Thieves World Book #08
Soul of the City

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae		Lynn Abbey

Power Play			Janet Morris
Dagger in the Mind		C.J. Cherryh
Children of All Ages		Lynn Abbey
Death in the Meadow		C.J. Cherryh
The Small Powers that Endure	Lynn Abbey
Pillar of Fire			Janet Morris

Dramatis Personae

The Townspeople

AHDIOVIZUN; AHDIOMER  viz; AHDIO,  Proprietor of  Sty's Place,  a legendary dive
within the Maze.

LALO THE LIMNER, Street artist gifted with magic he does not fully understand.

GILLA, His indomitable wife.

ALFI, Their youngest son.

LATILLA, Their daughter.

OANNER, Their middle son,  slain during the False  Plague riots of the  previous
winter.

VANDA, Their daughter, employed as maid-servant to the Beysib at the palace.

WEDEMIR, Their son and eldest child.

DUBRO, Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra.

ILLYRA, Half-blood S'danzo seeress with True Sight. Hounded by PFLS in the False
Plague.

ARTON,  Their son,   marked by  the gods   and magic  as part   of an  emerging
divinity known as the Stormchildren. Sent  to the Bandaran Isles for his  safety
and education.

ULLIS, Their daughter, slain in the False Plague riots.

HAKIEM, Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire.

JUBAL, Prematurely aged  former gladiator. Once  he openly ran  Sanctuary's most
visible criminal organization, the Hawkmasks. Now he works behind the scenes.

SALIMAN, His aide and only friend.

MAMA BECHO, Owner of a particularly disreputable tavern in Downwind.

MASHA ZIL-INEEL, Midwife  whose involvement with  the destruction of  the Purple
Mage enabled her to move from the Maze to respectability uptown.

MORIA, One-time Hawkmask and servant to Ischade. She was physically  transformed
into a Rankan noblewoman by Haught.

MYRTIS, Madam of the Aphrodesia House.

SHAFRALAIN, Sanctuary nobleman who can trace  his lineage and his money back  to
the days of llsig's glory.

ESARIA, His daughter.

EXPIMILIA, His wife.

CUSHARLAIN, His cousin. A customs inspector and investigator.

SNAPPER JO, A fiend who survived the destruction of magic in Sanctuary.

STILCHO, Once one of Ischade's resurrected minions, he was "cured" of death when
magic was purged from Sanctuary.

ZIP, Bitter young terrorist. Leader of  the Popular Front for the Liberation  of
Sanctuary (PFLS).

The Magicians

HAUGHT, One-time apprentice of Ischade who betrayed her and is now trapped in  a
warded house with Roxane.

ISCHADE, Necromancer and thief. Her curse  is passed to her lovers who  die from
it.

ROXANE; DEATH'S QUEEN, Nisibisi witch. Nearly destroyed when Stormbringer purged
magic from  Sanctuary, she  is trapped  inside a  warded house  and a dead man's
body.

Others

THERON, New  military Emperor.  An usurper  placed on  the throne  with the  aid
ofTempus and his allies. He has commanded that Sanctuary's walls must be rebuilt
by the next New Year Festival.

The Rankans living in Sanctuary

CHENAYA;  DAUGHTER OF  THE SUN,  Daughter of  LOW an  Vigeles, a  beautiful  and
powerful young woman who is fated  never to lose a fight. DAYRNE,  Her companion
and trainer.

LEYN, OUUEN, DISMAS AND GESTUS, Her friends and fellow gladiators.

GYSKOURAS,  One of  the Stormchildren,  currently in  the Bandar  an Isles  for
education.

PRINCE KADAKITHIS, Charismatic but  somewhat naive half-brother of  the recently
assassinated  Emperor,  Abakithis.

DAPHNE,  His  estranged  wife,  living  with Chenaya's gladiators at Land's End.

KAMA; JES, Tempus' daughter. 3rd  Commando assassin. Sometime lover of  both Zip
and Molin Torchholder.

LOWAN VIGELES, Half-brother of Molin  Torchholder, father of Chenaya, a  wealthy
aristocrat self-exiled to Sanctuary. Owner of the Land's End Estate.

MOLIN TORCHHOLDER; TORCH, Archpriest and architect of Vashanka; Guardian of  the
Stormchildren.

ROSANDA, His estranged wife, living at Land's End.

RANKAN 3RD COMMANDO,  Mercenary company founded  by Tempus Thales  and noted for
its brutal efficiency.

