like that. Do we?"

Ten scruffy locals made threatening noises.

"Look here,  slumlord, are  you in  the pay  of the  Beysibs? If  not, let's get
serious. I didn't come here to give your staff combat lessons. If they need 'em,
I've got trainers in the 3rd  Commando who specialize in making silk  purses out
of sow's ears."

Three of the  ten were edging  forward. Jubal stopped  them with a  raised hand.
From under the mask  came what might have  been a rattling sigh.  "3rd Commando?
Should I be impressed?"

Sync  said, "I  don't know  what you're  supposed to  be, Jubal,  in that   damn
feathered cape  and mask.  Is everybody  in this  town in  drag?" He crossed his
arms, thinking he should have sent  a Sanctuary veteran to bring this  black man
in by the ear. He had to  remind himself forcefully not to call Jubal  a Wriggly
to his face. It was  a damned shame, having to  join forces with an enemy  you'd
thoroughly beaten  years ago-and  on equal  terms. The  misfortunes of  war were
neverending.

"Not everybody," Jubal said, leaning forward.

The naked threat in his voice told Sync that he'd pushed just about as far as he
could with this ex-gladiator  cum slaver cum power  player, so he changed  tack:
"That's comforting. Now, since you won't get rid of your bodyguards, even though
it looks to me like you'd be  safe enough defending yourself, I'm going to  tell
you why I'm here and we can have a democratic referendum on how much of a  share
in the profits your men here get, how much you keep, what everybody's got to do,
and who else is-"

"All right,"  Jubal interrupted.  "All right.  Saliman, clear  the room and make
sure no one gets too curious."

"But my lord-" Saliman sputtered.

"Do it!"

Almost as if by magic, the muscle men disappeared.

"Now, what's on your mind. Sink?"

"You must have heard that the 3rd is operating independent of the  Emperor-we're
on our own."

"Yes?" Jubal purred.

"We're trying to put together a  coalition to rid Sanctuary of the  Harka Babies
and install an interim ruler  who suits us-make Sanctuary an  independent state:
I've got half an army with no place to call home."

"And you'd like to make your home in Sanctuary?"

"Remains to be  seen. But  if we  try this,  we'd like  you to  be a  part of it
working with us. Nobody's going to  take and hold Sanctuary without your  active
cooperation, we've heard."

"How do you know the Beysibs haven't heard it too?" Jubal asked cannily.

The old black was sharp, but Sync  could feel that he was buying the  deal-lock,
stock, and misrepresentations.  "Because they're having  too much trouble,  from
too many unidentified quarters."

Jubal laughed. The laugh was amplified by his hawkmask and boomed so loud in the
small room that its curtains quivered.  "That may be, that may be.  But flattery
won't get you everywhere-just somewhere. Now, let's hear the specifics." The  ex
gladiator's arms came out from under  his cloak and Sync could see  purple scars
that told one seasoned veteran of too many wars that he was looking at another.

Sync said honestly:  "You can't believe  I'd go into  that here, with  all those
ears you've got. I want  you to come to a  little party we're having, at  Marc's
Weapons Shop  on the  Street of  Smiths, this  evening. Representatives of every
faction my  Long Recon  people think  useful will  be there.  I want to put them
together-with your help, of course- in one well-coordinated, working unit."

"Intriguing." Jubal's hawkmask bobbed slowly. "And then what?"

"Then we're going to  make this town what  it ought to be,  what it used to  be,
what it wants to be: a freehold,  a thieves' world, a safe haven where  men like
you and  I don't  have to  kiss any  pomaded pederasts'  rings and women do what
women do best."

Again, Jubal laughed. When he sobered, he raised his mask-not enough for Sync to
see the face beneath; just enough to wipe his eyes. "You, me, and what army?"

"You, me, the 3rd Commando,  and Tempus's original Stepsons. Plus,  perhaps, the
local  death squads  and revolutionaries,  your odd  mercenary, the  downtrodden
Ilsig populace, and the regular army garrison-the ranking officer over there  is
an old friend of mine. That enough manpower for you?"

"Might be, might be," Jubal chuckled.

"Then you'll come, tonight?"

"I'll be there," Jubal agreed.

Marc's Weapons  Shop had  a trap  door behind  the counter,  as well as a firing
range out back,  two display  cases filled  with blades,  and two  walls of high
torque crossbows.

Beneath,  in  the  cellar, arcane  and  forbidden  weaponry was  kept-alchemical
incendiaries, wrist slingshots such  as Zip's, instruments of  interrogation and
of silent kill: poisons and persuaders.

It  was early,  before the  scheduled evening  meeting, and  Zip and  Marc  were
arguing, alone, while above Marc's blonde and nubile wife minded the store.

"You can't ask me  to do this, Marc,"  Zip said from the  comer in which he  was
hunched,  bowstring-taut and  feral, his  eyes darting  from shadow  to  shadow,
looking for the trap he was sure would soon be sprung.

"I've got to  ask you, boy,  or watch you  commit suicide: you  can't fight this
bunch. You trained with Stepsons; you  know that now they're drifting into  town
again, things are  going to change.  You stayed out  of  trouble when  they were
around last time;  now,  you can't.  They'll tan your  hide and  use  it  for  a
saddle  blanket;  your polished  teeth'll  decorate some  war-horse's headstall.
I don't want to see that happen."

"So  you gave  them my  name? I  trusted you.  I got  into this  whole thing  by
accident. I don't want to be any rebel leader; I don't want to incite any  riots
or start any twelve-gods-damned revolutions; I just want to protect my own self.
Why did you do this to me?"

"They're smart. They've  had reconnaissance people  in town for  weeks-they knew
about you already. If  you aren't with them,  that bunch assumes you're  against
them."

"Who? The Buggemauts? The Whoresons? Who cares?"

"You'll care,  when they  make you  two inches  taller before  they make you six
inches shorter-mercenaries are a very suspicious breed. I know Strat's Stepsons,
and I trust them: they have to be trustworthy-it's all they've got: one  another
and the value of their word.  Tempus will be along, Strat says,  presently: that
means the Storm  God-if you still  care about Vashanka-is  coming home. I'm  not
good  with words..."  Marc rubbed  his beard  miserably; his  round, brown  eyes
pleaded with the gutterbred fighter jammed against the joint of two walls as  if
he were already at bay. "Please just stay and listen to their proposal:  without
you, the death squads will never give this alliance a chance."

"You're addled. Bewitched. Most of the death squad members got their start  with
Roxane, the Nisibisi witch.  It's a trap: the  Stepsons and the 3rd  are looking
for revenge. Roxane didn't exactly  lose gracefully fighting the Stepsons;  they
lost men; meres never forget."

"You've got to stay...  if not for yourself,  for me. They've spotted  you; they
know  you're using  this place  to rearm,  to meet,  to get  in and  out of  the
tunnels. If you don't pretend to join them, I'm having this conversation with  a
dead man-it's just a matter of days."

"Well, at least  you're being honest,  now." Zip pushed  himself up against  the
wall. He had a two-day growth of beard and looked a decade older than the  years
he'd lived. Erect,  leaning back in  his comer, he  said despairingly, "I  don't
suppose it would do any good to make  you promise not to reveal any more of  our
names?..."

"On pain  of death?  Kill me  now, then.  And my  wife. And everyone else that's
helped you. I own, boy, I've seen a lot of action, too many wars to suit me, and
I'm telling you: the only way to live through what's brewing in Sanctuary is  to
make a deal with the 3rd Commando."

"Just so  long as  it isn't  the damn  Rankan army-it  isn't, you can promise me
that, can't you? Can't you?"

Marc looked at his big-knuckled  hands. The slit-eyed, scruffy youth  before him
had been orphaned in  the Rankan takeover of  Sanctuary. He didn't remember  his
parents and he'd grown up fast and hard, hating Rankans all the way. He'd had no
connections, no advantages, no mentors: Marc had known Zip for years, and  never
dared to get involved- this kind died young and they died unpleasantly.

Now, for some reason known only to the gods. Marc was involved: it was a  matter
of pride, of gut resentment, of life and death.

"No, boy, I  can't promise you  that. But maybe  they can. All  / can promise is
that if you don't show up, not me, or my wife, or this shop is going to exist in
the morning: they'll level the place and bury us in it."

"Thanks for not pressuring me."

"You're welcome. Thanks for making my shop your favorite haunt."

"I give. Look, tell me who's going to be here."

With a sick feeling in his stomach, fingering an amulet of Shalpa in hopes  that
the goddess could keep  this boy from diving  through the open hole  by his side
into the tunnels and  never coming up. Marc  began to explain about  the vampire
woman, Ischade; the crime lord, Jubal; the Rankan 3rd Commando leader, Sync; the
storyteller, Hakiem, and the acting garrison commander, Walegrin.

As he did,  watching Zip's unbelieving  eyes go icy  and hostile. Marc  couldn't
even convince  himself that  tonight's meeting  wasn't going  to be  a wholesale
slaughter.  Judging  by  the  guest  list,  somebody  could  get  rid  of  every
troublemaker in Sanctuary  worth mentioning in  one cleansing fire-  he hoped to
hell that "somebody" didn't turn out to be Strat.

The only element missing from the list of invited guests was a representative of
black magic-some honcho from the  mageguild, or Enas Yorl, or  some Hazard-class
enchanter who might be able to keep order through fear of mortal curse.

And if  the Stepsons  hadn't been  allergic to  magicians, they'd  probably have
invited one of them, too.

By the time Sync got to the  meeting, the air was already blue with  krrf smoke,
the packed-clay floor littered with wine dregs.

Kama was presiding, as best she  could, over a crowd of thirty-five  people who,
under any other circumstances, would have been locked in mortal combat by now.

Hakiem the storyteller was the only  person in the room who was  unarmed, though
Sync was well aware  that the mouth was  mightier than the sword  in a situation
like this. If things went badly, the rest could be let go, but Hakiem would have
to die.

Walegrin, big,  blond, and  out of  uniform, sat  in the  middle of a half-dozen
plain-clothed  officers  who,  by  being  invited  here,  would  be sufficiently
compromised that  even if  they weren't  actively helpful,  they wouldn't hinder
Sync's progress.

Straton was sitting off by himself in a comer on a winekeg with a woman who must
be  the  vampire,  Ischade, else  they  wouldn't  have had  that  much  space to
themselves. It was  a good thing  Critias wasn't in  town, or Strat  never would
have gone after  the vampire woman.  Sync had to  stop himself from  looking for
signs of vampire-bite on Strat's neck.

The young guerrilla fighter whom Sync, Gay Ie, and Strat had tangled with on the
Street of Red Lanterns-the one who'd killed his own men rather than let them  be
captured- had the other far comer, a mangy cur scratched fleas by his knee. Sync
nodded to Zip and threaded  his way to him through  the crowd: if there was  one
single element of this riffraff he  needed to secure his tactical advantage,  it
was this scruffy rebel  leader. Reaching him, with  all eyes on them.  Sync held
out his hand and said, "Last  time, we forgot to introduce ourselves.  I'm Sync.
You're?..."

"Zip will do." Eyes slitted, he shook Sync's hand.

"I'm glad you  came. When this  is over, I'll  buy you a  meal and we'll compare
notes."

He turned and headed toward the table Marc  had set up at the front of the  room
before Zip could ask him what kind of notes or decline his invitation.

Standing beside Kama, Sync  waited for Jubal to  settle down. Jubal was  another
one to whom this crowd gave extra  room, though he'd come in late with  only his
first lieutenant-Jubal  had been  skulking outside  in the  shadows, waiting for
Sync to arrive.

"Now that  we're all  here," Sync  scanned the  room, making  sure that this was
indeed the case; a particular pair of  wolfish eyes in a furry face met  his and
he nodded as he  continued, "I'd like to  turn the meeting over  to our resident
expert on covert enterprise, secrecy,  and wizardry, Randal, our own  ex-Hazard,
formerly of the Tysian mageguild."

Mutters broke  out; men  and women  moved away  from one  another; necks craned,
looking for the sorcerer in their midst.

From Ischade's comer, a  musical laugh sounded. As  all eyes turned to  her, the
mangy cur, part wolf by the look  of it, who'd been scratching fleas near  Zip's
knee, stretched, yawned, and got to his feet.

The dog, with a sneeze and a sniffle, wandered in seemingly haphazard fashion up
to the table, where Kama knelt  down, ready with the cloak she'd  been v/earing,
and fastened it around the old dog's neck.

In  the back  of the  room, Zip  rose to  his feet  without a  sound; Marc   the
blademonger put out a hand to stay him.

But no one noticed: the crowd's  attention was on the dog before  them, changing
before their eyes into a man.

It was a smooth transition, smoother than Randal usually could manage. He didn't
even sneeze much.

When the mage rose to full man's height, the cloak and the smoke and the shadows
thrown by  flickering candles  in that  subterranean meeting  room made him seem
more imposing than he really was.

For the first time. Sync had that warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that he
got when a strategy became reality.

Randal said, "Thank you. Commander."

Sync murmured, "You're welcome," and sat down.

"Good evening, gentle folk," Randal  began. "I bring you greetings  from Tempus,
and from  all our  friends on  Wi-zardwall. The  plight of  Sanctuary since  the
Stepsons left it has come to our  attention, and with your help, we're going  to
set about making things right  here-ousting the Beysibs and returning  Sanctuary
to its former... ah... glory."

There was a general murmur of agreement.

Randal smiled his  boyish, winning smile.  The redoubtable mage,  his hair grown
long enough  to cover  his too-large  ears and  too-thin neck,  was a born crowd
pleaser. When he  sneezed concussively, he  blamed it on  his "lack of  suitable
garments" and the cold;  the crowd bought it.  They were so anxious  to have the
advantage of wizardly aid in fighting  the Beysibs that if Randal had  talked to
them  in  the  shape  of  a mule  or  a  salamander,  they  would have  listened
respectfully, silently, gratefully.

It bothered Sync, just a little, that the credibility of honest fighters  wasn't
sufficient to  satisfy this  rabble, but  a simple  shape-change trick  by a fey
magician made everybody in the  place feel like conquering heroes.  He'd counted
on that being the  case, but it still  troubled him: fighters tended  to dislike
sorcerers, class to class.

If there was  one exception, one  person not charmed  and convinced by  Randal's
tricks (including  the materialization  of a  topographical map  of Sanctuary, a
feast fit for the Beysibs in  Kadakithis's palace, and "working capital" to  the
tune of five thousand Rankan soldats), it was Zip.

Marc knew it, and Sync knew it.

When the meeting was over. Marc delayed  Zip's exit so that Sync could close  in
on the youth.

Sync detoured only long  enough to ask Strat,  in an undertone, "Still  got your
soul, buddy?" and receive a curt nod in reply before he took the rebel leader by
the  elbow  and  suggested they  go  to  the Vulgar  Unicorn  for  a "drink  and
whatever."

To Sync's relief. Zip agreed, saying: "If we're going to do this, we'd better do
it right."

"What's 'right'?" Sync asked, not understanding.

"Right? With  One-Thumb's help,  soldier. Or  are you  afraid of Nisibisi magic?
It's  not  like  your  little baby  wizard's,  up  there."  He indicated  Randal
disrespectfully.

"Magic? I'm afraid  of your kind  of magic-a knife  in the back  in the dead  of
night-not theirs," Sync quipped, wondering if this gutterpud wasn't smarter than
he looked:  no Stepson,   no 3rd   Commando, and   especially no  Rankan regular
army officer, wanted anything to do with the Nisibisi witch-caste.

When Sync headed for the trapdoor  with its stairs leading up into  Marc's shop.
Zip's hand closed hard on his arm: "Not  that way, fool. You want to  go to  the
Unicorn, we go through   the tunnels. Smith Street's  under curfew, even if  the
Maze isn't; and, wherever you are these days, two men together rouse  suspicion.
Come on-that is, unless you're afraid of getting those nice boots wet."

Sync didn't  know how  Zip could  find his  way through  that dank  and slippery
darkness. They slogged through sewage, then cleaner water up to their knees,  in
a  phosphorescent green-dark  counter-Maze no  sane fighter  would have  entered
without ropes, torches, chalk, and reinforcements.

Zip seemed right at home; his voice, at least, was relaxed, though Sync couldn't
see his face and was concentrating on holding onto Zip's shoulder, as he'd  been
instructed, trying not to listen to the part of his brain that kept telling  him
he'd regret putting himself at the  mercy of this sewerlord: Zip could  lose him
down here and Sync might never find his way out.

But the guerrilla either hadn't  thought about treachery, or didn't  intend any:
Zip's tone was almost  friendly as he  asked, "Surely you  don't expect this  so
called alliance of yours to hold?" His last word echoed: hold, old. Id, d.

"No,"  Sync  replied,  "but  before  we  start  warring,  we  like  to introduce
ourselves. Anyway, it's good form, and we might pick up a few allies, even if we
can't form a coalition townwide."

"In two weeks,"  Zip said with  jocular bitterness, "there'll  be twice as  many
factions fighting, thanks to  you: army, death squads,  revolutionary idealists,
Beysib bitches, your rangers, ersatz Stepsons, real Stepsons-what's the point?"

"That's the point. It doesn't have to happen that way."

"If everyone  lets you  control it.  The chance  of that  is about  even with me
marrying Roxane and becoming the reigning Nisibisi warlock."

Right about  then. Sync  began to  wonder if  Zip was  really taking  him to the
Vulgar Unicorn. Even the mention of Roxane's name made his skin crawl. He'd  had
quite enough of wizard wars. That was  one of the things Sanctuary had to  offer
as a  winter billet:  enough trouble  to keep  his men  from going stale, and no
uncounterable magic, just the Bey-sibs and the weakling sorcerers of Sanctuary's
third-rate mageguild in a town that was a war-gamer's paradise.

"Roxane's that good a friend of yours, is she?" Sync took a shot in the dark.

"She's that much of a problem-you'll  find out yourself, sooner or later.  She's
one very big reason why I can't hook up with you. Another is, I can't speak  for
everybody- hardly for anybody at all."

"Just the Nisibisi-trained and funded death squads?"

"That's right. Take a left turn here; we're going to start climbing stone steps;
they're slippery; there's fifteen, then a landing, then ten more."

They climbed in the dark. Sync continued his interrogation: "I've heard that you
control  most of  the territory  in Downwind-that  you've held  it against   the
Beysibs and that at this point they've given up trying to take it back."

"Most of the territory? Three blocks? That's  what I've got, all I can hold.  We
don't have drool in the way of arms, or fighters, or anything much but a  little
Nisibisi  support.  I'll  show my  territory  to  you some  time.  You  won't be
impressed."

"I'll be the  judge of that."  Sync had lost  count of the  stairs; he tried  to
mount one and his foot thumped down hard through thin air: they'd made the first
landing. Three  strides, and  they were  climbing again.  With a sinking feeling
that had  nothing to  do with  being  underground  and at  the mercy  of a   boy
guerrilla, Sync asked: "I'd like to meet her, sometime soon-this Roxane. Can you
arrange it?"

"Life too dull for  you? Just can't wait  to lose your soul?  Heard that undeads
have more fun?"

"I'm serious."

"I wish I wasn't. If  you promise me you won't  consider it an act of  war on my
part, I'll hook you up tonight."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate it."

"We'll see about that-maybe you won't be able to appreciate anything, afterward.
Any next of kin you want me to notify? At least tell that baby-mage of yours  to
avenge you?"

Sync chuckled, but he couldn't make  it sound convincing. "Randal's going to  be
introducing himself  to Sanctuary,  this evening.  If Roxane's  really here,  he
won't need to be notified. They've met before."

"Here we are. I'm just going to slide this bolt and then we'll climb up, one  at
a time-I'll go first. And she's really here. Ask One-Thumb."

There was the  sound of wood  grating, then a  square of blinding  light, then a
dark silhouette in its midst as Zip levered himself up.

Following, Sync reflected that though this  wasn't as harmless an alibi as  he'd
expected, at least he'd  be in public, drinking  in the Unicorn when  as many of
the hundred ruling Beysib women as had accepted an invitation to the opening  of
"Randal's Pleasure Palace" uptown became  wax statues in the exhibit  of "Beysib
Culture" which was the prime attraction of the mage's Beysib trap.

                                    *  *  *

This Sync  didn't understand  what he  was getting  himself into.  Zip knew. The
trick was to let the crazy bastard have his way without Zip taking the blame for
what became of the 3rd's commanding officer.

Zip hated officers, armies, authoritarian  types. He also hated Roxane,  when he
dared. But not too often-she was  more dangerous than three 3rd Commando  cadres
and she had him by the jewels.

She'd appreciate Sync, all right, if  Zip could deliver him. He didn't  know why
he felt reluctant to do it. Sync was just another murderer, and the worst  kind:
professional, efficient, charismatic in a  Rankan sort of way. The  less Rankans
in Zip's world, the better. But still, if the Rankans got together and decimated
the Beysibs, there'd be less Rankans for the Nisibisi sympathizers to deal  with
later. Right now, what was  good for the Nisibisi-sponsored Revolution  was good
for Zip.

So he  took some  chances, letting  Sync see  how Zip's  sort got around in town
without  being  noticed, even  showing  him where  you  left your  sewer-reeking
clothes in One-Thumb's wine cellar and where you got fresh ones before you slunk
up the back way and into the  Unicorn crowd through the outhouse entrance as  if
you'd always been there.

One-Thumb wasn't behind the bar; he was probably upstairs with Roxane, or out at
the estate-in which case,  there'd be nothing Zip  could do tonight: you  didn't
take people  to One-Thumb's  uninvited... not  unless you  wanted to  end up dog
meat.

The waitress was one of Zip's people;  two hand signals he could only hope  Sync
didn't see brought him his answer: One-Thumb was in his office upstairs.

Since other things went on upstairs-a bit of whoring and drug-dealing-it was  no
problem for Zip to  go on up, but  the man beside him  was attracting attention:
Sync's sword  was too  service-scarred, his  well-chosen and  nondescript garb a
little too well-chosen and nondescript for the Unicorn denizens not to mark  him
as somebody trying not to look like a soldier.

So there  were too  many eyes  on them  and the  place went  too quiet when they
settled down in a comer. That was another problem with the meres: they  couldn't
stand having  their backs  exposed; if  Sync could  have handled  a table in the
middle of the room,  the break in pattern  would have relaxed the  crowd and Zip
wouldn't have felt like he was on display.

But it was like asking a horse to fly. So they sat in a comer, vacated warily by
a couple of slitpurses who gave  Zip dirty looks for consorting with  the enemy,
and  pretended  nonchalance until  the  girl came  back  with their  ales  and a
message: One-Thumb would meet them around the back.

Just as they were finishing their draughts and checking their purses, Vashanka's
own hell seemed to break loose outside.

The crowd  surged toward  the door,  beyond which  the sky  was sheeting colored
light, then  back again  as the  dreaded Harka  Bey-the Beysib  mercenary women,
assassins in full  dress with their  damn snakes on  their arms-shouldered their
way inside, men-at-arms behind them, and backed everyone up against the walls.

"What the  frog?" Zip  breathed to  Sync as  the women,  who could  kill you  by
spitting  on  you,  if  rumor could  be  believed,  starting  disarming everyone
methodically, then binding their thumbs together behind their backs.

There were ten Bey with crossbows in  the middle of the room; Zip kept  watch on
them under his arms, which were spread above his head like everyone else's.

When Sync didn't respond, Zip whispered,  "Well, Ranger, what now? If this  is a
result of Randal's little 'introduction,' we're standing in an execution coffle:
Bey-sibs don't go after guilty parties, they  just round up a bunch of folks  at
random and slaughter them in the morning. And they don't make it pretty."

Sync shrugged as well as a man can with his hands propped on the wall above  his
head and his feet spread-eagled: "I'm armed and dangerous; how about you?"

"Close enough, friend. I sure don't want my people to see me led like a bull  to
the sacrificial slaughter. And if a  woman kills you, your soul never  finds its
eternal rest."

"I didn't know that," Sync quipped.

"You know it now. Ready? Let's  die with our privates intact-it ain't  that much
to ask."

"Ready," Sync breathed. "On the count of three, we break for the back door."  He
inclined his head to the right. "To make this work, we'll have to have a  couple
of those Beysib bitches, so I'm going  to start counting when they come to  you:
as soon as they  touch you, grab an  arm, jerk it in  and grab the bitch,  get a
choke hold on-"

"Silence!" pealed a deep but assuredly female voice, and the whole place froze.

Zip thought,  at first,  that it  was a  Beysib voice,  but in  its wake came no
venomous bite, no snake's fangs, no crossbow bolt through his spine. And in  the
entire room, nothing so much as moved.

Ducking his  head. Zip  verified what  his ears  told him:  there was a familiar
tread on the  stairs-the  tap, tap,  tap of  Roxane's  heels. And there  was the
rustling of One-Thumb's muscular  thighs  as he descended  the staircase  beside
her, his heavy breathing, and her soft low laugh.

These things could be heard  so clearly because, throughout the  Vulgar Unicorn,
everything else was motionless: the Beysibs stood with mouths agape and  weapons
at ready, but their eyes were glazed.

Customers in mid-cower were entranced between blinks; tears glittered unshed  in
serving wenches' eyes.

Only Sync and Zip, of the entire ground-floor crowd, were unaffected by Roxane's
spell.

And Sync was  already pushing  away from  the wall,  his sword  drawn and a half
dozen Bandaran throwing-stars in his left hand. "Pork-all! What's going on here?
Who the pork is she? What's happening?"

Zip straightened up.  "Thanks, Roxane. That  could have been  dicey." Her beauty
didn't affect  him as  it once  had- her  sanguine skin  and drowning-pool  eyes
couldn't tempt him; but he couldn't let Sync see that fear had replaced the lust
he'd once felt for Roxane. Summoning all his bravado, he continued: "This here's
Sync; he wanted to meet you, and One-Thumb too. He wants to join the Revolution.
Isn't that right. Sync?"

"Right, right as rain." Sync was just a little bit intimidated, Zip thought. But
he'd seen Roxane spellbind  a man before, and  he knew that Sync  wasn't immune:
the ranger's eyes never left hers.

Well, Zip thought, he asked for it. Maybe we will be allies, after all.

Then Roxane came up, taking both their hands, saying: "Come, gentlemen. I  don't
want to hold  this rabble entranced  forever.  One-Thumb and  I  will take   you
upstairs,  and we'll  let this  slaughter recommence." She licked her  lips: she
lived on  fear,  death,  and suffering;   she was  probably  having a  feast  on
some psychic  plane, just  observing the  Beysib about their vicious work.

For Sync and Zip, it was a lucky break: she wouldn't feel like teaching them any
of her more difficult lessons, Zip was willing-to bet-not tonight.

"Zip,  my  dear  little  monster, you've  outdone  yourself  this  evening." She
caressed his face; above her shoulder  One-Thumb's eyes met his with what  might
have been sympathy.

"This?" Zip gestured around, to the Bey and their hapless prey. "I didn't  cause
this. He did." Zip gestured to Sync. "He's got a mage on staff, and they  worked
up a little surprise for the Bey hierarchy, across town. This, I'll bet, is  the
Beysib reaction-or maybe just the beginning of it."

"It is, it is, indeed, just the beginning." Roxane was inebriated with  whatever
carnage  her soul-sucking  talents had  been treated  to this  evening. "A  half
dozen,  no less,  of the  high-ranking Bey  bitches are  dead, turned  to  waxen
statues in  a Tysian  mage's museum."  She smiled.  "And these  sheep," her hand
encompassed the room, "soon will be dying the slow and horrible death of  Beysib
retribution."

She caressed Sync's hand, the one with the stars in it; he looked at her like  a
starving  man at  a laden  feast-day table.  "And," she  continued, "since   Zip
assures me I've you and yours to thank, we'll have a long talk about our  mutual
future-I'm quite certain. Sync of the  Rankan 3rd Commando, that we're going  to
have one.  I may  even give  you Randal's  life, a  gesture of  appreciation, an
indication that we can and will work well together, an introductory gift from me
to you."

As if from a dream. Sync roused:  "Right. That's very good of you, my  lady. I'm
yours to command."

"I'm sure you are," Roxane agreed.

Zip knew Sync didn't realize how true what he'd said was likely to be. Not  yet,
he didn't.

"Would you  mind," Sync  asked Roxane  as they  moved among  the frozen  and the
doomed, "if I slit these  Beysibs' throats on our way  out? It's as fair as  the
chance the Bey will  give these innocents, if  I don't." The big  soldier's eyes
sought Zip's.

Zip said, "It'll give the Revolution credibility."

Roxane paused, pouted, then brightened:  "Be my guest. Fillet fish-folk  to your
heart's content."

Behind her, One-Thumb muttered something about "the right slime for the job."

It didn't take  long to slay  the unknowing Beysibs.  Zip helped Sync  while the
witch and One-Thumb looked on.

When they were  done, they wrote  the initials of  Zip's "Popular Front  for the
Liberation of Sanctuary" on the walls of the Vulgar Unicorn in Beysib blood.

By tomorrow, the PFLS's latest kill would be on everybody's lips.

Not bad. Zip thought to himself-not bad at all, for a start.

Then Roxane led the way up the  Unicorn's stairs and through a door that  had no
right to open into the witching room of her Foalside hold, a lot farther than  a
few steps away from One-Thumb's bar in the Maze.

                                    *  *  *

Three days had passed since the revolutionaries calling themselves the PFLS  had
slaughtered too many Beysibs in the Vulgar Unicorn.

Sanctuarites were just daring to go abroad again, pale and haggard from fear and
disgust. First the cutthroats and the drunkards, then the vendors and the whores
returned to the streets. Then, when  it was clear that no Beysib  squadrons were
waiting to swoop  down and scoop  them up, others  ventured forth, and  the town
returned  to what  had become  normal: business  as usual,  with the  occasional
pitched battle on a streetcomer or sniper in some shanty's eaves.

Hakiem was down on  Wideway, selling what tales  he could on the  dock. Pickings
were slim because of his new apprentice, Kama, whose uncannily polished tale  of
the brave revolutionaries triumphing over  the dreaded Harka Bey in  the Unicorn
drew endless crowds  of thrill-seekers, while  his own yams  of giant crabs  and
purple spiders weren't dangerous enough, or newsworthy enough, to compete  these
days.

Hakiem told himself he didn't really  have reason to be piqued: he'd  been given
money enough at the  secret meeting beneath Marc's  shop to cover twice  what he
might be losing.

And Kama, sensitive in her way, dutifully gave him half of all she made.

So Hakiem was watching, paring a bunion where he sat on a splintered keg,  while
Kama pleased her listeners, when a dark  tall youth with a week-old beard and  a
black sweat-band tied around his head eased toward Kama through the crowd.

It was Zip, and Hakiem wasn't the only one who marked him: Gayle, a foul-mouthed
mercenary  who'd joined  the Stepsons  in the  north, was  lounging between  two
pilings, as some Stepson always did when Kama was on the streets.

Hakiem saw Kama pale as the  scruffy, flat-faced Ilsig caught her eye.  She lost
her train  of thought,  polished phrases  turned to  incoherent clauses, and she
skipped to her  story's ending so  abruptly her gathered  clients muttered among
themselves.

"That's all, townsfolk-all  for today. I've  got to leave  you-nature calls. And
since you haven't  had your money's  worth, this telling's  on the house."  Kama
jumped down from the  crates on which she'd  sat, ignoring the rebel  leader and
heading straight for Hakiem, her hand nervously pulling hair back from her brow.

The youth followed. And so, at professional stalking distance, did the  Stepson,
Gayle.

"Hakiem," Kama whispered, "is he still there? Is he coming?"

"He?  They're both  coming, girl.  And what  of it?  That's no  way to  build  a
reputation, cutting  half your  story out  and giving  refunds before  anybody's
asked...."

"You don't understand...  Sync's gone missing.  The last we  saw of him,  he was
with that gutterslime,  the one from  the meeting-Zip." As  she spoke, Kama  was
tearing open her gearbag, in which metal clanked: this woman never went far from
her squadron without her cache of arms.

And up behind her, as she bent over  her sack, came Zip, who grabbed her with  a
crooked elbow around her throat and pulled her back against some bales of  cloth
before Hakiem could shout  a warning or the  Stepson, lurking at an  appropriate
distance, could intercede in her behalf.

"Don't move,  lady," Zip  said harshly  through gritted  teeth. "Just  call your
watchdog off."

Kama gagged and struggled.

Gayle took a half-dozen running strides, then halted, frowning, sword drawn  but
fists upon his hips.

Zip did something  to Kama that  made her writhe,  then stand up  very straight.
"Tell him," he said, "to back off. I just want to give your bedmates a  message.
Tell him!"

"Gayle!" Kama's  voice was  thick, gutteral;  her chin,  in the  crook of  Zip's
muscular arm, quivered. "You heard him. Stand down."

The Stepson, uttering a stream of profanity built around a single word, hunkered
down, his sword across his knees.

"That's  better,"  Zip whispered.  "Now,  listen close.  You  too, tale-spinner:
Roxane's got Sync. He  asked me to set  up a meeting, and  I did that. But  what
happened after- that's no fault  of mine. It might not  be too late to save  his
soul, if any of you care."

"Where?" Kama croaked. "Where has she got him?"

"Down by the White  Foal-she's got a place  there, south of Ischade's.  The vets
will know where it is. But you tell  'em I told you-that it's not my fault.  And
that if they  don't get to  him fast, it'll  be too late.  Hit the place  in the
daytime-there's no  undeads around  then, just  some watchmen  and a few snakes.
Understand, lady?"

Again, he tightened  his arm and  Kama's head snapped  back. Then he  pushed her
from him and jumped high, grabbed the rope on the bales behind him, swung up and
over, and was gone, as far as Hakiem could tell.

Hakiem reached Kama first, coughing and trembling on the dockside. He was trying
to get her  up, while she  shrugged off his  aid and tried  to catch her breath,
when he realized that the Stepson, Gayle, wasn't helping him.

Hakiem  looked around  just in  time to  see Gayle  vault the  bales after  Zip,
throwing-stars in hand, and let fly.

Kama saw  it too,  and screamed  brokenly: "No!  Gayle, no!  He's trying to help
us...!"

"Pork help!" Gayle called back, just before he disappeared. "I hit him. He won't
get  far-and  if  he  does,  the porker's  done  for,  anyhow."  Then  Gayle too
disappeared.

"Done for?" Hakiem repeated dumbly. "What does he mean, Kama?"

"The stars." Kama got to her  knees, her lips puffy, her expression  unreadable.
When she saw that Hakiem didn't understand, she added: "Those stars are what the
Bandarans  call 'blossoms.'  They're painted  with poison."  And, hands  on  her
knees, bent over, she retched.

Hakiem was still digesting all of that when Kama straightened up, took a handful
of sharp-edged metal from her bag, and started climbing the bales.

"Where are you going, woman? What about the message?"

"Message?" Kama looked  down at him  from atop the  bales. "Right. Message.  You
take it-tell Strat. He'll know what to do."

"But-"

"Don't 'but' me, old man.  That boy's dead if I  can't rein Gayle in and  get to
him in time. We don't kill those who help us."

Like a doused flame, she was gone.

Strat  would  rather have  been  anywhere else  than  in the  brush  surrounding
Roxane's Foalside haunt. He'd had experience with the Nisibisi witch before.

If  he hadn't  known that  Hakiem was  trustworthy, that  Kama had  disappeared,
chasing after the street tough who'd  brought the message, and that the  success
of the Stepson/3rd Commando mission into Sanctuary hinged on proving that Roxane
couldn't send them running with their tails between their legs, he'd have passed
on this particular frontal assault.

As it was, he had no choice.

And he had a good chance of succeeding: he'd asked Ischade to come alone-she had
her own bones to pick  with Roxane; he'd requisitioned enough  incendiaries from
Marc's illicit store to send all of Sanctuary up in flames. And his men knew how
to use  them. The  trick was  getting Sync  out of  there before  firing up  the
witchy-roast.

Randal, their Tysian  wizard, was sneaking  around in mongoose  form, right now,
taking care of Roxane's snakes and reconnoitering the premises.

When they saw a hawk fly over, right to left, they'd light the  horseshoe-shaped
fire they'd prepared  and rush the  place: twenty mounted  fighters ought to  be
able to do the job.

The horses  were hooded,  their blinders  soaked with  soda water.  The men  had
bladders of it on their saddles, to wet bandanas if the smoke got too thick.

Ischade was still beside him, in a meditative pose, whatever magic she was going
to field unrevealed.

She just waited, tiny and delicate and too pale in the light of day, her  claret
robe pulled tight about her like a child in her mother's clothes.

"You can  still walk  away from  this," Strat  assured her  with a  gallantry he
didn't really feel. "It's not your fight."

"Is it not? It's yours, then?" Up rose Ischade, and suddenly she was terrifying,
not small any longer, not the petite, sensual creature he'd brought here.

Her eyes were hellish and growing so large he thought he might be sucked  inside
them; he recalled their first encounter,  long ago, on a dark slum  street, when
he'd been with Crit and they'd seen those eyes floating over a teenage corpse.

He found he couldn't answer; he just shook his head.

The power  that was  Ischade bared  its teeth  at him,  the kill-fervor there as
sharp as any Stepson's-or any night-mad wolf's. "I'll bring you your man. All of
this"-Ischade spread a robed  arm, and it was  as if night split  the day- "that
you do is unnecessary. She owes me a person, and more. Wait here, you, and  soon
you'll see."

"Sure thing, Ischade."  Strat found himself  squatting down, digging  in the sod
with his brush-cutting knife. "I'll be right here."

He must have blinked,  or looked away, or  something- the next he  knew, she was
gone, and a hawk's baby-cry resounded overhead, and men set their fires and  ran
for their horses.

Vaulting up on his  bay, he wondered if  Ischade was right-if he  didn't need to
risk all this manpower, if magic- hers and Randal's-alone could win the day.

He didn't like to think  that way; he was used  to letting Crit do his  tactical
thinking for him;  in times like  this, a man  who was half  a Sacred Band  pair
sorely missed his partner.

And so, thinking more  about who was absent  than who was present,  he urged his
horse into a lope and sought  the firegate, not realizing until a  shape hovered
in  midair beside  him that  Randal, on  a cloud-effigy  of a  horse, had  drawn
alongside.

"In  her witching  room, he  is!" Randal  shouted, his  face white  beneath  its
blanket of freckles. "And  he's yet salvageable, if  we can get him  out. But it
won't be easy- he's totally entranced. I couldn't rouse him in my mongoose form.
I'll seek my power globe  now and do my best.  Fare well, Straton! May the  Writ
protect us all!"

And his nonhorse thundered away on unhooves.

Craziest damn way  to run a  war! Strat had  come back to  Sanctuary to get away
from just this sort of thing.

The firewall, around him hot and snapping, gave matters the immediacy of battle,
the plain-and-simple truth of life and death.

The fire was just a little out of control, and his horse had to leap hot flames.
Within, sod  was beginning  to smoke  and combust,  sparks flew,  men yelled and
squirted water  on themselves  and their  mounts as  they let  fly with  flaming
arrows and urged skittish horses toward Roxane's front door.

Strat's plan was to ride roughshod  right into Roxane's house, snatch Sync,  and
get out before she could bewitch them.

It wasn't a plan such as his partner  might have made, and he was aware that  he
might rescue one soldier only to lose another-or others-to Roxane, but he had to
do something.

Just as  he'd finally  convinced his  horse of  this, and  was ready to lead his
reformed group  up her  smoking stairs,  an apparition  appeared in the doorway:
Ischade stood  there, with  Sync, his  arm over  her shoulder,  and they  walked
calmly out onto the veranda and down the steps, onto a lawn spurting sparks  and
young flames.

Men whooped and raced  toward her. Sync, beside  her, looked around calmly,  his
brow knitted as if a slightly amusing problem had him distracted.

Strat, wondering if he  was dreaming-if it could  really be this easy-got  there
fast, and with Ischade's help pulled Sync up behind him on the horse.

The fire was loud, and hot, and the horses and men milling around them made talk
nearly impossible. But Strat bellowed to the man next to him: "Put her up before
you. Let's get out of here!"

The Stepson's mouth formed the word: "Who?"

Strat looked back down, and  Ischade was gone. So he gave the signal to end  the
sack, and with Sync holding tight  to  his waist, aimed his sweating horse at  a
narrowing portal in the flames.

In the thick of Downwind, it was nearly dusk, but the flames from the  southeast
made a second sunset which wouldn't die.

Zip was in a  twilight all his own,  stumbling from sewer to  alley to dungheap,
one hand against his bleeding side, nearly doubled over from the pain.

He'd been stabbed  before, beaten often,  starved and fevered  in the course  of
life, but never so close to death as this.

He'd pulled the barbed missile out; he didn't understand why it hurt worse  now,
not less.

He  was  sick  to  his  stomach  and  only  intermittently  did  he  recall  his
determination to get home. Home to his own safe haven, or home to Mama  Becho's,
where someone would tend him, home to... anywhere where he could lie down, where
the Beysibs or the Stepsons or the 3rd Commando or the army wouldn't find him.

He was sweating and he  was thirsty and he was  nauseated. There was a red  film
before his eyes that made it hard to tell which comer he was on.

If he was lost in  Downwind, he was nearly dead:  he knew those streets like  he
knew the  tunnels, the  sewers... the  sewers. If  he could  find a rat-hole, he
could curl up in one;  he didn't want to die  in public. That thought, and  that
alone, kept him on  his feet just long  enough for him to  stumble into Ratfall,
where people knew him.

He heard his name called,  but he was down on  his knees by then, with  his head
between them. The only thing he could do was curl up before he passed out.

When he woke he was under blankets; there was a cool cloth on his head.

When he could he reached up and grabbed the hand there, held tight to  someone's
wrist.

He opened his eyes, and a face swam, unrecognizable above him. A voice from that
direction said, "Don't try  to talk. The worst  is over. You'll be  all right if
you just drink this."

Something was pushed between his lips-hard like clay or metal; it grated on  his
teeth. Then his head  was raised by another's  will and liquid spilled  down his
throat.

He choked, sputtered, then remembered  how to swallow. When he  couldn't swallow
more, someone wiped his lips and then his chin.

"Good, good boy," he heard. Then he  slept a sleep in which his side  burned and
flamed and he  kept trying to  put the fire  out, but it  kept starting up  from
ashes, and his body walked away from him, leaving him invisible and lonely on  a
deserted Downwind street.

When he woke again, he smelled something: chicken.

He opened his eyes, and  the room didn't spin. He  tried to sit up, and  then it
did.

Voices mumbled just beyond  earshot, and then a  form bent over him.  Long black
hair brushed his cheek.

"That's a good one; here you go, drink this," said a blurry face.

He did, and well-being surged through  him. Then his vision cleared, and  he saw
whose face it was: the lady fighter, Kama of the 3rd Commando, was tending  him.
Behind her,  the soldier-mage  Randal craned  his swanlike  neck and  rubbed his
hands.

"Better, you're right, Kama," said  the mage judiciously, and then:  "I'll leave
you. If you need me, I'll be right outside."

As the door closed and he was alone with his enemy, Zip tried to push himself up
on his arms. He didn't have the strength. He wanted to run, but he couldn't even
raise his head. He'd heard all about Straton's skill at interrogation. He'd have
been better off dead in the street than being alive and at the mercy of such  as
these.

She sat on the bed next to him and took his hand.

He tensed, thinking:  Now it will  begin. Torture. Drugs.  They've saved me  one
death to offer me another.

She said, "I've wanted  to do this ever  since I first saw  you." Leaning close,
she kissed him on the lips.

When she sat up straight, she smiled.

He didn't have the energy to ask her  what she had in mind for him, or  what the
kiss was meant to mean; he couldn't find his voice.

But she said: "It was a mistake. Gayle didn't understand what you were trying to
do. We're all sorry. You just relax and get better. We'll take care of you. I'll
take care of you. If you can hear me, blink."

He blinked. If Kama of the 3rd Commando wanted to take care of him, he wasn't in
any condition to argue.

DAUGHTER OF THE SUN

Robin W. Bailey

"Did you miss me?"

Kadakithis whirled away from his window at the sound of that voice and stared in
mute  disbelief  at  the young  woman  in  his doorway.  She  moved  through his
apartment toward  him, aswirl  in a  summer cloud  of dazzling  white silks  and
shimmering sun-drenched hair. Smiling, she reached out to embrace him.

"Cousin!" They squeezed each other  until they were breathless, then  the Prince
held her back at arm's length  and laughed. "Gods, how yor've changed!"  He made
her turn while he rubbed  his chin with mock-seriousness. "Chenaya,  favorite of
favorites, you were lovely even before I left Ranke, but you've grown positively
exquisite." His fingers traced a  thin, pale scar barely noticeable  against the
deep bronze of her left forearm. "Still playing rough, I see."

He  clucked  his  tongue  chidingly  and sighed.  "But  what  are  you  doing in
Sanctuary, cousin? Did your father come with you?"

It was Chenaya's turn to laugh, and the sound rolled silver-sweet in her throat.
"Still my Little Prince," she managed finally, patting his head as if he were  a
puppy in her lap. "Impetuous and impatient as ever. So many questions!"

"Not so  little anymore,  my dear,"  he answered,  patting her  head in the same
condescending manner. "I'm taller than you now."

"Not by  so very  much." She  spun away,  her gown  billowing with the movement.
"Perhaps we should wrestle to see if it makes any difference?" She regarded  him
from across the room, her head tilting slightly when he didn't reply. A  silence
grew between  them as  he studied  her, brief  but suddenly  more than she could
bear. She crossed the apartment again  in swift strides and seized his  hands in
hers. "It's so very good to see you, my Little Prince."

Their arms slipped about each other, and they embraced again. But this time  his
touch was different,  distant. She backed  off, slipping gently  from his grasp,
and gazed  up at  his face,  at the  eyes that  suddenly colored  with tints  of
sadness, or something just as disturbing.

Could he know the news from the capital?

"I smelled a  garden when I  entered the grounds,"  she said, tugging  his hand,
urging him toward the door. It struck her now how dark his quarters seemed,  how
sparse and empty of warmth or light. "Let's go for a walk. The sun is bright and
beautiful."

Kadakithis started to follow, then hesitated. His gaze fixed on something beyond
her shoulder; his  hand in hers  turned cold, stiff  with tension. She  felt his
trembling. Slowly, she turned to see what affected him so.

Four men, guards  apparently, stood just  beyond his threshold.  She had noticed
several like them as she passed through the palace-strange, blank-eyed men of  a
racial type unknown to her. She'd been so eager to see her cousin, she had  paid
little attention. She'd  assumed them to  be mercenaries or  hirelings. She took
note of their  garb and the  weapons they wore,  and hid a  private smirk. A man
would  have to  be good  with his  steel to  dress in  such a  tasteless,  gaudy
fashion.

One of  the four  clapped the  haft of  a pike  on the  floor stones, needlessly
announcing their presence.  "The Beysa requests  that Your Highness  join her on
the West Terrace." Then, Chenaya's confusion gave way to a flush of anger as the
guard looked directly at her and added  with more than a hint of insolence,  "At
once."

Kadakithis carefully slipped his hand from  hers and swallowed. With a shrug  of
resignation he drew himself up and the tension appeared to melt from him. "Where
are you staying,  cousin? There are  quarters in the  Summer Palace if  you need
them. And I must prepare a party to celebrate your arrival; I know how you  love
parties." He shot the guard commander a haughty glance as he lingered over  this
small talk, but he took a first step toward the door.

His expression begged her  indulgence; more, it warned  her to it. She  watched,
brows wrinkling, as he moved away  from her. "My father has purchased  an estate
just beyond your Avenue of Temples. The lands reach all the way to the Red  Foal
River. The papers are being finalized at this very moment." She pushed the small
talk, forcing  the Prince  to defer  his exit,  studying with  a subtle  eye the
guards' minute reactions. Whoever this Beysa was, these were certainly her  men.
And who was she, indeed, to command  sentries within a palace of a Rankan  royal
governor?

The Prince nodded, drifting  farther away. "Good land  can be had cheaply  these
days," he observed. "How is Lowan Vigeles?"

"Loyal as ever," she said pointedly. What the hell is going on? was the  message
her expression conveyed. Are you in trouble? "Though somewhat tired. We made the
journey  with  only  eight  servants.  Protectors,  really.  Gladiators  from my
father's school. I handpicked them myself."

Kadakithis pursed his lips  ever so slightly to  acknowledge her offer. If  they
were from Lowan's school, better fighters could not be found, and she had placed
them at his service. "Go home and  give Lowan my well-wishes. I'll need time  to
plan your party, but I'll send you a message." He turned to join the four guards
who barely hid their impatience or their indignation at being made to wait.  But
he stopped once more. "Oh, have you seen Molin, yet?"

She frowned, then put on a very wide, very forced smile. "I wanted to delay that
unpleasantry and visit a friend first."

The smile that spread  on the Prince's face  was genuine; she'd learned  to read
his moods in early childhood. "Don't be so hard on the old priest. He's been   a
great comfort  to me, always  full  of"-he hesitated,  and a twinkle sparked  in
his eyes-"advice."

"Maybe I'll see  him," she agreed,  running her hands  over her bare  shoulders,
down her arms, feeling somewhat naked  and alone as Kadakithis went through  the
door and out of the apartments.

Two of the fish-eyed sentries remained. "Would you accompany us, please."

Polite words, but she sensed there was  no courtesy in them. She shook back  her
hair, batted her lashes, lifted her  nose to a neck-straining angle, and  walked
over the threshold into the corridor. She was very careful to step on their toes
as she passed between them.

Chenaya held her anger in a clenched fist behind her back and regarded the tall,
fair-skinned  woman  who addressed  her.  Obviously a  foreigner  like the  four
guards, she thought, but from what god-cursed land? Painted breasts, indeed! Was
that really some  kind of webbing  between those bare  toes? Why, she  must be a
freak! The woman  would be laughed  out of any  court in Ranke,  if only for her
garish costume.

Yet, she was also  the Beysa, whatever that  was, and the guards  had bowed when
they had presented Chenaya.

The Beysa moved about a room that had to be part of her private apartments. With
a short clap of her hands, she  dismissed guards and servants all. Only the  two
of them remained facing each other.

"What did you want with Kadakithis?" the Beysa probed, moving to a chair in  the
center of the  room. Chenaya suspected  it had been  placed there for  just this
audience. The foreign woman sprawled there, making a show of appearing at ease.

Chenaya answered  slowly, containing  herself. There  was much  to learn here, a
secret she  had not  known when  she had  come to  this city.  Now she  began to
suspect why no word had come to Ranke from Sanctuary in some months.

"The world is a vain collection of private pursuits," she responded vaguely. "By
what right do you issue commands in a Rankan governor's palace, or in  violation
of Rankan law, dare to maintain a personal guard within these walls?"

The Beysa's gaze hardened, fixed on  her with a subtle ^ menace.  Chenaya lifted
her chin and hurled the same cold glare back at the foreign bitch.

"I am not  accustomed to rudeness.  I could have  your tongue ripped  out by the
root." The Beysa straightened in her chair; the carefully manicured nails of one
hand began to tap idly on the chair's carven arm.

Chenaya arched  a brow.  "You could  try," she  answered evenly.  "But I  rather
suspect I'd be holding both those marbles  you call eyes in the palm of  my hand
before your guards could answer your summons."

The Beysa stared, but Chenaya could  read nothing in those strange eyes.  Only a
slight  twitch  of  the  mouth and  those  tapping  nails  betrayed the  woman's
irritation.

The Beysa spoke  again after a  long, uncomfortable silence.  Her tone was  more
conciliatory this time. "Perhaps you are not so accustomed to rudeness,  either.
The regular  gate guard  who admitted  you to  the grounds  claimed you bore the
Imperial Rankan Seal. How is it you have such a thing in your possession?"

Chenaya felt the sigil she wore on her right hand and twisted it. Each member of
the Imperial family owned  a similar ring by  right. Even a Rankan  peasant knew
that, but she was disinclined to explain it to this woman. Instead, she  glanced
around the chamber, finely furnished but less lavish than her own in Ranke,  and
spied a  wine vessel  and small  chalices on  a side  table. She  crossed to it,
purposefully ignoring  the Beysa,  poured a  dollop and  sipped, not offering to
serve. It  was sweet  liquor, unlike  any she  had-tasted; she  wondered if  the
foreigner had brought it from her own land.

"You are a very rude young woman," her hostess said.

"So are you," Chenaya shot back over  the rim of her cup, adding the  lie, "only
you're not so young."

The Beysa's  brow crinkled;  a delicate-seeming  fist smacked  on the chair arm.
"Very well, let me be blunt and trade rudeness for rudeness." She rose from  her
chair, her face clouding over, her finger out-thrust in anger. "Do not come here
again. Stay away from Kadakithis. I cannot make myself plainer."

Chenaya nearly dropped the chalice in surprise. Her own cool fury dissolved. She
drifted back to the center of the room, the meekest grin blossoming on her lips.
Then, unable to restrain herself, she laughed.

"Damn! By the bright lights of the gods, you're in love with my Little  Prince!"
she accused when she could get her breath again.

The Beysa stiffened. "Kadakithis loves me. I know this, though he says  nothing.
Mere  days  after  our  eyes  first  met he  sent  his  wife  away  and  all his
concubines."

Chenaya felt her brows  knit closer. She had  not liked Kadakithis's bride;  the
frail little thing whined  far too much. Yet,  her cousin had seemed  devoted to
her. "Sent his wife where?" she persisted.

"How should I know?" the Beysa answered, mocking. "Haven't you reminded me  that
Rankan business is for Ran-kans?"

Chenaya studied again those weird brown eyes, the thin pale hair that reached to
the waist  and lower,  the finely  boned hands  and ivory  skin. The  Beysa was,
perhaps, only slightly  older than she.  Yet, she gave  some impression of  age.
"You're pretty enough," Chenaya admitted grudgingly. "Maybe, by some god's whim,
you have bewitched him."

"Yet, mine is the beauty  of the moon, while you  shine like the very sun,"  the
Beysa answered harshly, making what could  have been a compliment sound like  an
insult. "I know the ways of men, Rankan, and I know of temptation."

Amazed, Chenaya reassured her. "There is  no need for your jealousy. The  Prince
is my cousin."

But the fish-eyed woman would not be calmed. She answered coldly, "Blood has  no
bearing on passion. In many lands such a relationship is not only condoned,  but
encouraged. I  do not  know your  customs, yet.  But the  thinner the blood, the
easier the passion.  Cousins you may  be, but let  us not put  temptation in his
way. Or there will be trouble between us."

Chenaya clenched her fists; scarlet heat rushed into her cheeks. "On Rankan soil
I come and go as I please," she answered low-voiced, moving closer until only an
arm's length separated them. Then, she turned the chalice and slowly poured  the
remainder of her wine on the floor between them. It shone thick and rich on  the
luxurious  white  tiles, red  as  blood. "And  no  one orders  me."  Her fingers
tightened about the gold chalice as she held it under the Beysa's nose. The gold
began  to give  and bend  as she  squeezed; then  it collapsed  under her   easy
exertion.