SYNC, Commander of the 3rd.

RASHAN;  THE EYE  OF THE  SAVANKALA, Priest  and Judge  of Sanvankala.  Highest
ranking Rankan in Sanctuary prior to the arrival of the Prince, now allied  with
Chenaya's disaffected Rankans at Land's End.

STEPSONS; SACRED  BANDERS, Members  of a  mercenary unit  founded by Abarsis who
willed their  allegiance to  Tempus Thales  after his  own death. CRITIAS; CRIT,
Leftside leader paired with Straton. Second in command after Tempus.

RANDAL; WITCHY-EARS, The only mage ever  trusted by Tempus or admitted into  the
Sacred Band.

STRATON; STRAT; ACE, Rightside  partner of Critias. Injured  by the PFLS at  the
start of the False Plague riots.

TASFALEN LANCOTHIS, Jaded nobleman,  slain by Ischade's curse,  then resurrected
by Haught. His body has become Roxane's prison.

TEMPOS THALES;  THE RIDDLER,  Nearly immortal  mercenary, a  partner of Vashanka
before  that  god's demise;  commander  of the  Stepsons;  cursed with  a  fatal
inability to give or receive love.

WALEGRIN,  Rankan army  officer assigned  to the  Sanctuary garrison  where his
father had been slain by the S'danzo many years before.

The Gods

DYAREELA, A goddess whose worship in Sanctuary predates the Ilsigi presence  and
which has been outlawed many times since then.

HARRAN, Physician  and priest  to Siveni  Gray-Eyes, now  part of  her four-fold
divinity.

MRIGA, Mindless and  crippled woman elevated  to four-fold divinity  with Siveni
Gray-Eyes.

SABELLIA, Mother goddess  for the Rankan  Empire.

SAVANKALA, Father  god for the Rankan Empire.

SIVENI  GRAY-EYES,  Ilsigi  goddess   of  wisdom,  medicine  and   defense,  now
transformed into a four-fold diety.

SHIPRI, Mother goddess of the old Ilsigi kingdom.

STORMBRINGER, Primal stormgodlwargod. The pattern for all other such gods, he is
not, himself, the object of organized worship.

JIHAN, Froth Daughter. His  parthenogenic offspring, betrothed to  the Stepson's
mage, Randal.

The Beysib

SHUPANSEA; SHU-SEA, Head of the Beysib exiles in Sanctuary; mortal avatar of the
Beysib mother goddess.

POWER PLAY

Janet Morris

Tempus, a mercenary general in the service of Ranke's new emperor, was knee-deep
in the  bloody purges  marking the  first winter  of Theron's  accession to  the
Rankan throne when the sky above the walled city began to weep black tears.

By the time dawn  should have broken, ashen  clouds massed to the  very vault of
heaven so that  not even the  Sun God's sharpest  rays could pierce  the arrayed
armies of the night. The city of  Ranke, once the brightest jewel of the  Rankan
empire, shuddered in the  dark, her ochre walls  stained dusky from the  storm's
black and ugly might.

Thunder growled;  winds yowled.  Black hail  pelted Theron's  palace, shattering
windows and pounding  doors. On temple  streets and cultured  byways it bounced,
sharp as diamonds and  large as heads, bringing  impious priests to their  knees
and cheap nobles to charity in slick streets covered with greasy slush  freezing
to ice as black, some said, as their emperor Theron's heart.

For all knew that Theron had come to power in a coup instigated by the armies-he
was a creature of blood, a wild beast of the battlefield. And the proof of  this
was in the allies who had brought him to the Imperial palace: Nisibisi  witches,
demons of  the black  beyond, devils  of horrid  aspect, even  the feared   near
immortals of the blood cults-Askelon, the lord of dreams, and his brother-in-law
Tempus, demigod and  favorite son of  Vashanka, the Rankan  wargod, to name  but
two- had lent their strength to Theron's cause.

Did not Tempus still labor at his gory task of purging the disloyal-all who  had
been influential in Abakithis's  court? Did not women  still wake to empty  beds
and find pouches  made of human  skin and filled  with thirty gold  soldats (the
Rankan price for one human life) nailed to their boudoir doors?