Chenaya cast the cup aside and waited for its clattering to cease. She no longer
bothered to contain her fury; it found  a natural vent in her speech. "Now,  you
understand me, you  highborn slut. You  think you're running  things around here
right now. That doesn't matter a bird's turd to me. If Kadakithis has  developed
a taste for painted tits, that's between you and him." She raised a finger,  and
a  small, threatening  little smile  stole over  her mouth.  "But if  I find  he
doesn't approve of  your residence or  your highhanded attitude,  if he's not  a
fully agreeable party to your  presence in his city"-the little  smile blossomed
into a grin of malicious promise-"then I  swear by my Rankan gods I'll hook  you
and scale you and clean your insides like any other fish sold in the market."

The Beysa's only response was an icy, unblinking stare. Then, a tiny green snake
crawled up  from the  folds of  her skirt  and coiled  around her  wrist like an
emerald bracelet. Eyes of vermilion fire fastened on Chenaya. A bare sliver of a
tongue flicked between serpentine  lips. It hissed, revealing  translucent fangs
that glistened with venom.

"Quite a pet," Chenaya  commented, undaunted. She stepped  away then and drew  a
slow breath, willing her anger to abate. "Look," she said. "I've no great desire
to make an enemy of you. I don't even know you. If you care for Kadakithis, then
you have my  good will. But  if you're using  him, watch out  for yourself." She
drew another slow breath and sighed. "I'm  leaving now. I'm so glad we had  this
little talk."

She turned  her back  on the  Beysa and  strode from  the apartment.  The guards
waited  in the  hall beyond  and escorted  her through  the palace,  across  the
grounds, and to the main gate.  Her litter and four immense and  heavily muscled
men clad  only in  sandals, crimson  loincloths, and  the broad,  carved leather
belts that were the fashion of Rankan gladiators waited just beyond.

"Dayme!" she hailed the largest of  the four. "Come see the fish-eyes  they hire
for guards around here!"

Coming to his mistress's side, Dayme laid  a hand on the pommel of his  sword. A
nasty grin, not unlike the one Chenaya wore, twisted the comers of his lips.  He
towered head-and-shoulders above  the tallest of  the Beysa's men.  "Not much to
them, is there. Lady?"

Chenaya patted the closest Beysib on the shoulder before she stepped through the
concealing silks of her conveyance. "But they're very sweet," she replied.

"Shupansea!" Molin  Torchholder raged.  His normally  reserved and  passive face
reddened, and he shook- a fist at his niece. "She rules the Beysib people.  When
will you ever learn to hold your cursed tongue, girl?"

Chenaya muttered an oath. Her father had brought Molin home after concluding the
purchase of the estate,  and she'd made the  mistake of mentioning her  exchange
with the Beysa. She hadn't had a  moment's peace in the past hour. Not  even the
sanctity of her dressing room gave  her reprieve as he followed her  through the
house, questioning, berating.

She gave him a blistering glare. If  the old priest had the balls to  invade her
chambers, he was going to get an eyeful. She ripped the silken garments from her
body with an angry wrench and cast them at his feet.

Molin sputtered and kicked the shredded clothing aside, ignoring her bare flesh.
"Damn everything, you spoiled brat!" He grabbed her arm and spun her around when
she started to turn away. "You're not  in Ranke anymore. You can't lord it  over
people as you once did. There are different political realities here!"

"Brother," Lowan Vigeles  spoke from the  threshold, "you are  in my house,  and
you'll speak civilly to my daughter.  And you'd best release her arm  before she
breaks yours."

Molin gave them both a frosty stare, but he abandoned his grip. Chenaya  flashed
a false smile and  moved to one of  many chests pushed against  the walls. There
had been no time to unpack, but she knew the right one and opened it. She pulled
out a bundle of garments, finely sewn fighting leathers, and began to dress.

"Brother," Molin began again in a more moderate tone. "Niece. I beg you to trust
my judgment  in these  matters. You're  very new  to the  ways of Sanctuary." He
folded his arms  and made a  show of pacing  about the room.  "Your news of  the
Emperor's murder is terrible, indeed."

"The  entire  royal family,"  Lowan  Vigeles reminded,  "at  least those  within
Theron's reach. Chenaya  and I barely  escaped, and they  may hunt us  here. You
too. Brother."

Molin frowned; then  the frown vanished.  "That's why we  need the Beysib.  They
will protect Kadakithis. They are  completely loyal to Shupansea, and  she seems
to dote on the Prince these days."

Chenaya shot her father  a look; a barely  perceptible nod of his  head silenced
her.  "What about  the 3rd  Commando?" Lowan  insisted carefully.  "They  placed
Theron on Ranke's throne, and they know Kadakithis is the legitimate claimant to
that throne. Did  Theron truly exile  them, or are  they here to  commit another
murder?"

Molin frowned again  and rubbed his  hands. "I know  nothing about them,  except
that they were originally formed by Tempus Thales when he served the Emperor."

Chenaya stomped into a boot. "Tempus!" she spat. "That butcher!"

Molin Torchholder raised an eyebrow. "How many have you slain in the arena since
I've been gone, child? For Tempus Thales, death is a matter of war or duty."  He
looked down his nose at her. "For you, it is a game."

"A game that fattened your own purse," she shot back. "Do you think I don't know
about the bets you placed on me?"

He chose to ignore that and  turned to her father, extending his  hands. "Lowan,
trust me. Kadakithis  mustn't leam about  his brother's death.  You know what  a
young, idealistic  fool he  is. He  would ride  straight to  Ranke to  claim his
throne, and Theron  would cut him  down like late  wheat." He turned  to Chenaya
now, genuine pleading in his voice. "Better to keep him here, safe in Sanctuary,
until we can formulate a plan that will give him his birthright."

With every word that fled his mouth, Chenaya remembered the small green  serpent
the beynit her uncle called it-that  wound about the Beysa's wrist. Molin  was a
snake; she  knew  that from  long  experience. He  did  not hiss  so   horribly,
and  he concealed his  fangs, but nonetheless, she   felt him trying to  tighten
his  coils about her.

"Uncle," she breathed, struggling with the  other boot, "you make a big  mistake
to assume me such a fool. I know my Little Prince far better than you will  ever
know him. I did not go to the  palace to tell him of events in the  capital, but
to see a friend I've missed." She  stood up and began to buckle the  straps that
were more decoration to her costume than utilitarian. "And to get a feel for the
grounds and the palace  itself. I plan to  spend some time there.  Your precious
Beysib will not be the only protection  Kadakithis has to count on." She took  a
sword from the chest, a beautifully Grafted weapon, gold-hiked with tangs carved
like the wings of a  great bird and a pommel  stone gripped in a bird's  talons.
She fastened its belt so it rode low on her hip. Lastly, she donned a manica,  a
sleeve of leather and metal rings favored by arena fighters; a strap across  her
chest held it in place. "Theron will never reach him; I promise you that."

"My niece is  confused about her  sex," Molin sneered.  "Can a common  gladiator
guard the Prince  better than the  garrison? Or the  Hell-Hounds? Or our  Beysib
allies?"

She shook back her long  blonde curls and set a  circlet of gold on her  brow to
hold the hair from her face. Mounted on the circlet so it rode the center of her
forehead was a golden sunburst, the symbol of the god Savankala. "I am no common
gladiator," she reminded him coldly, "as you well know, old weasel."

Much as  she regretted  ever telling  him, Molin  was the  only man to share the
secret of her  dream and the  rewards given to  her by the  chief of the  Rankan
pantheon. Himself.  But she  was very  young then,  only fourteen,  and could be
forgiven the foolish  confidence. He was  a Rankan priest;  who better  to  tell
about the  dream  and  Savankala's visitation   and the three  wishes he granted
her? Moi . had tested her; he knew the truth of her dream.

She ran  her hands  teasingly over  her breasts,  reminding him  of the first of
those wishes. "Did I not grow into a beauty. Uncle? Truly, Savankala has blessed
me."

She saw her father  frown. To him, her  words were mere boastfulness.  Though he
disapproved,  he was  used to  such from  her. He  leaned his  bulk against  the
doorjamb. "You're going out?" he said, indicating her dress.

"It's nearly dark," she answered. "I'm goings to the temple. Then, there's a lot
to leam about  this city." She  turned that mocking  smile on Molin.  "Wasn't it
you. Uncle, who told me nighttime is best for prying secrets?"

"Certainly not!" he snapped  indignantly. "And if you  go out dressed like  that
you'll find nothing but  trouble. Some of the  elements in this town  would kill
just for those clothes, let alone that fancy sword or that circlet."

She went back to the open chest, produced two sheathed daggers, and thrust  them
through the ornamental straps on her  thigh. "I won't be alone," she  announced.
"I'm taking Reyk."

"Who's Reyk?" Molin asked Lowan Vigeles.  "One of those giants you brought  with
you?"

Lowan just shook his head. "Take care, child," he told his daughter. "The street
is a very different kind of arena."

Chenaya lifted a  hooded cloak from  her chest and  shut the lid.  As she passed
from the room, she raised on tiptoe to peck her father's cheek. She gave nothing
to Molin Torch-holder but her back.

It wasn't sand beneath her boots, nor  was there any crowd to cheer her  on, yet
it was an  arena. She could  feel the prey  waiting, watching from  the shadowed
crannies and gloom-filled alleyways. She could hear the breathing, see the  dull
gleam of eyes in the dark places.

It was an arena,  yes. But here, the  foe did not rush  to engage, no clamor  of
steel  on steel  to thrill  the spectators.  Here, the  foe skulked,   crouched,
crawled in places  it thought she  couldn't see: tiny  thieves with tiny  hearts
empty of  courage, tiny  cutthroats with  more blade  than backbone. She laughed
softly to herself, jingling  her purse to encourage  them, taunting them as  she
would not a more honorable foe in the games.

They watched her, and she watched them watching. Perhaps, she thought, ;// throw
back my hood and reveal my sex.... Yet she did not. There was much she had to do
this night and much to leam.

The Avenue  of Temples  was dark  and deserted.  She located  the Temple  of the
Rankan Gods easily, a grand structure  that loomed above all others. Two  bright
flaming braziers illumined  the huge doors  at its entrance.  However, hammer as
she might with the iron ring, no one within answered. She cursed, m the  capital
the temples neverclosed. She slammed the ring one last time and turned away.

"Father of us all," she prayed tight-lipped as she descended the temple  stairs,
"speak to me as you  did that night long ago."  But the gods were silent  as the
city streets.

She paused to get her bearings, and realized the high wall on her right must  be
part  of the  Governor's compound.  The park  on her  left, then,  would be  the
Promise of Heaven, or so she had heard it called earlier as she rode past it  to
her home. There, men who could  not afford a higher class of  prostitute haggled
for sexual favors from half-starved amateurs. She shrugged, passed the park  by,
following the Governor's  wall until she  came to another  street she recognized
from her day's tour, the Processional.

She stopped again, looked up at the sky, and marveled at how brightly the  stars
shone over this pit of a city.  Though she prayed to Savankala and swore  in his
name, the night fascinated her. It had a taste and a feel like no other time.

She whistled a low note. A fleet shadow glided overhead, eclipsing stars in  its
path, and plummeted. She extended the arm on which she wore the manica, and Reyk
screeched  a greeting  as he  folded his  wings and  settled on  her wrist.  She
smacked her lips by way of reply and attached a jess from her belt to his leg.

"Do you feel it,  too, pet?" she whispered  to the falcon. "The  city? The dark?
It's alive." She smacked her lips again and Reyk fluttered his wings. "Of course
you do." She looked  around, turning a full  circle. "It seethes in  a way Ranke
never did. We may like it here,  pet. Look there!" She pointed to a  shadow that
slipped furtively  by on  the opposite  side of  the street.  She hailed  it; it
paused, regarded her, moved on. Chenaya  laughed out loud as it passed  into the
gloom.

With Reyk to  talk to, she  wandered down the  Processional, amazed how  the few
strangers she spied crept from doorway to doorway in their efforts to avoid her.
She walked in the middle of the paving, letting the moonlight glint on the  hilt
of her sword, both a temptation and warning to would-be thieves.

A peculiar odor wafted  suddenly on a new  breeze. She stopped, sniffed,  walked
on. Salt air. She  had never smelled it  before; it sent a  strange shiver along
her spine.  The sea  was often  in her  thoughts. She  dreamed of  it. Her steps
faltered, stopped. How far  to the wharves, she  wondered? She listened for  the
sound of surf.  In the stories  and tales, there  was always the  surf, foaming,
crashing on the shore, pounding in her dreams.

She walked on, sniffing, listening.

At last, on the far side of an immense, wide avenue she spied the docks and  the
darkened silhouettes of ships in port.  Bare masts wagged in the sky;  guy lines
hummed in  the mild  breeze that  blew over  the water.  No crashing surf, but a
gentle lapping  and creaking  of wooden  beams made  the only  other sounds. New
smells mingled in the  air with the salt:  odors of fish and  wet netting, smoke
from fishermen's  cook fires  or from  curing, perhaps.  She could  not spot the
fires if they still burned. Only a dim-lighted window here and there  perforated
the dark.

Chenaya moved quietly, every  nerve tingling, over the  Wideway and down one  of
the long  piers. There  was water  beneath her  now: the  boards rocked  ever so
slightly under her  tread. Above, the  moon cast a  silvery glaze on  the tender
wavelets.

She swept  back her  hood. The  breeze, cool  and fresh  on her skin, caught and
billowed her hair. She threw back  her cloak and drew breath, filling  her lungs
with the briny taste.

A shadow rose unexpectedly before  her. Her sword flashed out.  Screeching, Reyk
took to the sky as she released his jess. She fell back into a crouch, straining
to see.

But the shadow was more startled than she. "Don't hurt me!" It was the voice  of
a child, a  boy, she thought.  "Please!" It raised  its hands toward  her, palms
pressed together.

Chenaya  straightened, sheathed  her blade.  "What the  hell are  you doing  out
here?" she demanded in  a terse whisper. She  had never killed a  child, but had
come damned close just now. "When so few others have the guts for venturing  out
at night?"

The little figure seemed to shrug. "Just playing," it answered hesitantly.

She smirked. "Don't lie. You're a boy, by the sound of you. Out thieving?"

The  child didn't  respond immediately,  but turned  and faced  toward the  sea.
Chenaya realized she  had come to  the end of  the old wharf;  if the boy hadn't
sprung up when he did, she might have walked off the edge.

"I sneaked out," he said finally. "I sometimes come here alone so I can look out
at my home." He sat down again and dangled his feet over the water.

She sat down next to him, giving  a sidelong glance. About ten, she judged.  The
note of sadness in his voice touched her. "What do you mean, your home."

He pointed a small finger. "Where I come from."

So, he was a Beysib child. She  could not have guessed in the absence  of light.
He did not look so different; he didn't smell different; and he hadn't tried  to
kill her-not that he'd be much threat at his size.

She followed his gaze over the  water, finding once again that strange  chill on
the nape of  her neck. Then  came a rare  tranquillity as if  she had come  home
somehow.

"What do you Beysib call this sea?" she asked, breaking the shared silence.

The little boy looked up at her, reminding her with a shock of his  foreignness.
Those wide, innocent eyes did not blink. They held hers with an eerie,  mesmeric
quality.  The stars  reflected in  them, as  did her  own face,  with a  magical
clarity. He said a word  that meant nothing to her,  a name in a melodic,  alien
tongue.

She tore  her gaze  away. "That  means nothing  to me,  but the  sound of  it is
pretty." The whisper barely escaped her lips, so softly did she speak. The  moon
sparkled on the dancing waves. The dock swayed and moaned beneath her. One  hand
crept  slowly  to  her  breast,  and an  old  dream  bubbled  unbidden  into her
unsleeping mind. Savankala's face hovered,  floating on the argent ripples;  his
lips formed the answer to her third wish....

"You are not Beysib," the child beside  her spoke. "You are not of the  sea. Why
do you stare so at it?"

The dream left her, and the chill. She smiled a thin smile. "I've never seen the
sea," she answered gently, "but  we're old friends. Almost lovers."  She sighed.
"It's very beautiful, just as all the stories said it was."

"So are you," the  child answered surprisingly. "What  is that you wear  in your
hair?"

She touched the circlet on her  brow. "An ornament," she said simply.  "It bears
the sign of my god."

He leaned  closer; his  hand drifted  up toward  her face.  "May I touch it?" he
asked.  "My parents  are poor.  We have  nothing so  pretty. It  shines when  it
catches the light." She felt his fingers touch the metal above her temple;  they
slid around softly toward the sunburst.

A brilliant flash  of white intensity  exploded in her  eyes, blinding her.  She
fell backward, the edge of the pier under her spine, her balance tilting  toward
the water below. Then a strong hand caught hers, helped her to sit again.

But for a swirling host of afterimages, her vision cleared. The Beysib child sat
before her,  both his  hands on  hers. On  his brow  a tiny  blaze of shimmering
radiance burned, a small sun that illumined the very air around him.

His mouth moved, but  it was not his  voice. "Daughter." It was  acknowledgment,
little more.

Chenaya clapped her hands to her eyes, bowed her head in reverent fear.  "Bright
Father!"  she gasped,  and could  find no  more words.  Her throat  constricted,
breath deserted her.

His hands took hers once more, pulled them away from her face. "Do not fear  me,
Daughter." His voice rolled, filled her ears and her mind, sent trembling  waves
all through her. "Have you not called me this night?"

She bit  her lip,  wanting to  be free  of his  touch, fearing  to pull away. "I
sought your priests,"  she answered tremulously,  "I sought augurs,  portents. I
never dreamed..."

"You did once," the god answered. "And I came to you then to reward you."

She stammered, unable to  look upon Him. "And  I have worshipped you,  prayed to
you, but not once since then..."

He gently chided. "Have I not favored  you more than others of our people?  Were
my gifts not great enough? Would you have more of me?"

She  burst into  tears and  hung her  head. "No,  Father. Forgive  me, I  didn't
mean..."  Words  would not  come.  She shivered  uncontrollably,  stared at  the
ambient glow that bathed her hand in his.

"I know what you mean," Savankala spoke. "You called me, not for your own  need,
but for one we both love. And I will give what little help I can."

"The 3rd  Commando," she  cried suddenly,  blinking back  her tears, realizing a
prayer was answered. "Strike them down before they harm Kadakithis!"

The god shook his head;  the light on his brow  wavered. "I will not," he  said.
"You must defend the  last Rankan prince with  the skills I have  given you. You
may not even see the  faces of those who would  do him injury. But you  may know
the hour."

She protested, "But Father!"

Those eyes bored  deeply into her,  fathomless and frightening,  more alien than
ever. She squeezed her  own eyes shut, but  it didn't matter. Those  eyes burned
into her, seared her soul. She feared to cry out, yet her lips trembled.

"When the splintered moon lies in the dust of the earth, then you must fight, or
your Little Prince will die and  the empire of Ranke fade forever."  He released
her  hands, leaned  forward and  stroked her  hair, shoulder,  breast. A   sweet
radiance lingered  wherever he  touched her.  "Farewell, Daughter.  Twice have I
come to you. No man or woman can ask more. We shall not meet again."

She opened her eyes as if waking from a long dream. The child stared out  toward
the sea, swinging his legs over the water. No light gleamed on his brow, nor did
he give  any indication  that anything  unusual had  transpired. She touched his
arm; he turned  and smiled at  her, then returned  his attention outward.  "It's
very pretty, the sea, isn't it?"

She exhaled a slow breath, reached out and rumpled his hair. "Yes, very pretty."
She rose slowly to her feet, fighting  the weakness in her knees. "But I  really
need  a  drink."  She gave  a  whistle.  High atop  the  nearest  masthead, Reyk
answered, spread his wings, and glided downward. Chenaya lifted her arm, and the
falcon took his perch.

The Beysib child  gave a startled  cry and scrambled  to his feet,  eyes widened
with awe. "You command birds!" he stammered. "Are you a goddess?"

She threw back her head and laughed, a sound that rolled far out over the waves.
Turning, laughing, she left the child, his childish question unanswered.

The streets twisted  and curved like  a krrf-hungry serpent.  The moonlight fell
weakly here, lending  little light to  show the way.  Men walked more  openly in
these streets, but always in twos or threes. The blackened doorways and recesses
were full of watchful, furtive eyes.

She began to  relax as the  awesome dread of  speaking with her  god passed from
her. She stroked Reyk's feathers and took note of her surroundings.

She had not come this far on her morning tour. The air stank of refuse and slop.
Invisible life teemed: a  muffled footfall, the opening  and shutting of a  door
with no light to spill through,  a choked grunt from the impenetrable  depths of
an alley, mumblings, murmurings.

She smacked  her lips  at Reyk.  If a  man glanced  her way  when she passed, he
quickly found another place to turn his gaze when he spied the falcon.

She slipped  in something,  muttered a  curse at  the foul  smell that rose from
beneath  her  boot.  Close  by,  someone  tittered  in  a  high-pitched   voice.
Purposefully, she exposed half the length of her blade and slammed it back  into
the scabbard. The rasp  of metal on leather  gave sufficient warning to  any too
blind to see her pet. The titter ceased abruptly, and it was her turn to laugh a
low husky laugh that scraped in her throat.

She was going  to like Sanctuary.  She recalled the  sundrenched arenas ofRanke,
the glistening sands and cheering throngs, the slaughter of men who held no true
hope against her. There had been  good men, some excellent; she bore  scars that
proved their quality. But they could  not defeat her. She gave the  spectators a
show, made an artful kill, and collected her purse.

The game had grown dull.

Here, things would be different, a new  kind of game. Sanctuary was an arena  of
night  and  shadows. No  cheering  crowds, no  burnished  armor, no  fanfare  of
trumpets, no arbitrators. She smiled at that. No appeals.

"Home, Reyk," she whispered to the falcon. "Do you feel it? We have come home."

She prowled the dark streets of  the Maze, speaking to none, but  studying those
she passed, measuring their bearing, meeting their eyes. Truth could be read  in
a man's eyes, she knew, and all  the lies ever told by tongue. The  soul resided
in the eyes.

"Psst... a few coppers, sir, will buy you the delights of Heaven." A young  girl
stepped from the gloom, exposing dubious charms through a gaping cloak.

Chenaya  pushed  back her  hood  enough to  show  her own  blonde  locks. "Stuff
yourself, whore." But she reached into the  purse she wore on a thong about  her
neck and tossed a few coins in the dust. "Now, tell me where a drink can be had,
and maybe some information."

The little prostitute scurried in the shadows, feeling about for the coins. "The
blessing of Ils on you. Lady," she answered in excitement. "Drink? But four doors
down. See the lamp?"

As Chenaya walked toward the faint light, a door beneath it opened and  slammed.
Two burly, cloaked figures retreated up the street to be swallowed by the night.

Above  the entrance  the lamplight  illumined a  sign. She  cocked an   eyebrow.
However mythical the beast emblazoned there,  she was sure it never did  that to
itself.  She listened  to the  voices that  drifted out  to her  and nodded   to
herself. This was not  a place for nobles  and gentlemen. Or ladies  either, her
father would warn her.

"Up," she said softly  to Reyk. The falcon's  wings beat a steady  tattoo on the
air as it rose, made a slow circle,  and took a new perch on the tavern's  sign.
She folded the jess and stuck it through her belt, then pushed open the door.

Conversation stopped.  Every eye  turned her  way. She  peered down  through the
dingy smoke that wafted from lamp wicks in need of trimming, from tallow candles
placed high about.  She studied hardened,  suspicious faces. The  smells of wine
and beer and dirty bodies tainted the air.

"It's a door,  not a damn  viewing gallery!" the  barkeeper bellowed, shaking  a
meaty fist. "Come in or get out!"

She stepped  inside, swept  back her  hood. The  light shone  on her hair as she
shook it free.

A  grizzled  face  suddenly  blocked her  view;  fingers  brushed  her shoulder.
"Welcomest sight  I seen  in a  month," the  man said,  breathing stale brew. He
winked. "You come looking for me, pretty?"

She smiled her sweetest smile, slipped her arms about his neck, smashed her knee
into his unprotected groin. He  doubled over with an explosive  grunt, clutching
himself. She drove a gloved fist against his jaw, sending him to the floor,  and
stepped away. When he  made the effort to  rise she seized his  belt and collar,
ran him headfirst into the wall. He sagged in a heap and stayed down.

"Happens every time,"  she said to  anyone listening. She  tossed her hair  back
dramatically, put  a wistful  note in  her voice.  "A lady  can't get a peaceful
drink anymore." She flung off her cloak then, making sure they saw the sword and
daggers. But they no longer seemed  interested. She frowned and made her  way to
the bar.

"A mug of your best," she ordered,  slapping a coin down before the barkeep.  He
grumbled, swept up her money, brought the  drink. As he set it down she  noticed
the thumb of his right hand was missing. Sipping the beer, she turned to  survey
the other patrons over the rim.

Three men caught her  attention at once, and  she stiffened; 3rd Commandos,  she
knew the  uniform. These  or their  comrades had  murdered the  Emperor and  set
Theron on the throne-curse his name!  They were scum that made even  this refuse
heap of humanity shine and smell sweet by comparison.

She set down her mug and her cloak. One hand drifted to her sword's hilt as  she
judged the distance to  the three. Then a  hand caught her arm.  "Stay," a voice
murmured in her ear. "They have friends; you never know where a knife might come
from."

She turned  and met  the deepest,  blackest eyes  she had  ever seen. The lashes
looked kohlled, almost feminine, beneath brows so thick they nearly met over his
nose. The effect was ruggedly mesmeric. "What makes it your business?" she  said
under her breath, noting that the barkeep had moved within earshot.

That dark gaze ran up and down  her body. "Business, is it?" he replied.  "Well,
let business wait a little. I'd like to buy you a drink."

She indicated her mug. "I've already bought one."

He grinned. "Then join me at my table and I'll buy your next one."

Her turn  to look  him over.  He seemed  her own  age, and  they were  a similar
height. She might  even have a  pound or two  on him. Yet,  there was a  kind of
rangy strength about him that his shabby tunic could not hide.

"You must be good with knives,"  she commented, pointing to the several  he wore
strapped about his person.  His only response was  a modest shrug. She  went on,
"I'll buy the drinks; you tell me something about those three in the comer."

His thin lips parted in a brief  smile. "You must be new around here,"  he said.
"The price of information is more than a drink or two in this town."

She drew a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye. "I've got a lot mpre  to
offer."

He appeared to think about it. "My table, then?" He made a mock bow.

The buzz  of conversations  had resumed.  No one  gave her  or her young bravo a
glance as  he pulled  out a  chair and  made a  show of  wiping the seat. A good
table, she  decided, positioned  to give  a view  of the  entire tavern  and its
entrance. She set her mug down, draped her cloak on the chair. They sat side  by
side.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, leaning over her beer.

He  began playing  with a  small pair  of dice  that had  lain by  his own  mug.
"Hanse," he  answered simply.  "I never  liked that  loud-mouthed braggart."  He
nodded toward the man she'd beaten; the  barkeep had him under the arms and  was
dragging his limp form toward the door.

Chenaya took another drink. "No one else seemed impressed."

Hanse shrugged. The dice  skittered over the table;  he gathered them up  again.
"You're Lowan Vigeles's  daughter, aren't you?"  He rolled the  dice between his
palms.

She sat back, hiding her surprise. "How did you know?"

He tossed the  dice: snake eyes.  "Word travels fast  in Sanctuary. That's  your
first lesson."

"Is there a second?" she said, feigning nonchalance.

A  barely  perceptible  nod  toward  the  3rd  Commandos.  "People  to  avoid in
Sanctuary."  He  changed the  subject.  "Is it  true  you fought  in  the Rankan
arenas?"

She leaned close  so that her  shoulder touched his.  "When the purse  was large
enough to interest  me." She batted  her lashes playfully.  "Why should I  avoid
those dung-balls?"

The  dice  clattered  on  the rough  surface.  "They've  got  comrades. Lots  of
comrades."

The barkeep passed them, bearing drinks for another table. Chenaya waited.  "How
many?" she asked finally.

"Lots. They rode  into town some  days ago. Already  act like they  own it, too,
though I wager  the Fish-Eyes might  dispute their claim."  He looked up  as the
barkeep passed again. "One-Thumb, two more beers here. She's buying." He  smiled
at her and drained his mug. "They always go about in twos and threes. You tangle
with one, you tangle with them all."

She tilted  back until  her head  rested on  the wall,  and cursed  silently. It
couldn't be coincidence that the 3rd Commandos were here. They must be  plotting
against the Prince.  Of course, that  meant danger for  her father and  herself,
too. And  Molin. Theron  had spared  no energy  hunting any  who might claim the
crown.

Hanse tapped her arm, and she started. "He  wants to be paid," he told her.  One
Thumb loomed over her, looking surly. Two new mugs had appeared on the table.

Hanse's eyes followed her  hand as it dipped  into the purse about  her neck and
extracted a coin. "You must do well in the Games," he said.

"Well enough," she answered, dismissing One-Thumb. "I'm still alive."

"To being  alive," he  whispered, raising  his beer  in a  toast. A bit of froth
snowed his black mustache. "And  if you want to stay  that way, leam to carry  a
thinner purse and a  plainer sword." He glanced  up at her brow.  "There are men
here who would slit your throat for that trinket alone and only afterward  worry
if the gold was real."

She inclined her  chin into one  palm and met  his gaze. She  liked his eyes, so
black and  deep. "Since  word travels  so fast  in Sanctuary,  Hanse, you'd best
spread this one. It's a new lesson to leam: don't play with Chenaya. The  stakes
are too high."

He regarded her over the rim of his mug. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She  put on  that sweet  smile again.  "It means  I never  lose, Hanse.  Not  at
anything." She  indicated the  dice as  he set  his beer  down. "How do you play
those?"

He picked them up, shook them in a closed fist. "High number wins," he explained
simply. He cast them: six and four.

She picked them up, dropped them without looking. A frown creased his  forehead.
"Two sixes," he muttered and gathered them to throw again.

She caught his hand. "Do you have a taste for Vuksibah?"

His eyes widened. "That's an expensive taste."

She produced two more  coins, solid gold stamped  with the seal of  the imperial
mint. She slid them toward Hanse. "I'll  bet you can buy anything in this  dump.
See if old Sour-Face has a couple of bottles stashed away. Do you live nearby?"

He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, cocked an eyebrow. His head bobbed slowly.

She made a wry face. "The stench in here is overpowering." Her face moved  close
to his. "I'll bet there are lots of lessons we could teach each other." Her hand
slipped under the table, fell to his thigh, encountering quite a surprise.

He caught her look and shrugged. "Another knife," he explained.

Chenaya grinned. "If you say so."

"Really," he  insisted, collecting  her coins,  pushing back  his chair. His toe
caught the table leg as he rose, sloshing beer from her mug. "Sony," he mumbled.
He shoved through the crowd  to the bar, began  an urgent conversation with  One
Thumb.

Chenaya looked back at  the dice, picked them  up, dropped them. Two  sixes. She
cast them again: two sixes. Once more  she collected them, then with a sigh  she
dropped them in the beer.

The  night,  her  seventh in  the  city,  was still.  Chenaya  paced  around her
apartment, stared out each of the windows over the broad expanse of her land  to
the silvery ribbon that was the Red  Foal River. It ran to the sea,  that river.
She could almost hear the sound of it.

She paced and debated if it was worthwhile going into the streets again tonight.
All the officers and officials she had bribed the past few days, all the  little
men she had threatened, all her  questioning and seeking had proven fruit  less.
If there was a plot against the Prince, no word of it had leaked carelessly.

Yet  Savankala himself  had come  to her,  told her  it would  happen when   the
splintered  moon lies  in the  dust. But  what did  that mean?  Thinking that  a
splintered moon was,  perhaps, some astrological  reference, she had  approached
Molin and wound up in a terrible  argument. She left her uncle with a  string of
curses and no more understanding.

She kicked at a stool and threw  herself across her bed. Her nails dug  into the
sheets. When her god was granting wishes, why. hadn't she asked for brains?

She rolled over on  her side and let  go a sigh. Despite  her mood a small  grin
stole over her features as her gaze fell on a table across the room. On it stood
a bottle of Vuksibah.

There  was a  gamble she  certainly hadn't  lost, she  smiled to  herself.  That
handsome little thief taught her a lot, and only a little of it about Sanctuary.
After the first bottle of Vuksibah anything he said was merest accompaniment  to
what he did. Fortunately, she woke with a clear head able to recall every  word.
She doubted he could  claim the same. She  took the remaining bottle,  reclaimed
her circlet which he  had slipped from her  brow and secreted beneath  a pillow,
and left him asleep.

It would be good to see Hanse again, she thought. Why not? Not even her workouts
with Dayme had been able to turn her mind from the danger to her cousin. Yet  it
served no purpose to continually worry. Perhaps Hanse could find a way to divert
her.

She rose,  slipped off  her gown,  and pulled  on new  leather garments from the
chest at the foot of her bed. There, also, were her weapons. She strapped on her
fancy sword. As an afterthought, she  took up the two daggers. Hanse  considered
himself good with throwing-knives. It might make exciting play to challenge him.

Dressed, she tucked the bottle of Vuksibah under her arm and left her room.  Her
father was asleep or reading in his  own chambers, and she did not disturb  him.
He worried when she went  out, but never tried to  stop her. She loved him  most
for that.

She descended stairs to  the main floor, her  boot heels clicking on  the stone.
Dayme must have  heard her, for  he was waiting  at the bottom.  Two more of her
eight gladiators would be prowling  about somewhere nearby as well.  Ka-dakithis
was not alone on Theron's list; her  father had been friend as well as  relative
to the late Emperor.

"Bring Reyk," she  instructed her dark-haired  giant. "Then get  someone else to
stand your watch. You've walked the streets with me these past five nights,  and
the lack of sleep showed in our workout today."

Dayme frowned,  then quickly  hid it.  "Let me  go with  you. Lady. The night is
treacherous...."

She shook  her head.  "Not tonight,  my friend."  She indicated  the liquor  she
carried. "Tonight, it's a little pleasure I seek."

He seemed about to speak, then thought better of it, turned, and left her alone.
The falcons were caged  at the rear of  the estate, but Dayme  returned promptly
with her pet.

Chenaya wrapped the jess around her  fingers, then removed Reyk's hood and  gave
it back to Dayrne.  She did not need  it to handle her  favorite bird; it was  a
different story for others.

"Now to bed  with you." She  squeezed playfully at  his huge bicep.  "And in the
morning be prepared for the hardest workout of your life!"

She passed  into the  warm night,  feeling better  now that  she was free of the
confines of her room.  She would look for  Hanse at his apartment  first, at the
Vulgar Unicorn if he  wasn't home. It might  take a little time,  but she'd find
him. He was worth the effort.

As she crossed the Avenue of Temples a young girl stepped out of the shadows and
blocked her path. A small hand brushed back the concealing hood of a worn cloak,
exposing dark  curls and  wide, frightened  eyes. "Please,  Mistress," she  said
timidly, "a coin for a luckless unfortunate?"

Chenaya realized she had forgotten her  own cloak. No matter, the street  people
knew    her   well    by   now.    She   made    to   pass    the   girl     by.
.

The girl stepped closer, saw Reyk, and stopped. She chewed the tip of a  finger,
then said again,  "Please, Mistress, whatever  you can spare.  Otherwise. I must
sell myself in the Promise of Heaven to feed my little brother."

Chenaya  peered closely  at the  thin face  emaciated from  hunger. Those  large
imploring eyes  locked with  hers, full  of fear  and full  of hope. Beggars had
approached her other nights,  and she had kept  her coins. Something about  this
one, however, loosened her heart and her purse strings. Several pieces of Rankan
gold fell into the outstretched hand.

It was more wealth  than the child had  ever seen. She stared,  disbelieving, at
the gleams in her  palm. Tears sprang into  her eyes. She hurled  herself to the
ground, flung her arms around her benefactor's legs, and cried.

Reyk screeched and  sprang to defend  his handler. Only  the jess held  him away
from the sobbing child. Chenaya fought to control him and to keep her balance as
those arms entwined her. The bottle  of Vuksibah slipped from under her  arm and
broke; the precious liquor splattered her  boots. She let go a savage  curse and
pushed the silly beggar girl away.

"I'm sorry,  Mistress," she  wailed, scrambling  to her  feet, backing away. "So
sorry, so sorry!" She whirled and fled into the darkness.

Bits  of glass  shone around  her feet  as Vuksibah  seeped into  the dust.  She
sighed, stirred  the shards  with a  toe. Well,  another could  be gotten at the
Unicorn.

Then a  tingle crawled  up her  spine. She  kneeled to  see better,  then cast a
glance over her shoulder at the sky. The moon carved a fine, bright crescent  in
the night, and every piece of glass mirrored its silveriness.

The voice of her god screamed suddenly inside her head. When the splintered moon
lies in the dust.

She released the falcon's jess. "Up!" she  cried, and Reyk took to the air.  She
ran through the streets, her  brain ringing with Savankala's warning,  until she
reached her father's estate. She burst through the doors, breathless.

"Dayme!" she called out. He had not obeyed her; he came running from a side room
still dressed and armed. It was not the time to scold him. "Dayme, it's now!"

More words  were unnecessary.  He disappeared  and returned  with a  pack on his
shoulders. Four of his comrades followed him, strapping on swords. "Stay and see
to my father!" she ordered them.

"Where is Reyk?" Dayrne interrupted.

She raised a finger. "Always close by. I can't run and carry him too."

Together  they  ran  back  into  the dark  and  up  shadowed  streets.  The tall
silhouettes of temples loomed on their left, and the voices of gods called  from
the gloom-filled entrances, urging them to  hurry. Or, perhaps, it was the  wind
that rose mysteriously  from nowhere, wailed  down the alleyways,  and pushed at
their backs. The moon floated before them, beckoning.

They reached the granaries and stopped. The rear wall of the Governor's  grounds
rose up on  the opposite side  of the street,  impossibly high and  challenging.
"The west side," Chenaya ordered.

They had planned this carefully. The  gates to the palace were barred  at night;
only a handful of guards bothered to patrol the grounds. No one was admitted  at
night except with the Prince's permission. But she and Dayme had found away.

Another wall rose around  the granaries themselves. It  was to the west  side of
this wall that they  ran. Dayme* unslung the  pack, removed a grapple  and rope.
Here the wall was lowest and easy to scale. In no time they were atop it, racing
along its narrow surface. Gradually, the wall angled upward to reach its highest
point above the granary gate opposite the palace wall. Dayme prepared the second
grapple.

Hanse had bragged how he had broken into the palace. No man was strong enough to
hurl a  grapple the  height of  the palace's  wall, he  claimed. Probably he was
right. But the Street of Plenty  which separated the granary and the  palace was
not as wide as the  wall was high. Still, for  an ordinary man even that  was an
impossible  throw; but  not for  one possessed  of Dayme's  skill and   rippling
strength.

The night hummed  as he whirled  the grapple in  ever-widening circles. She  lay
flat to avoid being knocked over the edge. Finally he let fly. Grapple and  line
sailed outward, disappeared. Then metal scraped on stone. Dayme tugged the  line
taut.

They had not rehearsed this part, but she trusted her friend Feet wide apart, he
braced himself; his muscles  bulged, and he nodded.  She took hold of  the rope,
stepped into space. Dayme grunted, but  held the line fast. Hand over  hand, she
made her way to the far wall and  over its edge. The line went slack; she  could
almost see the bums she knew would mark Dayme's hands and forearms.

Her bribes had  paid off in  some respects, at  least. Directly below  her was a
rooftop, the servants' quarters.  She gathered the line  and let it down  on the
inside, then slipped along its length. She was inside.

But where were the guards? There was  no sign of them. Nothing moved within  the
grounds that she could see. She dropped to the ground, paused in a crouch, began
to move from shadow to shadow.

What now?  She hadn't  planned beyond  this moment.  Here and  there puddles  of
pallid light leaked from the windows of the palace. Atop the highest minaret,  a
pennon flapped  hysterically in  the wind.  Far to  her right  was the Headman's
Gate. On impulse, she ran to check it.

A huge, metal-reinforced bar spanned  the gate, sealing it. She  frowned, turned
away, and tripped. She hit the ground hard; the pommel of her sword gouged  into
her ribs. With a silent curse, she rolled over and found one of the guards. Wide
eyes stared vacantly at  the moon from under  a helmet rim. His  flesh was still
warm.

Every dark  place was  suddenly more  menacing. No  sign of  the killer; nothing
moved in the  darkness. She felt  around the guard's  body. No blood,  no broken
bones, no clue to how he was murdered. She shivered. Sorcery?

A low whistle. Soundlessly, Reyk took his perch on her high-gloved arm.

Two more guards lay dead near the Processional Gates. Like the first, there  was
no trace of a  cause. She thought of  calling out, of alerting  the garrison and
the palace residents. Then  she remembered the Beysib.  One of the dead  men was
fish-eyed. If the killer heard her shout  and made a good escape, if the  Beysib
found only her with the murdered guardsmen, if they found the grapples by  which
she broke into the grounds?... Who could blame them for jumping to conclusions?

A sound, metal  rasping on stone.  She froze, listening,  peering uselessly into
the blackness. There  were only two  more gates, both  in the eastern  wall. She
started across the lawn, moving swiftly, noiselessly.

The last gate was the smallest,  a private entrance and exit for  the governor's
staff. There she saw a figure revealed in the small pool of light from an  upper
residential window. The sound  she had heard was  a bar of iron  that sealed the
gate at night. She  could not see him  well; a cloak disguised  his features and
his movements.

A gardened walkway led from the gate to a door into the palace itself. He hadn't
spotted her yet. Wraithlike, she moved, took a position at the midway point, and
waited.

The killer eased back the gate. Five figures slipped inside,  indistinguishable,
but bared weapons gleamed. The gate closed behind. They started up the walk.

"Still time to place your bets,  gentlemen," she said, a grim smile  parting her
lips, "before the event begins."

In the forefront, the  cloaked one who had  opened the gate raised  something to
his mouth. A bare glint of palest ivory, and he puffed his cheeks. That was  how
the guards died, she realized. Her inspections of the bodies were too quick  and
cursory to discover the venomed darts from the assassin's blowpipe.

"Kill!" she whispered  to Reyk. The  falcon sprang from  her arm, and  she threw
herself aside as something rushed by her ear. Reyk's pinions beat the air  three
times, then his talons found the  eyes within that dark hood. A  chilling scream
broke from the man's  throat before one of  his own comrades cut  him down. Reyk
returned to her arm. "Up," she told him. "These are mine!"

She laughed  softly and  drew her  sword. She  had fought  four men  once in the
arena. Now there were five. The result would be the same, but the game might  be
more interesting. "Try to make it a good contest," she taunted them, beckoning.

The nearest man rushed, stabbed at her belly. Chenaya sidestepped, kicked him in
the groin as  her sword came  up to deflect  the blow another  man aimed at  her
head. She turned it aside and cut  deep between that one's ribs. She caught  him
before he collapsed and hurled him into the way of a third.

She dodged without a hairbreadth to spare as another sword sang by her head. The
one she  kicked was  on his  feet again.  Four men  closed with her, wordlessly,
professionally. The ringing  of steel, the  rasp of hard  and rhythmic breathing
became the night's only sounds.

Chenaya threw herself into the fight. The force of blows and blocks shivered  up
her arm. She filled her other fist with one of her daggers; when one of her foes
ventured too  close, she  shoved it  through his  sternum. It  came free  with a
slick, sucking noise as she kicked him away.

Sweat ran down her face; blood slicked the palm of her right glove. She  whirled
into the midst of  the three remaining attackers,  raking the edge of  her sword
through the eye and cheek of one, planting the smaller blade deep in his throat.

Death hurtled  down at  her in  two glittering  arcs. Grasping  her hilt in both
hands, she  caught the  blades, intercepting  them with  her own forceful swing,
turning them aside. One lost his grip, and when he dived for his weapon her knee
slammed into his face.

The last man on his feet  hesitated, finding himself alone, turned and  fled for
the gate and the  streets beyond. Chenaya cursed  him savagely, drew the  second
dagger from its place on her thigh,  and hurled. The coward's arms flew up,  his
sword clattered on the walk, and  he fell. One hand flopped, grasping  uselessly
for the weapon, then was still.

The last man rose  slowly, painfully to his  feet; blood poured from  his broken
nose. His eyes were glazed, and the recovered sword was balanced loosely in  his
weak grip. He stumbled for her.

"You, at least, are no craven," she  granted. The edge of her sword cut  a swift
crimson line beneath his chin, and he tumbled backward.

Chenaya filled her  lungs with a  deep breath and  whistled for Reyk.  Together,
woman and falcon looked down on the  six bodies. They did not wear the  uniforms
of the 3rd  Commandos, she noted  with some disappointment.  It would have  been
easy to hang the whole lot of them with such proof, or at least to run them  out
of Sanctuary.

"That was well done. Lady of Ranke."

She knew the voice at once and whirled. Shupansea herself and a score of  Beysib
guards blocked the doorway to  the palace. Apparently, they had  slipped outside
while the fight went on. A torch flared to life, then another.

"Don't  look so  surprised," Shupansea  said. She  pointed to  the body  of  the
cloaked man. "That one entered with the local servants this morning, but did not
leave with them, having secreted himself in the stables. My men spotted him, but
we wanted to wait and leam his purpose."

Chenaya made no answer, but held her sword and waited to see if the Beysa  meant
her harm.

"Molin explained your purpose to  us. Lady," Shupansea continued. "You  need not
fear."

Chenaya smirked at that. "My uncle presumes a great deal."

The Beysa finally  shrugged. "Perhaps it  is just your  nature to be  rude," she
sighed. "Perhaps that will change as we come to know each other. Kadakithis told
me he promised  you a party  when you came  to see him.  In half a  fortnight I,
myself, will host an event to welcome you and Lowan Vigeles to our city."

Chenaya forced  a tight  smile, then  kneeled to  wipe her  blade on the nearest
assassin, rose,  and sheathed  it. "My  father and  I will  of course accept the
Prince's invitation." She stroked Reyk's feathers. "I love parties."

The two women locked gazes, and  their eyes betrayed their mutual hostility  and
distrust. However, this night was Chenaya's. Shupansea might have learned  about
the threat to the Prince, but it  was she, a Rankan, who prevented its  success.
The fish-eyed  warriors at  the Beysa's  back were  just so  many spectators  to
admire her kills.

"My thanks and those of your cousin for your exertions on his behalf," Shupansea
said stiffly. She waved  a hand, and half  her guards began to  carry the bodies
away.  "Now, it  is a  little late  to entertain  visitors, don't  you think?  I
believe you  can find  your way  out." The  Beysa turned  away and reentered the
palace.

"Keep the grapples," Chenaya said lightly  to the guards as she headed  down the
walkway. "I shouldn't need them again."

A BREATH OF POWER

Diana L. Paxson

"A red one-Papa, I want a red fly now!"    - Lalo looked down at his small  son,
sighed, and picked  a crimson chalkstick  from the pile.  Deftly his hand  swept
over the paper,  sketching a head,  a thorax, angled  legs, and the  outlines of
transparent wings. He exchanged red for gold and added a shimmer of color, while
Alfi bounced on the bench beside him, a three-year-old's fanatic purpose  fixing
his gaze on each move.

"Is it done. Papa?" The child squirmed onto the table to see, and Lalo  twitched
the paper out of the way, wishing Gilla would get back and take the boy off  his
hands. Where was she, anyway? Anxiety stirred in his belly. These days, violence
between  the Beysib  invaders and  a constantly  mutating assortment  of  native
factions made even a simple shopping trip hazardous; their oldest son,  Wedemir,
on leave  from his  caravan, had  volunteered to  escort her  to the Bazaar. The
Beysib honeymoon was over,  and every day brought  new rumors of resistance  and
bloody Beysib response. Gilla and Wedemir ought to be back by now....

Alfi jiggled his arm and Lalo forced his attention back to the present.  Looking
down at the boy's dark head, he  thought it odd how alike his firstborn  and his
youngest had turned  out to be-both  darkhaired and tenacious....  For a moment,
the years  between were  gone; he  was a  young father  and it  was Wedemir  who
nestled against him, begging him to draw some more.

But of course there was a difference to Lalo's drawing now.

"Papa, is the fly going to be able to see?" Alfi pointed at the sketched head.

"Yes, yes, tadpole, just wait a minute now." Lalo picked up his knife to sharpen
the black chalk. Then Alfi wriggled, Lalo's hand slipped, and the knife bit into
his thumb. With an oath  he dropped it and put  his finger to his mouth  to stop
the bleeding, glaring at his son.

"Papa, do it now-do the trick and make it fly away!" said Alfi obliviously.

Lalo repressed an urge to throw the child across the room, sketched in  antennae
and a faceted eye.  It was not Alfi's  fault. He should never  have started this
game.

Then he grimaced, picked up the paper, and shut his eyes for a moment,  focusing
his awareness until he could-Lalo opened  his eyes and breathed gently upon  the
bright wings....

Alfi  stilled,  eyes  widening  as  the  bright  speck  quivered,  expanded  its
shimmering wings, and buzzed away to  join the jewel-scatter of flies that  were
already orbiting the garbage-basket by the door.

For a blessed moment the child  stayed silent, but Lalo, looking at  the insects
he had drawn into life,  shuddered suddenly. He remembered-a scarlet  Sikkintair
that soared above the heads of  feasting gods, the transcendent splendor of  the
Face of Ils, the grace of Eshi pouring wine... and beside him had sat Thilli,  or
was it Theba-oh gods, could he be forgetting already?

"Papa, now make me  one that's green and  purple, and-" A small  hand tugged his
sleeve.

"No!" The  table rocked  as Lalo  surged to  his feet.  Colored chalks clattered
across the floor.

"But Papa-"

"I said No-can't  you understand?" Lalo  shouted, hating himself  as Alfi gasped
and was still. He extricated himself  from behind the table and started  for the
door, then stopped short, trembling. He couldn't leave-he had promised  Gilla-he
couldn't leave the child  in the house alone!  Damn Gilla, anyway! Lalo  brought
his hands to his eyes, trying to rub the ache behind them away.

There was a small sniff behind him.  He heard the faint clicking as Alfi  began,
very carefully, to put the chalks into their wooden box again.

"I'm sorry, tadpole-" Lalo said at last. "It's not your fault. I still love  you
Papa's just very tired."

No-it wasn't Alfi's fault....  Lalo moved stiffly to  the window and opened  the
weathered shutters,  gazing out  over the  scrambled rooftops  of the  town. You
would think that a man who had  feasted with the gods would be different,  maybe
have a kind of shining about him for all to see- especially a man who could  not
only paint  a person's  soul, but  could breathe  life into  his imaginings. But
nothing had changed for him. Nothing at all.

Lalo looked down at his hands, broad-palmed, rather stubby in the fingers,  with
paint ingrained in the calluses and under the nails. Those had been the hands of
a god, for a little while, but here he was, with Sanctuary going to hell  around
him at more than its usual speed, and there was nothing he could do.

He flinched as something buzzed past his  ear, and saw the colored flies he  had
created spiral downward toward the richer feeding-grounds of the refuse heap  in
the alleyway. For a  moment he wondered wryly  if they would breed  true, and if
anyone in Sanctuary would notice the winged jewels hatching from their  garbage;
then a shift in the wind brought him the smell.

He choked, banged closed the shutters, and stood leaning against them,  covering
his  face with  his hands.  In the  country of  the gods,  every breeze  bore  a
different perfume. The robes of the immortals were dyed with liquid jewels; they
shone in a lambent  light. And he, Lalo  the Limner, had feasted  there, and his
brush had brought life to a thousand transcendent fantasies.

He stood, shaken by longing for  the velvet meadows and aquamarine skies.  Tears
welled from beneath  shut eyelids, and  his ears, entranced  with the memory  of
birds whose song surpassed all earthly  melodies, did not hear the long  silence
behind him, the stifled, triumphant giggle  of the child, or the heavy  tread on
the stairs outside.

"Alfi! You get down from there right now!"

Dreams shattering around  him, Lalo jerked  back to face  the room, blinking  as
dizzied vision  tried to  sort the  image of  an angry  goddess from the massive
figure that glared at  him from the doorway.  But even as Lalo's  sight cleared,
Gilla was charging across the room to  snatch the child from the shelf over  the
stove.

Wedemir, a  dark head  barely visible  above piled  parcels and bulging baskets,
stumbled after her into the room, looking for somewhere to set his burdens down.

"Want to make it pretty!" Alfi's voice came muffled from Gilla's ample bosom. He
squirmed in her arms and pointed. "See?"

Three pairs of eyes  followed his pointing finger  toward the ceiling above  the
stove, where the soot was now smudged with swirls of blue and green.

"Yes, dear,"  said Gilla  evenly, "but  it's all  dark up  there, and the colors
won't show  up very  well. And  you know  that you  are not  to meddle with your
father's colors-you certainly know better than to climb on the stove! Well?" Her
voice rose. "Answer me!"

A small,  smudged face  turned to  her, lower  lip trembling,  dark eyes falling
before her narrowed gaze. "Yes, Mama...."

"Well, then-perhaps this will help you  to remember from now on!" Gilla  set the
child down  and smacked  his bottom  hard. Alfi  whimpered once  and then  stood
silently, rubbing his abused rear while the slow tears welled from his eyes.

"Now, you go lie down on your bed and stay there until Vanda brings your  sister
Latilla home." She gripped his small shoulder, propelled him into the children's
room, and shut the door behind him with a bang that shook the floor.

Wedemir slowly set  his last basket  on the kitchen  table, watching his  mother
with an apprehension that belied  the broad shoulders and sturdily  muscled arms
he had gotten working the caravans.

Lalo's own gaze went back to his wife, and his stomach knotted as he  recognized
Sabellia the Sharp-Tongued in full incarnation standing there.

"Perhaps that will keep him  earthbound another time," said Gilla,  settling her
fists on her broad hips  and glaring at Lalo. "I  wish I could fan your  arse as
well! What were you thinking of?" Her  voice rose as she warmed to her  subject.
"When you said you'd look after the  baby, I thought I could trust you  to watch
him! You know what  they are at  that age! There  are live coals  in that  stove
would you have noticed  when Alfi started screaming?  Lalo the Limner- Lalo  the
Lack-Wit they should call you! Pah!"

Wedemir eased silently backward  toward the chair in  the comer, but Lalo  could
not return  his commiserating  smile. His  tight lips  quivered with  words that
twenty-seven years with this  woman had taught him  not to say; and  it was true
that... his  vivid imagination  limned a  vision of  his small  son writhing  in
flames. But he had only looked out the window for a moment! In another minute he
would have seen and pulled the child down!

"The gods know I've been patient," raged Gilla, "scrimping and striving to  keep
this family together while the Ran-kans or the Bey sin, or hell knows who,  came
marching through the town. The least you could do-"

"In the name of Ils, woman-let be!"  Lalo found his voice at last. "We've  a roof
above us, and whose earnings paid-"

"Does that give you the right to burn it down again?" she interrupted him.  "Not
to mention  that if  we don't  pay the  taxes we  will not  have it long, though
Shalpa knows  to whom  we'll be  paying them  this year.  What have  you painted
lately. Limner?"

"By the gods!" Lalo's fingers  twitched impotently. "I have painted-"  a_scarlet
Sikkintair that soared through azure skies, a bird with eyes of fire and crystal
wings-his throat closed on the words. He had not told her-he would show her  the
rainbow-hued flies he had  drawn for Alfi, and  then she would know.  He had the
powers of a god-what right had she to speak to him this way? Lalo looked  wildly
about him, then remembered that he  had opened the shutters and the  insects had
flown away.

"I saved your life, and this is all the thanks you have for me?" Gilla  shouted.
"You'd burn the last babe I will ever bear?"

"Saved my life?" Abruptly the end  of his vision replayed in memory-he  had been
painting a  goddess who  had wrenched  him away  from heaven,  a goddess who had
Gilla's face! "Then it  was you who brought  me back to this  dung-heap, and you
want me to thank you?" Now he  was shrieking as loudly as she. "Wretched  woman,
do you know what you have done? Look at you, standing there like a tub of  lard!
Why should I want to return, when Eshi herself was my handmaiden?"

For  one astounding  moment struck  speechless, Gilla  stared at  him. Then  she
snatched and threw a  wooden spoon from the  pot on the stove.  "No, don't thank
me, for I'm sorry I did it now!" A colander followed the spoon. She reached  for
the copper kettle and Lalo ducked as Wedemir got to his feet, protesting.

"You've a goddess to sleep with? Worm! Then go to her-we'll do fine without  you
here!" Gilla exclaimed.

The copper pot hurtled toward Lalo like a sunwheel, struck, and clattered to the
floor. He straightened, holding his arm.

"I will go-" He fought his voice  steady. "I should have left long ago.  I could
have been the greatest artist in the Empire if you hadn't tied me here-I   still
could-by the Thousand Eyes of  Ils you do not know  what I can do!" he  went on.
Gilla was gasping,  her work-roughened hands  clenching and unclenching   as she
looked for something else to throw. "When you hear of me again you'll know who I
really am, and you'll regret what you said this day!"

Lalo drew  himself up  stiffly. Gilla  watched him  with a  face like  stone and
something he could  not trouble to  interpret in her  eyes. A whisper  of memory
told him that if he let go of his anger he would see the truth of her as he  had
before. He swatted the thought away. The anger burned in his belly, a furnace of
power. He had not felt like this since he outwitted the assassin Zanderei.

Silent,  he stalked  to the  door, belted  on his  pouch, and  flung across  his
shoulder the short cape that hung there.

"Papa-what do you think  you're doing?" Wedemir found  his voice at last.  "It's
almost sunset. The curfew will close the streets soon. You can't go out there!"

"Can't I? You'll see what I can do!" Lalo opened the door.

"Turd, slime-dauber, betrayer!"  shouted Gilla. "If  you leave now,  don't think
you'll find a welcome home here!"

Lalo did  not answer,  but as  he hurried  down the  creaking staircase the last
thing he heard was  the bone-shaking thud as  the cast-iron pot hit  the closing
door.

A rat-patter of feet  behind him sent fear  sparking along every nerve  to clash
painfully with the  dull anger that  had fueled Lalo's  swift stride. Fool!  the
lessons of a lifetime  dinned in his memory-  Your back is your  betrayer. Watch
it! Alert is alive!

In the old days,  everyone knew Lalo was  not worth robbing, but  in the current
confusion,  running  footsteps  could mean  anyone.  Frantically  Lalo tried  to
remember if this  block belonged to  the PFLS or  Nisibisi death squads;  to the
returning Stepsons  or the   3rd Commando;  or to  Jubal's renascent  hordes; or
maybe it was to someone else he hadn't heard of yet.

His little dagger glinted in his hand-not much use against anyone with training,
but enough  perhaps to  discourage a  man looking  for easy  pickings before the
daylight was gone.

"Papa-it's me!" The shadow behind him came  to a halt a safe man's length  away.
Lalo  blinked  and  recognized  Wedemir, flushed  a  little  from  his run,  but
breathing easily.

The lad's in  good shape, Lalo  thought with a  fugitive pride, then  unclenched
tense muscles  from his  defensive crouch  and jammed  the knife  back into  its
sheath.

"If your mother sent you, you might as well go home again."

Wedemir shook his head. "I  can't. She cursed me too,  when I said I was  coming
after you. Where were you going, anyway?"

Lalo stared at him, taken aback by his unconcern. Didn't the boy understand?  He
and Gilla had quarreled finally. His  future loomed before him like a  splendid,
lightning-laden cloud.

"Go back, Wedemir-" he repeated. "I'm on my way to the Vulgar Unicorn."

Wedemir laughed, white teeth bright against his bronzed skin. "Papa, I've  spent
two years with the caravans, remember? Do you think I haven't seen the inside of
a tavern before?"

"Not one like the Unicorn...." Lalo said darkly.

"Then it's time you completed my education-" the boy said cheerfully. "If you're
tougher than I am, then knock me  down. If not, surely two will walk  safer than
one through this part of town!"

A new kind  of anger tickled  Lalo's belly as  he stared at  his son, noting the
balanced  stance,  the  measuring  eyes. He's  grown  up,  he  thought bitterly,
remembering the last time  he had thrashed the  boy-it didn't seem so  long ago.
Wedemir is a  man. But gods!  Did I ever  have such innocent  eyes? Aman, and  a
strong one...  .Even when  Lalo had  been that  age he  had not  been much  of a
fighter, and now-the taste of the knowledge that his son could beat him was like
bile.

"Very well,"  Lalo said  at last,  "but don't  blame me  if it's  more than  you
bargained for."  He turned  to move  on, then  stopped again.  "And for Shalpa's
sake, take that grin off your face before we go inside!"

Lalo tipped  back his  tankard, let  the last  sour wine  flow smoothly down his
throat, then banged it on  the table to call for  more. It had been a  long time
since he had come to get drunk  here at the Vulgar Unicorn-a long time  since he
had gotten drunk anywhere, he realized. Maybe the wine would taste better if  he
had some more.

Wedemir raised one eyebrow  briefly and took another  rationed sip of ale,  then
set his own  tankard back down.  "Well, I haven't  seen anything to  shock me so
far...."

Lalo swallowed a surge of resentment at the boy's self-discipline. He's probably
despising me... .As the  oldest, Wedemir must have  known what was happening  in
the days  when Lalo  was trying  to drink  his troubles  away and  Gilla took in
washing to keep the family alive. And during the recent years of prosperity  the
boy had been away with the caravans. Small wonder if he thought his father was a
sot!

He doesn't understand- Lalo held out his tankard to the skinny serving girl.  He
doesn't know what I've been through....

He let the cool,  tart liquor ease the  ache in his throat  and sat back with  a
sigh. Wedemir was right about the  Unicorn, anyway. Lalo had never known  such a
quiet evening here. The  age-polished wooden slats of  the booth creaked to  his
weight  as he  relaxed against  them, looking  around the  big room,  trying  to
understand the altered atmosphere.

The familiar reek  of sweat and  sour ale brought  back memories; oil  lamps set
shadows scurrying among the sooty beams overhead and beneath the sturdy  tables.
Empty tables, mostly, even now, when night had fallen and the place should  have
been as  thick with  patrons as  a Bazaar  cur is  with fleas.  Not that  it was
entirely deserted. He recognized the pale, scarred boy they called Zip in one of
the booths on the  other side of the  room, sitting with three  others, a little
younger and  darker than  he was,  without his  protective veil  of cynicism  to
shield their eyes.

As Lalo watched. Zip  pounded the table with  his fist, then began  to draw some
kind of diagram in  spilled beer. The artist  let his gaze unfocus,  saw through
the masks of  flesh a mix  of fear and  fanaticism that made  him recoil. No, he
thought, perhaps I had  better not use that  particular talent here. There  were
some souls whose truth he did not want to see.

He forced himself to keep scanning the  room. In one comer a man and  woman were
drinking together,  the scars  of old  fights marking  their faces,  and of  old
passions clouding  their eyes.  They looked  like some  of Jubal's  folk, and he
wondered if they were serving their  old master again. Beyond them he  saw three
men whose tattered gear  could not disguise  some remnants of  soldierly bearing
mutineers from the northern wars or  mercenaries too dissolute even for the  3rd
Commando? Lalo did not want to know.

He took a deep breath and coughed convulsively. That was it; his new senses were
at work despitr his  will, and his nostrils  flared with the smell  of death and
the stink of sorcery. He remembered a  rumor he had heard-the tavern-master  One
Thumb was somehow mixed up with  the Ni-sibisi witch, Roxane. Perhaps he  should
gather up Wedemir and get out of here....

But as he started to stand up, his head spun dizzily and he knew that he was  in
no condition to  survive the streets  of Sanctuary at  this hour. Wedemir  would
laugh at him, and besides, he had nowhere else to go! Lalo sat back, sighed, and
began to drink again.

It was two, or perhaps three tankards later that Lalo's blurring gaze fixed on a
familiar dark head  and the angular  shape of a  harpcase humping up  the bright
cloak its owner wore. He blinked, adjusted his focus, and grinned.

"Cappen Varra!" He gestured broadly toward the bench across from him. "I thought
you'd left town!"

"So  did I-"  the harper  answered wryly.  "The weather's  been too  chancy  for
sailing, so I hooked up  with a caravan to Ranke.  I was hoping to find  someone
going from there to  Carronne." He shrugged the  harpcase from his shoulder  and
set it carefully on the bench, then squeezed into the booth beside Wedemir.

"To Ranke!" the boy exclaimed. "You're lucky to be alive!"

"My son Wedemir-" Lalo gestured. "He's been working Ran Alleyn's string."

Cappen looked at him with new respect, then went on, "I suppose I am lucky-I got
there just after  they did the  old Emperor in.  There's a new  man-Theron, they
call him-in  charge there  now, and  they say  your life's  not worth  a whore's
promise if you're in the Imperial  line. So I thought, 'There's Prince  Kittycat
sitting safe in Sanctuary-things might just be picking up down there!'"

Lalo started to laugh,-choked on his wine, and coughed until Wedemir thumped him
on the back and he could breathe again.

"You don't have  to tell me-"  said Cappen Varra  ruefully. "But surely  there's
something to  be made  from the  situation here.  Those Beysin  women now-do you
suppose there's some way I..."

"Don't even think about it, Cappen." Lalo shook his head. "At least not the  way
you usually do!  They might like  your music, but  it's worth your  life to even
look as if you were offering anything more!"

The harper gave him a speculative look. "I've heard that, but really..."

"Really-"  Wedemir said  seriously. "My  sister works  for one  of their   royal
ladies, and she says it's all true."

"Oh well!"  Cappen saluted  them with  his tankard.  "There's nothing wrong with
their gold!" He drank, then glanced at Lalo with a smile. "When I left, you were
the toast of the court. I hardly expected to see you here...."

Lalo grimaced, wondering if his vision were going or it was just that the  lamps
were burning down. "It's the Beysa's court now, and there's no work for me."  He
saw Cappen's  face stiffening  into a  polite, sympathetic  smile, and shook his
head. "But it doesn't matter-I can do other things now... things even Enas  Yorl
would like to know." He reached for his tankard.

Cappen Varra looked at Wedemir. "What's he talking about?"

The boy shook his  head. "I don't know.  Mother said he'd stopped  drinking, but
they had a fight and he started  talking strange and stormed out. I thought  I'd
better follow and make sure-" He shrugged in embarrassment.

Lalo raised his eyes from  the hypnotically swirling reflections in  his tankard
and fixed his son with  a bitter gaze. "And make  sure the old man didn't  drown
himself? I  thought so.  But you're  wrong, both  of you,  if you  think this is
drunken wandering.  Even your  mother doesn't  know-" Lalo  stopped. He had come
here determined to prove  his power, but the  wine was sapping his  will. Did it
really matter? Did anything really matter now?

His wavering gaze fixed  on a figure that  seemed to have precipitated  from the
shadows near the  door, lean, sullen-browed,  with a dark  cloak hiding whatever
else he wore. Lalo recognized the face he had seen on Shalpa at the table of the
gods and thought. That  Hanse, he's another one  the gods have played  with, and
look at the sour face he's wearing now. For all the good it's done either of us,
to hell with the gods!

"Look here. Papa," said Wedemir, "I'm getting tired of all these dark hints  and
frowns. Either explain what you're talking about or shut up."

Stung, Lalo straightened and managed to  focus his gaze long enough to  hold his
son's eyes.  "That time  I was  ill-" He  tried to  stop himself  but the  words
flooded out like an  undammed stream. "I was  with the gods. I  can breathe life
into what I draw, now."

Wedemir stared at  him, and Cappen  Varra shook his  head. "The wine,"  said the
harper. "Definitely the wine. It really is too bad...."

Lalo stared back at them. "You don't believe me. I should be relieved. How would
you like me  to make you  a Sik-kintair, Cappen  Varra, or a  troll such as they
have fighting in the northern wars?" He shook his head, trying to get rid of the
growing ache behind his eyes.

It  was not  fair-he should  not be  feeling like  this until  tomorrow. He  had
expected the alcohol to  deaden his pain, but  as his normal vision  blurred, he
was seeing  the truths  behind men's  veils more  clearly than  before. That boy
across the room-he had killed his  own men, and would again.... Lalo  winced and
looked away.

"Papa, damn it, stop!" said Wedemir  angrily. "You sound crazy-how do you  think
that makes me feel?"

"Why should I  care?" muttered Lalo.  "If it hadn't  been for the  lot of you, I
would have been free of this wretched town long ago. I'm telling the truth,  and
I don't give a turd whether you believe me."

"Then, prove it!" Wedemir's voice rose, and for a moment nearby drinkers  stared
at them. Cappen Varra  was looking uncomfortable, but  the boy grabbed his  arm.
"No, don't go! You're one of his oldest friends. Help me show him what  nonsense
he's talking before he loses what wits he has!"

"All right-" said the  harper slowly. "Lalo, do  you have anything to  draw with
here?"

Lalo looked up at him, reading in his face weakness and an extravagant  bravery,
venality, and a stubborn integrity that even Sanctuary had not been able to wear
away, a cynical assessment of women's susceptibility, and devotion to the  ideal
beauty he  had never  yet attained.  Like Lalo,  Cappen Varra  was an artist who
sought to make  songs that would  live in men's  hearts. What would  he think of
this? The temptation to impress his old friend and make his cub of a son eat his
words was overwhelming. Lalo reached into his pouch, fished among the few  coins
left there,  and brought  out a  stick of  charcoal and  a worn piece of drawing
lead.

"No paper-" he said after a moment, and sighed.

"Then why not use  the wall?" Cappen Varra's  eyes were bright, challenging.  He
gestured toward the scarred plaster,  already disfigured by carved initials  and
scrawled obscenities. "The place will be no worse for some decoration- I'm  sure
One-Thumb won't mind!"

Lalo nodded and blinked several times, wishing that the blurring before his eyes
would go  away. Liquor  had never  affected him  like this  before-as if he were
staring through the harbor's murky  waters to a seabed littered  with everything
the sewers swept out of town.

He struggled up  on his knees  next to the  wall. Cappen Varra  was beginning to
look interested, but Wedemir's expression was eloquent with embarrassment.  /'//
show  him,  thought  Lalo, then  turned  his  gaze to  the  wall,  cudgeling his
imagination for a subject. Lamplight flickered  on the bumps and hollows of  its
rough plaster, sketching a long curve  here, and there a mass of  shadow, almost
like...

Yes, that  was what  he would  give them-a  unicorn! After  all, he  had already
painted one for the sign outside. He felt the familiar concentration narrow  his
vision as he  lifted his hand;  he could almost  believe himself at  home in his
studio, drawing a model for a mural as he had done so many times before.

Lalo let the other  part of his brain  take over and guide  his hand-that hidden
part that saw the world in relationships of light and darkness, mass and texture
and line, directly recording what it  saw. And as his hand moved,  his awareness
reached out to  draw the soul  of the subject  into the picture,  as he also had
done  so many  times before.  The unicorn-an  imagined unicorn?  No, the  Vulgar
Unicorn, of course-the soul of the Vulgar Unicorn....

Lalo's hand jerked and stopped. He shuddered as unwelcome knowledge flooded  in.
Here in this booth  a man had died  not long ago-his lifeblood  flowing from the
stroke of a deftly-placed  blade. He had struggled,  and blood had splashed  the
wall-that  smear Lalo  had assumed  was soot  before. Without  his volition  the
charcoal swept around it, incorporating it as a blacker shadow within the whole.

And now other impressions buffeted his  awareness, the black, sharp fear of  men
surprised by the raid of the  Beysib, an intricate swirling that resonated  with
the name of the witch Roxane. But there must be some humor-surely there had also
been good times here,  enough to give a  tilt to the unicorn's  head, a sardonic
glint to its eye. But there were not many such moments to portray, and no recent
ones....

Faster and faster moved the artist's  hand, covering the wall with a  scrollwork
of figures that writhed one into another, contorting the outline that  contained
them. Here was the  face of a woman  raped to death in  one of the upper  rooms,
there the desperate clutch of a man robbed of the coppers that would have  saved
his family. Feverishly the charcoal traced the lineaments of hatred, of  hunger,
of despair. ...

Lalo was vaguely aware  of others around him,  not only Cappen and  Wedemir, but
the men who had  been drinking at the  next table, and others  from elsewhere in
the room, even Shadowspawn, looking over his shoulder with startled eyes.

"That's Lalo the Limner, isn't it-you  know, the fancy painter who did  all that
work up at the Palace," said one voice.

"Suppose One-Thumb's commissioned him to do a little daubing here?"

"Not bloody likely,"  answered the first  voice, "and what's  that he's drawing?
Looks like a beast of some kind."

Lalo hardly heard. He no longer knew  who had left the tavern, who had  come in.
At one point he  felt a tug on  his arm; peripheral vision  showed him Wedemir's
pale face. "Papa-it's all right. You don't have to go on."

Lalo pulled free with a gutteral denial. Didn't the boy understand? He could not
stop now. Hand and  arm moved of themselves  to the next line,  the next shadow,
the next  horror, as  all the  secrets of  the Vulgar  Unicom flowed through his
fingers onto the wall.

And then, suddenly, it was finished. The nubbin of charcoal dropped from  Lalo's
nerveless  fingers to  be lost  in the  filth of  the floor.  He forced  cramped
muscles to function, eased off the bench, and stepped slowly back to see what he
had done. He shivered,  remembering the moment when  he had stepped back  to see
the soul of the assasin Zanderei,  closed his eyes briefly, then forced  himself
to look at the wall.

It was worse than he had expected. How  could he have spent so much time in  the
Vulgar Unicorn and never known? Perhaps the normal barriers of the human  senses
had protected him. But, like a glory-hunting warrior, he had thrown his  shields
away, and  now all  the evil  that had  ever taken  place within  the tavern was
displayed upon its wall.

"Is this what you were trying to tell us you could do?" whispered Wedemir.

"Can't you wipe some  of it off, or  something?" asked Cappen Varra  in a shaken
voice. "Even here, surely you don't mean to leave it that way...."

Lalo looked from  him to the  uneasy faces of  the others who  gazed at what the
leaping  lamplight  revealed,  and  suddenly he  was  angry.  They  had watched,
condoned, perhaps participated  in the acts  from which this  portrait was made.
Why were they so shocked to see their own evil made visible?

But the harper was right. Lalo had destroyed work before, when it was  unworthy.
Surely, though  his portraiture  had never  been so  true, this picture deserved
destruction.

He stepped forward, part of his cape  bunched in his hand, and lifted it  to the
distorted, flat-eared head with its evilly twisted hom.

The eye of the unicorn winked evilly.

Lalo stopped short,  hand still poised.  How had that  happened? A bulge  in the
plaster or  some trick  of the  light? He  peered at  it and  realized that  the
unicorn's eye was red. Then his hand throbbed. He looked down and saw new  blood
welling from the old cut on his thumb.

"Sweet Shipri, preserve us!" muttered  Lalo, realizing whose blood was  coloring
that obscenity on the wall. His hand darted forward, again was stopped before it
touched the plaster; for if this was his own blood, what would happen to him  if
the picture was destroyed? What was he doing, meddling with this kind of  power?
He needed a professional!

And still the  eye of the  unicorn mocked him,  as Gilla had  mocked him when he
went through the  door, or like  a more familiar  mockery that he  had seen in a
mirror once in a face whose mixed good and evil frightened him all the way  into
the land of  the gods. But  he had embraced  the good, and  surely the evil  was
gone! Desperately, Lalo ransacked  his memory for visions  of the beauty of  the
gods.

But there was only darkness and the wicked eye that enticed him more surely than
the eyes of the sorceress Is-chade, because it was his own.

Closer and closer Lalo came; his right  arm hung nerveless at his side. "/  also
am your soul," whispered  the unicorn. "Give life  to me, and you  shall have my
power. Did not you know?"

Lalo groaned. The breath of his  lungs hissed out and stirred the  charcoal dust
upon the wall. The red eye of the unicom began to glow.

Lalo saw and choked,  trying to withdraw his  breath again. Wedemir clutched  at
his arm, but Lalo shook free and  swiped wildly at the wall, recoiled as  a wave
of heat blasted him, and fell back into his son's strong arms.

"No!" he gasped, "I didn't mean it!  Go back where you came from-this isn't  how
it's supposed to be!" Men muttered  around him; someone swore as a  tremor shook
the floor.

"Wizard's work!" exclaimed another. Men began to back away. Shadowspawn spat and
slipped quietly out the door.

Coughing, Lalo snatched up his tankard and flung it at the wall. Red as blood in
the lamplight, the liquid splashed off a solidifying flank and splattered across
the floor.

Wedemir made the sign against evil; Cappen Varra's fist closed around the coiled
silver of his amulet. "It's only a picture; a picture can't hurt you-"  muttered
the harper, but Lalo knew that wasn't  true. With every second the Thing on  the
wall gained substance. The  trembling in the floor  increased. Lalo took a  step
backward, then another.

One-Thumb launched  himself down  the staircase,  roaring questions,  but nobody
paid him  any attention.  He was  calling for  Roxane, whose  powers, if she had
cared to exert them, might perhaps have stopped what was happening now. But this
night Roxane had other matters in hand. She did not hear.

And then, with  a groan that  burst at once  from Lalo's lips  and the wall, the
Black Unicorn shuddered free of the plaster that had imprisoned it and leaped to
the tavern floor.

Abruptly Lalo remembered  the astonished delight  with which he  had watched his
first creation  soar through  the azure  air. That  joy was  the measure  of his
horror now.

Alive, the thing was  even worse than it  had been on the  wall-a desecration of
the concept of a unicorn. It  paused, stamped with hooves like polished  skulls,
and the posts upholding the upper  floors trembled like trees shaken by  a wind.
It reared, and staggered forward with Minotaurlike lumberings, then dropped back
to all fours, and almost casually plunged its horn into the chest of the nearest
man.

The victim screamed once. The Unicorn shook its head, and the body flew free  to
land with a  soft sound like  a falling sack  of meal on  the other side  of the
room. Blood spiraled down the wicked hom. The Unicorn grew.

Its head came around, red eye fixing  on the girl who had been serving  the ale.
She tried to run, but the monster was  too quick for her. Her body was still  in
the air when Wedemir seized his father's arm.

"Papa, quick-we've got to get out of here!"

Cappen Varra was already slipping toward the door. The Unicorn wheeled,  herding
two men contemptuously across  the room. Fresh blood  smeared the old stains  on
the floor.

"No-" Lalo shook his  head uncontrollably. "It's mine,  my fault-I have to-"  He
felt his son's strength suddenly as Wedemir seized him, pinioning his arms,  and
half-dragged, half-carried him away.

Three men pelted after  them into the night;  then there were no  more, only the
screaming  from inside  the inn  that continued  as Wedemir  dragged Lalo  after
Cappen Varra,  terror lending  them its  own protection  until they  reached the
harper's dingy room.

The secret hours between  midnight and dawn drew  on. The Black Unicorn,  having
finished with  the tavern,  shouldered out  into the  street, blotting the night
with a  deeper darkness,  and began  to forage  through the  Maze, emptying  the
streets more effectively than Imperial order or Beysib curfew had ever done.

On Cappen Varra's dusty floor Lalo dozed fitfully, struggling through dreams  of
fire and darkness lit by a distant shimmer of crystal wings.

In the luxury of his estate on the east side, Lastel, furious and smarting  with
pain from a  gash across his  belly, took a  long snort of  krrf and waited  for
Roxane. One death or a dozen in  the Vulgar Unicorn did not trouble him  unduly,
but his alliance with the witch ought to protect him from any other sorcery, and
with that Thing  that had come  off the wall  of the Unicorn  loose in the city,
every mage in Sanctuary  would be after his  hide. Had the little  dauber really
done it? Who was using him? Lastel struck at the slave who was trying to bandage
him and sniffed at the krrf again. Roxane would know what to do....

The sorceress Ischade lifted herself from silken pillows and the enraptured face
of the man beneath her, midnight eyes searching graying shadows. She could  feel
power eddying in  the damp air;  the wards she  had set between  herself and the
Nisibisi witch quivered like  taut wires in a  sudden breeze. Was Roxane  moving
against her? The disturbance came from the direction of the Vulgar Unicorn,  but
there seemed no purpose in its meanderings. A word to the black bird perched  in
the comer sent  it heaving into  the musky air  in a flurry  of nightdark wings.
"Go," she whispered, "bring back word to me...."

Enas Yorl saw the fragile structure of the spell he was working begin to  ripple
as the dimensional distortion reached it, and extinguished it with a swift Word.
What  had  happened?  The power  he  sensed  was at  once  alien  and shockingly
familiar.  Automatically  he  summoned his  familiars  and  sent them  scurrying
through the twisted streets. Then he began to robe himself, but even as his hand
closed on the rich velvet he saw it changing. Swearing in frustrated agony,  the
sorcerer subsided in a transformation that  took from him even the semblance  of
humanity. By  the time  Wedemir banged  on his  brazen door,  there was only the
blind servant Darous to answer it with the enigmatic assurance that the sorcerer
was not at home....

Lythande, lost  in timeless  contemplation in  the Place  That Is  Not, felt the
indefinable tremor and  sent her trained  awareness winging back  to the austere
chamber in the Aphrodisia House where she had left her physical form. Yes, there
was a new power in Sanctuary, but it  was no threat to her, thank the gods.  She
had already rested here too long, but even as she contemplated her next journey,
the Adept of the  Blue Star had to  suppress a professional curiosity  regarding
who had created the thing, and why....

And the Black Unicorn, having killed two mercenaries and a beggar at the edge of
the Maze, as the sun rose began a destructive foray through the busy streets  of
the Processional. Terror depopulated them as rapidly as they had filled, and the
Unicorn turned, its darkness staining the bright day, and began to slash its way
up Slippery Street toward the Bazaar.

"So, you came back...."

Lalo slumped against the doorframe, his cape slipping from strengthless  fingers
to the floor. "The  Unicorn-" he whispered, "they  said it was coming  here...."
Blinking, he looked around  him, seeing the kitchen  just as he had  left it one
endless day ago.  There were  the flaking  whitewashed walls,  the sloping, well
scrubbed floor, and the bright faces of his children; even Vanda's friend Valira
was here with her child, staring at him from their seats about the room....

And Gilla, standing in the midst of them like the statue of Shipri All-Mother in
the Temple of Ils. Shivering, he  forced himself to meet her eyes.  The apologies
he had rehearsed through all the stumbling rush of his run here trembled on  his
lips, but he could not find the words.

"Well," said Gilla finally, "you don't seem to have enjoyed your debauchery!"

A croak of laughter forced its  way from Lalo's chest. "Debauchery! I  only wish
it had been!" A sudden horror shook  him as he looked around the peaceful  room.
The Unicorn was his-what if it tracked him here? He choked, put his hand on  the
doorlatch, gathering his strength to go.

"Papa!" cried Wedemir, and at the same moment Gilla's face changed at last.

"There's a monster loose, you fool-you can't go out there!"

Lalo stared at her, hysterical laughter building beyond his ability to  control.
"I... know...." He sobbed for breath. "I created it...."

"Oh, you dear  wretched man!" she  exclaimed. With a  swift step she  was beside
him, and he looked up fearfully. But already her big arms were enfolding him. He
glimpsed Wedemir's astonished face beyond her as his head found the haven of her
breast.

And then,  for a  moment, everything  was all  right again.  He was safe at that
still point of rest where he and Gilla were one. He sighed explosively. Tension,
fear, unchan-neled power  flowed from him  through her to  its grounding in  the
earth below. Then from the distance came a scream of agony, and Lalo  stiffened,
remembering the Unicorn.

"I'll go outside-" said Wedemir. "I'm a good runner, and maybe I can lead it off
if it comes this way."

"No!" cried Lalo and Gilla as one.  Lalo looked at his son, his face  shining in
the morning light like a young god's, and all his resentment of the night before
transformed  to  agony.  In  the  boy's  proud  strength  there  was  such awful
vulnerability.

He turned  to Gilla.  "When you  looked at  that portrait  of me,  did you see a
madman? I have embodied half the evil  in Sanctuary and set it free! I  tried to
get help from Enas Yorl, but he's not there-Gilla, I don't know what to do!"

"Enas Yorl's not the  only wizard in Sanctuary,  and I never liked  him anyway,"
said Gilla stoutly. But Lalo could  feel her fear, and that, more  than anything
else that had happened, frightened him.

A soft voice stirred the silence. "What about Lythande?"

The  reknowned Madam  of the  Aphrodisia House  was no  more imbued  with  civic
responsibility than anyone else in Sanctuary, but this Thing that was  rampaging
through their streets might succeed where curfews and death squads had failed-it
might even  affect trade.  And she  knew Valira  ro be  an honest  girl-had even
offered  her a  place in  the House,  though the  girl insisted  on staying   in
lodgings with her child. It was enough to gain Valira's friends a hearing,  once
the little  prostitute had  poured out  her garbled  tale. And  once Myrtis  had
heard, to make her their advocate to Lythande.

But Lalo recognized exasperation in  the cool voice behind the  crimson curtains
at the end  of the waiting  room, and as  the Adept pushed  through them he  saw
resistance in every line of the dark robe that concealed Lythande's tall  frame.
There was  silver in  the long  hair; lamplight  limned lean  cheeks and a high,
narrow brow where the identifying blue star glowed. Lalo looked away, ashamed to
meet the wizard's gaze.

How the Adept must despise him, as  he would have sneered at a beggar  who stole
his paints  and tried  to paint  the Prince.  But a  beggar would only have made
himself ridiculous. Lalo's ignorant misuse of power might doom them all.

There was an uneasy silence as  the Adept settled into the carven  chair. Lalo's
nostrils twitched as Lythande lit a pipe and aromatic smoke began to eddy  about
the room. He twitched nervously, and  Gilla, solid as stone on the  couch beside
him, patted his hand.

"Well?" The Adept's smooth tenor broke the silence. "Myrtis said you had need of
me-"

Gilla cleared  her throat.  "That demon  in the  shape of  a unicorn is my man's
doing. We need your help to get rid of it again."

"You're telling me this man is a magician?" Lalo flinched at the scorn he heard.
"Myrtis!" Lythande called, "why did you ask me to waste my time with a  hysteric
and a fool?"

Gilla bristled. "No magician,  master, but a man  gifted with one power  by Enas
Yorl and with another by the gods themselves!"

Lalo forced his gaze upward, saw the blue star on Lythande's brow begin to shine
as Gilla spoke the other magician's  name, casting an eerie illumination on  the
face below it, a face that was worn by wizardry, with ageless eyes.

His vision blurred. For a moment Lalo saw beneath those austere features a  face
that was softer, though no less resolute. He blinked, shook his head, and looked
again, saw the face of the  Adept veiling the other, then both  melding together
until there was only one face before him, a woman's face whose truth he read  as
once he had read that of Enas Yorl-

-An implacable and enduring beauty like the blade of a sword, honed and tempered
through more years and  lands than Lalo could  imagine, and the equally  endless
pain of fulfillment denied and forever  voiceless love. The rumor of the  Bazaar
had only hinted  at Lythande's power  and had not  even suggested the  price the
Adept paid for it-that she paid-for Lalo knew Lythande's secret now.

"But  you-" Wonder  startled words  from his  lips and  the star  on  Lythande's
forehead blazed suddenly. Lalo's sensitized nerves felt the throb of power,  and
abruptly he recognized his  danger. He squeezed shut  his eyes. Powers he  might
have, but chance  memory told him  that only another  wizard could survive  open
revelation of the secret of a wearer of the Blue Star.

"I see," came the Adept's voice, soft, terrible.

"Master, please!" cried Lalo desperately, trying to let her know, without saying
so, that he understood. "I know the danger of secrets-I have told you mine and I
am in your power. But if there are  any in this city that you love, please  show
me how to undo the evil I have done!"

There  was  a  long  sigh.  The sense  of  danger  began  to  ease. Gilla  moved
uncomfortably, and Lalo realized that she had been holding her breath too.

"Very well-" There was a certain bitter humor in Ly-thande's measured tone. "One
condition. Promise that you will never paint me!"

Dizzy with relief, Lalo opened his eyes, careful not to meet the Adept's gaze.

"But  I warn  you, help  is all  that I  can give,"  Lythande went  on. "If  the
creature is your creation, then you must control it."

"But it will kill him!" Gilla cried.

"Perhaps," said the Adept, "but when one  plays with power one must be ready  to
pay."

"What-" Lalo swallowed. "What do I have to do?"

"First we have to get its attention...."

Lalo sat on the edge of  one of the Vulgar Unicorn's rickety  benches, nervously
fingering the edges  of the roll  of canvas in  his arms. Wedemir-where  are you
now? His  heart sent  out the  anguished cry  as he  visualized his son slipping
through dark streets, searching for the Unicorn. The end of Lythande's  planning
had been this knowledge that the price  must be paid by all of them-by  Wedemir,
walking into danger, and by the rest of them, waiting for him to lead it to them
here.

He took a ragged breath, then another, striving for calm. Lythande had told  him
he must prepare himself, but his stripped nerves kept him nervously aware of the
blue pulse of  the Adept's presence,  as he was  aware of Cappen  Varra, who sat
with  hand  clasped  around his  amulet,  and  of Gilla-of  her  more  than any,
projecting a mixing of strength and fear and love.

Perhaps she simply disliked being in  the Vulgar Unicorn. It was the  measure of
her trust of Lythande that she  had accepted the Adept's pronouncement that  the
Unicorn must leave this dimension by the same Gate through which it had come.

But was this really the Vulgar  Unicorn, or only some drunken nightmare?  It was
so  very  still. After  a  brief, explosive  interchange  between One-Thumb  and
Lythande, the Adept had expelled the few customers who had braved the birthplace
of the Black Unicorn, and cleared away the tables from the booth and the  center
of the  room. Lalo  stared at  the irregular  white space  on the wall where his
drawing had been, shivered and looked  away, found his eyes focusing on  the new
dark stains that marred the floor, and shut them.

Breathe!  he told  himself. For  Wedemir's sake-you  have to  find the  strength
somewhere!

"I should never have allowed it-" Gilla's whisper voiced Lalo's fears. "My  poor
son! How could you let him sacrifice  himself? You'd let your baby bum and  send
your firstborn to be eaten by a demon from Hell-a fine sort of father you are!"

Lalo  could feel  her gathering  steam for  another diatribe  and found  himself
almost welcoming the distraction, but Lythande's voice knifed through the  pause
as Gilla gathered breath to go on.

"Woman, be still! There is  more than one life at  stake here, and the time  for
discussion is  long gone.  Lend some  of your  anger to  your man-he'll  need it
soon!" The  Adept's  snapped comment  was  followed by  a  half-heard  muttering
something about "working with amateurs" that made Gilla's ears bum.

Lalo sighed and tried to formulate a prayer to Ils of the Thousand Eyes, but  all
that would come to him was a vision of Wedemir's bright gaze.

The door opened.

Lalo jerked around, peering at the shadow that had precipitated itself from  the
darker oblong of the open door. Wedemir? But it was too soon, and there had been
no sound. The figure stepped forward; Lalo recognized the dark cloak and narrow,
sullen face of Shadowspawn.

"I got a message-" Hanse surveyed the odd group with disbelief. "I'm supposed to
help you?"

His face was  eloquent with resentment,  and Lalo, realizing  abruptly from whom
that message must have come, felt a slim stirring of hope. He got to his feet.

"Yes, you can help us," Lythande said quietly beside him. "You saw something get
loose here last night. Help us send it home again."

"No." Hanse  shook his  head. "Oh,  no. Once  was a  time too  many to  see that
thing."

"Shalpa's Son..." Lalo said hoarsely, and saw Shadowspawn flinch.

"Not even for-" he began, then whirled, hands going for his knives. From outside
came the  sound of  feet running,  and a  deep roaring  as if  all the sewers in
Sanctuary had overflowed.

"Quick, for your life-" snapped the Adept, pointing across the room. "Take  your
place in the circle, and don't stir!"

For a moment Shadowspawn stared, then he moved.

But Lalo had  forgotten him. Bench  clattering over behind  him, he darted  past
Cappen  Varra to  reach his  place by  the wall,  glimpsed Gilla's  bulk  moving
surprisingly quickly to the  spot the Adept had  assigned to her. As  if she had
tel-eported, Lythande  was already  standing, wand  at the  ready, at  the point
between the door and the wall.

Then it crashed open and Wedemir  hurtled through, hesitated for a moment  as he
saw the  place he  had expected  to fill  already occupied  by Shadowspawn, then
stumbled into the middle of the circle, blood from his arm spattering across the
floor. Lalo's  stomach churned;  he reached  for the  boy and  pulled him to his
side.

"The blood-" he gasped. "Did the Unicorn get you?"

Wedemir shook his head and touched the knife at his side. Lythande darted them a
quick glance.

"I told him to wound himself,"  the Adept said. "Innocent blood-and your  blood,
Lalo-the smell of it would be irresistible-"

Then a darkness filled the doorway, deeper than the shadows, in which flamed two
glowing eyes.  It had  grown. Lalo  swallowed sickly  as the  Unicorn forced its
expanding bulk  through the  doorway. The  black muzzle  bent, snuffling for the
blood-trail. Wedemir  swayed, and  Lalo saw  that blood  was still  welling from
between the  fingers clenched  around his  arm to  fall smoking  to the  stained
floor. Lalo's altered vision perceived the life-force radiating from each  drop.
That, then, was what the Unicom desired.

Us  of the  Thousand Eyes,  look down  and help  me! his  spirit cried.  Gilla's
invocation ofShipri vibrated in  the heavy air, and  beyond her Lalo sensed  the
blur of Shalpa's power, Lythande's blue  glow, and the murmur of Cappen  Varra's
plea to his northern gods.

The Unicom reared back: Lalo could not tell whether it went on two legs or four.
Did those red eyes see puny human  victims, or did it sense the inflowing  power
of the gods?  The monster must  not be frightened  away, though his  every nerve
quivered with hope that it would go. Lythande's stem gaze commanded him. Now was
the time-the Adept had done her part and he was on his own.

Great Ils! He  could not do  it; but somehow  his feet were  carrying him between
Wedemir and the Unicom.

"Unicom!" Lalo's voice was a crow's croak. He tried again. "Unicom, come to  me!
Blood of my blood, here is what you desire!"

The dark form shuddered  with thunder and deep  laughter. It took a  step toward
him and then another, contemptuous of  the others who stood there. Its  gaze was
like a horribly intimate touch upon his soul, and Lalo remembered suddenly  that
it was his-his own evil had been joined to that of the rest of Sanctuary in  the
Unicorn's  conception.  Lalo's part  in  the creature  yearned  for reunion;  an
answering yearning resonated in the secret depths of his soul. How easy it would
be to... simply give in.

Lythande poised like  a beast of  prey, absolutely still.  As Lalo wavered,  the
Unicorn stepped past her;  her wand flashed out  like a sword of  fire, and blue
light snapped across the circle to Gilla, back to Cappen Varra, over to Wedemir,
occupying Lalo's old place by the  wall, up to Shadowspawn and back  to Lythande
again before the Thing could move.

It  roared and  whirled, but  it was  imprisoned by  the glowing  lines of   the
pentagram.  Lalo realized  with horror  that he  was imprisoned  too. Then   the
Unicorn grew still, senses questing  outward to test the barriers.  Its darkness
pulsed softly;  Lalo recognized  faces contorted  in voiceless  torment, blinked
away a  vision of  his own  features swirling  among the  throng, and fumbled to
unroll the canvas still clutched in his arms.

The Unicorn heard the rustle of canvas and began to turn.

The  results  of  half  a night's  labor  unrolled  stiffly,  and Lalo  wondered
desperately whether it would  serve. Taking a deep  breath, he closed his  eyes,
seeking  the  Face of  Ils  in memory.  Awareness  faltered, fixed,  and  for one
timeless moment he was There, but this time he did not look away. The brightness
of the Divine  Face blinded and  burned him, searing  that part of  him that had
responded to the  Unicorn. And still  the light grew,  until Lalo realized  that
even the Shining Face of Ils had  been only a mask for that radiance  whose least
part burned in the sun and the other stars.

And then he  was falling, spiraling  dizzily back into  the prison of  his human
body. Still  dazzled, Lalo  released his  pent breath  across the  canvas in his
clenched hands.

The Unicorn  shrieked as  if it  sensed the  birth of  its enemy.  Lalo felt the
canvas quiver in his  hands. Light shattered and  scattered across the floor  as
crystal wings beat upward  into three-dimensionality. He had  set out to draw  a
white bird like something he had once painted for the gods, and Lythande's  cool
voice and fluttering fingers had tranced him as an aid in recovering the memory.

But he did not  recognize the wonder that  was emerging now-it was  an eagle, it
was a  phoenix, it  was a  swan- it  was all  of these  and none. The great bird
opened its bright beak in a piercing cry, talons clutched and unclenched,  wings
swept wind across the room, and it was free.

Lalo sank back upon his heels, gasping as the Unicorn's darkness gave way before
a  storm of  white wings.  The war  of fire  and ice  and darkness  sent  fierce
coruscations of opal light around the room. Roaring, the Unicorn charged against
its foe, and Lalo huddled, a still speck at the eye of the storm.

Between  one flurry  and another  he heard  someone call  his name.  Blue  light
stabbed his eyes. "Lalo-open the Gate!"

Lalo forced his  limbs to pull  him toward Lythande.  The pentagram burned  him;
then the Adept's  wand broke it  and he was  through. And just  in time, for the
Bird of Light was driving the Unicorn after him in a tempest Vashanka would have
been proud to  claim. Lalo struggled  upright. Light followed  his finger as  he
traced a line around the pale area on the plaster where he had drawn the Unicom.

He finished, his hand fell, and the space he had outlined began to shimmer.  The
plaster thinned, cleared,  disappeared to reveal  a black gulf  that pulsed with
sparkling  lights.  Lalo's  ears  sang  with  subliminal  vibration,  his vision
blurred, a strong hand closed on his arm  and jerked him out of the path of  the
bolt of blackness that hurtled past him  toward the void, followed by a beam  of
light.

Lalo thrust out one arm in self-protection  as he fell, and screamed as it  took
the final  buffet of  the Bird  of Light's  crystal wing.  Then an  explosion of
radiance  dispersed the  darkness. The  tavern shook  as the  Gate between   the
dimensions slammed shut, and both the Unicom and its opposite were gone.

Two bodies lay in the lee of a wall where Dyer's Alley turned off from  Slippery
Street. Lythande took a  swift step aside to  peer at the pallid  faces and eyes
that stared unseeing at the rising sun, then returned.

"Knifed-"  the Adept  said. "Nothing  unusual. I'll  be going  now." She  nodded
abruptly, and began to walk away from them toward the Bazaar.

Lalo stopped rubbing his numbed arm  for a moment and stared after  her, wanting
to call her  back. But what  could he say?  The Adept had  favored him with more
good advice than he could understand all the way back from the Vulgar Unicorn.

By the time  Lalo had recovered  consciousness, Shadowspawn was  long gone,  and
Cappen Varra, with voice unsteady and hands that still reached for his amulet at
any unexpected sound, had taken his leave as soon as he could thereafter. By the
time they got Wedemir's wound stanched and Lalo was able to walk again, the  sun
was striking gold from  the dome of the  Temple, and Hakiem was  peering through
the tavern door. With the tables and  benches back in place, only the bare  spot
on the wall and an unnaturally wholesome atmosphere would have enabled anyone to
guess what had happened there; but Lalo supposed that the storyteller would find
out. He always did, somehow.

But as Lythande had pointed out,  it hardly mattered what the rest  of Sanctuary
thought of him-it was the wizards he must  watch out for now. As the style of  a
painting proclaimed its creator, so it was with magic, and the Black Unicorn had
been signed "Lalo the Limner" for any with eyes to see.

"One way  or another  they will  be after  you, and  you must  learn to use your
power..." Lythande's words still rang in Lalo's ears.

He sighed, and Gilla eased more  of her arm under his, supporting  him. Wedemir,
leaning  on  her  other arm,  lifted  his  head, and  father  and  son exchanged
apprehensive grins. They knew Gilla's frown, and the twist of lips clamped  shut
over hard words.

At the foot of their stairs Lalo halted, gathering his strength for the climb.

"All right, 0 Mighty Magician, do you want my help or can you make it under your
own power?" asked  Gilla. In the  full light of  morning he saw  clearly for the
first time the new  lines of anguish by  her mouth and the  bruise marks beneath
her eyes. And  yet her body  was as steady  as the earth  below him. It  was her
strength that had got him this far.

"You are my power,  all of you-" His  eyes moved from Gilla  to Wedemir, meeting
his son's steady gaze, accepting him at  last as an equal and a man.  "Don't let
me forget it again."

Gilla's eyes were  suspiciously bright. She  squeezed his hand.  Lalo nodded and
began  to climb  the staircase,  and in  his labored  breathing they  heard  the
whisper of white wings.

THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU

Diane Duane

		The ephemerals have no help to give.
		Look at them!
		They are deedless and cripple,
		strengthless as dreams. All mortalkind
		is bound with a chain;
		all their eyes are darkened....

The sound  of screaming  slowly aroused  Harran from  the mechanical business of
pounding out the Stepson  Raik's hangover remedy in  the old stone mortar.  Raik
scrambled to his feet, his face ashen, staring toward the gates of the Stepsons'
barracks compound. "Just  a little more  business for the  barber," Harran said,
not looking up. "More serious than your head, from the sound of it."

"Shal," Raik said, sounding wounded himself. "Harran, that's Shal-"

"Knew the damned  careless fool would  get himself chopped  up one day,"  Harran
said. He  measured the  last ounce  or so  of grain  spirits into his mortar and
picked up the pestle again.

"Harran, you son of a-"

"A moment ago you didn't care about anything, including where your partner was,"
Harran said. "Now you know... Mriga!"

Over in  the comer  of the  rough stone  hut someone  sat in  the shadows on the
packed dirt floor,  hitting two rocks  together-grinding a third  rock to powder
between them in a steady, relentless rhythm. The hut's small windows let in only
a couple of dust-dancing arrows of  sun; neither came near the bundle  of skinny
arms and legs and filthy rags that  sat there and went pound, pound, pound  with
the rocks, ignoring Harran.

"Mriga!" Harran said again.

Pound, pound, pound.

Another scream strung itself on the air, closer. From under Harran's  worktable,
by his feet, came a different sound: an eager whimper, and then the thumping  of
a dog's wagging tail.

Harran huffed in annoyance  and shoved the mortar  and pestle aside. "You  start
one thing around here," he said, getting up without looking anywhere near Raik's
wild eyes, "and there's no finishing it. Never fails. -Mriga!"

This time  there was  a grunt  from the  pile of  rags, though  certainly not in
response to anything Harran was saying- just  a kind of bark or groan of  animal
pleasure in  the rhythm.  Harran reached  down and  grabbed Mriga's  hands. They
jerked and spasmed in his grasp, as  they always did when someone tried to  stop
anything she was doing. "No more, Mriga. Knives now. Knives."

The hands kept jerking. "Knives," Harran said, louder, shaking her a bit.  "Come
on! Knives...."

"Nhrm," she said. It was as close as Mriga ever got to the word. From under  the
tangle of matted, curly hair, from  out of the bland, barren face,  eyes flashed
briefly  up at  Harran-empty, but  very much  alive. There  was no  intelligence
there, but there was passion. Mriga loved knives better than anything.

"Good girl," he  said, dragging her  more or less  to her feet  by one arm,  and
shaking her to make sure of her attention. "The long knife, now. The long knife.
Sharp."

"Ghh," Mriga said, and  she shambled across  the hut toward  Harran's grindstone
oblivious of the disgusted Raik, who  nearly kicked her in passing until  he saw
Harran's eyes on him. "Vashanka's blazing balls, man," Raik said in the voice of
a man who wants to spit,  "why're you waiting till now  to do your damned  knife
grinding?!"

Harran  set about  clearing his  herbs and  apothecary's tools  off the   table.
"Barracks cook 'borrowed' it for his joint last night," said Harran, bending  to
stir the fire and dropping the poker back among the coals. "Didn't just slice up
that chine you were all gorging on, either. He used the thing to cut through the
thighbone for the marrow, instead of just cracking it. Thought it'd be  neater."
Harran spat  at Raik's  feet, missing  them with  insolent accuracy. "Ruined the
edge. Fool. None of you understands good steel; not one of you-"

Yet another scream,  weaker, ran up  and down the  scale just outside  the door.
Shal was running out of  breath. "Bring him in,"  said Harran; and in  they came
lean blond Lafen, and towering Yuriden, and between them, slack as a  half-empty
sack of flour, Shal.

The two unhurt Stepsons eased Shal up onto the table, with Raik trying to  help,
and mostly getting in the way. The man's right hand was bound up brutally  tight
with a  strip of  red cloth  slashed from  Lafen's cloak;  the blood had already
soaked through the red of it and was dripping on the floor. From under the table
came more thumping, and a whine.

'Tyr, go out," said Harran. The dog ran out of the room. "Hold him," Harran said
to the three, over the noise of the grindstone.

He pulled  a penknife  out of  his pocket,  slit the  tourniquet's sodden  knot,
peeled the sticking cloth away, and stared at the ruin of Shal's lower arm.

"What  happened?"  Raik  was  demanding of  the  others,  his  voice thick  with
something Harran noticed but did not care to analyze.

"By the bridge over  the White Foal," Yuriden  said, his usually dark  face even
darker suffused with blood. "Those damned Piffles, may they all-"

"This isn't swordwork," Harran said, slipping the penknife into what was left of
Shal's wrist and using the blade to hold aside a severed vein.

The paired bones of Shal's lower arm were shattered and stuck out of the  wound.
The outermost large bone  was broken right at  the joint, where it  met the many
small bones  of the  wrist which  were jutting  up through  the skin; the smooth
white capsule of gristle at its  end was ruptured like a squashed  fruit. Oozing
red marrow  and blood  were smeared  all over  the pale,  iridescent shimmer  of
sliced and mangled  tendons. The great  artery of the  lower arm dangled  loose,
momentarily clotted shut, a frayed, livid little tube.

"No sword would do this.  Cart drove over him while  he was swiving in the  dirt
again, eh Yuri?"

"Harran, damn you-"

"Yuri, shut up!" Raik cried. "Harran, what are you going to do?"

Harran turned away from  the man moaning on  the table, and faced  Raik's horror
and rage squarely. "Idiot," he said.  "Look at the hand." Raik did.  The fingers
were curled like  clenched talons, the  torn, retracted tendons  making no other
shape possible. "What do you think I'm going to do? Mriga-"

"But his sword-hand-"

"Fine," Harran said. "I'll sew it up.  You explain matters to him when it  rots,
and he lies dying of it."

Raik moaned, a sound of denial as bitter as any of Shal's screams. Harran wasn't
interested. "Mriga," he said again, and went over to the grindstone to stop her.
"Enough. It's sharp."

The grindstone kept turning. Harran  gently kicked Mriga's feet off  the pedals.
They kept working, absurdly, on the stone  floor. He pried the knife out of  her
grasp  and wiped  the film  of dirty  oil off  the edge.  Sharp indeed;  a  real
hairsplitter. Not that it needed to be  for this work. But some old habits  were
hard to break....

The three  at the  table were  holding Shal  down; Raik  was holding Shal's face
between his  hands. Harran  stood over  Shal for  a moment,  looking down at the
drawn, shock-paled face. In a way it was sad. Shal was no more accomplished than
any of the other Stepsons around here these days, but he was the bravest; always
riding out to his duties joking, riding back at day's end tired, but ready to do
his job again the next day. A pity he should be maimed....

But pity was another  of the old habits.  "Shal," Harran said. "You  know what I
have to do."

"Noooooo!!"

Harran paused...  finally shook  his head.  "Now," he  said to  the others,  and
lifted the knife. "Hold him tight."

The hand gave him trouble. Yuri lost his grip, and the man writhing on the table
jerked the arm about wildly, spraying them all.

"I told you to hold him," Harran said. He knocked Raik's hands away from  Shal's
face,  took hold  of Shal's  head, lifted  it, and  struck it  hard against  the
tabletop. The  screaming, which  Harran had  refused to  hear, abruptly stopped.
"Idiots," he said. "Raik, give me the poker."

Raik bent to the fire, straightened again. Harran took the poker away from  him,
pinned the forearm  to the table,  and slowly rolled  the red-hot iron  over the
torn flesh and broken vessels, being careful of their sealing. The stink in  the
air pushed Raik away from the table like a hand.

The rest of the work was five minutes labor with a bone needle and catgut.  Then
Harran went rooting about among the  villainous pots and musty jars on  the high
shelf in the wall.

"Here," he said, throwing a packet to the poor retching Raik. "This in his  wine
when he wakes up... it may be a while. Don't waste the stuff; it's scarcer  than
meat. Yuri, they're  roofing in the  next street over.  Go over there  and beg a
pipkin of tar  from them-when it's  just cool enough  to touch, paint  the stump
with it. Stitches and all." Harran stood, his nose wrinkling. "And when you  get
him out of here, change his britches."

"Harran," Raik said  bitterly, holding the  unconscious Shal to  him. "You could
have made it easier on  him. - You and I,  we're going to have words  as soon as
Shal's well enough to be left alone."

"Bright, Raik. Threatening  the barber who  just saved his  life." Harran turned
away. "Idiot. Just pray the razor doesn't slip some morning."

The Stepsons went  away, swearing.  Harran busied  himself cleaning  up the mess
throwing sawdust on the table to sop up the blood and urine, and scraping Raik's
hangover remedy into a spare pot. Assuredly  he'd be back for it; if not  today,
then tomorrow, after Raik had tried to drink his way out of his misery.

The sound  of feet  thudding on  the floor  eventually drew  Harran's attention.
Mriga was  still pedaling  earnestly away  on a  grindstone she wasn't touching,
holding out to  it a knife  she didn't have.  "Stop it," Harran  said. "Come on,
stop that. Go do something else."

"Ghh," said Mriga, ecstatically involved, not hearing him. Harran grabbed  Mriga
and stood her up  and shoved her, blinking,  out into the sunlight.  "Go on," he
said at her back. "Go in the stable and clean the tack. The bridles, Mriga.  The
shinies."

She made a sound of agreement and  stumbled off into the light and stink  of the
Stepsons' stableyard. Harran went back inside to finish his cleaning. He scraped
the sawdust off the table, threw the  poker back in the fire, and picked  up the
last remnant of the unpleasant morning  from the spattered dish into which  he'd
thrown it: a brave man's hand.

And lightning struck.

I could do it, he thought. At last, I could do something.

Harran sank down  on the bench  beside the table,  speechless, almost sightless.
There was a whimper at the door.  Tyr stood in the doorway with her  big pointed
ears  going up  and down  in uncertainty,  and finally  decided that   Har-ran's
silence meant it was all right for her to come in again.