Did not those few remaining adherents of Abakithis, former emperor of Ranke (now
deceased,  unavenged,  much cursed  in  his uneasy  grave),  still scuttle  even
through the deadly,  knife-sharp hail with  bulging pockets to  the mercenaries'
guildhall to leave their fortunes at  the desk with scrawled notes saying,  "For
Tempus, to distribute as he wills, from the admiring and loyal family of  So-and
So," while servants spirited noble wives and children out back ways and slumyard
gates in beggars' guise?

Thus it was  whispered, as the  storm raged unabated  into its second  day, that
Theron and his creature  Tempus were to blame  for this black blizzard  straight
from hell.

It was whispered by a woman to Critias, Tempus's first officer and finest covert
actor, who had infiltrated the noble strata of the imperial city; And Crit, with
a  wry twitch  of lips  that drew  down his  patrician nose  and a  rake of  his
swordhand through dark,  feathery hair, replied  to the governor's  wife  he was
bedding: "No one   gives a contract  for  a sunrise,  m'lady. No  man.  that is.
Theron is no more than that. When gods throw tantrums, even Tempus listens."

Crit had fought in the Wizard Wars up north and the woman knew it. His guise was
that of a disaffected officer who had renounced his commission after Abakithis's
assassination at the  Festival of Man  and now, like  so many others  of the old
guard, scrambled from allegiance to allegiance in search of safety.

So  the  governor's  wife   just  ran  a  finger   along  his  jaw  and   smiled
commiseratingly as she  said, "You men  of the armies  ... all alike.  I suppose
you're telling me that this is good?  This storm, this hail black as hell?  That
it's a sign we poor women cannot read?"

And (thinking of the prognosticators-bits of hair  and silver and bone and  luck
nestled in the pouch dangling from his belt that, with the rest of his  clothes,
lay in a heap at the foot  of another man's bed) Crit replied in  Court Rankene,
"When the  Storm God  returns to  the armies,  wars can  be won-not  just fought
interminably. Without Him,  we've just been  marking time. If  He's angry, He'll
let us know on what account. And I'd bet it won't be Theron's-or Tempus's. One's
a general  whom the  soldiers chose  exactly because  the god  had abandoned  us
during Abakithis's reign; the other is..."

It was  not the  woman's hand,  reaching low,  which made  him pause. She wanted
Crit's protection; information was what  he'd sought here in return.  And gotten
what he'd come for, and more from this one-all a Rankan lady had to give. So  he
thought-in  a  moment  of  unaccustomed  tenderness  for  one  who  would likely
entertain, on his account, the crowds who'd throng the execution stands when the
weather broke-to explain to  her about Tempus. About  what and who the  man Crit
had sworn to serve was, and was not.

He settled for "... Tempus is what Father Enlil-Lord Storm to the  armies-wills,
and cursed more than Ranke and all her enemies put together. By gods and men, by
magic and mages. If there's hell to pay because of Theron's reign, rest assured,
lady, it's he who'll suffer in all our steads."

The Rankan woman, from the look on her face and the hunger on her lips, had lost
interest in the subject. But Crit had not. When he left her, he marked her  door
with a sign for the palace police without even a second thought to the fine body
behind it which would soon be lifeless.

The sky  was still  black as  a witch's  crotch and  the wind  was chorusing its
judgment  song in  a many-throated  voice Crit  had heard  occasionally on   the
battlefield when Tempus's non-human allies took a hand in this skirmish or  that
choraling the way it used to when wizard weather blew in Sanctuary, where Crit's
partner and his brothers of the Sacred Band were now, down at the empire's  most
foul and egregious southernmost appurtenance.

By the time Crit had retrieved his horse, his fingers were playing with the luck
charms in  his beltpouch.  Normally, he'd  have pulled  them out, squatted down,
shaken and thrown them in the straw for guidance.

But the storm was guidance enough; he didn't need to ask a question he  wouldn't
like the answer  to. If his  partner Strat had  been on his  right tonight, he'd
have bet his  friend any odds  that, when the  weather broke, Tempus  would come
rousting Crit without so much as  an explanation and they'd be heading  south to
Sanctuary where the Sacred Band was quartered for the winter.

Not that he didn't want to see  Strat-he did. Not that he wasn't happy  that the
Storm god Vashanka,  God of the  Annies, of Rape  and Pillage, of  Bloodlust and
Fury and Death's Gate, was manifest-he was. What he'd told the Rankan bitch  was
true-you couldn't win  a war without  your god. But  Vashanka, the Rankan  Storm
God, had  deserted the  Stepsons, Crit's  unit, in  their need.  So the unit had
taken up with another, perhaps greater, god: Father Enlil.