She slipped softly up  beside her master, put  her nose under one  of his hands,
and nudged him for attention.

Without really  noticing her,  he began  scratching her  behind the ears. Harran
wasn't even seeing the walls of the hut. It was both yesterday and tomorrow  for
him, and the present was suddenly charged with frightful possibility....

Yesterday looked as little like today as could be imagined. Yesterday was  white
and gold,  a marble  and chryselephantine  glory-the colors  of Siveni's  little
Sanctuary temple, in the days before the Rankans. Why do I look back on it  with
such longing? he wondered. / was even less successful there than I am here.  But
all the same, it had been his home. The faces had been familiar, and if he was a
minor priest, he was also a competent one.

Competent-. The  word had  a sting  to it  yet. Not  that it  was anything to be
ashamed of. But  they'd told him  often enough, in  the temple, that  there were
only two  ways to  do the  priestly magics.  One was  offhand, by instinct, as a
great  cook  does; a  whispered  word here,  an  ingredient there,  all  done by
knowledge and experience and whim-an effortless manipulation by the natural  and
supernatural senses of the materials at hand. The other way was like that of the
beginning cook, one not expert enough  to know what spices went with  what, what
spells would make  space curdle. The  merely competent simply  did magic by  the
book, checking the measurements and being  careful not to substitute, in case  a
demon should rise or a loaf should fail to.

Siveni's priests had looked down on the second method; it produced results,  but
lacked elegance. Harran could have cared less about elegance. He'd never  gotten
further than the strict reading and following of "recipes"-in fact, he had  just
about decided that maybe it would be wiser for him to stick to Siveni's strictly
physical arts of apothecary and surgery and healing. At that point in his career
the Rankans had arrived, and many  temples fell, and priestcraft in all  but the
mightiest liturgies  became politically  unsafe. That  was when  Harran, for the
first time since  his parents had  sold him into  Siveni's temple at  the age of
nine, had  gone looking  for work.  He had  frantically taken  the first  job he
found, as the Stepsons' leech and barber.

The memory of finding his  new job brought back too  clearly that of how he  had
lost the old one. He had been  there to see the writ delivered into  the shaking
hands of the  old Master-Priest by  the hard-faced Molin  Torchholder, while the
Imperial  guards looked  on with  bored hostility;  the hurried  packing of  the
sacred vessels, the hiding of other, less valuable materials in the crypts under
the temple; the flight •of the priesthood into exile....

Harran stared at the poor, blood-congested  hand in its dish on the  table while
beside him Tyr  slurped his fingers  and poked him  for more attention.  Why did
they do it? Siveni is only  secondarily a war-goddess. More ever than  that, She
was-is-Lady of Wisdom and Enlightenment-a healer more than a killer.

Not that She couldn't kill if the fancy took Her....

Harran doubted   that the   priests of   Vashanka and   the rest  were seriously
worried  about   that.  But   for  safety's   sake  they   had  exiled  Siveni's
priesthood and   those of  many "lesser"  gods-leaving the  Ilsigs only  Ils and
Shipri and the great   names of the pantheon,  whom even the Rankans  dared  not
displace for fear of rebellion.

Harran stared  at the  hand. He  could do  it. He  had never considered doing it
before-at least, not  seriously. For a  long time he  had held down  this job by
being valuable-a  competent barber  and surgeon-and  by otherwise  attracting no
undue attention,  discouraging questions  about his  past. He  burned no incense
openly, frequented no fane, swore by no god either Rankan or Ilsigi, and  rolled
his eyes when  his customers did.  "Idiots," he growled  at the god-worshippers,
and mocked  them mercilessly.  He drank  and whored  with the  Stepsons. His old
bitterness made it easy to seem cruel. Sometimes it was no seeming; sometimes he
enjoyed it. He had in fact  gotten something of a reputation among  the Stepsons
for callousness. That suited him.

And then, some time  ago, there had been  a change in the  Stepson barracks. All
the old faces had suddenly  vanished; new ones, hastily recruited,  had replaced
them. In the wake of  this change, Harran had abruptly  become indispensable-for
(first of all) he was familiar  with the Stepsons' wonted ways as  the newcomers
were not; and (second) the newcomers were incredibly clumsy, and got  themselves
chopped up with abysmal  regularity. Harran looked forward  to the day when  the
real Stepsons should come back and set  their house in order. It would be  funny
as hell.

Meanwhile, there was still the hand in  its dish on the table. Hands might  have
no eyes, but this one stared at him.

"Piffles," Lafen had said.

That was one of the kinder of the various nasty names for the PFLS, the  Popular
Front for the Liberation  of Sanctuary. At first  there had only been  rumors of
the Front- shadowy  mentions of a  murder here, a  robbery there, all  in aid of
throwing out Sanctuary's conquerors, the whole  lot of them. Then the Front  had
become more active, striking out at every military or religious body its leaders
considered  an  oppressor.  The  pseudo-Stepsons  had  come  to  hate  the Front
bitterly-not  only because  they had  been ambushing  Stepsons with  frightening
success, but  for the  rational (though  unpublishable) reason  that most of the
present "Stepsons" were  native Sanctuarites, and  hardly felt themselves  to be
oppressors. Indeed,  there was  some supportive  sentiment for  the Front  among
them. Or  there had  been, until  the Front  had started  putting acid  in their
winepots, and snipers on neighboring rooftops,  and had started teaching  gutter
children to  smash stones  down on  hands resting  innocently on  walls at lunch
hour....

Harran himself  had agreed  fiercely with  the aims  of the  Front, though  that
wasn't a sentiment he ever allowed  anyone to suspect. Damn Rankans, he  thought
now,  with  their  snotnosed  new  gods.  Appearing  and  disappearing  temples,
lightning bolts in the streets. And then the damned Fish-Eyes with their snakes.
Miserable  wetback  mother-goddesses,  manifesting  as  birds  and  flowers. Oh,
Siveni-! For just  a moment his  fists clenched, he  shook, his eyes  stung. The
image of Her filled  him.. .bright-eyed Siveni,  the spear-bearer, the  defender
goddess, lady of midnight wisdoms and truths that kill. Ils's crazy daughter, to
whom He could  never say no:  the flashing-glanced hoyden,  fierce and fair  and
wise-and lost. 0  my own lady,  come! Come and  put things to  rights! Take back
what's yours again-

The moment passed,  and the old  hopelessness reasserted itself.  Harran let out
his breath, looking down at Tyr, whose head had suddenly moved under his hand to
look up at the nearer window.

A raven perched in it. Harran stared, and his hand closed on the scruff of Tyr's
neck to keep her from chasing it. For the raven was Siveni's bird: Her messenger
of old, silver-white once, but  once upon a time caught  lying to Her, and in  a
brief fit of rage,  cursed black. The black  bird looked down at  them sidelong,
out of a bright black eye. Then it  glanced at the table, where the hand lay  in
its dish; and the raven spoke.

"Now," it said.

Tyr growled.

"No," he said in a whisper. The raven turned, lifted its wings, and flew away in
a storm of  whistling flapping noises.  Tyr got loose  from Harran's grip,  spun
around once in  a tight circle  for sheer excitement,  and then hurtled  out the
door across the stableyard, barking at the vanished bird.

Harran was so shocked he found it hard to think. Did it speak? Or did I  imagine
it? For a moment that seemed  likely, and Harran leaned back against  the table,
feeling weak and  annoyed at his  own stupidity. One  of the old  trained ravens
from Siveni's temple, still somehow alive, blundering into his window-

This window? At this moment? Saying that word?

And there was the hand....

The picture of old smiling-eyed Irik, the Master-Priest, came back to him.  Fair
hatred, graying Irik in his white robes, leaning with Harran and several  others
over a pale marble table in the students' courts, his thin brown finger  tracing
a line on a tattered linen roll-book. "Here's another old one," Irik was saying.
"The Upraising of  the Lost.  You would  use this  only on  the very  newly dead
someone gone less than twenty slow breaths. It's infallible-but the ingredients,
as you see, aren't something you  can keep on hand." There was  muted snickering
and groaning among  the novices; Irik  was an irrepressible  punster. "The charm
has other  applications. Since  it can  retrieve anything  lost- including time,
which the dead  lose-you can lay  restless ghosts with  it; though as  usual you
have to  raise them  first. And  since it  can similarly  retrieve timelessness,
which mortals lose, the charm's of use as a mystagogue-spell, an initiator.  But
again, the problem  of getting the  ingredients comes up-the  mandrake, for one.
Also, brave men are generally as unwilling as cowards are to give up a perfectly
good hand. The  spell is mostly  valuable nowadays in  terms of technique;  that
middle  passage, about  the bones,  is a  little textbook  in taxidermy  all  by
itself. If you have to lay ghosts, this next one is usually more useful...."

The white-and-gold memory turned to shadows and mud again. Harran sat and stared
at the stained earthenware dish and its contents.

It would work. He  would need those other  ingredients. The mandrake would  take
some finding,  but it  wasn't too  dangerous. And  he would  need that old linen
book-roll. He was fairly sure where it was....

Harran got up  and poked the  fire; then poured  water from a  cracked clay ewer
into an iron pot and put the pot  on the fire. He picked up his surgeon's  knife
again and the dish with the hand.

Tyr ran  back into  the house,  stared at  him with  her big  dark doe-eyes, and
realized that he was holding a dish. She immediately stood up on her hind  legs,
dancing and bouncing a little to  keep her balance, and craned her-neck,  trying
to see what was on the plate.

Harran had to laugh at her. She was a stray he'd found beaten and whimpering  in
an alley over by the Bazaar two years ago... when he was new to his job and  had
considerable sympathy toward  strays. Tyr had  grown up pretty-  a short-furred,
clean-bodied, sharp-faced little  bitch, brown and  delicate as a  deer. But she
was still  thin, and  that troubled  him. The  war on  Wizardwall, and  then the
coming of the Beysib,  had driven prices up  on beef as on  everything else. The
pseudo-Stepsons swore at the three-times-weekly porridge, and bolted their meat,
when it arrived, like hungry beasts-leaving precious little in the way of scraps
for Tyr  to cadge.  Harran didn't  dare let  her out  of the  barracks compound,
either; she would end up in someone's stewpot within an hour. So she ate half of
Harran's dinner most  of the time.  He didn't mind;  he would have  paid greater
prices yet. Unlike the old days, when he had constantly been busy  administering
Siveni's love to her worshippers and  so needed very little for himself,  Harran
now needed all of the love he could get....

He watched  her dancing,  and became  aware of  the smell  in the room-more than
could be accounted for  by Shal's pissing on  the table. "Tyr," he  said, faking
anger, "have you been rooting in the kitchen midden again?"

She stopped dancing... then very, very slowly  sat down, with her ears  dejected
flat. She did not stop staring at the dish.

He gazed at her  ruefully. "Oh, well," he  said. "I only need  the bones anyway.
Just this once, you hear?"

Tyr leaped up and began bouncing again.

Harran  went over  to the  sideboard and  boned the  hand in  nine or  ten  sure
motions. "All right," he said at last,  holding out the first scrap of meat  for
Tyr. "Come on, sweetheart. Sit up! Up!"

Oh, my  Lady, he  thought, your  servant hears.  Arm Yourself.  Get Your  spear.
You'll soon be lost no more. I shall bring You back....

Preparation occupied Harran  for a while  thereafter. He kept  it quiet. No  use
alerting the Stepsons to what he was planning, or giving Raik any reason to come
after him-  Raik, who  spat at  Harran every  time he  saw him now, promising to
"take care of him" after Shal  was better. Harran ignored him. The  Piffles were
keeping busy  out there,  and made  it easy  for Harran  to go  about his  usual
routine of stitching and splinting and cauterizing. And in between, when he grew
bored, there was always Mriga.

She had been another stray, a clubfooted beggar-child found sitting half-starved
in  a  Downwind  dungheap,  mindlessly  whetting a  dull  scrap  of  metal  on a
cobblestone. Harran had taken her home on impulse, not quite sure what he  would
do with her. He discovered quite soon that he'd found himself a bargain.  Though
she seemed to  have no mind  now-if she'd ever  had one-she was  clever with her
hands. She would do any small  task endlessly until stopped; even in  her sleep,
those restless  hands would  move, never  stopping. You  never had  to show  her
anything more than once. She was especially good with edged things; the Stepsons
brought their swords to her to sharpen, one and all. Tyr had come to  positively
worship her-which was saying a great deal; Tyr didn't take to everyone. If Mriga
was lame  and plain-well,  less chance  that she  would leave  or be  taken from
Harran; if she couldn't  speak, well, a  silent woman was  considered a  miracle
wasn't that what they said?

And since Harran was not rich  enough to afford whores very often,  having Mriga
around offered other advantages. He had needs, which, with a kind of numbness of
heart, he  used Mriga  to satisfy.  In some  moods he  knew he  was doing a dark
thing, again and again; and Harran knew  that the price was waiting to be  paid.
But he didn't need to think of that just now. Payment, and eternity, were a long
way from the sordid here-and-now of Sanctuary and a man with an itch that needed
scratching. Harran scratched that itch when he felt like it, and spent the  rest
of his time working on the Stepsons, and the charm.

He would have preferred to leave the hand in a bin of toothwing beetles for some
days-the industrious little horrors would  have stripped the bones dry  of every
remaining dot of flesh and eaten the marrow too; but toothwing beetles and clean
temple workrooms and all the rest were forever out of his reach. Harran made  do
with burying the  bones in a  box of quicklime  for a week,  then steeping it in
naphtha for an  afternoon to get  the stink and  the marrow out.  Tyr yipped and
danced excitedly around Harran as he  worked over the pot. "Not for  you, baby,"
he said absently, fishing the little  fingerbones out of the kettle and  putting
them to cool on an old cracked plate. "You'd choke for sure. Go 'way."

Tyr looked up hopefully for another moment, found nothing forthcoming, and  then
caught sight of a rat ambling across the stableyard, and ran out to catch it.

Finding the mandrake root was a slightly more difficult business. The best  kind
grew from a felon's grave, preferably a felon who had been hanged. If there  was
anything Sanctuary wasn't short  on, it was felons.  The major problem was  that
they were easier to identify live than dead and buried. Harran went to visit his
old comrade Grian down at the Chamel House, and inquired casually about the most
recent hangings.

"Aah, you want  corpses," Grian said  in mild disgust,  elbow-deep in the  chest
cavity of a  floater. "We're havin'  a plague of  'em. And the  Shalpa-be-damned
murderers hain't even got the courtesy to be half-decent quiet about it. Look at
this poor soul. Third one in the last two days. A few stones around his feet and
into the White Foal with him. Didn't the  body who threw him in know that a  few
cobbles won't keep 'em down when the  rot sets in and the bloatin' and  bubblin'
starts? You'd think they wanted the  body t' be found. It's these  damn Piffles,
that's  what  it  is.  Public Liberation  Front,  they  call  themselves? Public
nuisance, I call 'em. City ought to do somethin'."

Harran  nodded, keeping  his retches  to himself.  Grian had  supplied  Siveni's
priests with many  an alley-rolled corpse  for anatomy instruction,  back in the
white-and-gold times.  He was  the closest  thing Harran  had to  a friend these
days- probably the only  man in Sanctuary who  knew what Harran had  been before
he'd been a barber.

Grian paused to take a long swig out of the wine jar Harran had brought for him,
"liberated" from the  Stepsons' store. "Stuffy  in here today,"  he said, wiping
his forehead and waving a hand vaguely in front of him.

Harran nodded, holding his breath hard as the stench went by his face.  "Stuffy"
was a mild  word for the  Chamel House at  noon on a  windless day. Grian  drank
again, put  the jug  down with  a satisfied  thump between  the corpse's splayed
legs, and picked up  a rib-spreader. "No lead  in that" Grian said  with relish,
eyeing the wine. "Watch you don't get caught."

"I'll be careful," Harran said, without inhaling.

"You want nice fresh corpses  quietlike," Grian said, bending close  and forcing
his wine-laden growl down to a rumble,  "you go try that vacant lot over  by the
old Downwind gravepit. The lot just north  of there, by th' empty houses. Put  a
few in  there myself  just the  other night.  Been puttin'  all the  bad 'uns in
there, all the  hangings, for the  last fortnight. Ran  out of space  in the old
gravepit. Damn Fish-Faces have been busy  'cleaning up the city' for their  fine
ladies."

The last  two words  were pronounced  with infinite  scorn; Grian   might be   a
corpse-cutter  and part-time  gravedigger, but  he had   been "brought  up   old
-fashioned,"  and  did  not  approve   of  women,  fish-faced or otherwise,  who
went around in broad daylight wearing nothing above the waist but paint. By  his
lights, there were more appropriate places for that kind of thing.

"You give  it a  try," Grian  said, hauling  out a  lung like  a sodden, reeking
sponge, and  tossing it  with a  grimace into  the pail  on the  floor. "Take  a
shovel,  boy. But  you needn't  dig deep;  we been  in a  hurry to  get all  the
customers handled; they none of them  more'n two foot down, just 'nough  to hide
the smell. Here now, look at this...."

Harran pleaded a late night's work and made his escape.

The  hour before  midnight found  him slipping  through the  shadows, down  that
dismal Downwind street. He  went armed with knife  and short sword, and  (to any
assailant's probable confusion)  with a trowel;  but he turned  out not to  need
more than one of the three. Grian had been wrong about the smell.

The hour before midnight, one death-knell  stroke on the gongs of Ils's  temple,
was Harran's  signal. He  got to  work, going  about on  hands and  knees on the
uneven ground,  which felt  lumpy as  a coverlet  with many unwilling bedfellows
under it-brushing his hands through the dirt, feeling for the small stiff  shoot
he wanted.

In the comer of the yard he found one. For fear of losing it in the dark  (since
he might show no light if the root  was to work) he sat down by it,  and waited.
The wind came up. Midnight struck, and with it came the mandrake's swift flower,
white as  a dead  man's turned-up  eye. It  blossomed, and  shed its  cold sweet
fragrance on the air, and died. Harran began to dig.

How long he  knelt there in  the wretched stink  and the cold,  blindfolded with
silk and  tugging at  the struggling  root, Harran  wasn't sure.  And he stopped
caring about  the  time as  he  heard something  drawing  near in  the  darkness
another  rustle of  silk, not  his. The  rustle paused.  Hard after  the  silken
susurrus came another  sort of whisper,  the sound of  a breath of  wind sinking
down around him and dying away.

Harran couldn't take off the blindfold-no man may see the unharmed mandrake root
and live. By itself, that was reassuring to him; any assailant would not survive
the attempt.  So, though  the sweat  broke out  on him  and chilled him through,
Harran hacked away at the root  with the leaden trowel, and finally  cut through
it, pulling the mandrake free. The maimed root shrieked, a sound so bizarre that
the huddled wind leaped up in panic  and blundered about among the graves for  a
few moments-then dove for  cover again, leaving Harran  twice as cold as  he had
been before.

He yanked off his blindfold, stared around him, and saw two sights. One was  the
twitching,  writhing, man-shaped  root, its  scream dying  to a  whisper as   it
stiffened. The other stood across the cemetery from him, a form robed and hooded
all in black. That form stared at him silently from the darkness of the hood,  a
long look; and Harran  understood quite well what  had frightened even the  cold
night wind into going to ground.

The black  shape slipped  pale arms  out of  the graceful  draping of  the robe,
raised them to put the hood  back. She looked at him-the lovely,  olive-skinned,
somber face with black eyes aslant,  raven-dark hair a second, more silken  hood
over her. He  did not die  of the look,  as uninformed rumor  said he might; but
Harran wasn't  yet sure  this in  itself was  a good  thing. He  knew Ischade by
reputation, if never before by sight.  His friends down at the Chamel  House had
dealt with her handiwork often enough.

He waited, sweating. He  had never seen anything  so dangerous in his  life, not
Tempus on  a  rampage,  or  thunderous Vashanka  striking  the  city,  lightning
fashion, with testy miracles.                                    <*

She tilted  that elegant  head,  finally,  and blinked.  "Rest easy,"   she said
ridiculous reassurance,  delivered in  a quiet  voice laced  with lazy  mockery.
"You're not even nearly my type. But brave-digging that root here, at this hour,
with your  own hand,  instead of  using some  dog to  pull it  for you. Brave-or
desperate. Or very, very foolhardy."

Harran swallowed.  "The  latter,  madam,"  he said  at  last,  "most  definitely
bandying words with you. And as  for the root-foolhardy there too. Yes.  But the
other way, it's barely a third as effective. I could send away to an herb-dealer
or magician for the man-dug root. But  who knows when it would get here?  And at
any rate-in gold or some other currency-the price of the danger would still have
to be paid."

She  regarded him  a moment  more, than  laughed very  softly. "A  knowledgeable
practitioner," she said.  "But this... commodity...  has most specific  uses. In
this time,  this place,  only three.  There are  cheaper cures for impotence-not
that your present bedfellow would even notice it. And murder is far more  easily
done with poison. The third use-"

She paused, waited to see what he would do. Harran snatched up the mandrake  and
clutched it in a moment's irrationality-then realized that the worst that  could
happen would be that  she would kill him.  Or not. He dropped  the mandrake into
his simple-bag, and dusted off his hands. "Madam," Harran said, "I've no fear of
you taking it from me.  A thief you may be,  but you're far beyond the  need for
such crude tools."

"Have a care," Ischade whispered, the soft mockery still in her voice.

"Madam, I do." He  was shaking as he  said it. "I know  you don't care much  for
priests. And I know you  protect your prerogatives-all Sanctuary remembers  that
night-" He swallowed. "But I have no plans to raise the dead. Or-not dead men."

She looked  at him  out of  those oblique  eyes, the  amusement in them becoming
drier by the moment. "A sophist! Beware,  lest I ask you who shaves the  barber.
Whom then are you planning to raise, master sophist? Women?"

"Madam," he said all at once, for  the air was getting deadly still again,  "the
old Gods of Ilsig have been had. Had like a blind Rankan in the Bazaar. And it's
their idiot  mortal worshippers  who've sold  them this  bill of  goods. They've
fooled them  into thinking  that the  things mortals  do have  to matter  to the
powers of  gods! Corpses  buried under  thresholds, necklaces  cast in  bells or
forged into swords, a cow sacrificed here  or a bad set of entrails there-  It's
rubbish! But the Ilsig  gods sit languishing in  their Otherworld because of  it
all, thinking  they're powerless,  and the  Rankan gods  swagger around  and hit
things with lightning bolts and sire clandestine children on poor mortal  maids,
and think they own the world. They don't!"

Ischade blinked again, just once, that very conscious gesture.

Harran swallowed  and kept  going. "The  Ilsigi gods  have started  believing in
time, lady. The worship of mortals  has bound them into it. Sacrifices  at noon,
savory smokes  going up  at sunset,  the Ten-Slaying  once a year-every festival
that happens at a regular interval, every scheduled thing- has bound them.  Gods
may have made eternity,  but mortals made clocks  and calendars and tied  little
pieces of eternity up with them. Mortals have bound the gods! Rankan and  Ilsigi
both. But mortals can also free them."  He took a long breath. "If they've  lost
timelessness-then this spell  can find it  for Them again.  For at least  one of
them, who can open the  way for the others. And  once the Ilsig gods are  wholly
free of our world-"

"-They will drive out the Rankan gods, and the Beysib goddess too, and take back
their own again?..."  Ischade smiled-slow cool  derision-but there was  interest
behind it. "Mighty work, that, for a mortal. Even for one who spends so much  of
his time wielding those powerful sorcerer's tools, the cautery and the bone-saw.
But one question, Harran. Why?"

Harran stopped. Some vague  image of Ils stomping  all over Savankala, of  Shipri
punching Sabellia's heart out, and his  own crude satisfaction at the fact,  was
all he had. At  least, besides the image  of maiden Siveni, warlike,  impetuous,
triumphing over her rivals-and later settling down again to the arts of peace in
her restored temple-

And Ischade  smiled, and  sighed, and  put her  hood up.  "No matter," she said.
There  was  vast  amusement  in her  voice-probably,  Harran  suspected,  at the
prospect of a man who  didn't know what he wanted,  and would likely die of  it.
Nothing  confounds  the great  alchemies  and magics  so  thoroughly as  unclear
motives. "No  matter at  all," Ischade  said. "Should  you succeed  at what  you
intend, there'll be  merry times hereabouts,  indeed there will.  I should enjoy
watching the proceedings. And should you fail..." The slim dark shoulders lifted
in the slightest  shrug. "At least  I know where  good quality mandrake's  to be
had. Good evening  to you, master  barber. And good  fortune-if there is  such a
thing."

She was gone. The wind got up again, and whining, ran away....

                                    *  *  *

Of the greater sorceries, one of the elder priests had long ago said to  Harran,
in warning, "Notice is always taken." The still, dark-eyed notice that had  come
upon  Harran in  the graveyard  troubled him  indeed. He  went home  that  night
shivering with more than cold; and, once in bed, kicked Tyr perfunctorily out of
it and pulled Mriga in- using her with something more than his usual  impersonal
effectiveness.  No  mere  scratching  of  the  itch  tonight.  He  was  looking,
hopelessly, for something more-some flicker of feeling, some returning  pressure
of  arms. But  the lousiest  Downwind whore  would have  suited his  purposes  a
hundred times  better than  the mindless,  compliant warmth  that lay untroubled
under  him or  which jerkily,  aimlessly wound  its limbs  about his.  Afterward
Harran pushed her out too, leaving Mriga to crawl to the hearth and curl in  the
ashes while  he tossed  and turned.  For all  the sleep  he found in bed, Harran
might as well have been lying in ashes himself, or embers.

Ischade....  No good  could come  of her  attention. Who  knew if,  for her  own
amusement, she might not  sell to some  interested party-Molin Torchholder,  say
the information that one lone, undefended man was going to bring back one of the
old Ilsig gods  in a few  days? "Oh, Siveni..."  he whispered. He  would have to
move quickly, before something happened to stop him.

Tonight.

Not tonight, he thought in a kind of reluctant horror. That same horror made him
stop and wonder, in a priest's  self-examination, about its source. Was it  just
the familiar  repulsion he  always felt  at the  thought of  the old ruin on the
Avenue of Temples? Or was it something else?

-A shadow on the edge of his  mind's vision, a feeling that something was  about
to go wrong. Someone. Someone who had been watching him-

Raik?

All the more reason  for it to be  tonight, then. He was  sure he had seen  Raik
staggering into the barracks-probably to  snore off another night of  wineshops.
Harran had thought to go back twice to the temple-once to retrieve the old  roll
book, and then, after studying it, once to perform the rite. But even that would
be attracting too much attention. It would have to be tonight.

Harran lay there,  postponing getting up  into the cold  for just a  few seconds
more. Since that day five years ago when the Rankans served the writ on Irik, he
had  not been  inside Siveni's  temple. For  so long  now I've  been done   with
temples. Going into one, now-and hers-do I truly want to reopen that old wound?

He stared at the skinny, twitching  shape curled up in the ashes,  and wondered.
"Every temple needs an idiot," the old master-priest had once said to Harran  in
creaky jest.  Harran had  laughed and  agreed with  him, being  just then in the
middle  of an  unmasterable lesson,  and feeling  himself idiot  enough for  any
twelve  temples. Now-in  exile- Harran  briefly wondered  whether he  was  still
living in a temple;  whether he had accepted  the idiot because she  was so like
the mad and  poor who had  frequented Siveni's fane  in the days  when there was
still wisdom dispensed there,  and healing, and food.  Of wisdom and healing  he
had  little enough.  And Mriga  never complained  about the  food. Or   anything
else....

He swore softly, got up, got dressed. There, in the wooden box shoved under  his
sideboard,  were the  bones of  the hand,  wired and  mounted into  the  correct
gesture,  with the  ring of  base metal  on the  proper finger;  there was   the
mandrake, hastily bound in cord twisted of silk and lead, with a silvered  steel
pin through its "body" to hold it harmless. Both hairpin and ring had come  from
a secondhand whore that Yuri had recently brought home for the barracks. Harran,
last in line and  mildly concerned that the  woman might notice when  her things
went missing, had "considerately" brought her  a stoup of drugged wine. Then  he
swived her  until the  wine took,  lifted ring  and pin,  and slipped away-first
leaving her a largish tip where no one but she would be likely to find it.

So-almost set. He picked up the box, went  over to the comer by the table for  a
few more things-a  small flask, a  little bag of  grain, and another  of salt, a
lump of bitumen. Then he checked around one last time. Mriga lay snoring in  the
ashes. Tyr was  curled nose-to-tail in  a compact brown  package under the  bed,
snoring too, a note higher than  Mriga. Harran mussed the meager bedclothes  and
lumpy bolster more or less into a body shape, snatched up and flung over him his
old  soot-black  cloak,  and  made  his  way  silently  through  the   Stepsons'
stableyard.

There was  a way  over the  wall by  the comer  of the  third stall down. Up the
shingles, a one-handed  grip on a  drainpipe, a few  moments scrambling to  find
footholds on old bricks that stuck out  just so. Then up to the wall's  top, and
the hard drop  down on the  other side. Breathing  hard, just before  that drop,
Harran paused,  looking back  the way  he'd come-and  just barely  saw the vague
shape by the barracks door, standing motionless.

Harran froze. The night was moonless;  the torches by the door were  burned down
to blue.  There was  nothing to  see but  the faint  flash of eyes catching that
light sidewise for a second as the shadow crouched and moved into deeper shadow,
and was lost.

Harran jumped, held still only long enough to get his breath, and ran. If he got
to the  temple in  time to  do what  he intended,  no number  of pursuers  would
matter; the whole  Rankan Empire, and  the Beysibs too,  would flee before  what
would follow.

If he had time....

The Temple of Siveni Grey-Eyes was the second-to-last one at the shabby southern
end of the Avenue of Temples. At least, it was shabby now. There had been a time
when Siveni's temple had  had respectable neighbors: on  one side, the fane  and
priests of  Anen Wineface,  the harvest-god,  master of  vine and  corn; on  the
other, that of Anen's associate Dene Blackrobe, the somber mistress of sleep and
death. Between them, Anen's polished sandstone and Dene's dark granite, Siveni's
temple had risen in  its white and gold.  There had been a  certain rightness to
the way they stood  together. Work and Wine  and Sleep; and Siveni's  temple, as
was appropriate for a craft-goddess,  had looked out over that  guilds' quarter.
Businessmen made deals on its broad steps, paid a coin or two to buy luck and  a
cake for Siveni's ravens, then went next door to Anen's to seal their deals with
poured libations. Small ones; Anen's  wine was generally considered too  good to
waste on the floor.

Those days were all  done now. Anen's temple  was dark except for  one red light
over the altar; his priests' annuity  was reduced to almost nothing, and  Anen's
old  patrons, knowing  Him out  of favor,  tended to  do their  libation-pouring
elsewhere.  As for  Dene's temple,  the Rankans,  possibly considering  Her  too
contemplative (or too unimportant) to  do anything about it, had  demolished the
building...  leaving  the merchants  and  guildsmen to  quarrel  over the  newly
available parcel of real estate.

And as for Siveni's temple... Harran stood across from it now, hiding himself in
the shallow doorway of a night-shuttered mercantile establishment. He could have
wept. Those white columns all smeared  with city grime, the white steps  leading
up to the portico broken, littered, stained.... A slow cold wind swept down  the
Avenue of Temples toward Ils's fane, a  dim shape no more clearly seen than  the
moon behind clouds. Near it reared up Savankala's upstart temple, and Vashanka's
hard by  it-both great  ungainly piles,  and as  dark tonight  as Ils's.  No one
walked the street. It was far past the hour for devotions.

Harran held still in that doorway for  a long time, unable to shake the  feeling
that he had been followed. The gongs  of Ils's temple rang the third hour  after
midnight. The sound wavered in the  wind like Harran's heart, blowing away  down
the  avenue toward  the Governor's  Palace and  the estates.  Something  flapped
nearby-a sound  like a  flag snapping  in the  wind. He  jerked around,  looked.
Nothing but  the shadowy  shape of  a bird  on the  right, flying heavily in the
crosswind,  coming to  perch on  the high  cupola of  Siveni's temple,  becoming
another shadow that loomed there among the carvings. A black bird, bigger than a
crow....

He unswallowed his courage, looked both ways, and hurried across the street. The
strength of the wind, as Harran  reached the middle of the avenue,  was ominous.
If ever there was a night to be home in bed, this was it....

He dashed up the stairs where he had lingered so many times before, tripping now
and again over some dislodged stone,  some crack that hadn't been there  when he
was young. On the portico he paused to  get his breath and look back the way  he
had come. Nothing coming, no one passing in the street....

And there, the motion again, something dark; not in the street, but next door in
the cloddy, vacant lot that was all that remained of Dene's temple. Harran  felt
under his cloak for the long knife....

Eyes caught the reflection  of the pale stone  of Siveni's stairs. Harran  found
himself looking at the largest rat he had ever seen, in Sanctuary or  elsewhere.
It was the size of a dog, at least. The thought of Tyr catching up with it  made
him shudder. As if sensing Harran's fear, the rat turned about and waddled  back
into the vacant lot,  going about its nightly  business. Other shadows, just  as
large, stirred about the pillars of the portico, unconcerned.

Harran swallowed and thought about business.  If I feel I'm being followed,  the
thing to do is start the spell-draw the outer circle. No one can get through  it
once it's  closed. He  put down  the box  and the  flask and  fumbled about  his
clothes for the lump  of bitumen. Slowly he  made his way around  the great open
square  of  pillars, all  of  which bore  the  sledgehammer marks  of  attempted
demolition. The marks were futile, of course-any temple built by the priests  of
the goddess who invented architecture might be expected to last-but they scarred
Harran's heart  just looking  at them.  Right around  the portico,  as he'd been
taught-four  hundred  eighty  paces exactly-Harran  went,  bent  over, his  back
aching. Dark shapes fled again and again  at his passing. He refused to look  at
them. By the time he came around to the middle of the stairs again and drew  the
diagram-knot that tied the circle closed, his back was one long creaking bar  of
iron with smiths  working on it;  but he felt  much safer. He  picked up his box
again and made his way inward.

The great doors within the portico were long since barred shut from inside,  but
that would hardly stop anyone who  had served Siveni past the novitiate.  Harran
traced the door's carved raven-and-olive-tree  motif just below eye level  until
he found the fourth raven past the second tree with no olives on it, and  pushed
in the raven's eye. The bird's whole head fell in after it, revealing the little
catch and valve that opened the priests' door. The catch was stiff, but after  a
couple of tries the door swung open  wide enough to admit Harran. He slipped  in
and swung it silently to behind him.

Harran lifted the dark lantern he  had brought with him and unshuttered  it. And
then he did begin to weep; for the statue was gone-the image toward which Harran
had once bowed affectionately so many times a day, having eventually learned  to
see and  bow to  the immortal  beauty behind  the mortal  symbol. Siveni's great
statue  in  her  aspect  as Defender,  seated,  armed  and  helmed, holding  her
battalion-vanquishing spear in one hand and her raven perched on the other.  The
great work, the statue that the artist Rahen had spent five years fashioning  of
marble, gold, and ivory, afterward putting down his sculptor's tools forever and
saying he knew his life's masterwork when he saw it, and would make no other....
All gone.  Harran could  have understood  it if  they had  stripped the gold and
ivory off, pried the gems out of the mighty shield. He knew as well as any other
Sanctuarite that not even nailing things down could keep them safe here. But  he
had never thought to have the fact brought home to him so brutally as this.  The
pediment on  which the  statue had  stood was  bare except  for bits  of rubble,
chunks and  splinters of  shattered marble...  but those  were eloquent  even in
ruin. Here, a fat pyramidal lump was one corner of the statue's pedestal; there,
a  long slim  shard, smooth  and faintly  grooved at  one end, broken off  sharp
as  a  flint  at the   other-a feather  from  a  raven's outstretched   wing....
Harran's brain  roiled with  rage. Where  did they-why-A  whole statue, a statue
thirty feet high! Stolen, destroyed, lost.

He dashed the tears out of his eyes, put the lantern down, flung his cloak  down
on the dusty  marble, and picked  up his box.  One more circle  he would need in
which to  work the  sorcery itself.  If his  back still  hurt him, Harran didn't
notice it now. Round the vacant pediment he went with the bitumen, not  counting
paces this time, rather  fighting down his bitter  anger enough to remember  the
words that needed  to be thought  again and again  to confine within  this inner
circle the forces that  would soon break loose.  It was not easy  work, fighting
down both his anger and the growing, restless power of the circle-spell; so that
as Harran tied the second  circle closed he was gasping  like a man who'd run  a
race, and had to stand for some moments bowed over like a spent runner, hands on
thighs.

He straightened up as quickly as he  could, for there was worse to come.  Simple
this spell might be, but that  wouldn't keep it from being strenuous;  and first
he needed the rite. Breaking and resealing the circle according to procedure, he
went to get it.

Normally the location of the safe-crypt was not information that would have been
entrusted to a junior priest, but in the haste surrounding the exile of Siveni's
priesthood, quite a few  secrets had slipped out.  Harran had been one  of those
conscripted to help old Irik hide away the less important documents, old medical
and engineering texts and spells. "We may yet find a use for these, in a  better
hour,"  Irik  had  said to  Harran.  Just  then he  had  had  his arms  full  of
parchments, his  nose full  of dust,  and his  mind full  of fear; the words had
meant nothing. But now Harran blessed Irik as he went around to behind where the
statue had been, stepped on the  proper pieces of flooring in the  proper order,
and saw the single block by the rear wall fall slowly away into darkness.

The stair was narrow and steep, with no banister. Harran held up the lantern  at
the bottom of it and went rummaging, sneezing a lot as he did. Parchments,  book
rolls, and  wax tablets  were piled  and scattered  every which  way. It was the
rolls he went for. Again and again  Harran undid linen cords, spread a roll  out
in a cloud of dust and sneezes, to find nothing but a spare copy of the temple's
bookkeeping for  the third  month of  such and  such a  year, or  some tired old
philosophical treatise,  or a  cure for  the ague  (ox-fat rubbed  together with
mustard and ground red-beetle casings, the same applied to the chest three times
a day). This went  on till his eyes  began to water, rebelling  against the poor
light, and Harran's mind stopped seeing what he read and kept wandering away  to
worry about the time. Night was leaning toward morning; this was the time to  do
the spell, if ever-before dawn, herald  of new beginnings-and if he didn't  find
it soon-

He blinked  and read  the words  again. It  wasn't hard;  they were  beautifully
written in an Old Ilsig  hieratic script. "... of the  Lost, that is to say,  an
infallible spell for finding the lost and strayed and stolen. The spell  needeth
first  the hand   of a  brave  and  living man,   the same to  be offered  up in
the spell's  working by  the celebrant;  and it  needeth also  a mandrake  root,
called by  some peristupe,  dug of  a night  without moon  or star,  and treated
according to the disciplines, also to  be so offered; and needeth  as  well some
small deal  of salt  and wheat  and wine,  and a  knife for  blood to propitiate
the Ones  Below; and  lastly  those instruments by   which the boundary for  the
spell shall be made.

"First dig your mandrake..."

Harran scrambled to his feet in the  dust and the dark, sneezing wildly and  not
caring. Up the stairs, back into the circle-cutting the knot to let himself  in,
sealing it shut again  behind him. He sat  down on the vacant  pediment amid the
rubble and began to read.  It was all here, much  as he remembered it, with  the
little thumbnail sketch of  the diagram to be  drawn inside the circle,  and the
rite itself. Part  in a very  old Ilsig indeed,  part in the  vernacular. Simple
words, but oh, the power in them. Harran's heart began to hammer. 

Something  moaned,  and  Harran  started-then realized  it  was  only  the wind,
building now to such a crescendo that he could hear it even inside the  temple's
thick stone. Good, he thought, picking up the piece of bitumen again and  rising
to his feet, let it storm. Let them think that something's about to happen.  For
it is!

He set to  work. The diagram  was complex, seemingly  a picture of  some kind of
geometrical solid, though one in which the number of sides seemed to change each
time one counted  them. The finished  diagram made an  uneasy flickering in  the
mind, a feeling that got worse as Harran started setting the necessary runes and
words into the pattern's angles. Then came the salt, cast to the cardinal points
with  the usual  purifacatory rhyme;  and the  wheat-two grains  at the  primary
point, four  at the  next, eight  at the  one after  that, and  so on around the
seven. Harran chuckled a  little, light-headed with excitement.  That particular
symbol of plenitude had always been  a joke among the student priests;  a  sixty
-four point  pattern would  have emptied  every granary  in the   world. Nothing
left now but the wine, the knife, the mandrake, the hand....

The wind  was whining  through the  pillars outside  like a  dog that wanted in.
Harran  shivered.  It's the  cold,  he thought,  and  then swallowed  again  and
silently took it  back; to lie  during a spell  could be fatal.  He went to  the
diagram's heart, feeling as he went the small uncomfortable jolts of power  that
came of passing over it. Forces besides his were moving tonight, lending what he
did abnormal power. Just as well,  he thought. Harran opened the wine-flask  and
set it beside the center-point, then put the hand in one of his pockets and  the
mandrake in the other. In his left hand he held the book-roll, open to the right
spot. With the right he drew his knife.

It was his best, Mriga's favorite. He had set her at it that afternoon, and  not
stopped her for a long while. Now  its edge caught the dim lantern-light with  a
flicker as live as an eye's. He held it up in salute to the four directions  and
their Guardians  above and  below, faced  northward, and  began to pronounce the
spell's first passage.

Resistance began immediately; it became an  effort to push the words out  of his
throat. His tongue went  leaden. Still Harran spoke  the words, though more  and
more slowly;  stopping in  mid-spell  could  be as   fatal as  lying.  The  wind
outside   rose to  a malevolent  scream, drowning  him out.  He was  reduced  to
struggling  one  word   out,  drawing  several  rasping  breaths,  then starting
another. Harran had never thought that just fifty words, a few sentences,  would
seem long. They did now. Ten words remained, every one  of them looking  as long
as  a whole codex  and  as heavy as stone. At  the fifth one he  stammered,  and
outside the screaming wind  scaled up into an insane yell of triumph. In a burst
of fear he choked out two words   very fast, one after another. Then the  second
-to-last, more slowly, with a  wrenching effort like  passing a  stone. And  the
last,  that  went  out  of  him  like  life  leaving and  smote him  down to the
floor.

With his falling  came the light,  blazing in through  the temple's high  narrow
windows like the  sky splitting; and  the thundercrack, one  deafening bolt that
reverberated over the roofs  of Sanctuary-breaking what glass  remained unbroken
in the temple's windows, and  jolting loose what was already  shattered, raining
it all down on  the marble floor in  a storm of razory  chimings. Then stillness
again. Harran lay on his face, tasting marble and bitumen against his tongue and
blood in  his mouth,  smelling ozone,  hearing the  last few  drops of the glass
rain.

I think it's working....

Harran got to his knees, felt around with shaking hands until he found the knife
which he had dropped, and then took the skeletal hand out of his pocket. He  put
it down exactly at the  diagram's center-point, palm-up; the outstretched  index
and middle fingers pointing northward, the others curled in toward the palm, the
thumb angled toward the east. Then Harran began the second passage of the spell.

As he read-slowly, being careful  of the pronunciation-he became aware  of being
watched. At first, though he could see nothing, the sensation was as if just one
set of eyes dwelt on him-curious eyes, faintly angry, faintly hungry, willing to
wait for something. But the number  of eyes grew. Harran's words seemed  loud as
thunder, and his hurrying  breath louder than any  wind; and the eyes  grew more
and more numerous.  It was not  as if he  could see them.  He could not.  But he
could feel them,  a hungry crowd,  a hostile multitude,  growing greater by  the
second, waiting,  watching him.  And when  the silence  became so  total that he
could no longer stand it, then came the sound; a faint rustling, a jostling  and
creaking and gibbering at the edge  of hearing-a sound like the wings  and cries
of bats in their thousands, their millions, a benighted flock hanging,  waiting,
hungry for blood.

The sound, rather than frightening Harran worse, reassured him somewhat; for  it
told him who they were. The spell was working indeed. The shades of the nameless
dead were about  him, those who  had been dead  so long that  they of all things
made were most truly lost. All  they remembered of life was what  an unthinking,
newbom child remembers- heat, warmth,  pulsebeats, blood. Harran began to  sweat
as he  picked up  the wine-flask  and made  his way  around to  the edge  of the
circle. At the pattern's northern point  he took Mriga's favorite knife and  cut
the heel of his left hand with it, wide but not deep, for the best bleeding. The
horror of cutting himself  left him weak and  shaking. But there was  no time to
waste. On the northern point, and on all the others, he shed his blood in a  fat
dollop on the grain, and poured wine  over it all, then retreated to the  center
of the circle and said  the word that would let  the shades past the fringes  of
the pattern, though no further.

They  came flocking  in, crowding  to the  blood, eyes  that he  could not   see
squeezed shut in  pleasure, tiny cries  withering the silence.  They drank their
fill, slowly-tiny  bat-sips were  all they  could manage  through those  parched
soul-mouths.  And then,  satisfied, they  milled about  gibbering for  a  little
while, forgot why they had come, and faded away. Harran felt slightly sorry  for
them-the  poor  strengthless dead,  reduced  to a  shadowy  eternity of  wistful
hunger-but he  wasn't sorry  to see  them go.  They would  not trouble the spell
again; he could get on with the real business now.

He paused just long enough to wipe the cold sweat out of his eyes, then put  the
book-roll aside, took the  mandrake out of his  pocket, and started undoing  its
bindings. When they were off he laid  the mandrake carefully in the palm of  the
skeleton hand, "head"  up toward the  fingers, and then  paused again; the  next
maneuver was tricky, and he briefly wished  for three hands. There was a way  to
manage it, though. He squatted down,  pinned both hand and mandrake securely  in
place on the floor with the toe of  one boot. Then with one hand he plucked  the
silvered pin out of the mandrake's  torso; with the other he squeezed  his blood
out onto the root's pinprick wound.

Instantly the root began to glow... faintly at first; but it would not be  faint
for long. Harran scrambled to his feet,  rolled the book along to the last  part
of the spell, and began to read.  It was in the vernacular, the easiest  part of
the spell; but his heart beat harder than ever. "By my blood here spilt, and  by
these names  invoked; by  the dread  signs of  deep night  inclining toward  the
morning, and  the potent  figures here drawn; by  the souls of the  dead and the
yet unborn..."

It was getting  warm. Harran hazarded  a glance, as  he read, down  at the light
growing at his feet. The mandrake was burning such a hue as no one ever saw save
while dreaming or dead. To call the color "red" would have been to exalt red far
past its station, and insult the original. There was heat in the color, but of a
sort that had nothing to do with  flame. This was the original shade of  heart's
passion, of blood burning in a living being possessed by rage or desire. It  was
dark; yet there was nothing intrinsically evil about it, and it blinded. In that
light Harran could barely see the book he read from, the stone walls around him;
they seemed ephemeral as things dreamed. Only that light was real, and the image
it  stirred in  his mind.  His heart's  desire, whose  very name  he had  denied
himself for  so many  years now-and  now within  his grasp,  the longed-for, the
much-loved, wise and fierce and fair-

"... By all these signs  and bindings, and most of  all by Thy own name,  0 Lady
Siveni, do  I adjure  and command  Thee! Present  Thyself here  before me-"  -in
comely form and such as will do me no harm, said the spell, but Harran would not
have dreamed of saying that: as if Siveni could ever be uncomely, or would  harm
her priest?  And then  the triple  invocation, while  he gasped,  and everything
reeled, and his heart raced  in his chest as if  he labored in the act  of love:
"Come  Thou,  Lady of  the  Battles, who  smites  and binds  up  again. Builder,
Defender, Avenger; come Thou, come Thou, 0 come!"

No lightning  this time,  no thunder.  Nothing but  a shock  that knocked Harran
flying in one direction  and the knife and  book in two others-a  hurtless shock
that was nevertheless as final and  terrible as dreaming of falling out  of bed.
Harran lay still for quite some while, afraid to move- then groaned softly  once
and sat himself up on the stone, wondering what had gone wrong.

"Nothing," someone said to him.

The voice made  the walls of  the temple vibrate.  Harran trembled and  held his
head against the singing in it.

"Well, don't sit there, Harran," said the voice. "Get on with it. We've business
to attend to."

He rolled to his knees and looked up.

She was there.  Harran staggered;  his heart  did too,  missing beats.  The eyes
those were what  struck him first:  literally struck him,   with physical force.
Afterward, he realized   this should have  been  no surprise.   "Flashing-Eyed,"
was  after all  her chief epithet. His best imaginations proved insufficient  to
the reality. Eyes like lightning-clear, pitilessly illuminating, keen as a spear
in the heart-those were Siveni's.  They  didn't glow; they didn't need to.  None
of her  needed to.  She was  simply  there,  so there  that everything  physical
seemed vague beside her. A great chill  of fear went through Harran then at  the
thought that perhaps there  were good reasons why  the gods didn't usually  walk
the realms of men.

But not even fear could live long, fixed by that silvery regard, that  ferocious
beauty. For she was beautiful, and again Harran's old imaginations fell down  in
the face of the truth. It was a spare, severe, unselfconscious beauty, too  busy
with other things to  notice itself... definitely the  face of the patroness  of
the arts  and sciences.  There was  wildness in  that face,  as well  as wisdom;
thoughtlessness as  well as  handsomeness in  those rich  robes-for the  blazing
under-tunic was tucked casually and hurriedly  up above the knee, and the  great
loose overtunic was a man's, probably Ils's, borrowed for the greater freedom of
motion it allowed. The hand that held the great spear she leaned on was graceful
as a lady's; but the slender  arm still spoke of shattering strength.  Siveni as
she now appeared was not much taller than mortal womankind. But as he looked  at
her, and she  bent those cool,  terrible, considering eyes  on him, Harran  felt
very small indeed. She pushed her high-crested helm back a bit from that  coolly
beautiful face and said impatiently, "Do  get up, man. Finish what you're  doing
so we can  get to business."  Siveni lifted the  raven that perched  on her left
hand, moving it to her shoulder.

He got up, still very confused. "Madam," he managed to croak, and then tried  it
again,  rather  embarrassed  at  making  such  a  poor  showing.  "Lady,  I   am
finished...."

"Of course you're not," she said, reaching out with that blazing spear and using
its point to flick the book-roll up into her free hand. "Don't go lackwitted  on
me, Harran. It says right here: 'the hand of a brave and living man, the same to
be offered  up at  the spell's  end by  the celebrant.'"  She turned  the scroll
toward him, showing him the words.

Harran glanced down at the middle of the circle, where in the skeletal hand  the
mandrake still burned  dully bright as  a coal. But  Siveni's voice brought  his
glance up again. "Not that hand, Harran!" She said, sounding annoyed now.  "That
one!"

And she pointed at the knife, which he had forgotten he was clutching-and at his
left hand, which clutched it.

Harran went as cold all over as he had in the graveyard. "Oh my G-"

"Goddess?" she  said, as  Harran caught  himself as  usual. "Sorry.  That is the
price written here. If  the gateway you seek  to open is to  be fully opened-and
even as I am not fully here  yet, neither would the others be-the price  must be
paid."  She  looked at  him  coolly for  several  moments, then  said  with less
asperity and some sadness, "I would have expected my priests to read better than
that, Harran.... You do read?"

He gave her no  answer for a moment.  He thought of Sanctuary,  and the Rankans,
and the Beysib, and briefly, irrationally, of Shal. Then he stepped over to  the
center of the circle, and  the hand. The bones of  it were charred. The ring  of
base metal was a brass-scummed silver  puddle on the floor. The mandrake  glowed
under his glance like a coal that had been breathed on.

He knelt down  again and lifted  his eyes briefly  to the unmerciful  loveliness
before him; then squeezed his left  hand until the blood flowed fresh,  and with
it pried the mandrake away from the hand's blackened bones.

In the hours that intervened until  Harran got up again- a few  minutes later-he
came belatedly to understand a great  deal; to understand Shal, and many  of the
other Stepsons, and some  of the poor and  sick he'd treated while  still in the
temple. There was no describing the pain of a maiming. It was a thing as without
outward color as the burning of the mandrake; and even worse, more blinding, was
the  horror that  came after.  When Harran  stood again,  he had  no left   hand
anymore. The  stump's scorching  pain throbbed  and died  away; Siveni's  doing,
probably. But the horror,  he knew, would never  go away. It would  be fed anew,
every day, by those who refused to look at the place where a hand had once been.
Harran abruptly understood  that payment is  not later, is  never later, but  is
always now. It would be now all his life.

He got to his feet and found Siveni,  as she had said, even more there than  she
had been before. He wasn't sure this was a good thing. None of this was  working
out as it should have. And there  were other things peculiar as well. Where  was
the light coming from that filled the temple suddenly? Not from Siveni; she  was
striding around the  place with the  dissatisfied air of  a housewife who  comes
home and  has to  deal with  her husband's  housekeeping- poking  her spear into
comers, frowning  at the  broken glass.  "All this  will be  put to  rights soon
enough," she said. "After business. Harran, what are you scowling at?"

"Lady, the light-"

"Think,  man,"  she said,  not  unkindly, as  she  stepped over  to  the circle,
examining  it,  gently kicking  a  bit of  her  statue's rubble  aside  with one
sandaled foot. "The spell retrieves timelessness  as well as time. The light  of
yesterday, and tomorrow, is available to us both."

"But I-"

"You included the whole temple inside the outer circle, Harran, and you were  in
the temple. The spell worked  on you too. How  not? It retrieved my  physicality
and your godhead...."

Harran stared at her. Siveni caught the look, and smiled.

Harran's heart  came near  to melting.  She might  be a  hoyden, but  she was  a
winning one.

'Wow what are  you-oh, godhead? Harran,  my little priest,  it's in your  blood.
This world isn't old enough for anyone to be removed by more than six degrees of
blood from  anyone else.  Gods included.  Haven't you  people got  far enough in
mathematics to  have realized  that yet?  I must  do something  about that." She
reached up with her spear, and somehow, without getting any taller, or her spear
getting any longer, knocked down a huge cobweb from a ceiling comer. "So you see
as a  god sees,  for this  short while.  And permanently,  after we do the spell
again-"

"Again?" Harran said in shock, staring at his other hand.

"Of course. To open the way for  the other Ilsig gods. It's only partially  open
now, for merely physical manifestation, as I said, and I doubt they've  noticed.
They're all off feasting beyond the Isles of the North again, getting  plastered
on Anen's latest batch, I  shouldn't wonder." Siv-eni actually sniffed.  "Not an
honest day's work in the lot of them. But once I do the spell again, it'll  open
the gate wholly-and this place will be fit for gods to live in, as it never  was
even in the old days. Meanwhile"-she glanced around her-"meanwhile, before we do
that, we have a  few calls to pay.  It would be abysmal  tactics to give up  the
advantage of the ground, now we've got it...."

Harran said  nothing. This  entire encounter  was misfiring.  "We'll go  down to
Savankala's high-and-mighty temple," Siveni said,  "and have a word with  him. A
temple bigger than my father's-!" She  was indignant, but in a pleased  way-like
someone  looking forward  to a  good fight.  "And after  that, we'll  stop  into
Vashanka's place and  just kill off  that godchild he's  got squirreled away  in
there. Then, af-terward-this much talked-about Bey.  Two pantheons in one  night
save ourselves a lot of trouble  later. Come on, Harran! The night's  a-wasting,
and we  need to  do the  second Opening  before dawn."  And she swept across the
barren inner precinct of  the temple and smote  the great brazen doors  with her
spear.

They promptly fell outward and down the steps with a sound that Harran  reckoned
would wake  all Sanctuary-  though he  much doubted  that anyone  would be crazy
enough to stir out of doors and see  what made it. Down the stairs and down  the
Avenue  of Temples  they went,  the immortal  goddess and  the mortal  man,  the
goddess leading, peering  about her with  some interest, and  the one-handed man
behind,  suffering more  and more  from terrible  misgivings. No  question  that
Siveni  was all  Harran had  imagined, and  more. It  was the  "more" that   was
bothering him.  Siveni's wisdom  was usually  tempered by  compassion. Where was
that tonight? Had he done something'wrong in the spell? Certainly Siveni was  an
impetuous goddess, resolute, swift when she decided to act. But somehow I didn't
expect this kind of action....

Harran shivered. There was something wrong with him too. He was seeing much more
clearly than he  should have been  able to at  this time of  night. And he  felt
entirely too fit for a man who had gone digging in a graveyard, screwed  himself
blind, worked a  sorcery, and lost  a hand, all  in one night.  Was this more of
what Siveni had mentioned  as side effects of  the sorcery, the uprising  of his
godhead in him? It was a distressing  thought. Men should not be gods. That  was
what gods were for....

Harran glanced over at the goddess and found her aspect somewhat easier to  bear
than it had been before. She was looking over toward the Maze and Downwind in  a
way that suggested she  had no trouble seeing  through things. "This place  is a
mess," she said, turning as she went to look at Harran in reproof.

"We've had  some hard  times," Harran  said, feeling  a little defensive. "Wars,
invasions..."

"We'll mend that soon enough," said Siveni. "Starting with invasions." They came
to a stop in front of the  great temple of Savankala. Siveni glared at  it, drew
herself up  to her  full height-which  somehow managed  to be  both about  three
cubits,  and  about  fifty-and shouted  in  a  voice loud  enough  to  rival the
thunderstroke, "Savankala, come out!"

The echoes repeated the challenge all  over the city. Siveni's brows knitted  as
long moments  passed and  there was  no response.  "Come forth,  Savankala!" she
shouted again. "Or  I will tear  this ill-built pile  of stone down  around your
ears and reduce your  statue to cobbles and  stick my spear into  an interesting
place in the statue of your darling wife!"

There was a  long, long silence-followed  by a soft  rumble of thunder  that was
more contemplative  than threatening.  "Siveni," the  great voice  came from the
temple before them- < or seemed to, "what do you want?"

"Best two falls out of three with you, Sungod," Siveni shouted triumphantly,  as
if she had already won the match. "And then you and yours get out of my father's
city!"

"Your father. Yes. And where is your father, Siveni?"

Harran held quite still, trying to  understand what was going on inside  him. He
hated the  Rankan gods,  he knew  he did.  But the  sheer slow  weight of  power
stirring  around Savankala's  voice somehow  terrified him  much less  than  the
slightly ragged defiance of  Siveni's. And there, too,  was a problem. How  am I
hearing anything but perfection in a goddess's voice? Five minutes ago, ten, she
was all beauty, all power, unsurpassable. Now-

"My  father!"  Siveni cried.  "You  leave him  out  of this!  I  don't need  his
permission to use the thunderbolt! I can handle you by myself. I can handle  the
whole lot of you! For Vashanka Loudmouth is without a grown avatar. You're short
a wargod. Father of the  Rankans. I shall ruin your  temples one by one, if  you
don't come out and face me, and meet the defeat you've got coming to you!"

The  silence  might have  been  long, but  Harran  was past  noticing.  What has
happened to my  lady? In eternity  she should be  as she always  has been-a calm
power, not this cocksure violence. And anyway-why did I call her up, after  all?
Anger at Ranke and the Beysib? Really? Or something else?

Love? I-

He dared take  that thought no  further. Yet, if  what she had  said to him  was
true, then he was himself in the process of becoming a god. The thought gave him
a moment's wild jubilation. If he could dissuade her from this silliness and get
her to do the spell  the second time, it would  be forever. The very thought  of
eternity spent in company with this blasting beauty, this wild, daring power-

The memory of soft laughter and of Ischade's voice gently mocking a man who  did
not  know  his own  heart  brought Harran  back  to his  senses,  hard. Impulse,
impetuousness- that had  brought him to  this spot, this  night, just as  it had
brought him to the Stepsons long ago. And impulse was blind. Though his body was
screaming at its transformation at being dragged into godhead, his mind was  now
seeing more clearly. He had described the situation to Ischade even better  than
he knew. Siveni  the impetuous, the  lightning-swift, had accepted  time and its
bitterness more thoroughly than any of the other gods. Here in the mortal world,
where time was at its strongest, so was her bitterness and rage. She would  have
no wisdom, no time, no love for him here. And elsewhere-

Siveni was a maiden-goddess. Elsewhere would not work either.

"Come out!" Siveni was shouting into Savankala's silence. "Coward god, come  out
and fight me, or I  will smite your temple to  rubble, and kill every Rankan  in
this city! Does that mean nothing; are your worshippers so little to you?"

"I hear your challenge," he heard Savankala saying. "Do you not understand  that
I may not honor it? Destiny has determined that these conflicts among us will be
settled by mortals, not by  gods. Are you not at  all afraid of destiny- of  the
Power of  Many Names  that sits  in darkness  above the  houses of all the gods,
Rankan and Ilsig and Beysib alike? Will you defy that power?"

"Yes!"

"That is sad. You as a goddess, and supposedly a wise one, should know that  you
cannot...."

"Wisdom! Wisdom has gotten me nowhere!"

"Yes," Savankala remarked drily, "I can see that...."

Harran was trapped in a terrible serenity, a clarity that refused to admit fear.
He knew he  would have to  sacrifice that clarity  shortly. But in  the meantime
Savankala and Siveni sounded exactly like any two people arguing in the  Bazaar,
and Harran could tell that Savankala  was stalling for time, waiting for  Harran
to do something.  The message had  been clear enough.  These conflicts among  us
will be settled by mortals....

His hand, or  the loss of  it, had taught  him well and  quickly. No hatred  was
worth pain-not  so much  as a  cut finger's  worth. And  certainly no hatred was
worth death. Not his hatred... not Siveni's.

"Then, hide in your hole, old  god," Siveni said bitterly. "There's no  honor in
winning this  way, but  I can  put honor  aside for  winning's sake. Your temple
first. Then your precious people."

She raised her spear, and lightnings wreathed the spearhead.

"No," someone said behind her.

She turned in  amazement, stared at  him. Harran stared  back as best  he could,
equally astonished that he had spoken and that those ferocious gray eyes  didn't
blast him down where he stood. What is she staring at? he thought, and suspected
the answer-while at the  same time refusing to  think of it. The  less memory of
his own almost-godhood he carried away  with him into either life or  death, the
better. "Goddess," Harran said, "You are my  own good lady, but I tell you  that
if you move against Sanctuary's people, I'll

stop you."

Siveni swung on  him. "With what?"  she cried, enraged,  and swung the  spear at
him. Harran had no idea what to do. Against the first blow he raised the  maimed
arm, and the  lightnings went  crackling away  around him  to strike  the paving
stones. But the  second blow and  the third came  immediately, and then  more, a
flurry of blows  that swiftly beat  down Harran's feeble  guard. And after  them
came the  bolt that  struck him  to the  street-a blow  enough like  death to be
mistaken for it. Harran's last thought  as he went down burned and  blinded, was
that she would have  been something to see  with a sword. Then  thought departed
from him, and his soul fled far away.

Somewhere in Sanctuary, a dog howled.

And an odd dark shape that had skulked along through the shadows behind the  man
and the goddess leapt shrieking out of those shadows, and full onto Siveni.

The sound  of crashing  in the  street was  what woke  Harran finally. A hellish
sound it was, enough to wake the dead, as he certainly reckoned himself;  stones
cracking, lightning frying the air, angry  cries-and a hoarse voice he knew.  In
that moment, before he managed to  open his eyes, it became perfectly  plain who
trailed him here from  the Stepsons' barracks; what  dark form had slipped  away
from him  as he  drew the  circle around  Siveni's temple,  and had been trapped
within the spell-so that it had worked on her as well.

Harran raised  himself up  from the  stones to  see the  image that, ever after,
would make him turn away from companions or leave crowded rooms when he  thought
of it.

There was the  goddess in her  radiant robes-but those  robes had dirt  on them,
from falls she had  taken in the street;  and four hands were  struggling on the
haft of  her spear.  Even as  Harran  looked  up, the  wiry shape wrestling with
Siveni wrenched  the spear  out of  her grasp  and threw  it clattering down the
Avenue of  Temples, spraying  random lightning   bolts around   it. Then   Mriga
sprang   on  Siveni  again,  all   skinny arms   and  legs  as  always-but  with
something added: a frightening, quick grace about her movements. Purpose, Harran
thought   in  fascination  and   shock. She  knows   what  she's  doing! And  he
smiled... seeing another aspect of the spell that he might have suspected if  he
were  an   artiste   rather  than   merely   competent.  The   spell  infallibly
retrieved what was lost... even lost wits.

The goddess and  the mortal girl  rolled on the  ground together, and  there was
little difference between them. They  both shone, blazing lightlessly with  rage
and godhead. The  goddess had more  experience fighting, perhaps,  but Mriga had
the advantage of a strength not only divine but insane. And there might be other
advantages to a life's worth of insanity as well. Mriga's absorption of  godhead
would not be hampered by ideas about gods, or about mortals not being gods.  She
took what power came to  her, and used it, uncaring.  She was using it now;  she
had Siveni pinned. Their struggle brought  her around to where she suddenly  saw
Harran looking at her. That look did strike him like lightning, though he  would
not have traded the pain of it  for anything. Mriga saw him. And in  four quick,
economical gestures, she  stripped Siveni's bright  helm off, flung  it clanging
down the avenue, and then took hold  of Siveni's head by the long dark  hair and
whacked it hard against the stones. Siveni went limp.

He never had needed to show her anything more than once....

The street fell blessedly silent. Harran sat up on the stones-it was the best he
could manage at the moment; his night was catching up to him. More than just his
night. For there was Mriga, limping over to him, still halt as before-but  there
was a kind of grace even  to that,  now. He wanted to hide his face. But  he was
still enough of a god not to.

"Harran," she said in the soft husky  voice that he had never heard do  anything
but grunt.

Harran was still mortal enough not to be able to think of a thing to say.

"I want to  stay like this,"  she said. "I'll  have to go  back with her  before
dawn, if the  change is to  take."

"But-it  was  only  supposed to   be temporary-"

"For an  ordinary mortal,   I suppose  so. But  I'm not ordinary. It   will take
for me." She smiled at him with a merry serenity that  made Harran's heart ache;
for it was  very  like what  he had expected,  dreamed of, from  Siveni. "If you
approve, that is...."

"Approve?!" He stared at her-at Her,  rather; there was no doubt of  it anymore.
Moment by moment she was growing more  divine, and looking at her hurt his  eyes
as even Siveni  had only at  the beginning. "What  in the worlds  do you need my
approval for?!"

Mriga looked at him with somber pleasure.  "You are my love," she said, "and  my
good lord."

"Good-" He would have sickened with  the irony, had the terrible, growing  glory
of her presence not made such a response impossible. "I used you-"

"You fed me," Mriga  said. "You took care  of me. I came  to love you. The  rest
didn't matter then; and it doesn't now. If I loved you as a mortal-how should  I
stop as a goddess?"

"You're still crazy!" Harran cried, almost in despair.

"It would probably  look that way,"  said Mriga, "to  those who didn't  know the
truth. You know better."

"Mriga, for pity's sake, listen to me! I took advantage of you, again and again!
I used a goddess-"

She reached  out, very  slowly, and  touched his  face; then  took the hand back
again. "As  for that  business," she  said, "I  alone shall  judge the result. I
alone am qualified.  If you've done  evil... then you've  also paid. Payment  is
now, is it not?  Would you believe you've  spent five years paying  for what you
were doing during those five years? Or would you put it down to a new  goddess's
craziness?"

"Time..." Harran whispered.

"It has an inside and an outside," Mriga said. "Outside is when you love. Inside
is everything else. Don't ask me more."  She looked up at the paling sky.  "Help
me with poor Siveni."

Between the two  of them they  got the goddess  sitting up again.  She was in  a
sorry state; Mriga brushed at  her rather apologetically. "She hurt  you," Mriga
said. "If I hadn't been crazy already, I would have gone that way."

After a few moments ministration, the gray eyes opened and looked at Harran  and
Mriga  with  painful  admiration for  them  both.  One of  the  fierce  eyes was
blackened, and Siveni had a bump rising where Mriga had acquainted her with  the
cobbles. "The disadvantage of physicality," she said. "I don't think I care  for
it." She glanced at Mriga, looking very chastened. "Not even my father ever  did
that to me. I think we're going to be friends."

"More than  that," Mriga  said, serenely  merry. Harran  found himself wondering
very briefly about some  old business ... about  the old Mriga's love  for edged
things, and her  strength, and her  skill with her  hands... and her  gray eyes.
Those eyes met his,  and Mriga nodded. "She'd  lost some attributes into  time,"
Mriga said. "But I held them for  her. She'll get them back from me...  and lend
me a few others. We'll do well enough between us."

The three of them got up together, helping one another. "Harran-" Siveni said.

He looked at her tired, wounded radiance, and for the first time really saw her,
without his own  ideas about her  getting in the  way. She could  not apologize;
apology wasn't her way. She just  stood there like some rough, winning  child, a
troublemaker at the  end of yet  another scrap. "It's  all right," he  said. "Go
home."

She smiled. The smile was almost as lovely as Mriga's.

"We will," Mriga said. "There's a place where gods can go when they need a rest.
That's where we'll be. But'one thing remains." She reached out and laid her head
on the burned place  where Harran's hand had  been... then slowly leaned  in and
touched her lips to his.

Somewhere in the eternity that followed, he noticed that her left hand seemed to
be missing.

When the dazzle unknotted itself from around him, they were gone. He stood alone
in false  dawn in  the Avenue  of Temples,  looking down  toward where a pair of
twisted brass doors lay in the middle of the street. He wondered while he  stood
there  whether  some  years from  now  there  might be  a  small  new temple  in
Sanctuary... raised  for an  addition to  the Ilsig  pantheon; a  mad goddess, a
maimed and crippled  goddess, fond of  knives, and possessing  a peculiar crazed
wisdom that  began and  ended in  love. A  goddess who  right now  had only  two
worshippers; her single priest, and a dog....

Harran stood there wondering-then started  at a sudden touch. His  left hand-the
hand he hadn't had, and now had-a woman's hand-reached up without his willing it
to touch his face.

Payment is now....

Harran bowed  ever so  briefly to  Ils's temple:  and with  grudging respect, to
Savankala's-and went on home.

Elsewhere in the false dawn, a soft, rough cry from the windowsill attracted the
attention of  a dark-clad  woman in  a room  scattered with  a mad  profusion of
treasures and rich stuffs.  Ischade leisurely went to  the window, gazed with  a
slow smile at the  silvery raven that stood  there, watching her out  of eyes of
gray... and silently considering both messenger  and message, took it up on  her
arm and went to find it something to eat....

WITCHING HOUR

C. J. Cherryh

The room was fine wood and river stone with brocade hangings, and opened onto an
entry hall with a winding stair. Fire danced in the marble fireplace and at  the
tips of a  score of white  wax candles, and  off the gold  cups and fine  pewter
platters and plates; while Moria, at dinner in her hall, gave it all mistrusting
glances, not  unlike the  look she  paid her  brother at  his end  of their long
table-for none of Moria's life stayed stable. The gold was a dream in which  she
moved and lived, irony  for a thief: she  felt constantly she should  snatch the
plates and run, but there was nowhere to run to and the gold was hers, the house
was hers, far too great a possession:  she could no longer run at all,  and this
condition filled  her heart  with panic.  Her brother's  face was  a dream  of a
different kind across the candle  glow-at one moment familiar; at  another, when
he shifted slightly  or the light  fell unkindly on  the scars-she felt  another
wrench of  panic, perceiving  another thing  which she  had loved  and which had
tangled her up like nightmare and held her bound.

One part of her would have run screaming and naked from this place.

"Mistress." A servant poured straw-colored wine into  her cup and grinned a  gap
toothed  grin that  shattered other  illusions, for  the dress  was brocade  and
finest linen, if rumpled from neglect, the hair bartered and immaculate; but the
missing teeth, the  broken nose, the  voice with its  Downwind twang-beggars and
thieves waited on them.  They were clean and  flealess and without lice-she  was
adamant on that, but on no other thing had she authority with them, except  they
did their job and did not pilfer.

The Owner saw to that.

There was a shout, a shriek of gutter language from the stairs: Mor-am leaped up
and shouted back into  the hall in terms  the Downwind understood, and  her soul
shrank at this small sign of fracture. "Out," she said to the servant. And  when
the servant lingered in his dull-witted way: "Out, fool!"

The servant put  it together and  scuttled out as  Mor-am resumed his  chair and
picked up his  wine-cup. His hand  shook. The tic  was back at  the comer of his
bum-scarred mouth,  and the  cup trembled  on its  way and spilled straw-colored
wine. He glowered after he had drunk, and the tic diminished to a small shudder.
"Won't learn," he said, plaintive as a child.

A beggar watched  the house, outside.  Was always there,  a huddle of  rags; and
Mor-am had bad dreams, waked shrieking night after night.

"Won't leam,"  he muttered,  and poured  himself more  wine with a knife-scarred
hand that rattled the wine bottle against the cup rim.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" He  set the bottle  down and picked  up the cup,  leaving beads of
wine on the table surface, spilling more on the way to his mouth.

"I  went out  today." She  made a  desperate attempt  to fill  the silence,  the
silence of long  hours imprisoned  in this  house. "I  bought a  ham, some dates
Shiey says she knows this way to cook it with honey-"

"Got no lousy cook, big house, we got a one-handed thief for cook-"

"Shiey was a cook."

"-if she'd done either decent she'd go right-handed. Where'd She find that sow?"

"Quiet!" Moria flinched and cast a glance toward the stairs. They listened,  she
knew they listened, every  servant in the house,  the beggar by the  gates. "For
Ils's sake, quiet-"

"Swear by Ils now, do we? Do us any good, you think?"

"Shut up!"

"Run, why don't you? Why don't you get out of here? You-"

A door  came open  in the  hall, just-opened,  with a  gust of outside wind that
stirred the candles.

"0 gods," Moria said, and swung her chair about with a scrape of wood on  stone,
another from Mor-am, a ringing impact  of an overset cup that rolled  across the
floor.

But it was Haught stood in the hallway door, not Her, but only Haught,  standing
there with that  doe-soft look in  his eyes, that  set to his  well-formed mouth
that  betokened some  vague satisfaction.  A malicious  child's satisfaction  in
startling them; a malicious child's innocence: she hoped it was nothing  darker.
The door closed. No servant was in evidence.

"New t-trick,"  Mor-am said.  The tic  had come  back. The  cup lay on the floor
between them, with its scatter of straw-hued wine.

"I have a  few," Haught said,  walking to the  side of the  door where the  cups
resided on a  table. He was  well-dressed, was Haught,  like themselves; wore  a
russet tunic  and black  cloak, fine  boots, and  a sword  like a  gentleman. He
brought a cup to the table and wine poured with a whisper into the gold cup.  He
lifted it and drank.

"Well?" said Mor-am. "Well, do you just walk in and serve yourself?"

"No." There was always  quiet in Haught. Always  the downward glance, the  bowed
head: ex-slave.  Moria remembered  scars on  his back  and elsewhere, remembered
other things, nights  huddled beside a  rough brick fireplace;  bundled together
beneath rough  blankets;  convulsed  together in   the only love  there had been
once. This too  had  changed. "She  wants you  to  do that thing,"  Haught said,
speaking to  Mor-am.  "Tonight."  Sleight of   hand produced  a  tiny packet and
flung it to the table by the wine bottle.

"Tonight... .For Shalpa's sweet sake-"

"You'll find  a way."  Haught's eyes  darted a  quick, shy  glance Mor-am's way,
Moria's next, and flickered away again, somehow floorward: in such small ways he
remained uncatchable. "It's very good, the wine."

"Damn you," Mor-am said with a tremor of his mouth. "Damn-"

"Hush," Moria said, "hush, Mor-am,  don't." And to Haught: "There's  food left-"
It was reflex; there were times they had been hungry, she and Haught. They  were
not now, and she put  on weight. She had drunk  herself stupid then; and he  had
loved her  when she  had not  loved herself.  Now she  was wise  and  sober  and
getting fat; and scared. "Won't you stay awhile?"

-Thinking of herself alone once Mor-am went out; and terrified; and wanting  him
this night (the servants she did  not touch-her authority was scant enough;  and
they were crude). But Haught gave her that shy, cold smile that allied him  with
Her and ran his finger round the rim of the cup, never quite looking up.

"No," he said. He  turned and walked away,  into the dark hall.  The door opened
for him, swirling the dark cloak and whipping the candles into shadow.

"G-got to go," Mor-am said distractedly, "got  to find my cloak, got to get  Ero
to go with me-gods, gods-"

The door closed, and sent the candles into fits.

"Ero!" Mor-am yelled.

Moria  stood  with  her  arms  wrapped  about  herself,  staring  at  nothing in
particular.

It  was another  thing transmuted,  like some  malicious alchemy  that left  her
strangling in wealth and  utterly bereft. They lived  uptown now, in Her  house.
And Haught was Hers too, like that dead man-Stilcho was his name-who shared  Her
bed-she was sure it was so.  Perhaps Haught did, somehow and sorcerously  immune
to the curse attributed to Her. Mradhon  Vis she had not seen since the  morning
he walked away. Perhaps  Vis was dead. Perhaps  the thing he feared  most in all
the world had happened and he had met Her in one of Her less generous moments.

"Ero!" Mor-am yelled, summoning his bodyguard, a thief of higher class.

The fire  seemed inadequate,  like the  gold and  the illusions  that had become
insane reality.

There was little traffic on the  uptown street-the watcher at the gate,  no more
than that;  and Haught  walked the  shadows, not  alone from  the habit of going
unnoticed, but because in Sanctuary by night not to be noticed was always  best;
and in  Sanctuary of  late it  was decidedly  best. The  houses here  had barred
windows, protecting Rankan nobles against unRankan pilferage, burglary,  rapine,
occasional murder at the  hand of some startled  thief; but nowadays there  were
other,  political, visitors,  stealthy in  approach, leaving  bloody results  as
public as might be.

It had begun with  the hawkmasks and the  Stepsons; with beggars and  hawkmasks;
priests and priests; and gods; and wizards; and nowadays murder crept uptown  in
small bands,  to prove  the cleverness  of some  small faction  in reaching  the
unreachable; and striking the unstrikable; thus fomenting terror in the  streets
and convincing the terrorized that to  join in bands was best, so  that nowadays
one went in  Sanctuary with a  mental map not  alone of streets  but of zones of
allegiance  and  control,  and  planned  to  avoid  certain  places  in  certain
sequences, not to be seen passing safely through a rival's territory.

Haught ignored most  lines-by night. There  were some foolhardy  enough to touch
him. Not many. He was accustomed to fear, and, truth, he felt less fear nowadays
than previously. He was accustomed to horrors and that stood him in good stead.

He had  been prenticed  once, up  by Wizardwall;  and his  last master  had been
gentle, for one of Wizardwall.

"Why do you stay?" his present teacher asked.

"Teach me," he had said that morning, with a yearning in him only the dance  had
halfway filled: he showed her the  little magic that he had remembered.  And she
had smiled,  had Ischade  of no  country at  all: smiled  in a  very awful  way.
"Magus," she had said, "would you be?"

He had loved  Moria at that  time. Moria had  been gentle with  him when few had
been. And he had  thought (he tormented himself  with the dread that  it was not
his thought at all, such were Ischade's  powers) that it was well to please  the
witch, for Moria's  sake. So he  would protect Moria  and himself: to  be allied
with power was safety. Experience had taught him that.

But deep in his  heart he had seen  that Ischade was nec-romant,  not hieromant;
that the lighting of candles and the stirring of winds were only tricks to her.

And he had breathed the wind and sensed the power, and he was snared for reasons
that had  nothing at  all to  do with  love or  gratitude, for  he was  Nisi and
witchery was in his blood.

Tonight he walked the streets and crossed lines and no one dared touch him.  And
something cramped in him for years spread wings (but they were dark).

He might have lived in the uptown house.

But he took the other way.

The sound  of the  river was  very close  here, where  the old  stones thrust up
through newly trampled brush. Squith shivered, blinked, caught something  darker
than the night itself  in this place unequally  posed between two houses  on the
river.

"Squith," a woman said.

He turned, his back to an upthrust stone.

"No respect?" she asked.

He  took his  hand from  the stone  as if  he had  remembered a  serpent  coiled
thereby. Vashanka's.  All these  stones were;  and he  would not  be here by any
choice of his.

"Moruth-Moruth couldn't come. 'S got a c-cold."

"Has he?" The woman  moved forward out of  the dark, dark-robed, her  face dusky
and all but invisible in the overhang of sickly trees. "I might cure him."

Squith tumbled to his  knees and shook his  head; his bowels had  gone to water.
"S-sent me, he  did. Respectful, he  is. Squith, he  says, Squith, you  goes and
tells the lady-"

"--What?"

"Me lord does what you wants."

"He may survive his cold. It's tonight, beggar."

"I go tell him, go tell him." Squith  made it a litany, bobbed and held his  gut
and sucked wind past his snaggled row of teeth. He had a view of a cloak-hem, of
brush; he kept it that way.

"Go."

He scrambled up, scrabbling past thorns. One tore his cheek, raked his sightless
eye. He fled.

Ischade watched him, and  forbore spells that would  have urged him on  his way.
Roxane was at home tonight, not so far away. Thorns regrew. Snakes infested  the
place. Burned patches repaired themselves with preternatural speed.

A  beggar  sped  toward the  beggar-king  Moruth.  A black  bird  had  landed in
Downwind, on a certain sill. And Squith came. Moruth had a cold, and  languished
in mortal cowardice.

But Moruth  had met  something one  night in  a Downwind  alleyway that mightily
convinced him where his interests lay.

"Go to  Roxane," she  had whispered  in Moruth's  unwashed ear.  "Go to Yorl, to
whatever wizard you  choose. I'll know.  Or you can  promise beggars they'll  be
safe on the streets again. At least  from me. From other things, perhaps. Or  at
worst they'll be  avenged. When a  bird lights on  your sill-come to  Vashanka's
altar on the Foal. You know the place."

A nod of a shaggy head. The beggar-king knew, and babbled oaths of compliancy.

Wings fluttered  nearby. She  glanced up  where the  dead branches overhead gave
rest to other shadows, inky as her robes. A messenger returned.

It was a familiar room, one they  had used before and had rather not  use again;
but it  was Vis  they had,  and Straton  operated under  certain economies these
days-not to let Vis see too much; and not to let Vis be seen.

Vis glared at him, between two  Stepsons-real ones- who had brought him  to this
attic unbruised.  So one  reckoned. Vis  had a  ruffled look-smallish  and  wide
shouldered and dark, and with a look in those dark eyes under that shag of  hair
that said he had as lief kill as talk to them.

That was  well enough.  Straton had  killed a  few of  Vis's sort, in this room,
after they had been useful. Vis surely had the measure of him and of this place.
There was outrage in that stare and precious little hope.

"You had news," Strat said. "I trust you-that it's worth both our time."

"Damn you. I  came to you.  I sent for  you-I thought I  could trust you-if they
told you any different-"

"News," Strat said. Outside,  on the stairs, a  board creaked. But that  was the
watch he had passed. He sat down in the single chair at the single table  which,
like the  ropes on  the wooden  wall, had  their uses.  Mradhon Vis  stood there
between two guards,  all disarranged-they would  have found a  knife on him,  at
least; maybe a  cord; seldom a  penny, though Vis  sold himself to  at least two
sides. Jubal's. Theirs. Gods  knew who else. Hence  the guard. Hence the  forced
meetings. The  streets were  quiet, too  quiet. There  had been  nothing on  the
bridge but one one-eyed, halfwit beggar. Nothing stirring anywhere on the street
outside.

"Get them out of here," Vis said.

"You want to talk this  over, or just talk. Vis?  You got me here. I've  got all
night. So have they."

Vis thought that over. So  he had run his bluff  and made his point. But  he was
not stupid; and knew where his remaining chances lay. "I get paid for this."

"One way or the other."

"There's rumor out.. .got something coming down."

"What?"

"Not sure." Vis came closer and began to lean on the table. Demas moved to  stop
him. Strat held up his hand  and Vis stayed unmolested. "Something-I don't  know
what. Nisi squads-they've got a big one brewing. Heard talk about something down
at the harbor. Uptown at the same time."

"What's your source?"

"I don't tell that."

"Huh." Strat rocked the chair back, foot braced "That so?"

"Word's out they've got help. Understand?"

"The Nisi witch?"

There was long silence. Vis stayed where he was. Sweat was on his brow.

"Something got your tongue?"

"I'm Nisi, dammit. She can smell-"

"Roxane might  help you.  Might not.  I don't  think I'd  shelter with that one.
Vis."

"Word's out she's looking for revenge. The harbor- some move there. That's  what
I heard. Heard someone's going to move there, hit the Beysibs; maybe warehouses.
Death squads. I don't know whose. But I know who pays them."

Strat let the chair thump down. "Don't leave town, Vis."

"Dammit,  you're going  to get  me killed-you  know what  they'll do,  with  you
bringing me in here?"

"You go on making  your reports. If  anything comes down  and we don't  find out
understand? Understand, Vis?"

Vis backed away.

"Let him  go," Strat  said. "Pay  him. Well.  Let him  figure how to get himself
clear. Tomorrow. Whenever. When  I'm clear. When this  is proved one way  or the
other."

"You want a partner?" Demas asked.

Strat shook his head and gathered himself to his feet. "We've got  difficulties.
Stay here.  Vis, mind  you remember  who pays  you most.  You want more-you tell
us... right?"

Vis gave  him a  sullen look-not  greedy, no.  It was  an invitation  to a final
meeting-more demands. And Vis knew it.

"I'll see to it," Strat said to Demas. "I don't think anything will happen here.
Just keep  him off  the streets."  He took  a cloak  from the  peg by  the door,
nondescript as other clothes they kept here. The horse he rode was the bay,  not
nondescript, but it would serve.

"You're going to Her."

He heard the upper-case.  Turned and looked at  Vis, who stood there  staring at
him.

"You met the  one she's got?"  Vis asked. "She's  finally got a  lover she can't
kill. Fish-cold, likely. But she's not that particular."

Strat's face was very calm. He kept  it that way. He thought of killing  Vis. Or
passing an order. But there was a  craziness in the Nisi traitor. He had  seen a
man look like that who shortly after set himself on fire. "Be patient with him,"
he said. "Don't kill him." Because it was the worst thing he could think of  for
a man with such a look.

He left then, opened the door onto the dark stinking stairs and shut it behind.

The footsteps thumped away below, multiplied;  and Mradhon Vis stood there in  a
gray nowhere. Tired. Cold, when the room was far too close for cold.

"Sit down," one said.

He started to take the chair. A  foot preempted it. The other Stepson leaned  on
the table. It left him the floor.

He went over to the comer, liking  that at his back more than empty  air, braced
his shoulders, and slid  down against the wall.  So they all sat  and waited. He
did not stare at them, not caring  to provoke them, recalling that he had  tried
that with their chief  and recalling why he  tried-a dim rage of  sympathy for a
fellow fool.

She. Ischade. It took no guesswork  where the Stepsons would look for  help when
Roxane was on the move. Where that  one would look for help, where his  thoughts
bent. He had kept a watch on Straton-for the pay he got from other sources;  and
he knew. That was a  man infatuated with death, with  beating it day by day.  He
recalled it in himself;  until the day he  had learned death's infatuation  with
him-and that put a whole different complexion on matters.

Fool, 0 Whoreson. Fool.

Sanctuary's enemies  ringed it  round and,  with the  border northward cracking,
Ranke went suicidal as the rest. The very air stank-autumn fogs and smokes;  the
fevered  river-wind  found  its  way through  streets  and  windows,  sweet with
corruption; and there was no sleep  these nights. There was nowhere to  go. Part
of Nisibis had slipped through the wizards' hands; but Nisi gold. Nisi  training
still funded death  squads throughout Ranke-not  least among their  targets were
Nisi rebels  like himself.  It was  desert folk  moving in  Carronne; Ilsigi  in
Sanctuary port; gods knew where the Beysib came from, or what really sent them.

He  knew too  much; and  dreamed of  nights, same  as the  Stepson dreamed:  the
Stepson's cause  was tottering  and his  own was  dead. And  the river-wind  got
everywhere  in  Sanctuary, sickly  with  corruption, sweet  with  seduction; and
promised - promised -

He had tried, at least. That was the most unselfish thing he had done in half  a
year. But no one could save a fool.

There were houses in the uptown more  ornate than their own. This was one,  with
white marble floors  and Carronnese carpets  and gilt furnishings;  a fat fluffy
dog of the same white  and gold that yapped at  them until a servant scooped  it
up. And Mor-am thought hate at the useless, well-fed thing, hate at the servant,
hate at the long-nosed fat Rankan noble  who came waddling from his hall to  see
what had gotten past his gate.

"I've  got  guests"-the  noble  wheezed  (Siphinos  was  his  name)-"guests, you
understand...."

Mor-aro sucked air  and stood taller,  with a drawing  of one eye,  while in the
comer of the good one he spied Ero spying out the other hall beyond the archway.
"I tell Her that?"

"Out." Siphinos  waved at  the servants,  fluttering Mor-am  toward a  door, the
accounts room:  they had  been there  the last  time. Siphinos  closed the  door
himself. Ero stayed outside.

"You were to come after midnight-only after midnight-"

Mor-am held up the  packet; and the pig's  face and the pig's  eyes suddenly had
sobriety and a furious red-cheeked dignity, amid all his jowls. Mor-am gave  him
back his own one-eyed stare and handed it over, watched him examine the seal.

"It'll be coming here," Mor-am said. "That's the word comes with this. They  got
their eye on you. Death squads move uptown tonight. You hear me, man?"

"Whose? When?" The flush went hectic. A sweat glistened on jowls and brow. "Give
me names. Isn't that what we pay you-"

"Word for Torchholder this  time. Get the word  upstairs. Tell him-look out  his
window tonight. Tell him-"  he tried to recall  precisely the words he  had been
primed  with,  that  Haught  had  told him  a  dozen  days  ago-"tell  him he'll
understand then what the help we give is worth."

No shrieking, no cursing, not the  least cracking of the fat man's  fury. Ilsigi
dog, the look said, wishing him to heel. And fearing the bite he had.

"He knows," Mor-am  said, neat and  measured, and gods,  gods, let the  tic stay
still. "He can tell  the prince-g-govemor-" Damn the  twisting of his face,  the
drawing of  his mouth.  "He'll know  where his  safety is.  He'll pay  the cost,
whatever we ask. We got our means. Tell Kittycat look out his window too."

Alarms were on their way, plainclothes and moving with deliberation, not  panic,
word back to the command post,  to various places and offices. And  Straton rode
alone now- imprudence, perhaps; but a  full troop of Stepsons clattering up  the
riverside slow or fast, plainclothes or not-drew too much attention. He slouched
like a drunk, kept the  bay to an amble, and  sweated the entire last block.  He
had sent his three  companions off the other  way. Foalside was a  mixed kind of
street, wide near the bridge and  well-used; but higher up the  Foal,  buildings
crowded close  and  the street became   a rough track  with only the  remnant of
ancient stones for pavings. Trees grew   untended on the Foalside in a  widening
lower terrace by  the road. Weeds  crowded close  on  that margin. And  crouched
like  some  lurking  aged beast-  a cottage  occupied  the  upper terrace,   the
northern house on  that black river,   a tiny place  like the southern  one-both
of which  had been singed, both  of which had been  swept over with fire  enough
to blacken the   brush and kill  the trees that   grew hereabouts. But  nowadays
neither showed  traces of burning;  and  both stood just as   before, surrounded
with brush, and smelling  that wet, old smell  of places long  untended  in  the
dark, in  the  starlight, with  old  trees lifting  autumn  (unscarred) branches
at the sky.

Ischade maintained  a fence  and hedge:  her house  clung to  its strip of river
terrace and faced  beyond its yard  and gates a  row of warehouses,  at a little
respectful distance from the ordinary world,  distance which the wise  respected
one of those  places in every  town, Strat thought,  which had that  dilapidated
look of trouble and contagious bad luck.

Ischade's territory. He had been in it for the length of the solitary ride.  And
no squad he knew of dared that little strip of street or the warehouses near it.

Strat slid down, looped the reins over the fence, and opened the ridiculous  low
gate.  There  were  weeds,  gods,  everywhere. In  so  short  a  time.  She grew
nightshade like flowers.

His pulse quickened  and his mouth  went dry as  he came up  to the paint-peeled
door and reached  out to knock,  half-expecting it to  do the thing  it had done
before and swing open.

It opened,  without his  knock, without  a sound  on the  other side. And he was
facing not Ischade  but the freedman  Haught, Nisi-complexioned and  dressed far
too well and standing there as if he owned the room.

"Where is she?" Strat asked, vexed.

"I don't give out her business."

Something warned him-about  that line that  was the threshold.  On the brink  of
hasty invasion, of  drawing his sword  and prying it  out of pretty-lad,  alarms
went off. He stood slouched, hands on hips. "Stilcho here?"-as if that were what
he had come for. He let his  eyes focus however briefly on the dim  room beyond.
He remembered that place,  that it always had  more size than seemed  right. And
there was no sign of the man.

"No," Haught said.

The pulse was up again. Strat looked the ex-slave in the eyes-remarkable: Haught
never flinched,  and had  before. Rage  ticked away,  a twitching  of his mouth;
gods, that he was reduced to this schoolboy standoff, eye to eye with a  jealous
slave who was-dangerous. No wilt, no bluster. Just a cold steady stare, Nisi and
Rankan. And he thought of Wizardwall, and things that he had seen.

"Try the  river," Haught  said. "It's  a short  walk. You  won't need the horse.
You're late."

The door shut, with no hand on it.

He caught his breath,  swore, looked back where  his horse stood and  snorted in
the dark.

It was not  a place for  horses, down on  Foalside, beyond the  house, where the
brush grew thick along the shore.

Fool, something said to him. But he cursed the voice and went.

                                    *  *  *

"Siphinos's  son." Molin  Torchholder cast  a misgiving  look at  the door   and
shrugged on his robe  with the sense of  something gone badly amiss.  He waved a
hand at the  servant who fussed  up with slippers  while another stirred  up the
fire. "Move. Move. Let the lad in."

"Reverence, the guards-"

"Hang the guards-"

"-want to search the boy, but being nobility-"

"Send him in. Alone."

"Reverence-"

"Less reverence and more obedience.  Would you?" Molin drew  his lips to a  fine
humored  line  that betokened  storms.  The servant  gulped  and fled  doorward,
returned, and dropped the slippers face-about for him.

"Alone!"

"Reverence," the flunky breathed, and sped.

Molin worked one slipper on and  the other, fought off the interventions  of the
other servant who  drew near to  fuss with his  robe. Looked up  suddenly as the
fellow desisted. "Liso."

"Reverence."  Siphinos's  lanky  blond  son  made  a  bow,  all  breathless, all
courtesies. "Apologies-"

"It should be good, lad. I trust it is."

"It isn't.  I mean,  not-good." The  boy's teeth  began to  chatter. "I ran-" He
raked at his strawthatch hair. "Had my father's guard with me-"

"Can you get to it, lad?"

The boy caught his breath and, it seemed, his wits. "The witch-ours; she says-"

Straton shoved the brush aside, more and more regretting this imprudence. He was
not ordinarily a fool. Such was his foolishness at the moment, he reckoned, that
he was not even capable of knowing for sure he was a fool; and that alarmed him.
But the Nisi witch on the prod-that sent alarms of its own crawling up his back.

You're late,  the slave  had said-as  if Ischade  had put  it all  together long
before;  as she  would if  that kind  of alarm  was ringing,  audible to  mages,
wizards, and those wizardry had set its mark on-gods, that he tangled himself in
the like, that  he picked Roxane  for an enemy  or the vampire  for an ally.  He
could not even remember clearly which way around it had been; except Ischade had
agreed in  Sync's case  when there  had been  no other  way, and  in doing that,
marked every Stepson her ally and Roxane's enemy.

Fool. He heard Crit's voice echoing in his mind.

Vis knew. The jolt of that caught up with his befogged wits and he hesitated  on
the narrow path, hanging by one hand to a shallow-rooted bit of brush, with  one
foot over black water and empty space. Vis knew where he was going.

Damn.

Down the river, beyond the lights  of the bridge, a flash of  lightnings showed,
and, gods knew, with Roxane stirred up, that lightning-flash set a panic in him.
He hauled himself back to balance on the narrow path and kept moving.

Faster  and faster.  No way  to go  now but  straight on.  His messengers   were
dispersed, alerting  what  wizard-help  they  had; one  had  headed  the  Prince
Governor's direction, if he got that  far. There was no calling back  anyone for
rethinking.

Another lightning-flash. A sudden wind swept down the black, light-rimmed  chasm
of the river, stirring  the trees on the  terraced shore. Brush cracked  beneath
his  step on  the eroded  brink, beneath  the sickly  trees-she would  know  his
presence, Ischade would;  she had her  ways. Had said  once that she  would know
when she was needed, which intimation he had seized on with the misery and  hope
of all fools: so he was here, trusting a witch no sensible man would have sought
in the first place-ignoring common  sense and rules-gods, Crit-Crit would  swear
him to hell and back-What was wrong with him?

He feared he knew.

He came on  an ancient stone,  thrust away from  it to fight  the incline of the
path. Hard-breathing, he  climbed the treacherous  slope and crested  the top of
it.

And if she  had been an  enemy, a simple  shove could have  pitched him backward
into the  Foal. He  caught his  balance and  she gave  him room  there among the
autumn-dead trees, on  the river-verge with  its strange stones.  The night went
away for him. There was her face,  what she wanted, what she might say,  nothing
else.

"All sorts of birds," she said, "before this storm."

It made no sense to  him; and did. "Roxane-" he  said. "Word's out she's on  the
move-"

"Yes," she said.  Her face met  the starlight within  the confines of  her hood.
There was quiet in her, perilous quiet,  and every hair on him stirred with  the
static in the air. "Come." She took his hand and drew him upslope, following the
path. "The wind's getting up-"

"Not your doing-"

"No. Not mine."

"Vis-" He  caught his  balance against  a waist-high  stone, recognized where he
was, and jerked his hand off it. "Gods-"

"Careful of invocations." She caught his arm to pull him further and he stopped,
involuntarily face-to-face with her in  the starlight: he saw no  detail beneath
the shadow of her hood, but only a slantwise hint of mouth and chin; but he felt
the stare, felt the smooth cool touch of her fingers slide to his hand.  "That's
been days gathering. Are you deaf to it?"

"Deaf to what?"

"The storm.  The storm  that's coming...  .The harbor,  man. What  if some great
storm should break the seawall, drive those hulking Beysib ships one against the
others, stave their timbers, sink them down-Sanctuary'd have no harbor.  Nothing
but a  sandbar founded  on rotting  hulks. And  where'd Sanctuary be then?-Death
squads, riots, none of  these things would matter  then. The war's no  longer at
Wizardwall-no longer leagues away. There are ways to use the power for more than
closing doors."

He was walking.  She had him  by the arm  and the voice  compelled, wove spells,
though brush raked his face and he forgot to fend it off.

"I've interests here in  Sanctuary," said Ischade. "It's  been long since I  had
interests. I like it as it is."

Fool, said Crit's  voice at the  dim, dim, back  of his mind,  past hers and the
rising sough of wind.

"You didn't have to hire me," she said. "Not for Roxane. That matter's free."

"I can  get help."  He recalled  his wits  and his  purpose. "Get a message down
there, move those ships to open water-"

"She'd eat you alive, Stepson. There's one she won't. One she can't touch.  Make
a little haste. You're late. Where did you go? The house?"

"The house- When-sent for me? Is Vis yours?"

"He has bad dreams."

He blinked.  Balked. She  drew him  on. "Damn,"  he muttered,  "could have had a
horse-it's  the other  damn side  of the  bridge- We've  got to  pass under  the
checkpoint, dammit-"

"They won't notice. They never do."

They walked, walked, and the wind  whipped the trees to a roar.  Thunder boomed.
Late, she had said; waiting on him, and late-

"For what?" he asked, out of breath. "For what-waiting on me?"

"I might have used Vis. But I  don't trust him any longer- at my  back. There'll
be snakes. I trust you're up to snakes-"

The brush opened out on the terrace edge that became a rubble slope. The  bridge
was  ahe'ad,  the few  shielded  lights by  the  bridgehead still  aglow  on the
Sanctuary side  of  the Foal.  Rocks  turned, clashed  beneath  hastening  steps
slipped and rattled.

They'll not see us. They never do-

He was out of breath now. He was not sure about Ischade, whose hand held his and
urged him faster, faster, while the wind whipped at her cloak and threw his hair
into his eyes.

"Damn, we're too late-"

"Hush." Nails bit into  his hand. They passed  beneath the bridge. He  looked up
and looked forward again  as a rock rattled  which they had not  moved, faint in
the wind and the river-sound.

A man  was in  the shadow.  Strat snatched  his hand  toward his  sword, but  an
outflung hand, a black wave of  Ischade's cloak was in the way:  "It's Stilcho,"
Ischade said.

He let  the sword  fall home  again. "More  help?" he  asked. If  there had  not
already been a chill  down his back, this  was enough: Stepson, this  one was...
one of the best of the ersatz Stepsons  they'd left behind; gods, one he'd  well
approved. Haunting the bridge-side. There was something appropriate in that;  it
was from this place the beggar-king had got him.

Dead, Vis swore. Stilcho had died that night.

Thunder rumbled. "Closer," Ischade said, glancing skyward as they passed out  of
bridge-shadow, three, where they had been two. Stars were still overhead, but in
the south there were continued  lightnings and rumblings; winds shivered  up the
Foal, roared in the trees downriver, on the further, southern, terraces.

Beside him now, a dead man walked.  It looked his way once that he  caught, with
its one remaining eye, its ungodly pallor. It went swathed in black, except  the
hood; a young man's dark hair-Stilcho had been vain-still well-kept. Gods,  what
did it want-camaraderie?

He  turned his  back to  it and  slogged ahead,  up the  slope. Ischade  drifted
wraithlike before him, shadow-black against the shadow of the brush  up-terrace,
till she was lost in it. He struggled the harder, heard Stilcho laboring  behind
like death upon his track.

Lightning cracked. He  crested the slope  and Ischade was  there, at his  elbow,
seizing on his arm.

"Snakes," she reminded him. "Go softly."

In the roar of the gathering storm.

The wind whirled in the window and the room went dark with the death of candles,
except the fire  in the hearth.  "Reverence," the servant  said, a small  voice,
insistent; below, in the perspective from the hill, all Sanctuary had just  gone
dark, what lights there were whipped out in the face of that oncoming wall;  the
very stars went out. There was for  light only the flicker of the lightnings  in
the oncoming mass of cloud.

"Reverence."

He turned at the tug on his sleeve, saw in the dim firelight there was left  the
apparition of a palace guard, disheveled, windblown. "Zaibar?"

"Reverence-two of the patrol came back-someone hit them. Some could have  gotten
through; they don't know. They lost another man on the way back-"

"Reverence-" Another guard came pelting in at Zaibar's heels, breaking past  the
servants. "There's fire in the Aglain storehouse-"

"That's one." Kama let fly and missed the sulking figure. Wind carried the  shot
astray; the dark figure  dived past, along the  quay where fishing boats  rocked
and thumped together. The dark hulks  of the Beysib ships leaned drun-kenly  and
strained at cables out in the channel, out of reach from this side. "Damn!"  She
slid down the roof with the wind whipping at her braids and hit the rain-channel
with  her  foot, stopping  her  descent on  the  trough of  the  roof. Lightning
cracked. 'Too exposed up here. Arrows no good- Get down, get down there."

She slid and bumped down to the stack of boxes, one-handed by reason of the bow,
caught herself again, leaped down and came up on her feet-

-face on with a clutch of Beysib.

"Out of here!" she yelled, waving with the bow. "Out, move it-"

They jabbered their own tongue at her.  One broke away; the others did, like  so
many mice before the fire, running down the docks-

A second  shadow thumped  down beside  her, her  partner, with  an arrow nocked.
"Lunatics," he  said. Riot  on the  docks and  the Beysib  ran straight into the
middle of it, fluttering and twittering-

A Beysib dropped.  One of the  snipers had scored  with something; other  Beysib
reached the  water, peeled  out of  garments like  thistledown leaving pods-pale
bodies arced toward the water-one, and three, and five, a dozen or more.

"Look  at that!"  her partner  said. For  a moment  she did  nothing but   look,
thinking it suicide (she was no swimmer, and the water was wild and black).

"Their ships-damn, they're going for their ships-"

They had guts-after all: Beysib  amazed her; Beysib seamen, risking  their lives
out there.

The wind roared, making  the trees creak. A  limb cracked and fell;  the smaller
debris of old leaves  and wind-stripped twigs rode  the cold edge of  the gusts.
Left to right  the wind blew  here, about the  ramshackle dwelling whose  lights
gleamed balefire red through the murk.

Here they crouched, here in this snake-infested outland, in the wind's howl  and
the lightning's crack.

"Vashanka's gone," Strat protested, his last faith in any logic shredded in  the
wind. "Gone-"

"The lack of a god also has  its consequence," Ischade said. Her hood had  blown
back. Her hair streamed  like ink in the  dark. Lightning lit her  face, and her
eyes when she turned his way shone like hell itself. "Chaos, for instance. Petty
usurpers."

"We going in there?" It  was the last place Strat  wanted to go, but he  had his
sword in hand and the shreds of his courage likewise. Inside might be warm.  For
the moment they lived. And here his bones were freezing.

"Patience," said Ischade; and holding out her hand: "Stil-cho. It's time."

There was silence. Strat wiped his tearing eyes and turned his head. The  steady
flicker of lightnings showed a masklike face set in horror. "-No," Stilcho said.
"No-I don't want-"

"You're essential, Stilcho. You know that. I know you know the way."

"I don't want to-" Childlike, quavering.

"Stilcho."

And he  tumbled down,  facedown, a  dead weight  that collapsed  against Strat's
side, utterly limp. Strat  flinched aside in a  paroxysm of revulsion, held  his
balance on his sword-hand, and blinked in the sting of wind and leaves.  "Dammit
"

But Ischade's voice came  to him through the  dark: "... fmd him,  Stilcho, find
him: bring him up-he'll come. He'll come. He'll come^-"

He  made  the  mistake of  lifting  his  head, looking  up  just  where a  thing
materialized-a thing ribboned red and nothing-surely-ever human; but he knew its
face, had known it for years and years.

"Janni-"

The murdered Stepson wavered, assumed a  more human aspect-Janni the way he  had
been, before the Nisi witch had him for the night.

"She's yours, Janni." Ischade's distant whisper. "Stilcho. Come on back. Ace-"

His war-name. He had never told her that.

"Get her,"  Ischade whispered.  "I'll hold-hold  here. Get  her. Bring  it in on
her...."

Janni turned,  like an  image reflected  in brass;  moved like  one, jerking and
indistinct. Another  presence stirred,  more substantial:  Stilcho staggered up,
clawed branches for support. Strat  moved, stung to be the  last. "Janni-dammit,
wait!"

But nothing could catch that rippling thing. It paid no heed to winds or  brush.
Strat thrust  out his  arm and  forced his  way through  brush, passed Stilcho's
efforts-crashed against a projecting branch and broke it on his leather  jerkin,
a crack swallowed in the wind.

Thorns raked him; the wall  of the house loomed in  front of him, and Janni  was
far ahead, diminishing as  if he ran some  far shore, then vanishing  within the
dark of that river-stone wall, with its oaken door.

"Janni!" No more need of silence.  Janni had lost to the witch  before-was alone
in there,  past barriers-gods  knew what-"Janni!"  He hit  not the  door but the
shutters,  shattered  the  rotting  wood and  plunged  through  in  a roll  over
shattered  pieces, into  furnishings-blinding light.  Shock lanced  through  his
marrow, flung him flat. His head  hit the floor, his sword was-gods,  where?-his
fingers too numb to feel it; but Stilcho was in, scrambling past him, hacking at
something-

Muscle rolled over him, live and round  and moving. He yelled and thrust it  off
and lurched for his  knees-snake, the motion told  him; he yelled and  hacked at
it, and  it looped  and thrashed-not  the only  one. He  rolled to his knees and
chopped at the looping coils for all  the strength that was in him. Stilcho  got
the head off it: it had begun to scream.

Coils passed through  Janni. He just  kept moving. And  Roxane-the witch Roxane,
amid the room-in  the midst of  that place-stood black  in the heart  of fire; a
pillar of dark, whose  hair crackled with the  light that came from  her fingers
and her  face. Her  hand lifted,  and pointed,  and the  fire leaped. Janni went
black himself  against that  light, a  shadow, nothing  more. The  fire began to
wail.

Strat tried; he flung himself forward.

"Get back!" It was Stilcho grabbed him,  on some brink he could not see,  beyond
which was a fall that took them both, down, down, into dark-

But Janni had his arms about the witch, and lightnings wrapped them and  crawled
up and down the pair of them  like veinwork, till the thunder rolled. The  light
riddled him, shredded  his darkness, blew  both of them  in tatters; and  sucked
inward then with one deafening clap of thunder.

Darkness then. The stink of burning.

"Janni? Janni? Stilcho-'

The wind  fell. Fell  so suddenly  it was  like death;  with one  great crack of
thunder that must have hit something near.

The ships started pitching on a sea gone chaotic, no longer heeled by the  wind,
no longer straining at the cables. "Gods!" Kama breathed.

"-hit  somewhere  riverside,"  the  servant  said,  superfluous  as  ever. Molin
Torchholder clenched the sill and felt his heart start labored beats again.

"I'd say it did."

But where, he could not tell. There was a blossoming of flame in that far  dark,
not the only one. There were burnings here and there.

None large yet.

And nothing had gotten through.

It was nothing  he wanted to  remember. It was  most of the  walk back before he
could hear; and most of the long walk he staggered off on his own, reeling  this
way and that like  a drunken man. But  sometimes Stilcho had his  arm about him,
sometimes She had his hand...

... There  was fire,  another sort  of fire,  safely in  a hearth.  The smell of
herbs. Of musk.

Ischade's dusky face. She knelt beside  his chair, by her fireside, by  the tame
light. Her hood was back. The light shone on her hair.

"Janni-" he said. It was the first thing he remembered saying.

"Stilcho  brought you,"  Ischade said.  She leaned  aside. Wine  spilled with  a
liquid, busy sound, the pungency of grapes. She offered him the cup. And he  sat
still.

The mind took  a long time  collecting images like  that. He sat  staring at the
fire and feeling the ache in all his bones.

"-Janni?"

"Resting."

"Dead. He's dead, leave  him dead, dammit-" thinking  of Niko, of Niko's  grief,
half-of-whole. It would break Niko's heart. "Isn't a man safe dead?"

"I'd have used others. Other  souls were-inaccessible. His wasn't. To  reach him
took very little, in that cause. Stilcho's gotten adept at that two-way trip." A
step drew  near. Haught's  face loomed.  "You can  go," she  said, looking up at
Haught. "See to the uptown house. They'll want reassuring."

Haught padded away, took his cloak. There was brief chill as the door opened and
closed again. The fire fluttered.

"Roxane," Strat said.

She put the cup into  his hand. Closed his fingers  on it. "Power has its  other
side. It's not well to be interrupted- in so great a spell."

"Is she dead?"

"If not, she's uncomfortable."

He drank, one quick swallow after the  other. It took the taste of burning  from
his mouth. She took the cup, set it  aside. Leaned her arm and head on his  knee
like any woman gazing into the fire. And turned her head and looked up at him. A
pulse began, the chill about him thawed, but the world seemed very far away.

"Come to bed," she said. "I'll keep you warm."

"How long?"

She shut her eyes. For a moment he was cold. Opened them again and the room grew
warm and the pulse grew in all his veins.

"You've always mistaken me," she said. "Vampire I am not. You think it's what  I
choose. I don't. But some things I can choose."

Her hand closed  on his. He  leaned down and  touched her lips,  not caring, not
caring to recall  or think ahead.  It was the  way he had  gone into that house.
Because Ranke  might well  be through.  And he  was, soon;  and time was, he had
learned in his own craft, no one's friend.

"Damnedest thing," Zaibar said, wiping at his soot-streaked face, and a moment's
consternation took him. His eyes refocused. "Begging pardon, reverence-"

"Report."

"Got a dozen dead out there we've counted so far, just up and down the  streets.
Dead men-throats cut, some; stabbed-"

"The ships, Zaibar."

"A  few  timbers  stove,  but  the Bey's  folk,  they  got  to  them-the bodies,
reverence-a dozen of them."

"In Sanctuary," Molin said with a  pitying look at the Hell-Hound, "we  notice a
dozen bodies come dawn?"

"Two at Siphinos's door; one  at Elinos's. Three at Agal-in's....  They're Nisi.
Every one."

"Hey," someone yelled. "Hey-"

He  was in  the street;  his horse  under him.  He blinked  at the  sun and  the
ordinary sights of Sanctuary and  caught himself against the saddlebow,  staring
down at the man who had stopped his horse, a common tradesman. There was a  buzz
of consternation  about. Dimly  Strat understood  the horse  had gotten  to some
mischief with a produce cart. He stared helplessly at the old man who stared  at
him in a troubled  way; Ilsigi-dark, and recognizing  a Rankan lost and  prey to
anything that might happen to a man by day in Sanctuary streets.

Shingles lay scattered on  the cobbles; a tavern  sign hung by one  ring; debris
was everywhere. But trade went on. The bay horse was after apples.

He felt after his purse.  It was gone; and he  could not remember how. He  would
have flung the man a coin and paid the damage and forgotten the Wriggly  entire;
but they were all round him, men, women, silent in mutual embarrassment,  mutual
hate, and mutual helplessness.

"Sorry," he muttered, and took up the reins and got the horse away, slowly  down
the street.

Robbed-not of the money  only. There were vast  gaps in his memory-where  he had
been; what he had seen.

Roxane. Ischade. He had come back to the river-house. The memory got so far  and
stopped.

He touched his throat on reflex. You've always mistaken me, she'd said.

The sun was up.  Tradesmen went bawling their  wares, the housekeepers were  out
dusting off the steps.

He would have ridden from the gates and saved himself; but like the bay horse he
had  learned patterns and was caught in them,  kept to the path and to duty.

I promised something, he thought in a chill, half-recovered memory.

Gods-what?

REBELS ARENT BORN IN PALACES

Andrew J. Offutt

Offer a prize for the lowest, skungiest dive in Sanctuary, and Sly's Place  will
win it hands down. That's a good place for hands at Sly's Place, too. Down, near
your belt-purse and weapons. Sly's Place is sphinctered in the improbable  three
way intersection of Tanner and Odd  Birt's Dodge and the north-south wriggle  of
the Serpentine (near  Wrong-way Park). Those  are "streets," to  those who don't
mind a certain looseness or downright ludicrousness in terminology, in that area
of town  called the  Maze. 'Way  back deep  in the  Maze, which  is the  lowest,
skungiest hellhole in Sanctuary and  probably on the continent, and  let's don't
talk about the planet.

Every Maze-denizen and most  Downwinders know where Sly's  Place is, and yet  no
one can assign a proper address to it. Its address is not that winding maze-link
called the Serpentine. It isn't given  as being on the streetlet called  Tanner.
And no one gives Odd Birt's Dodge  as an address. Sly's Place is just  there, at
that sort of three-way comer,  that preposterous intersection where that  little
Hanse-imitating cess-head Athavul got his comeuppance a couple of years ago, and
where Menostric the  Misadept, hardly sober  and fleeing, slipped  on a pile  of
human never-mind and actually  skidded onto three streets  before he came to  an
indecorous but appropriate stop in the gutter, sort of wrapped around the  comer
so that his head was up against the curbing on Tanner and his feet were actually
in Wrong-way Park. It is also the area in which welled up so many  disagreements
swiftly escalating into  encounters, sanguine fights,  brawls, and worse  that a
physician named Alamanthis wisely rented space a couple of doors down on Tanner,
and hired a mean ugly nondrinking  bodyguard, and made street calls. He  charged
in advance, and  slept most of  each day, and  was getting rich,  damn and bless
him.

Sly's Place! Name of Father Ils, Sly had taken dropsy and died three years agone,
and the  dive was  still called  Sly's Place  because no  one wanted to admit to
owning it or to take responsibility either.

On the other hand, since  all that Beyfishfacesin/sorcery problem in  the Vulgar
Unicorn and the pursuant edict and raid-or raid and edict; who in power could be
bothered with niceties where anything in the Maze was concerned? -business waxed
at Sly's like the tide  when the moon is right,  like the moon when the  heavens
are favorable, like the heavens when the gods are getting along. Someone had  to
be getting rich off Sly's Place, damn and bless him. Or her.

Sly's was  where a  pair of  rebels/patriots met,  and awaited  the advent of an
invited guest. In a  town first occupied by  those rank Rankans and  then by the
much  ranker  Stare-Eyes from  oversea,  rebels/patriots could  not,  after all,
arrange such a  meeting in some  fine uptown place  such as the  Golden Oasis or
Hari's Spot or even the Golden Lizard.

The two had been  waiting quite a while  and already one knife-fight  had played
absolute havoc with a winejar, two mugs, an innocent bysitter's pinky, a  poorly
made chair, and a kidney.

"Wish that little  son-of-a-bitch would hurry  up and get  here," one said;  his
name was Zip and he  had eyes that would look  better on the other side  of iron
bars.

The other  young man  frowned, glancing  distastefully at  the mug  on the table
before him. "No call to say that-you don't even know who his mother is."

"Neither did his father, Jes."

Jes tried not  to smile at  that one, and  shrugged. "Fine. Call  him a bastard,
then, and leave slurs to womanhood out of it."

"Lord, but you're sensitive."

"True."

Zip didn't say anything about the  reflection on womanhood implicit in the  very
existence of bastard offspring, because he didn't think of it. His mind was  not
given to the formulation of such retorts, or much cleverness. He was a rebel and
a fighter, not a thinker. On the other  hand, he was the very hell of a  patriot
and rebel. His name was Zip and he  had always thought quite a bit of a  certain
spawn of the  shadows and tried  to emulate him,  until lately. Now  he had lost
respect for that one, but needed him.

"That's him," Zip said. "A bastard. Both by birth and by nature."

This time Jes went ahead and smiled. "That's pretty good. Zip. Oh-the  barkeep's
staring at us  again." Jes's name  was really Kama,  and she was  nothing at all
like Zip except that  tonight, like Zip, she  was in disguise. Yet  she had made
one of those astonishing discoveries  that come all unsuspected on  unsuspecting
people who might  wish for better:  she liked Zip,  and she liked  him more than
somewhat.

"Oh, no. If I  have to order another  of those rotten cat-urine  beers, I'll-ah.
Here comes the son of a-the bast- here he comes now," he said, gazing past  her.
She didn't have to turn much to see the doorway; they had got themselves  seated
so as to be able to note who came in without seeming to show interest.

A step  above the  room, the  doorway of  Sly's Place  was graced  by thirty-one
strands of dangling  Syrese rope, each  knotted thirty-one times  in accord with
that superstition. They  hung just short  of the oiled  wooden flooring. Through
that unlikely  arras had  just come  a narrow  lean wraith  of a youthful man of
average height, above-average presence, and  a weening cockiness that showed  in
face and stance and carriage. Several years younger than Zip he was, and dressed
all in black except for the (very) scarlet sash. His hair was blacker than black
and seemed trying to  decide whether to curl  above almost-black eyes to  make a
person step aside while his own hair tried to curl. The falcate nose belonged on
a young eagle. Good shoulders on him, and no hips worth mentioning.

His wearing of  weapons was overdone  the way a  courtesan overdid her  gems: as
advertisement and braggadocio. Over the sash he wore a shagreen belt; from it  a
curved dagger  swung at  his left  hip and  an Ilbarsi  knife, its  blade twenty
inches long or worse, on the right. The copper-set leather armlet that encircled
his right upper arm was more  than decoration: it housed a hiltless,  guardless,
long black lozenge of a throwing knife. So did the long bracer of black  leather
on that arm. More than one patron of Sly's Place knew that the decoration on his
left buskin was the hilt of a  knife sheathed within that soft boot. (They  were
wrong; he'd moved that sticker to  the other buskin, and it didn't  show.) Maybe
he  wore other blades and maybe he did not; there were rumors.

From beneath raven's-wing brows he surveyed the place as if he owned it and  yet
despised it and might turn it  into a pet shop or fishmonger's  tomorrow morning
early. (He didn't own it.) He did own the imperiously Imperial Rankan eagle  off
the roof of Barracks Three, because he had stolen it for a lark and to use as  a
pissoir; and  for a  time he  had owned  the Savankh,  too: the wand of Imperial
office and authority of the Rankan governor, which he had stolen from within the
very  palace (which  everyone knew  was impossible  of clandestine  access)  and
ransomed it back to its rightful  possessor, a nice well-meaning blond of  about
his age.

Quite a fellow, this (calculatedly) sinister-looking youth, who had once told  a
royal prince of Ranke that killing was the business of princes and the like, not
of thieves; and yet who had killed two men one night, his first and his last, on
behalf of a fellow he respected but  found mighty hard to like. Bom in  Downwind
of casually acquainted parents,  he needed pride and  any sort of respect  badly
and was cockily, pridefully sure that he'd risen above Downwind. The Maze  might
be counted as above Downwind-about a spider's stride above.

Four people in Sly's signed  to him or greeted him,  two by his name and  one by
his nickname. None of the four was  either of the two awaiting him. He  surveyed
the place  with eyes  like chips  of anthracite  or basalt,  and when their gaze
touched Zip, Zip pushed  a finger into his  nose as signal. The  newcomer noted,
looked on, nodded to  someone, made a  negligent gesture of  greeting to a  girl
woman named Nimsy (who winked), noted the two Zip's Boys three tables away  from
the disguised Zip, and did not  change expression. He took a single  pace across
the little landing and descended the step into the crowded dim-lit alcohol-fumed
ambience of Sly's Place.

"Think I'll join those two," he said almost regally to one who had called him by
name and nickname  both. "Watch that  cheap beer, Maldu!  Ahdio makes it  in the
outhouse."

And he passed, Maldu  saying, "Aww, Hanse!" loudly  and, to his two  companions,
quietly, "See?  I told  you. Me'n  Hanse're old  buddies. Ever  tell you  how he
actually got the better of ole Shrive the fence-I-mean-changer ha ha?"

Hanse slid down into a chair at the round, three-chair table where Kama and  Zip
waited.  He  glanced barward  and  raised his  right  hand, half-cupped  into  a
standing right angle, took it higher  than his head, then elevated three  of the
fingers. The  bartender nodded  and went  about drawing  three mugs  of the good
stuff; the brew off which he blew the • foam so as to serve an honest measure to
those as paid for k.

"Want me to admit I didn't even know you in that black wig and droopo mustache?"
Hanse said to Zip. "I didn't even know you."

"Hanse," the normally short-haired and clean-shaven Zip said, "this is Jes."  In
a much lower voice he swiftly added, "Tonight-name's Kama."

Shadowspawn looked  at the  soft-faced youth  with Zip-  also mustached-and  was
impressed; she  was tallish  and the  disguise was  good enough  that he  hadn't
considered her female. Nothing changed in his face, including his eyes.

"Any friend of Zip's," he said affably, "is suspect."

She blinked, recovered, said, "Likewise, I'm sure."

Hanse's black,  black, close-nestling  brows went  up and  he blinked.  His face
looked as  if it  were seriously  considering a  smile. He  left it  at that and
flicked his gaze back to Zip.

"We've been waiting awhile," the Downwinder street-lord said.

Shadowspawn said nothing.

Ahdiovizun brought three glazed mugs of  beer on a tray; Sly's Place  didn't use
barmaids because that  led to unbelievable  stress, strain, strife,  and  worse.
Everyone  knew that  his gimpy  assistant  left after closing with only a  staff
and not a copper.  Ahdio was known to be from Twand, in  truth was not, and  was
large.  He was  known to  have killed,  and had,  and known  to  have  felled  a
Mrsevadan horse  with a  blow of  his fist  to the  animal's head, and  had. The
coat of   linked chain   mail he   wore was   definitely unusual   attire for  a
tavemer. It was considered to be part of the color and ambience of Sly's  Place.
It was, of course, although that was  not its purpose. Its purpose was the  same
as when its like was worn by a soldier. Ahdio tended bar in Sly's Place and  had
killed a man or  so and felled a  horse (a big gray  gelding, in fact, with  two
white stockings) with a single fist-blow to the head, and at times intervened in
fights. He also wore a mailcoat and  did not leave at closing, alone, but  slept
upstairs in company with two truly nasty cats, because Ahdio was not stupid.

"Here you go. Three of the best. These two are running a tab."

"Good for them. This round's on me," Hanse said.

Ahdio's smile was easy, open, and amiable. "You, ah, had a good night, Hanse?"

"No," Hanse said,  and paused to  drink half the  contents of the  mug Ahdio had
just set before Zip.  Hanse replaced it, and  ignored the way the  rebel patriot
stared at the sadly  depleted container. "As a  matter of fact, I  haven't. That
was last night."

Ahdio, who had never seen Hanse knock back anything that way, thought it best to
say, "Ah."

"Ah," Zip echoed, sensing a story. "But.. .you don't drink, Hanse!"

Shadowspawn looked at him. "I just did," he said, while his lean dark hand moved
over to  Kama/Jes's mug  without the  aid of  his eyes.  He glanced up at Ahdio,
whose form occluded an incredible number of the tables behind him. "I came  here
to meet these people, and I'm late.  You'll stop fights so I won't have  to take
them elsewhere?"

Ahdio  nodded  without  changing  so  much  as  a  single  muscle  in  his face.
Shadowspawn nodded in return.

"Ah, that's  good, Ahdio,"  he said,  and paused  to put  a serious  dent in the
contents of Kama's mug. "No, Ahdio, I'll  tell you, tonight has not been a  good
night. I have just killed a Stare-Eye."

Zip blinked in surprise, then  grinned and looked significantly at  Kama-whom he
found giving him a significant look.

"A good night for Sanctuary!" Zip said with enthusiasm.

"Stairae," Ahdio said. "Don't believe I know him. Her?"

"Stare... Eye," Hanse enunciated, and stared, unblinking.

"Ah!" Ahdio smiled  again. "One of  the froggies! A  good night for  us all! I'd
better hurry, then. Three more of the same upcoming, on me."

Shadowspawn nodded and  came very close  to smiling. Ahdio  departed. A customer
reached out for him en passant and  jerked back his hand to stare at  fingertips
instantly bereft of prints. Ahdio's coat ofquintuply-linked-and-butted chain was
absolutely genuine.

"Shit," the customer said.

"Coming right up," Ahdio threw back.

Amid laughter. Zip leaned forward. "How'd it happen, Hanse?" (He was keeping his
hands away from the brew Hanse had ordered and was buying. Shadowspawn was not a
killer, had been living high and soft and with a lot of bed-company of late, and
obviously had a sincere and monumental thirst this night.)

Hanse seemed to work at relaxing. His shoulders visibly lowered and he sat a bit
down in his roundpeg chair.

"The... creature accosted me. Like a  Lord of the Earth, you know?  Arrogant and
cocky and  expecting me  to play  sandworm under  its feet.  I didn't and it got
abusive. I endured  that awhile, just  wanting to be  on my way  to see what you
wanted. It went  on with it.  Couldn't accept my  lack of real  response when it
wanted foot-licking. It got more abusive.  When it finally paused to see  if I'd
drop dead or start in weeping from all its words, I asked politely enough  which
had been the  fish,  its mama  or its  papa.  It took that   as an offense, only
Ils knows why, and reached for a weapon."

They sat  in silence,  his table  companions staring  at him.  Hanse noted  that
somehow he'd emptied his  mug, said, "Not thirsty?"  and reached over for  Zip's
mug. He drained it.

A fine sense of drama,  Kama thought, a Rankan and  a soldier and a woman  in an
Ilsig tavern as a man, among Ilsigs only. One of us has to ask; he's forcing us.
And she asked: "And then, Hanse?"

He leaned  forward loosely,  elbows thumping  onto the  table. "Jes,  do not  be
alarmed when I touch your left shoulder."

Kama/Jes, seated on his  left with her right  shoulder next to his  left, showed
surprise and lack of understanding. "All right," she began, and saw a dark blur,
felt the touch on her far shoulder,  and there was Hanse sitting there with  his
elbows on the table,  looking at her from  expressionless eyes the color  of the
bottom of a well of a moonless midnight.

"You..." she  began, and  aborted that  because her  voice was  going high.  She
swallowed  as unobtrusively  as possible  and said,  "I... understand.  You  are
fast."

Zip laughed, exaggeratedly. So did Ahdio, setting down three more.

"You're Rankan," Hanse had said, very quietly. Only Jes/Kama heard, and  nodded.
She was impressed anew.

"You really take down one of them tonight, Hanser?"

Shadowspawn nodded. "Straight Street, Ahdio, three doors down from Odors."

Ahdio's smile was genuine."! love it. How? Excuse me- will you tell me now?"

"It attacked."  Hanse  reached lazily  across  himself, tapped  the  leather-and
copper armlet at his right bicep. "In the eye. The right eye. Wiped the blood on
its tunic-thing."

Ahdio was grinning. "Mind if I spread the word?"

"Think it's safe?"

"You think they have  spies or informants here  in the Maze?" Ahdio's  voice was
rich with incredulity.

"I do. Half the people  in this room would sell  a sister for a good  offer, and
all of us  would spout about  anything under torture.  I think I'd  better say I
mind, Ahdio."

The huge man sighed. "My lips're sealed. You three look's if you'd ruther be  in
the back room."

Zip and Hanse nodded in unison.

A minute later  he and Kama  were ambling back  that way, after  having bade Zip
good night. The little room beyond the  wall behind the bar was plain, with  the
same flooring, walls adorned only by  hanging utensils and pottles and a  couple
of leathern sacks, full. The table was  square and the chairs roughly- and  well
made. The room was also occupied by a score or so tuns of beer and a  good-sized
red cat with a cropped ear, a restless tail, and a mean look. It was looking  at
Hanse. Hanse didn't like  cats overmuch; any animal  that could and would  stare
down a human should be  illegal. This one also looked  as if it ate large,  live
dogs for snacks.

"These are friends. Notable," Ahdio told the cat. "Excuse me," he said  quietly,
and patted Hanse's shoulder, and Kama's. "Friends, Notable. Take a nap."

Notable blinked,  long, and  didn't say  anything. It  continued to  stare. Kama
acted as if it  weren't there, while Hanse  stared back. They stood  still while
Ahdio went over and moved a keg  that had to weigh several hundred pounds.  Next
he moved the one  behind it. And squatted.  When Zip's knock came,  the taverner
was ready to open the concealed half-door and move back while Zip  squat-crawled
into the room. Ahdio closed the  low door, secured both its locks,  and replaced
both kegs.  He went  through the  friend-excuse-me-hand-on-shoulder routine with
Zip, gestured to the table and chairs, and started to leave.

"Oh," he  said, at  the door  into the  main room.  "If you  want anything, wait
awhile. I'll send Throde."

"Who's Throde?" Zip asked, while Hanse was saying, "You telling us not to get up
and walk over to that door because of the cat, Ahdio?"

"That's a damned good cat, Hanse. Had a prowler try to get in here one night and
Notable screamed  loud enough  to scare  off every  prowler from  here to  Vomit
Boulevard. 'Nother fellow followed me back here one night late with his mind  on
badness and before he had his sticker out of its sheath Notable was eating holes
in his knife-arm. Likes beer but won't  take it from anyone but me. Zip:  Throde
is my helper. You  know-^they call him Gimp.  Good boy. From Twand;  my cousin's
boy."

Since Hanse knew  very well that  Ahdiovizun was not  from Twand, he  considered
that stuff about Throde or Gimp to be highly unlikely. So what? Ahdio was better
than all right, and  Throde was his helper,  and both Zip and  what-was-her-name
Jes were in disguise, and-never mind how many lies were being told and lived out
in the taproom.

That stuff about Notable the red cat Hanse believed implicitly.

Ahdio departed  their company  and without  a trace  of preamble  or smile Hanse
said, "Let's hear it. You've become leader of a bunch called People's Front  for
the Liberation of Sanctuary and recently you were very nearly killed. This woman
disguised as a  man has an  accent says she's  from Ranke and  she knows how  to
move. An alliance against the Stare-Eyes, then? What's it want with me? I'm  not
political."

"Popular Front," Zip corrected. "The P in PFLS is for Popular, not People's.  We
don't mind  saying you're  right about  Kama-she's with  the Rankan 3rd Commando
unit. They're as eager as we are to get rid of the froggies. The Stare-Eyes.  It
isn't going to happen tomorrow morning  or by next Eshday, either. We  need more
respect, more money, more good people, and even more warm bodies."

Hanse had ceased even touching the mugs of beer or glancing at them either. "Got
no money and I'm not good people  or interested in joining the Popular FLS."  He
shrugged. "You'll get more respect when you've shown you can do more than  write
bloody messages on the Vulgar Unicorn's  walls and get One-Thumb and a  bunch of
other people in trouble."

"The PPLS didn't do that, Hanse, and  I didn't do it. And you're right-it  was a
rotten idea.  Those froggies  that busted  in there  looking for trouble weren't
official ones,  though. And  Hanse... we  know how-Kama  and I-how  we can  gain
respect and money and more followers  all in one operation that won't  involve a
single death. Not one. Just-"

"You're dreaming."

Kama made a noise,  and Hanse didn't glance  her way. He did  glance at Notable,
which was examining its left forepaw with great interest while its tail sort  of
wandered around the floor behind it.

"Damn it, Hanse-"

"Zip?" Kama waited a moment, and Zip leaned back, trying not to look  disgusted.
"Hanse," she said, "word is that once someone actually broke into the Governor's
Palace and  actually stole  Prince-Governor Kadakithis's  wand of  power-the one
straight from Ranke as  emblem of Empire-and actually  got away. Whether it  was
strictly the thief's idea or not  is not for certain and not  important anymore.
Kadakithis is  in hiding  or detention  and the  Beysa sleeps  in the governor's
suite-alone, presumably-as boss  of Sanctuary. Word  is also that  the thief who
pulled off that fantastic  piece of work actually  ransomed the Savankh back  to
the prince, and got away  with it. Maybe a traitor  or two got killed along  the
way, and  maybe not;  maybe the  prince actually  owes a  debt to that thief and
maybe not. All that doesn't matter."

She paused, waiting, and Hanse decided  to outwait her. After thirty seconds  or
so it got to him and he said,  "I've heard that story, or some of it,  too. What
about it, Jes?"

"Call me Kama. What about  it is this. What would  have happened if it had  been
noised around that the Savankh was  in the hands of the people  of Sanctuary-the
Ilsigs? Enormous loss of face for  the prince and for the Empire  he represents,
or represented! Lots of  laughter in town. And  lots of people flocking  to join
those who had  the Savankh. Maybe  a few contributions  of funds, too.  Nowadays
things are worse. A lot of people didn't like the Rankan rule of Sanctuary,  but
no one likes these fish-eyed invaders."

"That's for sure," Zip muttered.

"True," Hanse said, and  glanced at Notable. As  a test, Hanse slapped  his leg.
Notable put down his paw and took up staring. "I think I like that cat."

"So," Zip said,  on an eye-signal  from Kama, "if  I-if the PFLS  had the Beysin
scepter, their symbol of power... and if we spread the word, actually showed  it
around..."

"You'd have about a million Beys down your throat."

"Maybe about  a hundred,"  Zip said,  "but they  wouldn't be  down our  throats,
they'd be trying to find us. Meanwhile just about everyone in Sanctuary would be
happily lying to them  and misdirecting them, and  joining us to free  Sanctuary
for Sanctuarites, and contributing services and money and even working deals  to
get some weapons in here."

"Not me," Hanse said. "I've got a life to live and I'm not political. It's  true
that I and Prince Kadakithis get along  all right as two men, but I'm  Ilsig and
he's Ranke and the only thing I'd  help him do is sneak out of  town-provided he
was headed away from Ranke."

Kama tapped  a finger  on the  table. "That  won't be  necessary. Look, Hanse...
Ranke is in trouble, too. It isn't just the Beysins in Sanctuary. An empire is a
lot of  land, a  lot of  people, a  lot of  Sanctuarys. A  united and triumphant
Sanctuarite populace who'd got rid of the Beysins would be too proud to let  the
prince back into the Governor's Palace, and I have to tell you that he  wouldn't
be strong enough  to enforce it."  She glanced away.  "He couldn't count  on any
help from Ranke, either. Ranke is busy. Ranke is in trouble."

"Is it true that Vashanka's dead?" Hanse asked.

Both Kama and Zip stared at him and Hanse wondered at their expressions.

"Anyhow," he said, "I'd say that you'll make a lot of noise and get in a lot  of
trouble and kill some  Stare-Eyes and get a  lot of our people  killed; and then
they'll smash you. If you're  lucky you'll die in that  one, and not have to  be
tortured to death.  Zip. I'll be  going about my  business, but not  with you or
your people. I'm just not political. Zip."

Zip's anger had him all ready to  blurt "Coward!" but he got control of  himself
and opted against saying anything so  silly, since he wasn't ready to  die right
now. Instead he said, "Hanse, Hanse... you said you killed one just tonight!"

Hanse gave him a look. "Said I did?"

Zip gestured and sighed. "Words, words. I wasn't questioning you. The point is-"

"The point is that I  did. I had three choices:  run, die, or kill. It  was that
kind of thing. I  had to. It wasn't  political." Now he, too,  sighed and wagged
his head. "I didn't  say that I liked  those creepy stare-eyed creatures-I  said
that I am not political and am not joining any political groups."

Zip slapped  the table  a bit  harder than  he should  have done,  which Notable
remarked with a smallish noise in his throat. "We don't want you to join if  you
don't  want to,  Hanse, and  we don't  want any  money from  you. You  have  the
opportunity to do more for Sanctuary,  for your fellow Ilsigi and against  them,
than anybody... because only you can break into the palace and steal the Beysa's
scepter."

Hanse looked  at Zip  as if  the PFLSer  had just  asked him  to strip and dance
through the streets.  He jerked at  Kama's touch on  his wrist-only a  touch, he
noted, and knew that she was both bright and dangerous; not one to go grasping a
touchy man's wrist as just any woman  might have done. He looked at her  without
expression; she had already taken her hand back.

"Hanse... only one person  in all Sanctuary and  probably in the world  could do
it. We-Sanctuary-needs you, Hanse."

"And once it's done, we'll swear  that we had assistance from inside,"  Zip said
excitedly, "so that they'll suspect their own, see, and we'll never, never  tell
anyone that Hanse did it."

"That's true," Hanse  told him, "because  Hanse isn't going  to do it.  One more
time: I am not political.  I do love living. You  told me that you had  this big
idea that would  do more than  anything and no  one would have  to die. What you
want, though, absolutely requires the death of one person."

Zip glanced at Kama; looked at the best thief on the continent. "Done," he said,
thumping the table. "Who has to die?"

"Me, you damned fool, if I were damned fool enough to try to break into the very
palace and snatch Her Fishi-ness's scepter  and get out again!" And Hanse  rose,
pushing back his chair, and turned to the door. And looked down into the eyes of
the cat that had suddenly  got itself to a point  two feet from his buskins  and
was staring up at him with big round black marbles set in green almonds. Showing
almost no ears. Notable made a nasty remark.

One dramatic exit blown  all to hell by  a cat. Hanse sighed  and, slowly, eased
back down into the chair to await the advent of Ahdio's gimp-legged aide.

"You rotten dam' cat," he muttered, picking  up his glazed mug. "I think I  like
you. Here, have a beer."

Notable hissed.

"I CANNOT BE  SLAIN BY  WEAPONS OF  YOUR PLANE,  IDIOT, LITTLE  THIEF, POOR DEMI
MORTAL," the god Vashanka had said to  Hanse, and then Hanse put the knife  into
the god, and Vashanka was sore struck  and must die, even as He slew  Hanse. Yet
Vashanka was right: He could not be  slain, and so was hurled forever from  this
plane on which existed Thieves'  World, Sanctuary, and Ranke, Vashanka's  chosen
city and people, and could never return, for here He had been killed.

Since Vashanka had killed Hanse but did not exist on this plane and so could not
have killed  Hanse,  a  paradox existed   and paradoxes,  the  god  Ils of   the
Ilsigi said,  could not  exist. And  therefore Hanse  called Shadowspawn  called
Godson  was alive and unmarked. And Ils gazed down at him.

"You, beloved  son of  Shadow, have  defeated a  God and  restored Me  to My Own
people in Sanctuary. Further,  as Vashanka had become  the most powerful of  the
gods of Ranke, that  people's power shall wane.  Empires die slowly, but  it has
begun, as of this moment."

And, "For ten circuits of  the sun, you shall have  what you wish. All that  you
desire.... Then you will face Me again, beloved Hanse, and tell Me what is  your
desire."

As the weary Hanse, spawn of the  shadows and son of the shadow-god Shalpa  (and
slayer of  a God),  trudged home  that night,  he wished  that this weariness of
battle would  go from  him; and  it was  so, and  then grinning, he made another
wish, and when he entered his room there she was. His wish, awaiting him in  his
bed all low-lashed and smoky-eyed.

The night  was wonderful  after that,  that night  of Hanse's  great triumph and
Vashanka's death-banishment forever,  and in the  morning the ships  were there.
The Beysib had come.

Hanse went  down to  the dock  that day  and looked  at the  ships as  they came
closer, and  closer, and  he pondered  and considered.  Then he  went back up to
Eaglenest where he had consorted with gods and fought with a god. They were  not
there. Only the ruins were there. And the well. Hanse sighed. That well had held
two horsebags full of silver coin-and a few gold-for many, many months, and  the
money was his. Without it, strangely, he had been neither better nor worse  off.
Merely  Hanse,  thief, thinking  about  his next  theft  and his  next  girl and
phantasizing about those he could not ha-

But he  could, couldn't   he? Ils  had sent   to his  bed Esaria,  the beautiful
young daughter of Venerable  Shafralain. It had been  a wonderful night, and  no
ill  had come of it.  A shudder  took him as  he thought  that the love  goddess
Eshi,  too, had  shared his bed-he  thought. And too.  She was somehow  involved
with Mignureal,  daughter of  Moonflower... who   had expressly  asked Hanse  to
stay away from  her daughter, He  had been  willing, but  since then-oh,   since
then,  all that  had happened!

He walked back down to Sanctuary, pondering. Phantasizing. Along the way a  sort
of test had arisen: a  big accoster had a go  at him. Hanse readied himself  but
took opportunity to wish the fellow would just go to sleep and leave him  alone.
He watched  the man  yawn, then  crumple up  like a  falling curtain. Marveling,
Hanse checked  that crumpled  form. Alive,  definitely alive.  Just asleep. Just
like that.

"Why-I have ten days (or months? Surely not years!) of this! Whatever I wish!"

In his  excitement he  spoke aloud  in a  rising voice,  and danced  a few jiggy
steps, and joyously entered Sanctuary with a thousand visions and possibilities,
a thousand phantasies chasing each other through his mind. He found his  beloved
Moonflower the seer, and astonished her by hugging her while he wished that  she
had twice the coinage  she thought within the  vast cleavage of what  she called
her treasure chest,  and that it  was in gold  and silver besides.  He heard the
clinks  and saw  her look  of surprise  and some  discomfort as  that  temporary
storage vault between the great pillows  of her bosom became crowded and  heavy,
on the instant.

He skipped away laughing, and walked smiling about town so that others  wondered
what he could  possibly be so  happy about. Why,  people were actually  fleeing,
with an invasion fleet almost in the harbor! Hanse, however, was become a  child
with a marvelous new toy,  the most mar-velous of toys.  A block or so later  he
saw a twice-attractive woman  and wished that he  might have her, whereupon  she
looked around and saw him. She came  straight to him, all jingle and jiggle  and
sway of hips and flash of teeth.

"You're beautiful," she assured him. "Take me to bed!"

But by  the time  they had  reached the  building wherein  he had a second-floor
room, he  had seen  another, and  sort of  traded in  the first,  who went  away
happily with no memory of what she  had said and done or rather almost  done. He
had learned something already! And how cheap lessons were, not as in real  life.
The second was absolutely beautiful and  with a very nice figure indeed,  but he
soon found that behind closed doors and  on a bedsheet she was an absolute  dud.
He improved that with another wish....

At about dusk he departed, a bit weak in the legs but happy (he'd had to  resort
to a wish to get her  to leave him alone and go  away), for he had thought of  a
wonderful  mission  for himself:  Hanse  Godslayer. Along  the  way his  stomach
rumbled. He wished he had an apple, so the first vendor he passed called  "Hey!"
and tossed him a beauty.

Walking along eating  with relish, he  thought, / wish  that redhead would  walk
with me;  we'd look  good together!  She did  of course,  but that  led to  some
difficulty when her husband appeared and demanded explanation, and Hanse learned
something else of this new power. Something prompted him to wish that the couple
would forget him  and go happily  home and be  happy ever after  and it was  the
nicest thing any human  ever did for another,  surely. With the help  of Ils, of
course.        Marvelously        attentive        god,        that         Iis!
-

Arrived at the dock, he found a nervous throng and moved among them.  Listening,
observing, thinking, seeing  their fear and  ridiculous hopes. ("Whoever  it is,
they've come  to drive  off the  Rankans and  leave us  in peace!"  -Sure, Hanse
thought. "There's always a  great profit  to  be made from  newcomers to  town!"
Sure, Hanse  thought, especially  when they  come easing  up in  over a  hundred
ships. Oh, sure!)

Then he stood tall and straight and confident, and smiled, and while he gazed at
all those approaching sails  he wished that they  would turn around and  go away
and never bother Sanctuary.

They came on  and Hanse learned  something else. Some  things, big things,  must
take longer even for  Ils! Tomorrow they'd be  gone! That didn't happen  either,
and Hanse  had  to accept  what   he had  already  known: that  not   all things
were  possible, and  that while Ils was  a  god.  He was  not the  god. Others
existed, and the powers of gods  had fences and boundaries. (On the  other hand,
that night  he enjoyed  a  meal  beyond mere  good,  a  fabulous meal,  in   the
very house  of Shafralain,  just because Hanse had  seen that wealthy noble  and
wished that  he'd invite Hanse in  for dinner. ... Naturally he spent  the night
in the company  and arms of Esaria, again. When he awoke before dawn it occurred
to him that he  was better off leaving now  and wishing they'd all  forget  this
whole night.   On his  way home,  he wished  that Esaria  would know  much, much
happiness in her life, and again Hanse had done the unlikely: good.

Next day the fascinating but ugly oversea folk landed and tramped into town.  It
did  not take  long to  discover that   they had  come to  take over,  and  were
expediting that. By afternoon he had tried thirteen several wishes against them.
None took. On the other hand, when one of the unblinking creeps accosted him and
indicated that Hanse was wanted for something, he wished the ugly never-blinking
creep  would  just start  sneezing  and continue  for  a nice  long  while. That
happened, and Hanse  went on his  way chuckling. Individual  Beysibs, obviously,
were easy for Ils.

He wandered over to the east side of town, and stood gazing up at a fine lofting
mansion he had always admired. He had always wanted to break into that place and
see what was  there, and remove  a few thises  and thats. "I  wish I could,"  he
muttered, and it  was easy, easy.  He sold the  nice things he  removed from the
premises, but that seemed silly, somehow, as the coin was counted out to him  by
a no-questions denizen of the Maze;  all this trouble when he could  merely wish
for money, all he wanted!

Of course he had  enjoyed all the passionate  kisses and fondling of  two lovely
slaves of  that house,  and of  course he  had wished  that on  the morrow their
master would take a notion to free them and give them a nice departing  present,
too. Eternal Ils, he had done it again-Hanse had done good!

The money business occupied his mind to a considerable extent. He bethought  him
of all that Rankan coin down in the well up at Eaglebeak. It was an odd wish  he
made, then, but he  liked the idea: "When  I do go for  it I wish that  it would
rise up out of the well to me, and be no trouble- oh! Oh I wish she'd just amble
right over here and think I'm handsome and want to night with-no, no, offer me a
fine wine-red cloak-dark!-to night with her!"

When he and she-her name was Bumgada, but what's in a name?-arose from bed  next
morning, happy with  each other, he  thought that something  had been forgotten.
No, no; she took him right out and downtown and bought him both breakfast and  a
fine scarlet cloak-a long dark one- and didn't that raise eyebrows.

As they  were walking  along, she  said something  and Hanse  said something and
added, "Oh, and  Bumma-I wish you'd  just forget everything  that happened since
just before you saw me yesterday-but not get into any trouble for it at all, and
have a nice happy life."

"Excuse me," she said, as if she had just bumped into him, and went on her  way,
wherever that was. Hanse ambled along, wondering what she did remember, and what
those slavegirls remembered, and what Esaria and indeed her family and  servants
remembered, and...

He had to find out.  It was a dreadfully naughty  idea, but he did have  to find
out, didn't he? He made a wish,  involving the awaiting in his bed of  a certain
person when he reached his room. Next  he wished that he could pick ten  pockets
without being discovered, but that turned out to be stupid and a bore because it
was so easy. Besides, he lost count and the eleventh victim grabbed his hand and
let out a yell and Hanse had to do some mighty fast wishing. He stopped  running
after a couple of blocks. After all, it wasn't as if he had to, anymore. Just  a
pleasant habit of long duration.

He found another limit to  the power of Ils by wishing that Tempus and his  boys
would clean up on the Beysibs- maybe that was the way to do it!

Wrong; instead, Tempus and his boys  left town and a lot of  half-competents and
worse began showing  up. One gave  him trouble and  Hanse wished the  fool would
just fall down  on his own  dagger, but when  it happened he  really didn't feel
very good about  it. After a  couple of blocks  he turned around  and went back.
That was how he discovered that he couldn't raise the dead.

As  he passed  a fine  tavern for  the wealthy  and lordly,  he chuckled  aloud.
Wishing that they'd treat him in  manner lordly and "remember" that he  had paid
in advance, and  well, he ambled  in. An hour  later he left,  stuffed, with the
manager and tableman thanking him and wishing him well and swift return.

He was groaning along, feeling stuffed  with more than he should have  eaten and
far richer fare too, when a  thought hit him hard. He immediately  expressed the
wish that none  of the women  he had disported  himself with had  got a child of
his. Nor anyone  I happen to  find in my  bed tonight, he  thought, and smiled a
secret smile. And went home.

Her name was Mignureal and she was Moonflower's daughter and she had seen him as
no one should  see any  man, doubly  one so  cocky and  full of  needs as Shadow
spawn: she had  seen him gibbering  in sorcery-induced fear  one night. She  had
taken him home with  her and tended him  with her nervous mother  staying close,
having seen Mignue's soft eyes admiring  Hanse. On another occasion he had  been
about to set  forth on a  dreadful mission she  did riot even  know about when a
look of strange intensity came over her face. "Oh Hanse-Hanse, take the  crossed
brown pot with you."

With an eerie feeling, he did that. It was the night on which his mission was to
get a pitifully maimed Tempus out of the dripping hands of one Kurd, a man whose
occupation  bore  that  which  was surely  the  ugliest  word  in any  language:
vivisectionist. Cutter-up  of the  living-and not  as physician,  either. As  it
turned out, the brown pot's contents saved his life that night, and he knew that
Mignureal the S'danzo had some of her mother's power of Seeing. And then..  .and
then it had been  Mignureal's form the goddess  Eshi had taken, to  fetch him to
that final dreadful confrontation with Vashanka.

And Eshi seems to love me-at least wants me, he mused, wending his full-bellied,
red-cloaked way homeward. Does Mignureal?

And after a few steps more: How old is she, anyhow?

Ah Gods ofllsig-what has that to do  with anything? I don't even know how  old I
am!

Yet he knew that he  knew, as he walked on  all wrapped in his thoughts  and new
cloak, who and what he was: the  son of some woman of Downwind and...  Shalpa. A
god.  Demi-mortal, Vashanka  had called  him. That  was a  phrase that   implied
another half: demigod. Hanse was a demigod.

How in Ten Hells can I live with that?

How in Eleven Hells can I live with this wishing business?! Anything I want-it's
well nigh boring already!

He  reached  home,  and his  room,  and  she was  there,  small  and lovely  and
vulnerable-looking in her nakedness, sitting up in his bed to smile and  stretch
forth  her  shapely arms  to  him as  he  entered. Mignureal,  little  Mignureal
daughter of  the woman  Hanse loved  but did  not even  know he  wished were his
mother.

"Darling! I thought you'd never come home to me!"

He  turned to  close the  door and  pretended to  have trouble  with the  latch,
keeping  his  back  to her  while  he  frowned and  wrestled  with  thoughts and
emotions.

So she  slid out  of the  bed and  came to  him. She  was all  willowy and  even
lovelier, naked and softly lit, for there was only the light of the bright  moon
that smiled boldly through the window.

Unable to resist her nearness and upraised arms, he stepped into her embrace and
as they kissed his hands moved all over the back of her, from nape to sulcus and
back. Both of them trembled, and both longed.

"Mignue, Mignue... what are you doing here?"

She smiled,  pressed to  him, and  nuzzled his  neck. "You  know what I am doing
here, Hanse."

"Please... why did  you come,  Mignue? Why  tonight? What  prompted you  to come
tonight?"

"Because I wanted to be with you, darling-to be yours."

He squeezed his eyes  shut. Oh damn, damn.  Six more questions elicited  similar
lovely yet  unsatisfactory answers.  It was  all circular.  She has  no idea and
probably didn't  really want  to do  this at  all, he  thought in growing agony,
she's here because  I wished it  and Ils sent  her, that's all,  and I feel... I
feel just so, so... rotten!

She had just unbuckled and removed his belt, both sheaths included, and laid  it
carefully aside on the old keg he used as nightstand. She turned only her  head,
to give him an arch look over her shoulder. Hanse swallowed hard, and again.  He
felt truly evil, truly a monster.

She turned to face him with her hands behind her back and her head partly  down,
flaunting her breasts,  and swung her  torso this way  and that far  more in the
manner of a little girl than a temptress. Her eyes and voice, however, were  not
those of a little girl: "Want me, Hanse?"

"Us and Eshi-who could not want you, Mignue? I-"

But that was the wrong thing to say, under the circumstances, which involved his
mental state; a joyous smile sunned over her face and she ran to him across  two
whole feet,  her arms  whipping around  him. Hanse  stood stiff,  one hand  just
touching her, while he chewed his lip  and wished that he were- No! I  wish that
if ever I wish that I were dead,  it be not considered a wish! And "Oh,"  Mignue
said, low, having discovered herself  pressing against a very aroused  male. And
her arms around him clamped the harder, and she pressed in harder.

He stroked her thick and very soft hair. Revelation and inspiration hit him  and
he  said it  aloud: "Ah,  Mignue, Mignue...  I  wish  that you  wanted  to  wrap
yourself in  my nice new cloak and just talk a while."

"This may sound awful," she said against  his chest, "but know what I'd like  to
do?"

Yes, he did.

She looked unequivocally  and downright dangerously  fetching in that  wine-dark
cloak, especially sitting on his bed  with her legs drawn up (within  the cloak,
gods be thanked). Yes, of course she remembered telling him to take the  crossed
brown pot-and hadn't he? -Yes. And had  it proven useful? -Yes. And he told  her
of that night, and  she was astonished that  he had done all  that, rescuing the
mighty and apparently immortal Tempus. Yet, that she had saved his life did  not
astonish her.

"It is the  S'danzo, Hanse. You  must know that  a S'danzo never  tells a client
that she foresees  his death. Never.  Nor does a  S'danzo dare try  to interfere
with the way of  a world and the  will of the gods,  other than to suggest  that
that person have a care." She sat with her arms enwrapping her drawn-up legs and
her hand clasping her wrist, and she was not looking at the young man who sat on
the  windowsill with  his feet  on the  floor. He  had drawn  the drapes  almost
closed, but the room was as if twilit, not nighted.

"On the other hand... with those we love, we S'danzo cannot See as well, because
the emotions  are involved-  you know,  darling. But!  There is  a compensation.
Sometimes we can See the danger,  often without realizing it, and See  just what
those we love should do to avoid or to, uh, cope with it."

Hanse blinked. She is telling me that  she loves me... and has for over  a year!
Oh! Oh, g-Ils, Ils, god  of my fa-hmp!-my  mother. God of Gods... I  wish that I
knew whether that were true or not! Or not, I say!

"There... I've said it. Now you know,  Hanse, oh, Hanse. Now you know... I  have
loved you, loved you, oh loved you for years-ever since first I saw you, surely,
although I was only a girl then."

Hanse swallowed. He felt like melting wax and his eyes had gone all blurry.  Me!
Shadowspawn! Who ever loved  me?! It's all I  ever wanted-but I had  to pretend,
didn't I, so that when it happened, if it happened, I would know it was  real...
but I never  would because I've  always had to  test, to try  so hard not  to be
hurt....

He  tried  to  be  unobtrusive  about  wiping  the  damned  unmanly embarrassing
glistening tear off his cheek. As soon as  he had done, the other eye let go.  I
hope she doesn't see, he thought, and  was not even thinking about the power  of
the wish.

He asked her question after question about the whole Ils/Eshi/Vashanka business.
She remembered none of it. She had had a horrible dream about his being  forever
lost to her, beyond her,  because he was in the  arms of a goddess, and  she had
wakened weeping. Her  mother had held  her and held  her and crooned  and spoken
soft words to her and made her see that was silly, not at all logical or  likely
or possible.

Of course, Hanse thought, and said, "Me! With a goddess? Oh Mignureal!"

"I know," she said, darting a look-at him and looking away just as swiftly. "But
we can't control our dreams, and sometimes they're so real!"

He steeled himself, and swallowed hard, and said, "This is a dream, of course."

She looked sharply at him. "What?"

"I said,"  he said,  exerting all  his strength  to look  at her  and to say the
words, "that this is a dream, of course.  You could not be here in my room.  You
could not have been waiting  naked for me, in my  bed. It is not S'danzo;  it is
beneath that great soaring  wonderful mother of yours,  and your fine and  proud
old people, and...  above all, Mignue,  it is not  you. You would  not do such a
thing. It is... it  is beneath you. It  is not what I  want or you want,  not in
such a way, not now. It is not in accord with your pride or your dignity."

She was staring  at him, and  tears were flowing  in long glistening  tracks all
down her cheeks and onto his cloak.

"It has to be a dream, don't you see?"

Mignureal raised her eyebrows, and no girl but a woman said, "It is not a dream,
Hanse."

Again it hurt,  and he had  to steel himself  and swallow hard  and take a  deep
breath as  well, that  his voice  might hold  without breaking:  "It is a dream,
Mignue. And you will remember every bit of it. I wish that this were a dream for
you, Mignureal, dear sweet Mignureal, and  that you would remember every bit  of
it, and that you were at home asleep in you bed."

She said nothing in  return, because she was  not there. Only the  new red cloak
was, crumpled  on his  bed. He  could still  see the  tear-spots, even  from the
windowsill. The wet darker spots from her  tears, and he knew that she was  home
in bed.

He sat there feeling really stupid and feeling really sorry for himself, and yet
after a time  he seemed to  hear a soft  female chuckle in  his head, inside his
head, and knew that it was Eshi who chuckled and said, inside his head. And  you
wondered why I came  to you as Mignureal,  ass-an ass and lovable  being an ass,
like all men!

His purpose had been to spend this  night abed with Mignureal as he had  others,
and then to go to her home and leam what her mother and she, what her father and
siblings, knew and thought and remembered. Now he would not know, for Hanse  had
at last discovered  that which was  not worthy of  him. / wish  that I could  be
worthy ofMignureal and her love, he thought, without thinking at all of Ils or ,
of  the power  of the  wish, and  the entirety  of his  life was  changed in  an
instant. Without knowing that, he undressed and went to bed.

The torture began.

Nearly an hour later he gave it up and made a wish.

The very very shapely daughter  of that customs man and  investigator Cushariain
was all  soft writhing  femininity in  his bed  and just  wonderfully loving and
amorous and wonderful to feel and think about and want, but after a while in her
arms  a poor  pitifully surprised  Hanse had  to make  the wish  that he   cease
thinking about Mignureal and get over this very first experience with impotence.

Somewhere Ils smiled. In Hanse's bed, an ultra-shapely young woman did, too.  At
first Hanse simply sighed in relief, but that was soon replaced by both stronger
emotion and stronger physical activity.

After that night a rather befogged Shadowspawn indulged himself in a very  great
deal of thinking. He could hardly wait for the time to be up and to be  summoned
again into the presence of the gods!

As it turned out, Ils had meant ten days and  nights, not years or months.  Then
once again  the tumbled  lightless ruins  of Eaglenest  were transformed  into a
dazzling palace of gods, and Hanse of Downwind and the Maze was gazing down that
long table at the faceless Shadow that was Shalpa, and the great light that  was
Us of the Thousand Eyes,  He from whom the Ilsigi  had taken their name, and  at
the most absolutely incredibly beautiful and shapely woman any man ever saw. For
that was the form Eshi chose to take this night, and Hanse realized: the goddess
was showing him how magnificent She  could be, how far beyond mortal  Mignureal,
and a great warmth and pride soared in him.

It occurred  to him  to ask  if his  wishes were  done with,  and the  Great God
replied that aye, all were done  with save only the final lifelong  desires, and
Hanse said that was too bad, for a diplomat rose up in him and avowed that  he'd
have wished that the woman he loved, Mignureal, could be touched with the beauty
and magnificence and sexuality of the goddess Eshi, who was beyond him.

"Father-r-" Eshi began, and her father silenced her.

"And so you face me again, Hanse," He said. "Tell me that which is your desire."

"My desire is threefold," Hanse said. "First, that neither I nor anyone close to
me, dear  to me,  ever knows  the true  moment of  my unavoidable  death. Have I
expressed that aright?"

"It is specific, and well-expressed,"  that quiet sonorous voice of  Power said,
"and it is Done. And?"

"I  desire  superior ability  with  weapons, as  well  as good  health  and good
fortune," Hanse said. "And to forget all that has happened. All that I have done
and thought and  wished (saving only  for a dream  that I share  with Mignureal,
daughter of the S'danzo), since that time when first You did approach me, in the
matter of Vashanka."

For a long moment there was silence,  and then the Shadow spoke, the living  god
who was shadow itself and  who sat at the right  hand of his father. "What?  You
would forget that you are my son?!" The voice was rustly, as befitted that of  a
shadow among shadows, but the last word boomed.

Hanse looked down. "Yes."

"What?" Eshi demanded. "You would forget all that you have done-forget that  you
have lain with me?" -

And again Hanse waxed diplomatic: "I choose  to be a human and mortal, 0  Beauty
Itself. How could any man live at peace, when he has seen You and even held You,
and knows it? It is too much, Goddess, Eshi. You must not let me remember and be
tortured with memory of what was and might have been."

She waxed even more beautiful then, and as irresistible as the word itself,  and
her smile was sun  and moonbeams bathing him  in warmth. "Let it  be," she said,
and became a handsome and shapely woman in white, and no more.

"Your son, Shalpa my son, is touched with genius," He of the Thousand Eyes said.
"Yet I would remind you, Hanse, Godson.  Much, much of the world is within  your
grasp. We have conferred; you could even opt to join us, to preside  perpetually
over the mortals of the earth. Would you be one of them instead?"

"I am..." (Hanse swallowed hard) "... grandfather."

"You might also continue to have your  every wish so long as you are  within our
precincts, or the greatest of wishes: that your every desire and wish be yours."

"That one," Shalpa's voice rustled, "and then forgetful-ness."

Hanse fell to his knees and his voice shook. "Let me be Hanse!"

"It's the damned eternal truth," Eshi  said. "Your charming bastard is a  damned
genius, Shalpa!"

"Yet damned," her brother answered. "Damned by his own tongue and his own  wish.
The terminator of a god, the savior  of his city and toppler of Empire,  the son
of a  god and  lover of  a god-and  beloved of  a god,  eh?-damned to mortality,
humanity, by his own asinine wish!" And the Shadow of Shadows... vanished.

"Tell my father," Hanse said very quietly, "that I have known misery not knowing
the identity of my father, and now in knowing it. Tell him that... that his  son
is strong."

"True," Ils said, "and I'd never have thought it. Done!"

When Hanse awoke he was in the ruins of Eaglenest and wondered what in all Hells
he  was  doing  here. Yet  he  had  had this  wonderful  joyous  dream involving
Mignureal, and he felt a glow as he dragged himself to his feet on that  pocked,
cracked stone floor and, stepping  around fallen columns and detritus,  left the
mansion that  had been.  He glanced  over at  the old  well but shrugged. It was
going to take a lot of labor and gear to get those moneybags up out of there. He
sighed and started pacing down the hill toward Sanctuary.

On the day  following, Moonflower told  him seriously that  she might have  been
mistaken in forbidding him  to see Mignureal; perhaps  gods were at work,  here.
That day only three  persons were slain,  one way or  another, by the  Fish-Eyed
Folk-From-Oversea, but  many more  lives were  ruined by  them and their doings.
That evening while three  of her siblings peeked  and giggled from this  vantage
point and that, Hanse and  the very young S'danzo Mignureal  discovered together
that they had both had the same dream last night, and that gods must be at  work
here.

Considerably later a much-bejeweled Beysib amused herself by punishing an Ilsigi
offender-never mind  the minor  offense-by handing  the youth  a pouch  from her
belt.  When  he opened  it,  the beynit  inside  bit him  at  once. The  snake's
neurotoxin worked swiftly. The Sanctuarite was  dead in less than a minute,  and
the  Beysib  was  not punished.  The  PFLS  burned a  wagonload  of  hay on  the
Processional. That was the day Hanse  received the message to meet Zip  in Sly's
Place.

(Rumor was that Throde  the Gimp was set  upon that night after  closing, but he
was fine  next day,  limping around  Sly's without  a mark,  and no one took the
rumor seriously.)

She had been a fixture of the Maze for a hundred years, or maybe it was a dozen.
She sat outside the family home/shop  in which her husband sold... things,   and
raised their several children well while keeping her husband happy. And she Saw.
She did not  charge a great  deal of money  for her Seeings,  this S'danzo named
Moonflower. She Saw danger  and felicities to come,  pain and pleasure to  come,
and she Saw linkages.

She had Seen enough once to let Hanse know that he was involved in a very  large
plot emanating from Ranke itself;  a treacherous governor's concubine had  quite
charmed Hanse and, with a treacherous Hell-Hound, aided him into the palace  one
night to steal  the Savankh.[i]  Warned  by Moonflower, Hanse  had  wriggled out
of that one, and   the two plotters  paid  the supreme  penalty. Moonflower  had
Seen other things for Hanse, whom she could not help liking and thinking of as a
good boy even  though she  knew he  was not.  And she  had Seen  many things for
many  others.   Ilsigi  and   Twanders, Mrsevadans   and  Rankans,   Syrese  and
Aurveshi... and now Beysibs.

Oh yes,  even the  newest conquering  invaders came  to the  gross diviner Hanse
called "Passionflower" (for he did charm that woman and bring out the kitten  in
her), sitting just outside the shop on a stool which she overflowed all  around,
wearing yards and yards  of fabrics in divers  colors and hues and  patterns and
more colors. She made a Seeing for  the Beysib Esanssu on Anenday, and again  on
Ilsday, and the following Anenday as well. The fish-folk woman complained  about
the brevity of the first reading, and  then on her return she dared complain  of
its accuracy even though  it did help her  rediscover both lost objects  she had
sought. And so Moonflower gave her another divining at half-rate, and damned  if
the  oversea bitch  didn't complain  that this  time she  was not  treated  with
sufficient respect. (An  eight-year-old child, Moonflower's,  stared at her  was
all; it was hard, not staring at freaks.)

At least she went away all  elated after the third session, because  the S'danzo
had  Seen  an  upturn  in  Esanssu's  love-life.  All  races  had  losers,  even
conquerors, and Esanssu botched it. Naturally she came back to blame Moonflower.
She  railed and  screamed and  threatened to  such an  extent that  Moonflower's
husband came rushing out, fearful for his wife. Blind with rage, Esanssu  hardly
saw him as she drew and slashed him. He fell spurting blood.

Moonflower screamed. All huge-eyed, she started to collapse, but caught herself,
or perhaps it was adrenaline  that caught her and powered  her to her feet in  a
lurch  and flaring  rustle of  skirts and  shawls of  many colors  and hues  and
patterns. All on automatic she slapped the murderous creature from oversea, with
all her considerable weight behind the  blow. The Beysib was dashed against  the
wall of the shop with frightful impact. Her head struck first. She slid down the
wall, leaving  a bright  red smear  on the  stucco, until  she reached a sitting
position. Her eyes were open and her legs twitched. To Moonflower's horror  (had
she not been crouched  over her wounded husband,  weeping but curbing her  wails
while she ripped skirts to stem the tide of his blood) Esanssu was dead.

All  that was  bad enough  and everyone  knew that  Moonflower was  in  trouble.
Justice was  a word,  and the  Beysib were  conquerors. Unfortunately  there was
more; a Beysib soldier, just insulted  by three Ilsigi children who had  run and
seemingly  vanished  into  a  warren  of  alleys  and  alley-like  streets, came
arunning. Already irate, and having lost her head along with having taken on the
arrogance of  all conquering  occupation forces  everywhere, she  drew her  long
single-bladed  sword from  her back  and struck,  all in  a rush.   Moonflower's
husband would live; Moonflower died there on the street.

Hanse arrived only  a few minutes  after that flurry  of senseless violence  and
murder. Half in shock,  he tried to cope  with the weeping of  Mignureal and the
screams and wails of her siblings, and  could not. He was too choked with  grief
to talk coherently and too blinded with tears even to see. Without even  knowing
it he ran, blindly and full of the agony of grief. And rage.

Upon  turning  a comer  a  couple of  blocks  away he  ran  full into  a  Beysib
peacekeeper. He never knew whether it was the same who had murdered  Moonflower,
beloved Moonflower, mother of Mignureal.

"Here you, what's all this ru-"

"Excuse me," Hanse said sobbing, and buried his dagger in the creature's  belly,
and twisted it and drew it out  and, hardly having paused, ran on. Everyone  got
out of his way, for Hanse called Shadowspawn seemed to have gone mad.

"Here, you-what the (deleted)  are you doing here?-  this is Zip's turf.  Mazer,
and you're carryin' an awful lot of sharp metal. Me an' my buddy here will  just
take-"

That one of Zip's Boys named Jing broke off. He knew this interloper at the edge
of the several blocks of Downwind  that Zip controlled, and he'd never  seen the
sinister fellow look so-so sinister. Mean.  His black eyes below his black  hair
and above his russet  peasantish tunic looked so  ugly. His face was  working as
with  a tic  and his  expression was  one of  rage barely  controlled by  mighty
effort.

"I don't know you but  I know Speaklittle there with  you. You reach for one  of
your weapons and you are deader than the Stare-Eye froggy I ran into a few hours
ago.  I  promise  not  to  use the  same  knife  on  you,  though-don't want  to
contaminate the blood  of a fellow  Ilsig with the  cess they have  for blood...
even if you  are busy dying  at the time."  An arm jerked  up and pointed.  "I'm
outside Zip's line. Go  and tell him I'm  here to see him.  Zip and I know  each
other and he's expecting me. I'll see him but I'll be wearing my stickers when I
do, and I expect him and you and his bodyguards to be armed, too. Go on, Speaky,
hurry! Get Zip!"

Jing frowned, made a sneery face, and reached for his sword. That quick, he  was
looking  at  a  slender  throwing  knife  in  the  hand  poised  just  above the
interloper's left  shoulder. It  stayed there,  ready, and  Jing left  his short
nasty sword where it was. The world knew that the former Down-winder named Hanse
knew how to  throw a knife,  and Jing thought  that continuing to  live was just
what he wanted to do.

The knife went back into its sheath  so fast that Hanse might just have  flipped
it there, except that he  hadn't. With an expression  of seething and only  just
controlled rage, he looked at Speaklittle.

"Speaky, go on  and tell Zip.  I and your  friend will stay  right here and make
mean-eyes at each other. Go, damn it!"

Speaklittle departed at  speed while Jing  looked at Hanse,  mean-eyed. For some
reason he said, "You really kill a fish-eyes today, Hanse?"

"A few hours ago. Since then I've  been trying to think and I've been  grieving.
That makes two of 'em I've killed. I'm ashamed that it hasn't been more, but I'm
slow about some things. And the knife  I had out to warn you-believe that.  It's
not the one I stuck  into the Stare-Eyes. This is  the one that's been into  two
Stare-Eyes."

"Ahhh. And... you say Zip's expecting you?"

"Can't  imagine why  you didn't  have the  word," Hanse  lied, catching   Jing's
respectful look. "What's your name?"

A few minutes later  Speaklittle came running back,  to escort Hanse to  Zip. No
one said anything about Hanse's arsenal. They went about a block and a half, and
into a building and out  again, and into a barrel.  That led into a very  secret
passage, a short  one, which led  to Zip. He  was flanked by  two bodyguards and
looked as hungry as ever.

"Hanse. You're presuming a bit, but I go along. What's so-"

"I'm breaking  into the  god-damned palace  to remove  the Beyswine's god-damned
scepter and the heart  of any goddamned Stare-Eye  murderer that gets in  my way
and I hope  some do, Zip.  I thought you'd  be interested. You  want to help?  I
could use some good line, silk, and  a very good archer with guts. Decide  fast,
man-I'm goin' in tonight."

The  first time  Shadowspawn had  entered the  governor's lofting  manse he  had
walked  in,  with  help  from  Prince-Governor  Kadakithis's  traitor-concubine,
Lirain. He'd had only to break out,  with the Savankh. The second time had  been
on his own and, as he realized only after he was in the Prince's privy apartment
'way, 'way up in  the palace, ill-advised. He  had stolen nothing, and  again he
had to break out.

This time he had no inside help, but he had help. PFLS members, working hard  to
look unobtrusive, haunted  every street within  blocks. Others were  way over on
the other side of town, raising a ruckus and attracting lots of armed Beys. From
the shadowy granary across from  the palace's outer defense wall,  Hanse watched
while Zip's best archer  sent the arrow up.  It whizzed past the  spire atop the
palace and, checked by the long line it trailed, swung back. It went around  the
spire about  six times  and the  archer and  his assistant  really leaned on the
line.

Shadowspawn raised his eyebrows and nodded. "You do good work," he muttered, and
nudged himself out of his natural habitat, the shadows.

The PFLSer didn't even flash his teeth.  Once Hanse had hold of the silken  line
strong enough  to support  two Hanses,  the archer  did his  best to emulate the
thief. Into  the shadows,  with arrow  ready for  any interfering Beysib-or even
nosey fellow  Ilsigi, since  this mission  was more  important than individuals.
Right now Hanse, not a member of the Front, was the most important person in the
Front. Zip  had said  so. The  best archer  in Sanctuary  figured that  made him
fourth, after Zip and Kama. Right now Kama was fourth, since she was an archer's
assistant.

He watched  while the  wraith all  in black  squirreled up  onto the roof of the
granary, poised, and swung out across the street. Looked like he hit the  palace
wall hard. Went right on up, though, after just a moment.

He was without that  long swordlike knife, but  with a leathern pouch  boiled to
rocky hardness and strapped to his chest, and with a pair of throwing stars, and
that strange four-foot  staff, too, and  of course the  prepared arrows and  the
short bow.  Step after  step and  hand over  hand, he  went up  that wall  in an
impressive sort  of reverse  rappel.[ii]  Eventually  the archer  and Kama   and
the other secretly watching PFLSers  lost  sight of him,  but they continued  to
wait and to stare upward just as if they could see.

They could not;  they could see  only shadows. The  thing was, any  one of those
shadows might be Hanse.

It had been weird, really weird. The elated Zip and Kama arranged this and  that
help, and offered all sorts of  other aid that Hanse neither needed  nor wanted.
Yet as he  was returning from  Downwind, he had  met a person  he had never seen
before in his  life. A skinny  ugly girl with  warts and a  facial birthmark the
size of a lemon but the color  of dried blood, and a figure so  unfortunate that
even her mother must wince.

"You are he called  Shadowspawn, and you are  going climbing. My master  bids me
give you this wand, and trebly urge you  to take it with you. Just push it  into
your  boots  or  something,  and   leave  it  behind  when  you   leave  your...
destination."

"My  name  is  Mudge  Kraket,"  Hanse impatiently  said,  "and  I  am  not going
aclimbing. Heights scare me. Why not find someone else to hand that funny stick?
Looks like a good piece; a dune-viper carved from mahogany, isn't it?"

"Because you  are Hanse  and you  are on  a mission  for all Ilsigi and thus Ils
Himself, and because you will need this. It is important. Gods are at work  this
night, Hanse." She continued to proffer the staff.

"Orders?" he came back, and he was truculent.

"Oh stop being silly." And suddenly she was all aglow, and the glow was  bright,
like Love itself, so that Hanse  squinted and shielded his eyes and  wished that
sorcery would leave him alone. "Take it! Have you really forgot so soon, Godson,
lover?"

Since she then vanished utterly, and  the stick had got itself somehow  into his
hand, Hanse decided that it were best to take the damned thing up the wall  with
him. He respected sorcery; only idiots did not. He just didn't like it, any more
than did most non-adepts. Definitely hoping he must have to do with no more this
night, he went on.

He was swinging down Tanner when the true light appeared-Mignureal, all wan  and
red-eyed and droopy in her dark red dress of mourning. She ran into his  embrace
and at once commenced to weep. Hanse,  who had sworn off weeping two hours  ago,
immediately began anew. Meanwhile he hugged her close and stroked her long  dark
hair.

"I'm about to have to leave this damned town, Mignue," he told her very quietly,
"and I want you to come with me."

"But," she said, pushing herself back to look into his face, "why-why would  you
want to 1-" And her eyes went blank while a jerk went through her. Then so stiff
that she quivered while  she spoke in that  strange voice: "Hanse- take  the red
cat."

"What?!"

"When you go up the silken rope for Sanctuary, Hanse, take along the red cat."

Hanse held her automatically  while he stared at  nothing. God and gods  damn it
all, sorcery's  all over  the place  and everybody  in Sanctuary  knows what I'm
going to do and has  advice! If this goes en  I'II be so laden I  couldn't climb
into bed!

Yet he  knew that  was not  so; only  two knew,  one by  sorcery and Mignue by a
sudden seizure of her  S'danzo Seeing. And he  remembered the brown pot,  and as
she suddenly said,  "Oh. What am  I doing-I have  to go home  and get ready," he
knew that he had to go to Sly's Place. She whirled and ran. Hanse heaved a great
sigh and rubbed his face. He started walking, feeling dizzy.

A short  time later  he was  staring at  Ahdiovizun with  eyes like dying coals.
"Ahdio, I-"

"Hanser! Lord God Ils and Shalpa, Hanser! I've  wanted to see you!  You'll never
believe what happened the other night after you three left! Ole Notable  pounced
up on the table in back and lapped up every bit of the beer in your mug that  he
could reach,  then cried  and pawed  for me  to help  him get  the rest!-and  he
wouldn't touch the mugs of  those other two! What'd  you do to that  cat, anyhow
you a sorcerer, Hanse?"

"Ahdio," Hanse said as  if he hadn't heard  and without changing expression,  "I
need to borrow Notable. Just for awhile, just tonight. Please, Ahdio, don't give
me a hard time. I've got to."

"Hanser, that cat wouldn't ever-"

Ahdio broke  off to  watch as  Notable came  in and  started in  rubbing Hanse's
buskined legs.

And so Shadowspawn  bore a cat  in a claw-proof,  fang-proof pouch on  his chest
when he went up the wall this  night, and a flask, and a (presumably  sorcerous)
wand-thing and bow  and two arrows  on his back.  The cat was  a bit weighty and
Hanse was used to climbing light. Still, the junk on his back aided the  balance
and Notable was still and quiet. The cat was no heavier than a glazed brown  pot
with a cross  on it, Hanse  told himself, and  up he went.  Eventually he peered
downside up through the diamond-shaped window, into the luxurious apartment that
had been  Prince-Governor Kadakithis's  and now  was the  dwelling of  the Beysa
herself. It was unoccupied.

Hanse swung in. Without  even looking around he  saw to his egress,  as planned.
The silken cord dangling from the pinnacle was a loss. The one he'd come down on
was bound and  braced on the  roof-wall above. So  was the third  one, which was
very long. Lacing its end through the prepared arrow, he dumped the rest of  the
cord out the window. Then, awkwardly bracing  himself, he nocked arrow to  short
bow and took aim as well as he could.

I can do it.  Have to. Don't want  to have to pull  the thing back up  and shoot
again! You can  do it, Hanse!  Breathe out, in,  out; suck in  a good deep  one.
Pull. Sight. Oops. Now-

The string twanged and the arrow zipped out the window, trailing its line.

Peering out, Hanse saw at once that it was a rotten shot, way wide of the  mark,
arcing leftward.  Oh Thousand-Eyed Ils, and  there was  someone down there, too,
watching. Suppose it's a Stare-Eye...

That one of many posted PFLS members  let the arrow pass, caught the cord,  held
it aloft and waved it, and started running to where Kama and the archer  waited.
Knew I could  do it, Hanse  thought smiling. He  turned, opening the  rocky-hard
pouch on his  chest. Without a  sound Notable emerged  and bounced feather-light
onto the pillow-strewn, silken-sheeted bed. It sat, examined a paw, and began to
lick it.

Oh, really  wonderful, Hanse  mused, and  supposed that  he would  just have  to
accept that  Mignureal was  a young  S'danzo and  inexperienced, and couldn't be
right every time. And he had to get the fool cat back down, too-but thinking  of
Mignue had reminded him  of Moonflower, and that  put mist in his  eyes. Once he
had angrily rubbed them clear, he saw two things.

The first was not the Beysa's wand of office but her crown, a coiled snake  done
in gold  with emeralds  set as  eyes; with  markings of  coral and  of ruby  and
twinkling bits of  glass banding the  body again and  again. That was  the first
thing he saw: a golden snake of far more value to the PFLS than a mere wand. The
second thing he saw, however, was the real thing.

A beynit, he knew. A nasty-tempered snake with a bite that killed in a minute or
less-and no  way of  stopping or  countering that  toxin. This  one was probably
trained-a watch-snake. It  was about four  feet away on  the carpet, and  it was
staring at him.

Oh my god, Hanse thought, I'm dead!

At the very  edge of the  bed, not two  feet directly above  the beynit. Notable
arched its back and hissed. The snake  snapped its head over to stare up  at the
cat. Notable made a mean sound in its throat. The beynit recoiled just a bit,  a
sinuous rope, and Notable  made another nasty remark.  Then it hissed with  what
seemed to Hanse enough volume  to rouse every unblinking sword-backed  fish-eyed
guard in  the palace.  Sliding his  feet, Hanse  moved back  and to the side. He
moved more slowly than ever  he had, as he eased  one of the throwing stars  off
his belt. The beynit caught that  motion, and twitched its head to  stare... and
with a low growly sound Notable pounced at its tail. The snake's nerve broke. It
rushed  into the  nearest nice,  dark haven-the  pouch so  recently occupied  by
Notable.

Hanse whipped the  flap over and  back up and  over again, winding  the bag, and
fastened it tight. The chances were that  not even a worm could have gotten  out
of that pouch, but  Hanse dumped a pillow  out of its nice  striped satin casing
and popped the pouch in. The fit was very snug. With an azure robe-sash he  tied
that pillowcase as tightly as he had ever bound anything in his life.

"Remind me to  take that with  me," he muttered,  and hurried to  the Ti-Beysa's
crown.  Notable  said nothing,  but  only stared  at  the pouch  while  his tail
imitated a nervous snake. Hanse shook another pillow out of its casing, choosing
a dark one, and with a smile popped in the crown worth the ransom of a prince-or
of a scurvy little town called Sanctuary. He tied that silken package, too,  and
made it very, very fast to his back.

"Notable," he said, gingerly picking up  the pillow casing that housed a  bag of
boiled leather he  kept reminding himself  was hard and  thick enough to  turn a
good dagger-blow, "we've got to go. I'm  afraid you can't ride in the bag.  This
snake'll be of  some value to  Z-to Sanctuary. Got  any ideas about  your travel
arrangements?"

Uncharacteristically, Notable gave him a nice little "mrow."

"That," Hanse  said, "is  a rotten  dumb answer.  Here." And  he took the little
flask from  the pouch  at his  waist, and  poured beer  into a  superbly wrought
Rankan bowl that was not Beysib property. After that it was maddening, jittering
there by the window while  the damned cat lapped daintily  as if it had all  the
time in the world not to mention a sore tongue.

After about a month of that. Notable finished and looked up with eyes like black
marbles. He licked his mouth exaggeratedly, and started in on his whiskers.

"I'm impressed," Shadowspawn said. "I am also leaving."

Notable said "mew" in a sickeningly sweet voice and sent his tongue all the  way
around his yawning mouth again. Hanse made a face, started to swing up into  the
window, remembered, and turned to toss the snake-carven staff onto the floor. It
landed about a  foot from Notable  and rolled a  foot. Notable pounced  straight
past Hanse to the windowsill and turned back to look.

"Look at you.  Bravest cat in  the world with  the real thing,  and afraid of  a
little st-"

The staff shimmered,  its wriggly carving  seeming to wriggle  in reality. Then,
while a few hundred  ants played footrace up  Hanse's back, the staff  moved. It
glided along the floor, and up onto the bed, and to the far end, and into a nice
dark sheltering place: under the Beysa's figured silk bedspread.

"I've got to get out of this  damned town," Hanse muttered in a voice  wavery as
the sand-viper, and  went out the  window. He had  to drag himself  back up that
fulvistone wall on one silken rope so that he could go down another-all the  way
across  the palace  grounds and  wall and  the Processional  to where  Kama  and
company would have made the arrow-end of the line fast.

Notable passed him on the  way to the roof. Hanse  gave him a glare, wishing  he
could go up walls that way. Maybe with the talons the Stare-Eyes slid onto their
fmgers when they ate...

He was  up and  on his  belly, pulling  himself up  between two  merlons of that
toothily crenelated defense-wall around the  roof, when he heard the  voice. The
accent was neither Rankan nor Ilsigi.

"So. A rotten  little thief tries  to invade us,  does he? Well,  Ilsiger slime,
this is your last climb!"

And Hanse  heard the  sound of  the guard's  sword clearing  its scabbard on his
back, doubtless to come down on Shadowspawn's neck. Or wrists, or forearms;   it
didn't matter.  He was  helpless and  absolutely vulnerable,  on his stomach and
clutching with both hands while his legs dangled.

That was when he was  startled so that he nearly  let go and fell, for  his ears
were assaulted  by the  loudest and  most terrible  yowling screech  he had ever
heard in his  life. Wincing, scrabbling  desperately, Hanse twisted  his neck to
look up-He saw the  Beysib guard all  astagger,  shocked by that ghastly  sound;
and he saw the red streak that  was Notable on the pounce. The cat  began eating
holes in the Stare-Eye's arm  and the poor  worse-than-disconcerted idiot forgot
what he was about and struck at the  cat with his sword. That cost him not  just
the  pain as he struck his own arm,  but his balance. With only a grunt he  went
right  over Hanse and through the  crenelation and down a  hundred feet and more
to a messy splat of an end.

Mignureal did it again, Hanse  thought, wriggling onto the roof  in double-time.
She knew, and Notable just saved my life. Twice, probably. But he also went down
with the Stare-Eye... how'II I ever explain  to Ahdio? Then he was on his  feet,
ready to seize the taut  rope stretching down and out  and down, and the cat  on
the nearer merlon said "mrowr?"

Hanse could not control his chuckle. "I  like you, cat! Want to hop on  and ride
me down? Careful now-you sink a claw into my shoulder and I'll tell Ahdio you're
soft on mice!"

They went down.

The snake from the Beysa's apartment would be useful-it and its venom and a  few
physicians working away in  quest of an  antitoxin. As for  the Beysa, the  sand
viper in  her bed  had doubtless  given her  a lot  of fun.  As for the Ti-Beysa
crown-the PFLS was made.  Amid all the yammering  chatter of PFLS voices,  Hanse
sort of faded into the shadows, fleeing all the praise and overblown  encomiums.
He was sure that there was no way  the word was not going to get out.  The theft
and the blow against the  invaders were enormous accomplishments. Someone  would
tell: Shadowspawn did it.

I've got to get out of this dam' town!

Mignureal went up the long, long hill  with him, she leading the ass and  he the
horse.

"I've got  to leave  town," he  had told  her. "Maybe...  maybe forever.  You're
coming with me, right?"

She stared at him for a long while, until at last she nodded. "Right."

Up at Eaglebeak, they tethered the two animals to fallen chunks of fine building
stone and Hanse  went to the  old well. If  only I hadn't  dropped all that coin
down here, he thought. This is going to be a job among jobs. Gods, but I wish  I
had it out already!

Since by  choice he  remembered only  that he  was Hanse,  son of a barely-known
mother and the never-seen father who  had been only her casual acquaintance,  he
knew  nothing about  previous wishes.  He was  mightily surprised  when the  two
laden, leathern saddlebags  came floating, noisily  dripping, up to  his waiting
hands.

Zip and Jing and a lot of others were mightily surprised, a little over an  hour
later, when  a big  leather bag  came flying  down, seemingly  from the  sky. It
struck  the  hard-packed earth  of  a Downwinder  "street"  with an  enormous  •
crashing jingling noise...  followed by a  lot of little  jingles as a  flashing
clinking rolling skittering mass of good minted silver splashed out.

"For Sanctuary," a voice called  from above, and it was  not the voice of Ils or
even Shalpa, but of a thief on a  rooftop. Getting that bag up there had been  a
lot of work, but it was worth it for the effect: "Shadows can go anywhere,  into
palaces and even into the hallowed and guarded precincts of Zip!"

"Hanse! You've just  been elected second-in-command  and Master Tactician!  Come
down, man!"

They waited a long time.

Much, much  later than  that, an  aide ushered  a sentry  into the tent of their
leader.

"Your pardon. General. Go ahead, Pheres."

"Sir, there's a man and a woman,  both mighty young out here. Wrigglies. I  mean
Ilsigi, sir. On a horse and an ass. With a lot of silver coin in an old  cracked
leather bag-  a big  one. Threw  back his  white robe  and hood  to show me he's
dressed all in black. Said he's a friend of yours? From Sanctuary? Right out  of
the shadows, he says. Sir."

The general stared, then smiled and rose from his camp-table to stride past  the
two men and out of the tent. "Hanse!" Tempus called.

[i]  Detailed in "Shadowspawn," in Thieves' World, 1979

[ii] For a detailed description of   Hanse's entry into the upper precincts   of
     the  palace,  see   "The  Vivisectionist" in   the  third  Thieves'   World
     volume. Shallows of  Sanctuary. No better  way in has  been found, although
     having help  is nice.

GYSKOURAS

by Lynn Abbey

Illyra needed  no special  S'danzo power  to read  the young  man's past. He had
been, and still was, a sewer-snipe. His face was marred by neglect and  disease.
He watched her, and her scrying  table, with the desperate intensity of  one who
had been beaten,  betrayed, yet still  hoped for victory.  She stood beside  her
table to stare  him out of  her shop, when  he tossed an  ancient, filthy golden
coin onto the gray baize beside her.

"I  need  to  know. They  said  you  would know,  one  way  or the  other."  His
surprisingly deep voice made the simple phrases into an accusation.

"Sometimes," she replied,  listening to the  steady pounding of  Dubro's hammer,
her fingers poised over the coin.

They  came to  her in  greater numbers  now that  Moon-flower was  dead and  her
daughter had run away with the thief, Shadowspawn. Illyra could not think of the
immense woman  who had  defended her  right to  be S'danzo  in Sanctuary without
feeling a storm of grief as immense as the old woman herself. She wanted to  tie
a knot  across her  doorway, turn  her back  to the  Sight, and  give way to her
grief, but they came with their coins  and demanded and she did not know  how to
turn them away. Dubro helped, intimidating the ones he sensed danger in, but  he
had let this one through. Her forefinger brushed the gold. "If the answer can be
known, sometimes I can know it." Gathering her skirts over one arm, she  settled
behind the table and gestured for him to sit on the stool. The gold was still on
the baize and the silk was still tied around her cards when he began his story.

"I killed a pig last night. By the White Foal-for luck. I need lots of luck."

Illyra felt the first lies drift between them. Sanctuary was swollen with Beysib
stomachs and  Ranke, tearing  itself apart  with wars  and assassinations, was a
fading presence in this comer of its once-great Empire. Even sewer-snipes should
know enough to sell a pig for Beysib gold and use the gold to buy luck.

"I-I took the blood  to a place, a  special place. It's mine,  and Vashanka's. I
gave Him the blood."

She set  the cards  aside and  suppressed a  'shiver. Unlike  many S'danzo women
sitting in their rooms throughout the Empire,  Illyra did have the Sight. An  un
Sighted S'danzo woman survived by listening to her clients without laughing; she
used the   cards for   mystery. Illyra   used the   cards for   inspiration  and
guidance when the  Sight came to  her; she had  no need for  inspiration as this
youth unburdened himself.

"It was like a wind. It was hot and cold; wet and dry all at once."

"Then it could not have been a wind," she told him, though she Saw the truth  of
his memories swirling around her.  It was not like her  Sight to be. out of  her
control this way; she sought to rein it in.

"It was a wind. And the blood-the blood was covered with sparks.

She Saw  the secret  place in  his mind:  an altar  abandoned to the marshes and
discovered by  the snipe  who prayed  there without  knowing what  it was or had
been. Blood sacrifices made on its mossy stones-not pig's blood but men's blood:
Beysib blood and bits  of flesh he'd hacked  from their corpses as  offerings in
his own private worship. Illyra felt  the unholy wind whip around him  while the
rest of the marsh  froze motionless and saw  the blue-white flames dance  on the
blood. She heard the shrill giggle  of a child's laughter as the  congealed mess
on the altar was absorbed into the flame; then the Sight was gone and  there was
only the ragged, scared  youth-who called himself Zip and tried to hide his true
name even from himself-staring at her.

"So, what do you see.  Did the Stormgod hear me?  Does Vashanka favor me? Can  I
bind Him to me? Sell me a potion to bind the Stormgod!"

She meant to send him  away. The S'danzo had no  use for gods and were  happiest
when the  gods had  nothing to  do with  the S'danzo.  It didn't matter that she
could answer his questions. He had focused  her Sight on the god and she  wanted
him, and all that was in his memories, gone before ('(noticed her. Yet she could
still hear the laughter and didn't that mean, answer him or not, that the damage
was already done?

The youth mistook her  hesitation for imminent  betrayal. "Don't give  me suvesh
talk." He reached across the table to grip her wrist.

"See  the priests  if you  want to  talk to  the Stormgod,"  she replied  icily,
extracting herself  with a  swift, small  movement he  had never  seen, or felt,
before. But for  the blacksmith, whose  hammer rang in  the sunlight beyond  her
shop, she'd have been a sewer-snipe herself.  She knew his type of brazen  pride
and knew, as  he did himself,  that any whim  of fate could  squash him, without
warning. He had stumbled  into something vaster and  more dangerous than he  had
ever imagined. As much  as he lusted after  the excitement and glory,  he feared
it.

"What do the priests know?" he said, as if any priest would have spoken to  him.
"Nosing up to the snakes. They don't know anything about Vashanka."

"If you  know so  much more  than the  priests, you  certainly know  more than a
S'danzo fortune-teller." She pushed the gold coin back to him.

"A half-S'danzo  fortune-teller who  knew when  that damned  fleet would  arrive
could talk to Vashanka if she dared." He ignored the coin and met her stare.

Anything that survived in the gutter of Sanctuary was dangerous. Zip had already
violated her  home with  his visions;  would he  be any  more dangerous with the
truth about his prayers, sacrifices, and altar-or any the less?

"Keep your gold and everything else. Vashanka is no more."

He sat back as if she'd struck him. Surely he'd heard the rumors, lived  through
the storm that saw Vashanka's name struck from the pantheon archstones?  Perhaps
he hadn't quite  believed that the  Rankan Stormgod had  been vanquished in  the
skies over Sanctuary,  but he should  have learned to  contain his horror  if he
expected to survive.

"I give Him blood at my altar... and He takes it!"

"Fool! Leave the gods to the priests.  You find a pile of rotting stones  in the
mud  by the  White Foal  and you  think you  can lure  Vashanka to  your  cause.
Vashanka! The Storm-god of Ranke-and with the blood of a pig!"

"He hears me! I feel Him but I  can't hear Him! He's telling me something and  I
can't hear him!"

"You don't  want to  know what  hears you.  Could Ranke  have built  a temple to
Vashanka, lost it to  the White Foal, and  all Sanctuary forgotten it  was there
except for you?" She was standing, leaning over her table, screaming in his face
and unmindful  of everything  except the  laughter he'd  left in  her mind.  She
couldn't See what he  had raised yet, but  it was getting clearer  the longer he
sat there with his sacrifices and memories battering against her.

"Get out of here! Vashanka does not hear you. No god yet born hears you! Nothing
hears you! May the dung rise up  and swallow you before anything listens to  you
again!"

She did not believe the S'danzo had the power to curse, but the sewer-snipe did.
Zip backed up until the sunlight from the doorway fell around his feet, then  he
turned and ran, not noticing, or perhaps  not caring, that he had left his  gold
coin behind.

" 'Lyra! What happened?" Dubro called to her from the doorway. He took a step to
follow  the  youth, then  turned  back and  rushed  to catch  Illyra  before she
collapsed over her table. He carried her in his arms like a sick child, berating
himself for not sensing the danger in the young man, while she whispered  broken
phrases in the ancient S'danzo language.

The rat-faced sewer-snipe had forced her to See what should not be Seen and what
she should not dare to remember. Each breath and heartbeat solidified the images
and knowledge. Illyra worked frantically to blind herself to what had  happened,
before it spread like poison through wine and condemned her as surely as it  had
condemned the young man. She bound the knowledge in the form of one of the great
black carrion-birds that flocked above the Char-nel House and, with a  wrenching
sob, set it free.

"'Lyra, what's  wrong?" her  husband asked,  stroking her  hair and swabbing her
tears with the comer of his sweaty tunic.

"I  don't  know," she  answered  honestly. A  shimmering  blackness of  her  own
devising hung in her memories. The fear  remained, and a sense of doom, but  the
vision itself had  been seared away;  the sound of  a child crying  was all that
remained. "The children," she whispered.

Dubro left his  forge in the  care of his  new, anxious apprentice  and followed
Illyra  through the  Bazaar to  the Street  of Red  Lanterns. Children  were  an
inevitable byproduct of life on the Street, and even if most of them wound up in
the gutters, a  few of them  enjoyed a healthy,  sheltered childhood within  the
Houses themselves. Myrtis, madam of the fortresslike Aphrodisia House, kept  the
boys as well as  the girls, and had  apprenticed one youth to  Dubro in exchange
for sheltering the couple's twin son and daughter.

The  Street was  quiet and  drab in  the afternoon  sunlight. Illyra  let go  of
Dubro's hand and told  herself that there was  no danger, that the  blackness in
her mind was a  nightmare she could release  and forget. She thought  nothing of
the young woman  running toward them  until she fell  to her knees  before them.
'

"Shipri be praised, you're right here! He was sleeping with the rest-"

The woman's hysteria rekindled Illyra's anxiety and her Sight. She Saw the  room
where Myrtis, frowning, leaned over a cradle; where chubby blonde Lillis cowered
in a shadowed comer; and  where her year-and-a-half-old son had  stopped crying.
Following  the  certainty of  her  vision she  raced  ahead down  stairways  and
corridors.

"You've come so quickly," the ageless madam said, looking up from the cradle,  a
momentary wrinkle of confusion on her brow. "Ah, but yes, you do have the Sight,
don't you?" The confusion vanished. "You know as much as I, then." She made room
for the child's mother at the cradle.

The little boy lay  rigid in some sudden,  paralyzing fever. His breath  came in
sporadic gasps, each holding the possibility that there would be no others.  His
tears were drying  on his dirty  cheeks. Illyra brushed  her fingers across  one
rivulet and shivered when she saw that the darkness was in the tears themselves.

"It is  like no  disease I  know of,"  Myrtis disclaimed.  "I would send word to
Lythande, but the Blue Star is beyond my call now. We can summon Stulwig or some
other-"

"There's no need," Illyra said wearily.

She was seeing everything twice: once with her own eyes and mind, then a  second
time with the Sight. The strange-ness should have been overwhelming, but because
the Sight itself was involved, there  could be no surprises. Dubro pushed  aside
the curtain and joined them. She glanced at him and Saw the completeness of  his
being: his boyhood, his manhood,  his death-and quickly lowered her  eyes. Again
she made a raven of Vision and  set the knowledge free, but the new  darkness it
left within her was insignificant compared to the old.

Because she would only  look at her shallow-breathing  son whose shape and  fate
was the same  in both visions,  Illyra was left  alone with him.  She sat on the
rocking stool  and felt  the square  of window-light  move across her shoulders,
then the  first chill  of twilight.  They brought  her a  thin broth,  which she
ignored, and wrapped a heavier shawl around herself as the night air  thickened.
She moved as little as Alton did in her arms.

A fresh wind carried  the weather through Sanctuary:  an almost silent storm  of
thin  clouds passing  swiftly before  the moon.  It was  midnight, perhaps,   or
somewhat later,  when a  moon-cast shadow  broke free  and came  to rest  on the
headboard of the cradle. Illyra bowed her head and allowed the raven to  return.
Sight decayed and reformed without  darkness. She Saw Zip's face,  his benighted
altar, and the mark of a Stormgod in her son's cloudy tears.

She did not know yet how to save Arton, though Sight and sight were the same now
and a path  of silver-edged importance  was emerging where  there had been  only
blackness. Her plan was still unformed when she drew the borrowed shawl  tightly
around herself and went, unseen and without light, through the back passages  of
the Aphrodisia.

It was well past midnight, for the Street had become quiet and the moon had set.
Fog crept up  from the harbor,  emphasizing the silence,  the darkness, and  the
dangers. Illyra, who  disliked the city  and traveled its  streets as seldom  as
possible, walked confidently toward the garrison barracks where her half-brother
was in command of the guard. In the back of her mind she recalled all the gossip
of the  Bazaar: how  Sanctuary was  more dangerous  than ever  now that  so many
gangs,  mercenaries, and soldiers were taking an interest in it. She recalled as
well that no S'danzo had  ever used   the Sight  as she  was using  it  to  walk
the   streets in   utter darkness,   utterly  alone   and  utterly   safe.   She
could  have   distrusted its  unfolding  powers,   conceived  as  they  were  as
her  son  lay   touched  by  some unknowable  Stormgod,  but,  flush  with   the
confidence of  the Sight itself,  she dismissed her thoughts and  stepped deftly
around the silver-traced offal.

"Ischade?"

Illyra turned, recognizing neither the name nor the hoarse voice whispering  it.
Her Sight touched on a ragged beggar.

"Why do you walk tonight?" the man asked.

As she  had Seen  with Dubro,  she Saw  with the  beggar-king-and much, as well,
about the necromant,  Ischade, he had  mistaken her for.  She stepped back  from
him, and he from her,  although in the darkness he  could not have seen her  but
only sensed that she could see something in him that even Ischade was blind  to.
The new aspects of Sight were quickly becoming familiar to her; she continued on
her way without needing to mold her Vision of the beggar-king into a raven to be
rid of it. And when the watch at the barracks challenged her, she used what  she
had learned to Look at the torchlit  face until the man, cowed by his  own utter
nakedness, stood aside and let her into the common room.

"Cythen?" Illyra called, knowing the woman was in the smoky room.

'"Lyra?"  The  mercenary  rose  from  a  group  of  men  and,  putting  a  firm,
authoritative arm on the S'danzo's shoulders, pulled her into an alcove. '"Lyra,
what are you-"

Illyra Looked into the other's face. Cythen cringed, then her anger flared,  and
this time it was Illyra who looked aside.

"Are you all right?" Cythen demanded.

"I must see Walegrin."

"His watch starts at dawn; he just went upstairs to sleep."

"I've got to see him, now."

Cythen tugged at a worn amulet. "'Lyra, are you all right?"

"I've got to  see my brother,  Cythen," Illyra's voice  trembled with Sight  and
from her determination that she would speak with Walegrin before dawn shed light
on Zip's altar. She  waited in the officer's  upper room while Cythen  roused an
unhappy Walegrin. He  came into the  room as a  green-eyed death-wraith full  of
threats and fury, but she met him calmly with the Sight in her eyes.

"I need your  help," she informed  her stunned, superstitious  half-brother. "My
son, whom you have made a Rankan citizen, has been stolen."

"The guard  patrols the  Street of  Red Lanterns;  it is  as safe  as the palace
itself." He defended the  ability of his men  even as he bound  a bronze studded
greave to his shin. "Did you report it to them first? Have they searched?"

"There is nothing for them to do."

Walegrin set the second  greave aside and stared  at her. "Illyra, what's  wrong
with you?"

Now that she was with him, Illyra found that the Sight was not so clear. She Saw
him carrying her message, but she  couldn't See him bringing the guard  to Zip's
altar to destroy it. "There was a  young man who came to me this  past afternoon
with a story about an altar by the White Foal and the spirit of the Stormgod  he
sacrificed to there...."

"Alton... sacrifice?" It was outlawed, but it happened.

Illyra shook her  head. "That young  man-they call him  Zip, usually-brought his
filthy,  unspeakable demon  into my  life. He  touched me  with it,  and when  I
refused, it reached out to touch my son. Arton cries black tears."

"Poison-Zip?"  He  had  the other  greave  strapped  on and  was  smiling  as he
pronounced  the  snipe's  name.  "We've  needed  something  clean  on  that one.
Something that wouldn't fan  the fires higher. And  Beysin women, some of  them,
can make cures in  their blood. If they  cure a Sanctuary child,  then that will
bring quiet, too-"

Illyra hammered both fists on the table. Neither he nor the Sight would move  as
she wished. "You  aren't listening to  me! There's no  poison in Arton's  blood,
Half-Brother. Spirits seek  him. Godspirits raised  on a White  Foal altar. What
could you do for  Arton that I have  not already done? What  could bare-breasted
Beysin women do while  the spirit of a  Stormgod sits on its  altar, waiting for
another chance? Destroy the altar; I'll save my son."

Walegrin assessed her  with one eye,  then the other,  and left the  breastplate
lying on the table. "Illyra, my men struggle to contain the Maze. There is  more
murder and intrigue in this town than one man can imagine, and you would have me
stomp through the White Foal marsh, looking for a broken-down pile of stones. If
it's  only the  altar you  care about,  then tell  Dubro-he'll do  it with   his
hammer."

"I have not told Dubro."

He raised an eyebrow, having believed that the pair had no secrets between them,
and was about to ask more questions when she turned toward the fireplace.

"I don't know why I've come to  you for help." She turned and studied  the room.
"The Sight ends, and I don't know what to do now."

"You  can wait  here," he  said, almost  kindly. "I'll  make my  report in   the
morning. Or, I'll guide you back to  the Aphrodisia, and Arton and you can  wait
there."

The silver clarity of Sight was gone and she could not, of course, guess when it
might return. The preternatural confidence it had given her was fading. She  had
too many terrified childhood  memories of the barracks  to linger there, and  so
accepted his offer. Walegrin called Cythen and two others to be her escort. They
each carried torches heavy enough to  serve as weapons. Once, they were  delayed
by the  sound of  a fracas  in a  blind alley.  "PFLS," Walegrin muttered as the
combatants scattered but to Illyra, illiterate and Bazaar-bound, the  expression
made no sense.

Myrtis welcomed the mercenaries with  cups of fortified wine. Illyra  escaped to
the nursery where, as she expected  even without the Sight, her son's  condition
had not changed. Dubro had taken  the unconscious child from the cradle  and was
hiding  the  mite  in  his  arms  while  Lillis,  exhausted  and  worried beyond
understanding by her brother's behavior, sat wild-eyed on the floor, clinging to
Dubro's leg.

"You have been following some S' danzo intuition?" Dubro asked with accusation.

"I had thought  Walegrin might help."  Illyra let the  cloak fall back  from her
shoulders. "He will try, though I'm not sure if he will help or hurt in the end.
We'll pray it is enough."

"Do you pray?" her husband asked as if speaking to a stranger.

"To the one who wants our son-yes."

In time  the sky  grew rosy,  then bright  blue. Arton  grew no worse, though no
better. Despite their anxiety, Illyra  and Lillis both leaned against  the smith
and dozed.  Those children  who normally  made a  noisy shambles  of the nursery
before breakfast were  bundled off to  some distant part  of the house,  and the
family waited in silent isolation.

A  black  bird, not  so  great as  the  one Illyra  had  made of  her  Sight but
undeniably real,  cawed noisily  outside the  window. Illyra  awoke and hoped it
might be the Sight returning to her. Before she could know one way or the other,
there  was a  furor in  the hallways  which ended  with the  appearance of   the
Hierarch of Vashanka, Molin Torch-holder, at the nursery entrance.

"Illyra," the priest said, ignoring everyone  else in the room. Not knowing  any
other response, Illyra knelt before him: the priest's power was real even if his
god was not. "How is the child?"

She shook her head  and took Arton from  Dubro's arms. "No better.  He breathes,
but no more than that. How do you know? Why are you here?"

Molin  gave a  sardonic laugh.  "I had  not expected  to be  the one   answering
questions.  I know  because I  make it  a point  to know  what is  going on   in
Sanctuary and to find the patterns by which it can be governed. You went to  the
garrison. You said your  son had been 'taken.'  You spoke of spirits  and of the
Stormgod, but you did not mention Vashanka. You wanted your brother to deal with
the altar, but you were going to deal with rest.

"They say you have  the legendary S'danzo Sight.  I'd like to know  exactly what
you've  been Seeing."  The priest  did not  seem surprised  when Illyra's   only
response was to stare forlornly at the floor. "Well, then, let me convince you."

He took her gently by the arm and guided her toward a tiny atrium where the rook
was already  perched in  a tree.  Dubro rose  to follow  them. Two temple mutes,
armed with heavy spears, convinced him to remain with the children.

"No one has betrayed you, Illyra, nor will betray you. Walegrin does not see the
larger picture when  he tells me  the details, but  you-you might see  a picture
even larger than my  own. You have the  Sight, Illyra, and you've  looked at the
Stormgod, haven't you?"

"The S'danzo have no gods," she replied defensively.

"Yes, but as  you yourself have  admitted, something has  touched your son,  and
that something is involved with known gods."

"Not gods, godspirits-gyskourem."

"Gyskourem?" Molin rolled  the word across  his tongue, and  the rook tried  its
beak on the sound as well. "Spirits? Demonfolk? No, I don't think so, Illyra."

She sighed  and turned  away, but  spoke louder  so he  could still hear what no
suvesh had heard before. "We have Seen the past as well as the future. Men begin
the creation of gods. There is a  hope, or a need; the gyskourem come,  and then
there is  a god-until  there is  no hope  or need  anymore. When they begin, the
gyskourem are like other men, or sometimes demonfolk are summoned as  gyskourem,
but when they are filled then they become gods truly and they are more  powerful
than  any man  or demon.  The S'danzo  do not  hope or  need, lest  we call  the
gyskourem to us."

"So Vashanka is not the son of  Savankala and Sabellia. He is the hope  and need
of the first battles fought by the first Rankan tribes?" The priest laughed from
some secret bemusement.

"In a way. It could be so. That is the pattern, although it is very hard to  see
so far back as for a god such Vashanka," Illyra temporized. The man was Vashanki
priest, and she was not about to tell him of the birth or death of his god.

"But not  so hard  to see  forward, I  should think.  My god  has fallen on hard
times, hasn't  he, S'danzo?"  Torchholder's tone  was harsh  and bitter, causing
Illyra to  turn to  face him,  though she  feared for  her life. "Don't pretend,
S'danzo. You may have the Sight, but  I was there. Vashanka was ripped from  the
pantheon.  Ils was there,  but  I do  not  think that  he  or his  kin  can fill
Vashanka's void. And there  is a void, isn't  there? A hope? A  need? The Rankan
Stormgod: the Might of Armies, the Maker of Victory, isn't here anymore."

She  nodded and  picked nervously  at the  fringe of  her shawl.  "It has  never
happened before, I think. He was changing, growing, even when he was tricked and
banished. There is a great web over Sanctuary, High Priest; it was there  before
Vashanka was banished, and  it's still there now.  There is much to  be Seen and
little to be understood."  She spoke to him  as she would any  other querent and
for a moment he looked properly chastened.

"How much hope does it take, S'danzo?  How much need? Can the god of  one people
usurp the devotion of  another?" The priest seemed  to ignore her then,  digging
deep into the hem of his sleeve, producing a sweetmeat for the rook, which  flew
tamely to his wrist for the treat. When Molin began again his voice was calm.

"I came here with the Prince, thinking to build a temple. The talk in Ranke  was
of war with the Nisibisi, and it was not a good time for an architect-priest.  I
would rather lay the foundation for a temple than undermine the walls of a city.
It should have been  quiet. Vashanka's attention should  have been drawn to  the
north with the war and the armies,  but He was here, almost from the  beginning,
and I never understood that.

"Now, the war goes on without victory. The troops are disheartened,  rebellious,
mutinous. They have slain  the Emperor along with  all of his family,  and mine,
which they could find. Now, the war belongs to Theron, and it goes no better for
him,  perhaps because  it was  not that  the Emperor  was a  bad war-leader  but
because in a forgotten backwater of the Empire a Rankan god has been banished.

"I've been  left with  a cesspool  of a  city to  govern because  no one else is
interested or able.  My temple was  never built, and  will not be  built now. My
Prince, the  only legitimate  heir to  the Imperial  throne, lives  in perpetual
innocence, and there are two thousand Beysin in Sanctuary, not counting  snakes,
birds, and fishermen, who  are planning to wait  here with their Empress,  their
gold, and their revolting customs until  their goddess bestirs herself to win  a
war they couldn't win with their own hands and weapons back home!"

His voice rose again,  and it frightened the  rook, which promptly bit  the hand
that fed it squarely between the thumb and forefinger.

"Lately I've begun to  understand that I will  not be going back  home," he said
more softly, binding the  wound with fabric from  his sleeve. "Or, rather,  I've
been forced to accept that  Sanctuary-of all the forsaken places  in creation-is
going to be my home until I die. I  will not have my dream of dying in peace  in
the temple where I was born. Do  the S'danzo think much of their birth-homes?  I
was born  in the  Temple of  Vashanka in  Ranke. My  substance is  one with that
temple. Some part of me:  my eyes, my heart, whatever,  is as it was when  I was
born and belongs more to that temple  than to me. But now, look, the  bird bites
me; blood flows  and new  skin is  formed. Sanctuary  skin, Illyra.  For me   it
will always be a very small part,  but for you- isn't Sanctuary within you  even
as the S'danzo Sight is within you?"

He had drawn her in to look at his wound, and played her with his best arguments
as he would  have done had  she been the  Emperor himself. His  eyes stared into
hers.

"Illyra, if you won't help me, then I can't help Sanctuary, and if I can't  help
Sanctuary, then it doesn't  matter if you save  your son. Use the  Sight to look
around you. There is hope, need; there is a great vacuum where Vashanka  reigned
"

Illyra jerked away from him. "The S'danzo have no gods. It does not matter to us
which of the  gyskourem becomes the  Gyskouras, the new  god other men  bow down
to."

"Before Vashanka was vanquished I made a grand ritual for Him, to consecrate his
worship here, to establish Sanctuary in his eyes and, in truth, to control  Him.
A Feast of the Ten-Slaying and the Dance of Azuna. The girl was a slave  trained
in the temple in Ranke, and Vashanka was the Imperial Prince Kadakithis himself.
It was,  perhaps, the  greatest of  my offerings  to the  god, and my worst. The
girl, remarkably,  conceived, and  a boychild  was born  not two weeks before...
before Vashanka was lost. That child is"  about the same age, I would guess,  as
your own son.

"He is a strange  child, much given to  anger and ill-humor. His  mother and the
others who care for him assure me that  he is no worse than any other child  his
age, but I am not so sure. They say he is lonely, but he rejects all the  palace
children brought  to him.  I think,  perhaps, he  has needed  to choose  his own
companions-and then, this morning, I heard of your son..." He paused, but Illyra
did not complete his sentence. "Shall I give you an old Ilsigi coin like the boy
gave you yesterday?  Do the S'danzo  only speak to  gold? Is your  son to be the
companion to Vashanka's last son? Is he the  new god I must serve, or is he  the
Gyskouras of some other hope which I must destroy?"

"Why do you ask these things?" Illyra repeated helplessly as the priest's  words
stirred the Sight within her.

"I  was high  priest and  architect for  Vashanka. I  am still  high priest  and
architect for the Stormgod-but I must know whom I serve, Illyra. And, if I must,
I must try again to bring the Stormgod into an understanding with his people.  I
could take your son out to that altar and make a sacrifice of him; I could bring
him to the palace and raise him as the god's son instead of the one I have there
now. Do you understand the choices I will have to make?"

Illyra Saw the high priest's choices, all of them, as well as the gods  watching
nervously as gyskourem were drawn to Sanctuary's maelstrom of hope and need. The
web of confusion  she had Seen  around the city  was focused on  the place where
Vashanka  had  been and,  for  the moment,  all  other magic  and  intrigue were
controlled by the  hopes and needs  which the emergent  Stormgod must take  into
himself.

She put her hands over her ears  and was unaware of her own screaming.  When she
was aware of anything again she was lying in the dirt of the atrium and Myrtis's
cool hands were holding a damp cloth to her forehead. Dubro was glaring down  at
the priest with mayhem in his eyes.

"She  is a  strong woman,"  Torchholder informed  the smith.  "Stormgods do  not
choose weak messengers." He turned to  Illyra. "I had not named Vashanka's  last
son; I had no  name that was right  for him. Now I  think I shall make  a naming
ceremony for him and  call him Gyskouras-at least  until he chooses a  different
name for  himself. And,  Illyra, I  think your  son should  be at that ceremony,
don't you?" He  summoned his servants  with a snap  of his fingers  and left the
atrium  without  formal  farewells,  the  great  rook  shedding  feathers  as it
struggled to clear the steep rooftops of the Aphrodisia.

"What did I  tell him?" Illyra  asked, taking hold  of Dub-ro's hand.  "He isn't
taking Arton? I didn't say that, did I?"

She would never surrender her son to  the priest or the gods, not even  if there
was  the silver  of true  Sight in  Torch-holder's request.  Dubro would   never
understand and, above all, the  S'danzo did not acknowledge the  interference of
gods. They would leave the town, if  they had to, sneaking out at night  the way
Shadowspawn and Moonflower's daughter had,  since the Torch had already  decreed
that no one would leave Sanctuary without his permission.

While she'd been with  the priest, Myrtis had  gotten the little boy  to swallow
some honeyed gruel, but when she put  the child back in Illyra's arms the  madam
made it plain that she did not  expect him to survive and, with the  high priest
showing such an interest, she certainly  did not want him surviving or  dying at
the Aphrodisia.

"We will take him with us," Dubro said simply, gathering up his daughter as well
and leading the way out to the Street. They could not have remained much  longer
at the Aphrodisia in any event.

Through years of labor Dubro and Illyra had amassed a small hoard of gold  which
they kept  hidden where  the stones  of Dubro's  forge became  the outer wall of
their homestead. But with the Beysib,  and all the gold they brought  with them,
not even gold was as valuable as  it had been and they could ill  afford another
day of  idleness. A  squall rose  out of  the harbor  while they were walking, a
sudden, damp inconvenience  that should not  have been remarkable  in a seacoast
town except  that the  raindrops striking  Arton's face  did not  wash away  his
clouded tears but made them darker. Without saying why, Illyra clutched her  son
tighter and raced ahead through the storm-quieted Bazaar.

It took several days,  even for the gossips  and rumor-mongers of Sanctuary,  to
discover the coincidences: The  recurrent, violent squalls; Molin  Torchholder's
unprecedented visit  to the  Aphrodisia House;  and the  S'danzo child who cried
silent, storm-colored tears. The story  that someone had smuggled an  unfriendly
serpent into the Snake-Bitch Empress's bedchamber had lent itself easily to lewd
embellishment, while  the tale  that half-rotted  corpses were  walking the back
alleys of Downwind  was more frightening.  But when the  fifth storm in  as many
days dumped hundreds of fish, some as large as a man's forearm, on the porch  of
Vashanka's still-unfinished temple, interest began, at last, to grow.

"They're sayin'  it's our  fault," the  apprentice said  when the  fire had been
banked for the night and the stew was bubbling on the fire-grate. "They say it's
him," the youth elaborated, glancing fearfully at Arton's borrowed cradle.

"It's the time for storms, nothing more. They forget every year," Dubro replied,
digging his fingers into the boy's shoulders.

The  apprentice  ate  his  meal  in  silence,  more  frightened  of  the smith's
infrequent anger than of the unnaturalness of the child, but he laid his  pallet
as far from the  cradle as possible and  invoked the protection of  every god he
could remember before turning his face to the wall for the night. Illyra took no
notice of him. Her attention fell only on Arton and the honey-gruel she hoped he
would swallow. Dubro sat frowning in his chair until the lad had begun to  snore
gently.

A single gust of wind churned through the Bazaar, then, with no greater warning,
the rain thundered against  the walls and shutters.  Illyra blew out her  candle
and stared past the cradle.

"Tears again?" Dubro asked. She nodded  as her own tears began to  fall. '"Lyra,
the lad's right:  people gather by  Blind Jakob's wagon  and stare at  the forge
with fear in their eyes. They do not understand-and I do not understand. I  have
never questioned your comings and goings; the cards or  your Sight, but   'Lyra,
we must  do something quickly  or the town itself will rise against us. What has
happened to our son?"

The huge man had  not moved, nor had  his voice lost its  measured softness, but
Illyra looked at  him in white-eyed  fear. She searched  her mind for  the right
words and, finding none, stumbled across the room to collapse into his lap.  The
Sight had revealed terrible things, but  none hurt her as much as  the weariness
in her husband's face. She told him everything that had happened, as the  suvesh
told their tales to her.

"I will go into the city tomorrow," Dubro decided when he had heard about  Zip's
altar, Molin's god-child,  and the Stormgod's  demise. "There is  an armorer who
will pay good gold for this forge. We will leave this place tomorrow- forever."

Another gust of wind whipped through the awning and, beyond that, the sound of a
wall, somewhere, crashing down. Dubro  held her tightly until she  cried herself
to sleep.  The little  oil lamp  beside him  guttered out  before the squall had
abated and the household tried to sleep.

Illyra did not  know if she'd  heard the crash  under the awning  or if she only
awoke because Dubro had heard it,  had shoved her aside, and was  already wading
into the storm and mud. By the time she lit a candle from a coal in the  cooking
fire, Dubro had retrieved the  young man whose visit'had precipitated  all their
misfortune.

'Thinking to steal, lad?" Dubro growled, lifting the sewer-snipe by the neck for
emphasis.

Mustering his courage. Zip  twisted his leg for  a kick where it  would hurt the
smith most and found himself thrown face-first onto the rough-wood floor for his
unsuccessful effort.

"What did you want? Your gold  coin?" Illyra interceded, grabbing her shawl  and
twirling it modestly around her as she rummaged through her boxes. "I've kept it
for you."  She found  the coin  and threw  it onto  the floor  by his  face. "Be
thankful and begone," she warned him.

Zip grabbed the coin and scrabbled to  his knees. "You stole Him. You cursed  me
and kept Him for yourself. His eyes were  fire when I called Him back to me.  He
doesn't need me anymore!" The young man's face was torn and bloody, but the edge
of hysteria in his voice came from something deeper than physical pain. "This is
not enough! I need Him back." He  cast the coin aside and produced a  knife from
somewhere around his waist.

Maniacal rage was not unknown to Illyra who had, more than once, said the  wrong
words to a distraught querent, but then  she had been behind a solid wood  table
with a knife of her own. Zip lunged at her before she or Dubro comprehended  the
danger. The blade bit deep into her shoulder before Dubro could move.

"He'll  take  me  back  with  this,"  Zip  said  in  triumph  from  the doorway,
brandishing his bloody knife before disappearing into the storm.

Zip's knife had  left a small,  deep wound that  did not, to  Dubro's eye, bleed
heavily enough. They would need poultices  and herbs to keep the cut  from going
to poison, and that  would have meant Moonflower,  if she'd been alive.  Without
Moonflower they had only their instincts to guide them until morning. Caring for
Illyra was more urgent than chasing  Zip. The frightened apprentice was sent  to
the well for clean water while Dubro carried his Illyra to their bed.

The apprentice had just  set the water on  the fire-grate when the  doyen of the
S'danzo in Sanctuary darkened the doorway. Tall, raw-boned, and bitter, she  was
not the e.ldest of the amoushem, the  scrying-women, nor certainly the most  far
Sighted, but she was  the most feared. Her  word had prohibited Moonflower  from
bringing the abandoned, orphaned Illyra into her home. S'danzo and suvesh  alike
knew her as the Termagant and even Dubro shrank back when she made the hand-sign
against evil and entered the room.

Illyra pushed herself up from the pillows. "Go away. I don't want your help."

With a loud, disdainful sniff the Termagant turned away from Illyra and  plucked
at the blankets in Arton's cradle. "You've brought us all to the edge of  death,
and only you can bring us back-only you. You See the gods, but do you ever close
your eyes to look around you? No. Even Rezel-and your mother's Sight was  better
than your half-blood will ever be-knew better than this. Suvesh pray and  meddle
with magic, but  they are Sightless  creatures and no  one notices them.  When a
S'danzo woman opens her eyes... Even the mightiest of gods don't have the Sight,
Illyra; remember that."

The crone looked away,  unwilling to say more.  Illyra slumped back against  the
pillows, her rage and fear dampened  by doubt. Rezel had never troubled  to tell
her toddling daughter about the S'danzo ways. Moonflower had tried, but with the
Termagant herself threatening and cursing  from the shadows, Illyra had  learned
dangerously little about the people whose gifts she used.

"I have not sought gods or  gyskourem," she whispered in her own  defense. "They
found me."

"There're demon  ships sailing  the harbor;  black beasts  rampaging through the
Maze, and the wretched  storms besides. The suvesh  are making themselves a  war
god, Illyra, and the  gyskourem they draw to  Sanctuary will stop at  nothing to
become that god. It is not the time for S'danzo to be using cards and Sight  for
them."

"I have not used the Sight for them.  I have not had the Sight since just  after
my son was  touched..." She would  have continued, but  the herbal infusion  had
begun to steam and the Termagant moved  swiftly to make a poultice with it  that
took Illyra's breath away when it rested against her shoulder.

"Fool, you  cursed the  suvesh, not  the gyskourem  that drove  him," the  crone
whispered now that Illyra alone could  hear her. She glanced at Arton's  cradle,
her disdain replaced by naked concern. "Does he have the Sight?"

Illyra would have laughed, had it been possible. Men did not inherit the  Sight,
and girl-children did not know if they possessed it until well after Lillis  and
Arton's age.

The Termagant noticed Illyra's half-smile.  "S'danzo men do not have  the Sight.
Who is to say  what he might have.  You care little enough  for the S'danzo-and,
maybe I did wrong to mis-See danger in  you, to try to keep you and the  S'danzo
separate. Know this then: it has been many generations since a new god was  made
from the gyskourem, and never have they taken the place of so powerful a god  as
Vashanka. But if gyskourem are to become a god, they must first be drawn by need
and sacrifice; then they must become Gyskouras-become one with a chosen  mortal.
It will be so, even with the new Vashanka.

"They have chosen your son as Gyskouras. Through him they have Blinded you. Gods
have never been a  threat to us  but this one,  this Gyskouras-who was  your son
will have the Sight, and will be invincible."

"But the Gyskouras will be Molin Torchholder's child in the temple...."

"Many men hope and sacrifice, Illyra, but there can only be one Gyskouras. It is
not yet decided. One child or the other must die before the Gyskouras can emerge
to be among  men before becoming  a god. You  have loved your  son. If you can't
free him from the gyskourem web, then kill him before it is too late for us  all
S'danzo and suvesh."

She pressed the clothes  against the wound and,  knowing that their sting  would
keep the young  woman speechless for  some time longer,  turned to her  husband.
"You must avenge her," she said to  Dubro as she began the first of  four silken
stitches which would hold  the wound shut. "You  may wait until she  recovers or
dies, or you can kill him outright  for the insult to all the S'danzo.  She will
pay, but so must the  suvesh who did this to  her. None of us who  use the cards
are safe if this is unavenged."

Dubro shook his head. "If I had caught him before he left, he would be dead, but
I cannot  hunt a  man to  the death,  old woman.  I will  send word  to the town
garrison. They'll be glad enough of a reason..."

"No." Illyra struggled to sit up. "No, let him go. Let him have my blood on  his
altar. If it will free Alton, it's small enough price. Let him be the  Gyskouras
of the new Stormgod."

"He attacked a S'danzo seer; his destiny is not for gods or gyskourem to decide.
The S'danzo have no gods to  protect them-only vengeance!" The woman raised  her
hand over Illyra's face and found it caught there in Dubro's bone-crushing fist.

"She is but half-S'danzo,  old woman. You and  the rest cast her  out before. If
she does not want vengeance, then you shall not give it to her." Dubro  released
the old woman and shoved her through the door into the abating storm. He frowned
as he wiped the tears from his wife's cheek.

"Shall I go to the barracks?" the apprentice asked into

the silence.

"Not yet. We'll wait and see what happens." Illyra slipped into sleep, but Dubro
sat,  staring,  in his  chair.  At dawn  he  awoke his  wife  and told  her  his
intentions had not changed. He would  sell his forge to the armorer  and quietly
buy a  wagon. They  would be  gone from  Sanctuary by  sundown. His wife did not
argue and pretended to go back  to sleep. The Termagant's medicine had  done its
work well; the wound was cool to the touch. Once Dubro had left, she was able to
dress herself, invent chores for the apprentice, and sit on the bench beside the
forge to wait anxiously for her husband's return while Lillis played in the dust
at her feet.

She was dozing, almost oblivious to the  ache in her shoulder and the clamor  of
the mid-moming bazaar around her, when  a heavy shadow fell over the  forge. The
storms came this way: darkness, then wind and rain. Pushing herself to her feet,
she told the apprentice to tie the wooden shutters closed before even looking up
at the sky. The Bazaar became deathly quiet as Illyra, and everyone else, looked
at the cloudless sky.  Nothing could be heard  but the frantic calling  of great
flocks of birds seeking shelter. Evening stars appeared on the horizon, then the
white-gold disk of the  sun could be seen  in the sky-with a  black disk sliding
over it.  Someone nearby  shouted that  the sun  itself was  being devoured. The
Bazaar, and the city beyond it, which had endured more of natural and  unnatural
disaster in the past  weeks than it cared  to remember, succumbed to  widespread
panic.

Illyra clutched the children  to her and sat  transfixed as the sun  shrank to a
glistening crescent of light. Then, just as it seemed it would vanish forever, a
halo of white fire  appeared around the black  sun. It was too  much-in a single
unfeeling movement  she dragged  Lillis and  the apprentice  inside, where  they
cowered on the  floor beyond Alton's  cradle. The darkness  became a storm  that
swept water and mud through the  open doorway. Gusts of wind lifted  the awning,
beat it  against the  stones of  the forge,  then bore  it away.  Lillis and the
apprentice whimpered in tenor  while Illyra tried to  set an example of  courage
she did not feel.

The storm had begun to die down  when Illyra realized her son was crying  aloud.
Letting the apprentice hold  onto Lillis, she crawled  to the cradle and  looked
into it. Alton had  thrown off his blankets  and wailed mightily, but  his tears
were  as dark  as the  storm itself.  She gathered  him into  her arms  and  was
assaulted by something which was not Sight and yet which showed her the ravening
gyskourem, fueled by the ambitions and sacrifices of men like Zip, pushing aside
Alton's mortal spirit, making him and themselves together into the Gyskouras  of
the new Stormgod.  There was Sight  as well, or  at least empathy.  She felt her
son's terror and knew that in mercy and love she should take his life before the
gyskourem  did, but  there was  something beyond  that: a  glimmer of  hope  and
sacrifice  that  might  yet  succeed. Ignoring  the  pleas  and  screams of  the
apprentice, she wound her  shawl around herself and  Arton and went through  the
doorway into the storm.

The  wind carried  more smoke  than rain  as Illyra  made her  way through   the
overturned carts and stalls. Damage and injury were everywhere, but in the chaos
no one had the time to notice a lone woman picking her way carefully toward  the
gates with a bundle in her arms.  Fewer dwellings had been leveled in the  town,
but great plumes of  smoke were rising in  some quarters. Gangs ran  through the
streets, some to rescue, while others went to wrest fortune from the misfortunes
of their  peers. Illyra  thought of  Dubro, somewhere  in the  tangle of streets
himself, but she had no  time to search for him  as she continued on her  way to
the palace.

It was not like the last time she had made her way boldly through the streets of
Sanctuary. Her path was not etched in the silver clarity of Sight, and she could
not have confronted the palace guards with the Sight of their destinies. But the
palace,  well-lit by  lightning from  the storm,  was the  largest building   in
Sanctuary, and the guards, busy consoling aristocrats and arresting looters, had
better things to do.

Within the palace walls Illyra  moved with the frantic courtiers,  searching for
something she could not name. Her shoulder throbbed from the strain of  carrying
Arton. The sense that was not  quite Sight led her to a  half-enclosed cloister.
There,  sheltered  from  the  wind,  rain,  and  casual  glances  of  the palace
residents, she crumpled into  a comer. Tears were  flowing down her cheeks  when
exhaustion mercifully closed her eyes and sent her to sleep.

"Barbarians!"

Illyra awoke to the echo of a shrill yell. The storm had passed, leaving in  its
wake brilliant  blue skies  and only  a faint  trace of  smoke in  the air.  Her
shelter had become the scene of a  private quarrel between a pair she could  see
quite  well  but  who could  not,  thanks  to the  patterns  of  bright sun  and
contrasting shadows,  see into  her comer.  It was  just as  well: the woman was
Beysib by her accent, though she seemed dressed in a modest Rankan gown, and the
man was Prince Kadakithis himself. Illyra clutched Arton tightly to her,  almost
glad that he was once again motionless and silent.

"Barbarians! Did we not open our court while the storm still raged to hear their
complaints? Did we not personally assure  them that the sun has vanished  before
and always returns? And that the storms, whatever exactly is causing them,  have
nothing to do  with the sun?  Haven't we let  them move their  filthy belongings
into the very courtyard of this palace?

"And did I not drape myself in great wads of cloth and pile my hair on top of my
head so that they might think of me as their proper Empress?"

Illyra gulped as Kittycat shook his head. "Shu-sea, I fear you misunderstood  my
lord Molin."

The Beysa  Shupansea, Avatar  of Mother  Bey and  Absolute, if currently exiled.
Empress of the Ancient  Beysib Empire, turned her  imperial back on the  Prince;
and Illyra, despite her awe and  fear, was inclined to agree with  his judgment.
True, her  hair and  dress were  Rankan-aristocrat beyond  reproach, but she had
painted her face  with Beysib cosmetics,  and the translucent,  shimmering green
from hairline to neckline only emphasized her Beysibness.

"Your high priest makes entirely too many points," Shupansea complained, tossing
her head. A curl  sprang free from her  elaborate coiffure, then another,  then,
with a flash of rich emerald, a snake eased down her neck and under the shoulder
of her dress. Sighing, the Beysa tried to entice the serpent onto her forearm.

"His point,  Shu-sea, was  simply that  as long  as the  towns-folk of Sanctuary
think of the Beysin and, most especially, of you, as invaders, as people totally
unlike themselves  ... well,  it makes  a sort  of unity  among them  that never
really was there  before. All their  violence is being  directed at your  people
rather than at each  other," the Prince explained.  He reached out to  touch the
Beysa, but the emerald snake hissed at  him. He pulled back his hand and  sucked
briefly on his fingertips.

Shupansea let the snake slide into a flowering bush. "Molin this... Molin  that.
You and he talk  as if you love  these barbarians. Ki-thus, they  don't love you
and your relatives any more than they love me and mine. Your own Imperial Throne
has been usurped, and the  agents of the very man  who sits on it in  your place
are sulking through the  alleys of this horrible  little city. No, Ki-thus,  the
time has come  not to show  them how benevolent  we are-but how  merciless. They
have pushed us to the very edge. They won't push us any farther."

"But, Shu-sea," the Prince said, taking her hands in his own now that the  snake
was gone. "That  is precisely what  Molin has been  trying to tell  you. We have
been pushed to the very  edge; we weren't very far  from it to begin with.  Your
Burek  clan is  here in  exile-hoping Divine  Mother Bey  will finish  off  your
usurping cousin. I don't  even have that hope.  All we have is  Sanctuary-but we
have to convince  Sanctuary that there's  some reason to  have us. Talk  to your
storyteller if  you won't  listen to  me or  Molin. Every  day that passes-every
storm, every murder, every broken  flowerpot-just makes it that much  harder for
us."

The Beysa leaned on  the Prince's shoulder, and  for a moment both  were silent.
Their lives,  the minutiae  of survival  for a  prince or  empress, were  beyond
Illyra's comprehension, but not the  weariness in the Beysa's shoulder;  she had
felt that herself.  Or the anxiety in the  Prince's face- the look of  a man who
knows he  is not quite  up  to the tasks he   knows he must perform;  that  look
crossed the face of everyone sooner or later.

The sudden empathy freed her Sight from whatever had held it in bondage just  as
the Beysa wrested free of the Prince.

"So-I will wear all this cloth, and my women as well- and we will all look  like
clan-Setmur fisherwomen. This is not the gentle land of Bey; I have been cold to
the bone since we arrived. But, Ki-thus, I will not take you as my husband. I am
the  Beysa.  My  consort  is  No-Amit, the  Corn-King,  and  his  blood  must be
sacrificed to the land. Even if your violent barbarians would accept your  death
at my hands, I will not take a man I love as No-Amit only to cut his heart  from
his breast twelve months later."

"Not No-Amit-Koro-Amit,  Storm-King. Like  you said:  you're not  in the  gentle
lands of Bey anymore. Nothing has to  be the way it  has always been.  Sanctuary
may  not be much, but  if it's ours no  one will question what we do with it.

"Besides, no matter what  you think of what  Molin says- you've seen  that child
down in the temple. You've seen his  eyes when he starts the storms, and  you've
seen them when the storms that he hasn't started are rattling the rafters.  Even
your great-uncle Terrai Burek says we've got to make that child think he belongs
to us and not to whatever else is raising the storms around here."

The Beysa  nodded and  sank onto  a damp  stone bench.  She reached out, and the
beynit serpent  began a  spiraling climb  up her  arm. "I  am the Avatar of Bey.
Mother Bey is within me, guiding me; She is real for me, yet I am not like  that
little boy. I hear  him in my sleep  and Bey, Herself, is  disturbed. Always She
has taken the conquered  Corn gods-and, yes Stormgods  into her bed, and  always
She has absorbed them into Herself.

"But this time we  have not conquered the  people of the Stormgod;  the Stormgod
was conquered without us, and  we do not know what  will rise in his place.  Bey
doesn't know. If I must take a  Koro-Amit to appease this new god, then  it will
be the boy's  true father: this  Tempus Thales. I  must believe that  Mother Bey
will take him to Her-and when it is over, I will still have you."

Both the  Prince and  Illyra blanched;  the Prince  for his  own reasons, Illyra
because  the Sight  revealed Vashanka,  Tempus, and  the child  together in  one
twisting, godlike apparition.

"Molin will kill me if he finds out  that not only am I not that little  demon's
father but that Tempus  is. And, Shu-sea, if  half the stories of  Tempus Thales
are true, when you cut out his heart  he'll just grow a new one. I'd rather  you
cut my heart out than think of you bound to Tempus and his son. I never  foresaw
what would happen when I sent Tempus to take my place at the Great Feast of  Ten
Slaying-but I won't run away from it now."

Illyra Saw, however, both the truth of the Prince's confession and the holocaust
which would follow Tempus's ravishment  of Shupansea-if that Sight were  allowed
to  happen. Visions  of war  and carnage  gripped her,  but the  Sight showed  a
single, silver path that led out of her comer.

"I can help you," she announced as she stepped into the sunlight.

The Beysa screamed,  and the Prince,  unmindful of the  agitated serpent on  her
arm, pushed her behind him to confront Illyra alone. Calmly, patiently, and with
the certainty  of Sight  around her,  Illyra told  the Prince  that they had met
before-when he had taken Walegrin's oath and almost immediately given Walegrin's
gift, an Enlibar steel sword, to Tempus. Kadakithis, whether he truly remembered
Illyra or not, was sufficiently impressed with her display of S'danzo prowess to
take  Arton in  his own  arms and   lead the  way to  Molin Torchholder  as  she
requested.

They found the priest not far from the nursery, giving orders to the  frightened
women who  were the  child's nursemaids.  He looked  first at  the Beysa and the
Prince, then at Illyra, and finally  at the bundle in Kadakithis's arms.  Illyra
looked  at  the  huge  black  bird preening  its  wings  above  the  doorway and
remembered she had Seen something like this before, at the Aphrodisia House-just
before she had left to find her half-brother, who worked for the priest-and  had
forced herself to forget it.

"You have won," Illyra  acknowledged. There were other  parts of that vision  as
well. "I cannot watch Sanctuary be destroyed. I will not see with my eyes what I
See in my heart. I should have given him to you before. He is dying now; it  may
be too late...."

"I could have taken him," Molin reminded her gently. "I have neither Sight  nor,
at the moment, a god. Still, it did not seem right that I could help that  child
in there become what he must become  if Sanctuary is to survive if I  stole your
son from you. I had to believe  that somehow you would understand and bring  him
to me. If I could still believe that, then I do not think it could be too  late.
Take your child in your arms again and come." He turned and ordered the door  to
the nursery to be opened.

Chaos reigned in the nursery. Tom pillows lay everywhere. Feathers clung to  the
nursemaids, and the  weary-looking woman who  appeared to be  the child's mother
was inspecting  a deep-purple  bruise on  her arm.  The child  himself turned to
glare at  his visitors  and discarded  a half-empty  pillow in  favor of a short
wooden sword. He charged at Illyra.

"Gyskouras! Stop!"  Molin thundered.  The boy,  and everyone  else, obeyed.  The
little sword clattered to the marble floor. "That is better. Gyskouras, this  is
Illyra,  who has  heard your  crying." Though  he held  still, the  boy met  the
priest's  eyes with  a cold  defiance no  one else  would have  dared. "She  has
brought her son to be with you."

Illyra pulled the blankets back from  her son's face, unsurprised that his  eyes
were open. She kissed him, and thought he smiled at her, then she knelt down  an
allowed the children to see each other.

The child whom Molin had named  Gyskouras had eyes which were truly  frightening
when confronted face-to-face,  but they softened  when Arton smiled  and reached
out with his hand to touch the  other's face. The gyskourem were gone; even  the
shifting images of Vashanka and  Tempus were gone-there were only  Gyskouras and
Arton.

"Will you leave him here with me?" Gyskouras asked. "My mother will take care of
him until my father gets here."

He took  no notice  of the  Prince and,  fortunately, for  the moment  Molin was
taking no notice of him. Illyra set Alton, already struggling from his blankets,
onto the floor and stood up just in time for the room to contain an eruption  of
a different sort, as Dubro, Walegrin, and a half a dozen Beysib guards  squeezed
through the doorway. But  by then Gys-kouras was  showing Arton how to  hold the
sword. The smith could accept, even if he could not wholly understand, that  his
son belonged here now, and however painful and unpleasant the consequences might
be, things were better than they might have been.

A FISH WITH FEATHERS IS OUT OF HIS DEPTH

by Robert Lynn Asprin

"You there! Back to the Maze! There be no easy targets on the wharves!"

Monkel, head of the clan Setmur, turned in astonishment to look for his comrade.
A moment ago, the Old Man had been walking quietly by his side. Now, he was  six
paces behind, shouting angrily down a narrow alley between two of the  buildings
that lined the edge of Sanctuary's wharves.

"And don't  come back!"  the Old  Man finished,  kicking dirt  toward the  alley
dramatically. "The last bravo we caught got cut up for bait. Hear me? Don't come
back!"

Now Monkel was at his side, craning his neck to peer down the alley. The gap was
littered with barrels and crates, and shrouded with shadows in the dim light  of
early  evening. Still,  there was  some light...  but Monkel  could see  nothing
unusual.  No  figures,  not  even a  glimpse  of  furtive  movement greeted  his
unblinking  gaze. If  nothing else,  though, Monkel  had learned  to trust   his
friend's judgment in detecting danger in this strange new town.

"Makes me  mad to  see trash  like that  on our  wharf," the  Old Man  muttered,
resuming their walk. "That's the trouble with money, though. As soon as you  get
a little extra, it draws scum who want to take it away from you."

"I saw nothing. Was someone there?"

"Two of them.  Armed," the Old  Man said flatly.  "I tell you  again, you'd best
leam to use  those funny eyes  of yours if  you're going to  stay alive in  this
town."

Monkel ignored the warning, as he did the friendly jibe at his eyes.

"Two of them? But what would you  have done if they had answered your  challenge
and attacked you?"

A  flashing glitter  appeared as  the Old  Man twirled  the dagger  he had  been
palming.

"Gutted them and  sold 'em at  the stall." He  winked, dropping the  weapon back
into its belt scabbard.

"Buthfoofthem..."

The Old Man shrugged.

"I've faced worse odds  before. Most people in  this town have. That  kind isn't
big on fair fights. Besides, there are two of us."

Monkel was suddenly aware of his own knife, still undrawn in its belt  scabbard.
The Old Man had insisted that he buy it and wear it at all times. It was not the
sort of knife used by men working nets and lines, but a vicious little  fighting
knife designed  for slipping  between ribs  or slashing  at an  extended hand or
fist. In  its own  way, it  was as  fine a  tool as  a fishing knife, but Monkel
hadn't even drawn it.

A wave of fear broke over the little Beysib as he suddenly realized how close he
had just been to being embroiled  in a knife-fight. The fear intensified  as the
knowledge settled on him that, had  the fight occurred, it would have  been over
before he could have reacted. Whether he was alive or not at the end would  have
depended entirely on the Old Man's skill.

The Old  Man seemed  to read  his thoughts,  and laid  a reassuring  hand on his
shoulder.

"Don't worry,"  he said.  "What's important  is the  spotting, not the fighting.
It's like fishing: If you can't figure out where they are, you can't catch 'em."

"But if they attacked..."

"Show 'em your back and they'll  attack. Once you spot 'em, they  won't. They're
looking for a victim, not a fight. If you're sober and facing them, they'll fade
back and go  looking for easier  pickings. Thieves... or  assassins. They're all
the same. Just keep your eyes open and you'll be safe. You and yours."

Monkel slowly shook his  head, not in disagreement,  but in bewilderment. Not  a
year of  his life  had gone  by without  the passing  of a  friend, relation, or
acquaintance  into  the shadow  realms.  Death wore  many  faces for  those  who
challenged the sea  for a livelihood:  a sudden storm,  an uncharted sandbar  or
reef, the attack of  a nameless monster from  the deep, or even  just a careless
moment leading to an accident. The head of clan Setmur had seen them all  before
reaching manhood, much less assuming his current position of leadership, and  he
thought he  was accustomed  to the  shadow of  death which  haunted those of his
profession. "We pay for the catch in  blood," was an idiom he had used  as often
as he had heard it.

Violent death, however, the act of murder or assassination, was new to him.  The
casualness with which the people of this new land fought or defended  themselves
was beyond his  comprehension. That was  what frightened him  the most; not  the
violence,  but  his  newfound  friends' easy  acceptance  of  it.  They no  more
questioned or  challenged the  existence of  random violence  than they  did the
tides or sunset. It was a constant  in this Old Man's world... a world  that was
now his own as well.

The Old Man's comment  about assassins was not  lost on Monkel. Too  many Beysib
were being killed-so many  that not even the  most callous citizen of  Sanctuary
could pretend it was random violence.  Someone, or perhaps a group of  someones,
was actively hunting the  immigrants. Clan Burek was  being hit harder than  his
own clan Setmur, and  the theories to explain  this oddity were many:  the Burek
were richer and drew  more attention from the  local cutthroats; they were  more
inclined to venture into the town at night than the fisher-folk of clan  Setmur;
and their arrogance  and pride made  them more susceptible  to being lured  into
fights against the Beysa's orders.  While Monkel acknowledged these reasons  and
agreed with them to a limited extent,  he felt there were also other factors  to
be considered. His lessons from the  Old Man in basic street survival,  which he
had, in turn, passed on to his  clan, had much to do with Setmur's  low casualty
rate. And perhaps most important was the local fishing community's acceptance of
the clan, a  phenomenon Monkel had  grown to appreciate  more" and more  as time
wore on. As a result of his appreciation, he had privately decided to expand his
duties as  clan head  to include  doing everything  in his  power to further the
friendships between his people and  the locals, whether it involved  endorsing a
boat-building project or simply accompanying the Old Man on his weekly visit  to
the Wine Barrel, as he was doing tonight.

The Wine Barrel had  changed, even during Monkel's  brief time in town.  Much of
the new money in Sanctuary was  being tunneled into its only readily  expandable
food source-the waterfront. The fishing community was enjoying an  unprecedented
affluence, and it was only to be expected that a portion of that wealth would be
spent at their favorite gathering point and tavern, the Wine Barrel.

Once a  rickety  wharfside dive,  the  Wine Barrel  had  been upgraded  to  near
respectability. Chairs  purchased secondhand  from a  bordello had  replaced the
mismatched benches and crates  that once adorned the  place, and years of  grime
were beginning to  give way to  a once-a-month, top-to-bottom  scrubbing; still,
some of the old traditions remained.

As Monkel followed the Old Man into the tavern, he noted several of his clansmen
scattered  through  the  room,  all   sitting  with  other  Beysib,  but   there
unchallenged nonetheless. There was one  table, however, none of them  sat at...
in fact, no Sanctuary fishermen sat at without an invitation. That was the table
that exploded with noise upon their entrance.

"It's about time. Old Man!"

"We already drank your share. You'll have to order more."

"Hey, Monkel.  Can't you  get the  Old Man  to walk  any faster? The streets are
dangerous to those who dawdle."

Sitting at  their table  were the  elite of  Sanctuary's fishing  community, the
senior  captains of  which the  Old Man  was the  unofficial leader.  It was  no
different from the  other tables, but  because they sat  there, the service  was
quicker and their drinks arrived in portions noticeably larger than those served
at other tables.

Of all the Beysib, Monkel was the only one accepted as an equal at the captains'
table, partially because of  his status as head  of the Setmur clan,  but mostly
because the Old Man said he was welcome.

Prior to their relocation  to Sanctuary, a Beysib  scout ship had picked  up the
Old  Man and  his son  Hort and   fetched them  back to  the Beysa's  court  for
interrogation. Once  it became  apparent that  the Old  Man would  not willingly
yield any useful  information about their  planned destination, the  majority of
the court had turned  their attention to Hort,  who was both more  talkative and
more knowledgeable about  the politics and  citizenry of Sanctuary.  Only Monkel
had continued dealing with the Old Man, plying him with specific questions  only
a fisherman would ask: questions about tides and reefs, the feeding patterns and
nature of the  native fish. The  Old Man recognized  them as the  questions of a
working man as opposed  to those asked by  the military or the  politicians, and
began to trade information for information. Their mutual respect had grown  into
a cautious friendship,  and Monkel had  made a point  of protecting the  Old Man
from the curiosity and jibes of his own countrymen. Now they were in  Sanctuary,
and the Old Man  was returning the favor  by helping Monkel and  his clan settle
into their new home.

The next round of drinks arrived, and Monkel started to reach for his purse. The
Old Man caught his eye with a  glare of stem disapproval, but the Beysib  merely
smiled  and  withdrew a  small  coin barely  large  enough to  pay  for his  own
refreshment. Though poor  by comparison with  the royal Burek  clan, the Setmurs
were  still substantially  wealthier than  their Sanctuary-raised  counterparts.
Soon after his arrival in town,  the Old Man had warned Monkel  against needless
displays of money... such as buying  a round of drinks for the  captains' table.
Rather than a  gesture of endearing  generosity, he had  been told, such  a move
would  be  interpreted  as  an  attempt  to  flaunt  his  financial superiority,
hindering rather than advancing his acceptance by the local fisherfolk. Normally
a bit tight-fisted  by nature, Monkel  had no difficulty  following this advice,
though the Old Man still tended to fret at him about it from time to time.

The cheap wine favored by the other captains was distasteful to Monkel, who  was
used to the more delicate, subtle  texture of Beysib beverages, but he  drank it
anyway  to  avoid appearing  overly  critical of  the  tastes of  his  new-found
friends. In a compromise with his own palate, he merely sipped cautiously at one
glass while listening to the fishermen gossip.

The  Sanctuary fishermen  were a  close-knit community,  caring little  for  the
affairs  of  the  "city  folk,"  and  it  showed  in  their  conversations. From
discussions with his clansmen who had  more contact with clan Burek, Monkel  had
obtained a wealth of rumors speculating on whether or not the Rankan Emperor was
dead and the effect it would have on Prince Kadakithis, currently the object  of
their own Beysa's affection.  None of this was  even mentioned at the  captains'
table...  their  conversation, instead,  centered  on the  movements  of various
schools of fish, and occasionally touched on the unpredictable winds and  storms
which  seemed to  spring from  nowhere to  threaten the  fishing fleet  even  at
anchor.  There was  also still  talk about  the solar  eclipse, though  Monkel's
assurances that  such phenomena  were not  unheard of  in the  chronicles of the
Beysib Empire had kept  the fishing community from  joining the town's panic  at
the time.

Monkel entered into the  "fish" discussions wholeheartedly enough,  particularly
those  concerning the  deep-water species  he was  familiar with,  but  remained
silent during the "storm" speculations. He had his own opinions, of course,  but
was more than reluctant to voice them,  even here. There was a stink of  sorcery
over  the  harbor  these  days,  but  Monkel  had  been  raised  a  fisherman by
fisherfolk.   He  knew   better  than   to  stir   their  superstitious   nature
unnecessarily; He was  lost in   these thoughts  when he  suddenly  noticed  the
conversation had stopped...  in  fact,   all talk  in  the  tavern  had  stopped
as  the assembled fishermen stared at the front door. Since  he was sitting with
his back to  that door, Monkel had to  turn in his seat to see what it  was they
were looking at.

It was Uralai of clan Burek, resplendent in her guards' uniform as she nervously
surveyed the Wine Barrel's  interior. She caught sight  of Monkel as he  turned,
and strode through the silent tables to where he sat.

"Monkel Setmur," she said formally, "the Beysa wishes to see you in the  morning
for a report on the progress of the new boat."

Monkel started to reply, but the Old Man cut him off.

"Tell the Beysa we'll see her tomorrow afternoon."

Uralai's eyes glazed for a moment, which Monkel saw at once as a sign of  anger,
a signal the Sanctuary fisherman  would not recognize. He hastened  to intervene
before things got out of hand.

"We will be taking our boats out before first light tomorrow. Assuming the Beysa
is not planning an early audience, we'll have to see her in the afternoon  after
the boats are back at the docks."

"... Unless she  wishes to reimburse  us for a  day's catch," the  Old Man added
with a smile.

Uralai bit her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded once in a sharp,
abrupt movement.

"Very well, I will so inform the Beysa."

With that, she spun on her heel and headed for the door.

"Wait a moment!"

Monkel rose and started after her, overtaking her just inside the entry way.

"What is it. Lord Setmur?"

"You  can't... you  shouldn't be  walking these  streets alone  at night.   It's
dangerous."

"I was told to find you, and this is where you are. It left me little choice  if
I was to carry out my assignment."

"Perhaps... if I walked you back to the palace."

Uralai arched one graceful eyebrow, and Monkel flushed at her unspoken barb. She
carried her two swords crisscrossed over her back and was trained in their  use,
while Monkel had only his knife.

"Please don't misunderstand  me," he stammered.  "I was not  meaning to imply  a
supremacy  at  fighting.  It's just  that  we  of Setmur  have  found  that many
confrontations can be avoided when we travel in twos after dark."

"And after you  see me to  the palace? Then  you must return  through those same
streets alone. No, Monkel Setmur. While I appreciate your concern, of the two of
us I think I am better suited to survive an unaccompanied journey."

With that, she headed out into the night, leaving him to return to his drink.

"You shouldn't let yourself be bullied  that way," the Old Man chided  as Monkel
resumed his seat. "You were  ready to give up a  day's fishing just so we  could
see the Beysa, weren't you?"

"I think the original summons was for me alone," Monkel growled, his mind  still
on Uralai.

"Of course it was. That's why I thought I'd better deal myself in. You're a good
man, Monkel, but  too honest for  your own good.  There are a  few items in  our
expenses that will require a fast wit and a glib tongue to justify."

"Have you been cheating the Beysa?" Monkel said, attentive once more. "That's  a
fine way to treat a visitor to your shores. Would you do the same thing to  your
own Prince-Governor?"

"In a minute,"  the Old Man  smiled, and the  others at the  table joined in the
laughter. In Sanctuary, even  honest folk had an  eye open for anyone  with more
money than business sense.

Of all the assembled captains, only Haron held herself apart from the  laughter.
She peered thoughtfully  at the young  Beysib for several  moments, then laid  a
hand softly on his knee and leaned forward.

"You care for that one, don't you?" she said softly.

Monkel was surprised at her perception. Haron was only a few years younger  than
the Old Man, and her  age-softened features combined with her  mannish attitudes
had made her almost indistinguishable from  the male captains at the table.  She
watched for  and saw  different things  than the  others though.. .like Monkel's
reactions to Uralai. He hesitated then gave a small nod of agreement.

"Hear that, boys?!" Haron crowed, slapping her palm loudly on the tabletop. "Our
Monkel's in  love! That  should settle  the question  of whether  or not he's as
normal as the rest of you!"

The head of the clan Setmur was shocked and embarrassed by the outburst, but  it
was too late  to do anything  to prevent it.  In a moment  he was the  center of
attention, being alternately congratulated and teased by the captains.

"Is she any good in bed?" Terci  said with a wink... a gesture Monkel  had never
been sure how to interpret.

"You'll have to bring her down here some night. We'd all like to meet her."

"Fool," Haron scoffed, dealing the  speaker a good-natured cuff. "Can't  you see
anything? She  was just  here. That  little guard  with the  big tits. It was as
clear as seabirds circling over a school of feeding fish."

Writhing under the cross-examination, Monkel deliberately avoided looking at the
other Setmur  clansmen in  the room.  He knew  they would  be staring  at him in
amazement and/or  disgust. Sex  was a  private subject  among the Beysib, seldom
discussed and never bantered about publicly.

The Old Man eyed Monkel in quiet speculation.

"A guard from the royal clan Burek?" he said.

Monkel nodded silently.

"What does  that mean?"  Omat interrupted,  half rising  and leaning  across the
table to join their exchange.

"It means Monkel has about  as much chance of winning  her as you would have  of
sparking Prince Kittycat's courtesans," the Old Man informed him.

"How do  you figure  that?" Haron  demanded. "They're  both Beysib, aren't they?
Monkel here's as good a man as any I've met. No one at this table knows the  sea
as he does. Why shouldn't he have her if he wants her?"

Though warmed by the compliment, Monkel had to shake his head.

"You don't understand. Things  are different for us.  If she had not  been on my
boat for the pilgrimage, we would never have met. I couldn't..."

"It's not that different at all," the Old Man grunted. "She's richer and used to
hobnobbing with royalty. Marrying a fisherman would be a real come-down."

Monkel surpressed a start as Haron hawked noisily and spat on the floor. Of  all
the local customs, this was the hardest  for him to accept. Among the Beysib,  a
woman's saliva was more often than not poisonous.

"That's a  lot of  bird dung.  Old Man,"  she announced.  "Just goes to show how
little you know about what a woman looks for in a man. Ignore these  wharf-rats,
Monkel. Tell me, what does she think?"

Monkel gulped half of his drink, then kept staring into the glass, avoiding  her
gaze.

"I... I don't know. I've never told her how I feel."

"Well, tell her, then. Or, better  yet, show her. Give her a  present... flowers
or something."

"Rowers," Omat sneered, waving  his one hand. "The  woman's a guard. What  would
she want with flowers? What would you do if a man gave you flowers, Haron?"

"Well, what  do you  suggest for  a gift?  A sword?  Maybe a  brace of  throwing
daggers?"

"I don't know. But it should be something she couldn't or wouldn't get herself."

The argument raged on  for hours, until Monkel  lost it in the  memory-deceiving
depths of his  fourth or fifth  glass of wine.  Only two points  remained in his
mind: he should not  discount the possibility of  marrying Uralai until he  knew
her thoughts  on the  matter, and  that he  should announce  his interest with a
gift... an impressive gift.

"Are you ill. Lord Setmur? Or didn't the fleet go out today?"

Startled, Monkel spun about in his  crouch to find Hakiem standing less  than an
arm's length behind him. He recognized the Beysa's local adviser from his visits
to court, but had never realized  the oldster could move so quietly.  Of course,
Hakiem was a product of Sanctuary's alleys.

"I didn't mean to  unsettle you," Hakiem said,  noting the Beysib's alarm.  "You
really shouldn't sit with your  back to the mouth of  an alley. It can draw  the
attention of those more bloodthirsty or greedy than curious."

"I... I stayed ashore today."

"I can see the truth in that. You are here and the boats are gone."

Hakiem's weathered face split in a sudden smile.

"Forgive me.  I'm prying  into matters  which are  none of  my business. I was a
tale-smith before your Beysa  invited me to join  her court, and old  habits die
hard. My storyteller's instincts  say that when the  head of the Setmur  fishing
clan remains ashore  while his boats  work the fishing  ground, there is  a tale
lurking somewhere nearby."

Monkel regarded his visitor with skeptical eyes.

"Has word of my absence been reported  to the palace? Did the Beysa send  you to
inquire after my  health, or did  you really come  all this way  in search of  a
story?"

The ex-talespinner nodded approvingly.

"Information for information. A fair trade.  I see you are rapidly learning  the
ways of our town. No, I didn't come looking for a story, though in the past I've
walked further on that quest. I am here  on my own in attempt to insure with  my
presence that the Beysa is not overcharged too outrageously for the boat  you're
building."

He quickly held up a hand, stopping Monkel's protests before they could begin.

"I  am not  accusing you  specifically. Lord  Setmur, though  we both  know  the
expenses you  reported to  the Empress  yesterday were  inflated. I  expected it
would  happen when  I recommended  your project  to the  Beysa, and  so far  the
exaggerated charges are well within acceptable limits. Since you are usually out
with the fleet, you have no way of  knowing that I visit the wharf every day  to
create the illusion that work and expenses are being monitored. I like to  think
it will  help my  countrymen to  keep their  greed in  check, thus  avoiding the
scandal of an audit or the  challenge which would certainly result if  they were
left to find the upper limits on their own."

Monkel dropped  his eyes  in embarrassment  and bewilderment.  Along with random
violence, he still had difficulty comprehending the easy way graft was accepted,
if not anticipated in Sanctuary.

"My encounter with  you today is  a chance meeting  spurred by my  own curiosity
upon seeing you ashore  at this hour, nothing  more," Hakiem finished. "Now  for
your half of the bargain. What, besides illness, could keep you from the  fleet?
I trust you have not chosen a wharfside back-alley for a sick-bed."

In response, Monkel held up a small stick with a length of fishing line  wrapped
around it.

Hakiem frowned for a moment, then followed the line with his eyes as it extended
down the  alley. A  fine fishing  net was  hanging there  as if  for drying, and
scattered on the ground under it were pieces of bread and fruit.

"It looks asif..." Hakiem fixed Monkel with a puzzled stare. "Fishing for birds?
For this you abandoned your duties with the fleet?"

"It will  be a  gift... for  a lady.  I thought  it would  impress her more than
something I had simply purchased."

"But aren't the beyarl sacred to your people?"

"Yes, but I was hoping to catch..."

Monkel's voice trailed off, but Hakiem had heard enough to finish the thought.

"... one of Sanctuary's birds."  The oldster seemed vaguely troubled.  "There is
no law against it, probably because no one has thought to try it before. Are you
sure. Lord Setmur,  that such an  undertaking is wise?  Wild things are  usually
best left wild."

Monkel laughed. "That's a strange thing  to say to someone who makes  his living
pulling creatures from the sea."

"Catching and killing for food is one thing. Trying to tame..."

Hakiem broke off speaking  and laid a hand  on Monkel's arm. Monkel  looked, and
jerked his line in almost the same instant, a reflex not unlike setting a hook.

A piercing scream and a flutter of wings announced his success as a dark  bundle
of feathers struggled vainly to escape the net's folds.

"Got it!" Monkel exclaimed, rising to  his feet. "My thanks, Lord Adviser:  your
alertness has speeded my success."

Hakiem shook his head as he turned to go.

"Do not thank  me yet," he  said darkly. "This  tale's not over,  if it has even
begun yet. I only hope its conclusion is to your liking."

Monkel heard none of this, for with the urgency of youth, he was already  moving
to secure his prize... or  rather, what he felt sure  would be the means to  his
prize.

As the days stretched into weeks, Monkel had more than one occasion to  question
his choice of gift for Uralai. The bird staunchly refused to be tamed.

Closer examination of his catch had shown a bird unlike any Monkel could  recall
having seen, though admittedly he had spent little time studying land-birds.  It
was roughly the size of a raven, though its vaguely hooked beak would lead  some
to think of it as a hawk, and black as the sea at night. Dominating its features
was a pair of bright yellow  eyes which seemed at once soul-piercing  with their
analytic coldness, and smoldering with  an ill-repressed fury that one  normally
only sees in a death match with a blood enemy.

When Monkel  gave the  bird the  freedom of  his quarters  it began methodically
breaking every item  vaguely fragile and  several he had  thought beyond damage.
When he packed the few remaining  valuables away, the bird countered by  leaving
its  droppings  on his  clothes  and bedding  and  gouging and  splintering  his
furniture with its beak.

As to Monkel  himself, the bird's  attitude varied. Sometimes  it would flee  in
terror, crashing headlong into the wall  in its efforts to escape, and  at other
times it would fly in his face, screaming its outrage while contesting his right
to even enter  the room. Mostly,  it would play  coy, letting him  approach with
outstretched hand  only to  flutter away  to wait  again on  another perch... or
better still, climb onto his hand  momentarily, then use its beak in  a slashing
move to draw blood from his hand or face before taking to the air.

The bird thought it  was terrific fun. The  thoughts of Monkel himself,  with an
increasing number  of scars  and half-healed  wounds adorning  his features  and
appendages, are best left  unrecorded save to note  that he often found  himself
wondering if the bird was edible. At this point in their duel, simply killing it
would have been an insufficient expression of his frustration.

The final  breakthrough was  triggered by  a conversation  with one  of his clan
members. Clan Setmur was growing more  and more concerned about his attempts  at
bird taming.  Not only  was it  leaving him  in a  perpetually foul mood, it was
drawing unwanted attention  to the wharf  community. Whether his  friends at the
captains' table  had let  the news  leak or  if Hakiem  was not  as retired from
storytelling as he  claimed was inconsequential.  What mattered was  that it was
now  common  knowledge  on the  streets  of  Sanctuary that  one  of  the Beysib
fishermen had caught a black bird  and was trying to tame it.  Curiosity seekers
appeared in a surprising array of  rank and status. Barflies and S'danzo  seers,
petty criminals and self-proclaimed emissaries of the crime-lord Jubal all  were
asking questions  with varying  degrees of  subtlety regarding  the bird and its
trainer. Once, a dark mysterious woman reputedly never seen by the light of  day
was heard to make inquiries.

To one and all, clan Setmur claimed ignorance, but, as a normally quiet  private
people, they were  distressed at this  sudden notoriety. Having  failed in their
efforts to convince  Monkel to abandon  his task completely,  they instead plied
him with  every bit  of advice  they could  think of  to bring  his project to a
successful and, above all, speedy conclusion.

Thus it was that Monkel was approached  by Paratu, one of his cousins, as  their
ship approached Sanctuary after a day's fishing.

"Have  you  considered  treating  the bird  like  a  person?"  she said  without
preamble. "Perhaps it resents your attitude."

Monkel found himself smiling in spite of himself.

"Whatever led you to that idea?"

In response, Paratu gestured toward the city.

"I was  recalling what  you told  us when  we first  arrived at this hellhole...
about dealing with the  residents of Sanctuary. You  said we shouldn't think  of
them as animals. That if we treated  them as people, they would respond as  such
and everyone  would benefit.  Well, your  advice worked,  and it  occurred to me
that, like the people, the bird is from the city. Maybe the same approach  would
work for you now."

"There's one problem with that, Paratu. The bird is an animal."

"So are the people,"  she said, staring at  the town. "They respond  to respect,
and I frankly doubt you could find more than a handful that are any smarter than
your bird."

Monkel  had  laughed  openly  then,  but  later  gave  the  suggestion   serious
consideration.

Starting that very night,  he began talking to  the bird... not with  the simple
commands of  a trainer,  but open  conversation as  one would  have with a close
friend. He spoke of his previous life, of his fears in coming to this new  land,
and of his achievements thus far in  his period of clan leadership. He told  the
bird of the elegance  of the Beysa's court  and of Uralai's beauty.  Once he got
started, talking to the bird became an  easy habit, for, in truth, Monkel was  a
lonely man made lonelier by the pressures of leadership.

To his amazement, the bird responded almost immediately ... or, to be  accurate,
it stopped responding. Instead of flying  in terror or slashing at his  face, it
would sit quietly  on his hand,  head cocked to  one side as  if hanging on  his
every word. Soon, he became bold enough  to set the bird on his shoulder,  where
it was in easy reach of an ear  and an eye. The bird never betrayed this  trust.
If anything, it seemed  to glory in its  new perch and would  flutter quickly to
Monkel's shoulder as soon as he entered the room.

After a week of this, Monkel tried taking it outside and, in a final test, would
transfer it to other people's shoulders. Through it all, the bird remained  well
mannered  and  tolerant. Though  suspicious  of its  sudden  domesticity, Monkel
decided it was time to make his presentation. If he waited much longer, he  knew
he would have grown too attached to the bird to give it up.

"You'll see. She's very beautiful, just like I told you."

The  bird  regarded  Monkel  with an  expressionless  yellow  eye,  ignoring the
sweetmeat he was offering as a bribe.

With an inward sigh, the head of  clan Setmur twisted in his chair to  peer down
the palace corridor once more, then resumed staring out the window.

He had considered presenting  his gift to Uralai  in the Beysa's court,  but his
confidence sagged and he decided to wait and catch her coming off duty. He still
had lingering fears  about the reliability  of the bird's  manners, and while  a
mishap while presenting  it to Uralai  would be embarrassing,  the same slip  in
front of the Empress would be a disaster.

"You'll like it here,"  he murmured, more for  his own reassurance than  for the
bird's. "It's definitely a step up from fighting for gutter scraps. I'll bet any
bey art-those are our own holy birds-would envy the treatment you'll..."

A soft footstep reached his ear, and he looked again to see Uralai  approaching.
All of his fears and insecurities ascended to his throat in a tight knot, but he
steeled himself and rose to meet her.

"Good evening, Uralai."

"Monkel Setmur. What a pleasant surprise." Her voice was nearly musical when  it
wasn't speaking for the Beysa. "And what a lovely bird."

Buoyed by her warm reception, Monkel hurriedly blurted his mission.

"The bird is a gift. I... want you to have it."

"Really? I didn't know they sold pet birds in this town."

Uralai was  studying the  bird as  Monkel took  it on  his hand  and extended it
toward her.

"They don't," he said. "I caught it and tamed it myself."

"Why?"

Monkel was growing uneasy. When he  had rehearsed giving the gift to  Uralai, he
had not anticipated  a prolonged conversation,  and his discomfort  increased as
the talk progressed.

"I wanted...  I am  an unsophisticated  fisherman and,  try as  I might, I could
think of no better way to express my admiration of you than with a gift."

"That wasn't  what I  meant," Uralai  said, "though  you have certainly achieved
your goal. What I was trying to ask was why you chose this particular gift."

"The bird is native to our new  homeland. Its spirit and the town's are  one. If
we are to survive here,  we must also become one  with that spirit. We must  not
cling to  our old  ways and  customs, but  rather be  open to  change and  local
ideas... such as your not being offended  by the admiration of one from a  lower
clan."

"You speak quite well for an unsophisticated fisherman."

Uralai took the  bird on her  hand and moved  it up to  her shoulder. It  hopped
obediently onto its new  perch. Monkel held his  breath. A new awareness  washed
over him of how easily the bird could go for her eye.

"Your idea of becoming  one with this miserable  town is hard to  accept. I will
have to think about it further. However..."

She laid a soft hand on his arm.

"... accepting your admiration is not as new as you seem to think. Remember, you
are the head of your clan, while within my own, my status is less..."

The bird turned and loosed a load of dung down the front of her uniform.

Monkel rolled his eyes  heavenward and fervently wished  he could expire on  the
spot.

"Don't worry." Uralai's laugh was only a little forced. "It's a wild thing, like
this town. It doesn't know how to behave politely. It's a wonder it's as tame as
it is. Tell me, how did you do it? Was it very difficult?"

"Well..."

Before Monkel could continue,  the bird moved again.  This time, it hopped  onto
Uralai's head where it repeated its earlier misdeed in sufficient quantity so as
to dribble some onto her face.

"You did that  on purpose!" Monkel  exploded, grabbing for  the feathered fiend.
"I'll..."

The bird launched itself out the  window and disappeared with a scream  that was
more triumphant than apologetic.

"Good riddance!" Monkel shouted. "I'm sorry, Uralai. If I had thought..."

Uralai was shaking with silent laughter as she wiped the droppings from her face
and hair.

"Oh, Monkel," she said, using his name  alone for the first time, "if you  could
have seen yourself. Maybe  I should have accepted  your escort the other  night.
You're becoming as violent as those people you drink with. Now, come. Walk  with
me and tell me about the taming of your departed gift."

It was more  than an hour  before Monkel took  his leave and  floated home on  a
headier wine than any served at  the fisherman's tavern. The gift had  succeeded
beyond his  wildest hopes  in opening  communication with  Uralai. What was even
better, with the bird gone, he  no longer had to worry about  having unwittingly
visited misfortune upon her house.

The bird was waiting for him when  he arrived home, and no amount of  cursing or
thrown rocks would entice it to leave.

A SPECIAL NOTE FROM THE EDITORS TO THIEVES' WORLD READERS

We would like to take a moment to thank our readers for their continued  support
over the last five years.

The fan mail  we have received  is of Homeric  proportions, which has  created a
problem at our end. For years we have tried to answer each letter  individually,
and as a result have countless sacks and drawers of unanswered mail. We've  read
it all,  but replying  is biting  heavily into  our writing  (for pay)  time. In
desperation, we are  converting to a  word processor and  a computerized mailing
list, and armed with the weapons of modem technology we will tackle the backlog.
If you have written us without receiving  an answer, do not give up hope!  We're
working on it.. .even if the response is several years late.

As  an added  bonus in  appreciation for  your patience,  your address  will  be
included  in our  private mailing  list. This  will be  used for  an  infrequent
newsletter, giving advance information about future volumes and announcements of
new Thieves' World spin-off products.

Again, thank you for  your support. The series  wouldn't still be going  without
you!

Robert Lynn Asprin
Lynn Abbey
November 1984