And the black,  roiling clouds above,  the voices which  spoke thunder over  the
fighter's head, were telling a man  who didn't like gods much better  than magic
and who  was first  officer to  a demigod  who meddled  with both, that Vashanka
might not be  too pleased with  the fickle men  who once had  slaughtered in His
name and now did so in Another's.

Things were so damned complicated whenever Tempus was .involved.

Grabbing a tuft of mane, Crit swung  up on his warhorse and reined it  around so
hard it  half-reared and  then, finding  itself headed  toward the  mercenaries'
guild and its own stall, safety and comfort in the storm, fairly bolted  through
the treacherous, slushy streets of Ranke.

Despite the  darkened ways  and chancy  footing, Crit  let the  young horse run,
trusting pedestrians,  should there  be any,  to scatter,  and armed  patrols to
recognize him for who and what he  was. The horse had a right to  comfort, where
it could find some. Crit  couldn't think of a thing  that would do the same  for
him, now that the gods had dropped one  shoe and all he could do was wait  until
Tempus dropped the other.

The storm didn't exactly break, but on the fourth day it mellowed.

By then, Theron and  Tempus had summoned Brachis,  High Priest of the  Variously
Named Wargods of Imperial Ranke, and concocted a likely story for the populace.

Executions,  held  in abeyance  for  the first  three  days of  the  storm, were
resumed. "More purges, obviously. Your Majesty," Brachis had suggested, unctuous
to  the point  of insult,  managing by  his exaggerated  servility to  mean  the
opposite of what he said, "will appease the hungry gods."

And Theron, old and as  gray as the shadows in  this newly acquired but not  yet
conquered palace full of  politicians and whores, gave  Brachis a tare fully  as
black as the raging sky outside and said, "Right, priest. Let's have a dozen  of
your worst enemies bled out in Blood Square by lunch."

Tempus stayed an impulse to touch his old friend Theron's knee under the table.

But Brachis  didn't rise  to Theron's  bait. The  priest bowed  his way out in a
swish of copper-beaded robes.

"God's balls, Riddler," said the aging general to the ageless one, "do you think
we've angered the gods? More to the point, do you think we've got one to anger?"

Theron's jaw jutted so that the pitting of age made it look like a walnut shell,
or the  snout of  the moth-eaten  geriatric lion  he so  much resembled from his
thinning, unkempt mane to his scarred and twisted claws. He was a big man still,
his power no  mere memory, but  fresh and flowing  in corded veins  and leathery
sinews-big and powerful in his aged  prime, except when seen in close  proximity
to Tempus, the avatar of Storm  Gods on earth, whose yarrow-honey hair  and high
brow free  from lines  resembled so  much the  votive statues  of Vashanka still
worshiped in  the land.  Tempus's eyes  were long  and full  of guile,  his form
heroic, his aspect one of  a man on the joyous  side of forty, though he'd  seen
empires rise  and fall  and fully  expected to  see the  end of this one-to bury
Theron as he had and would so many other men, with all their might ranged  round
them.  And  Theron  knew the  truth  of  it-he'd known  Tempus  since  both were
seemingly  of an  age, fighting  the Defender  on Wizardwall's  skirts when  the
Rankan Empire was just a babe. The two were honest with one another when it  was
possible; they were careful when it was not.

"Got a god to anger? We've got  something mad enough to spit, I'll own,"  Tempus
replied. Now, Tempus knew, was not the time to raise false hopes of Vashanka the
Missing God's return in a warrior who'd willingly and knowingly come to a throne
whose weight  would kill  him. It  was the  dirtiest of  jobs, was kingship, and
Theron had become the man  to do it by default.  "If it's Vashanka, then it's  a
matter between Him and Enlil. Theomachy tends to kill more men than gods.  Don't
be too anxious to get the armies'  hopes up-the war with Myg-donia won't end  by
gods' wills, any more than it will by Nisi-bisi magic."

"That's what  you think  this infernal  darkness is,  then- magic? Your nemesis,
perhaps ... the Nisibisi witch?"

"Or yours, the Nisibisi  warlocks. What matter, gods  or magic? If I  thought he
had the power, I'd pick Brachis as the culprit. He'd do without both of us  well
enough."

"We'd do without all of his well  enough. But we're stuck with one another,  for
the nonce. Unless, of course, you've a suggestion... some way to rid me, as  the
saying has gone from time immemorial, of all meddlesome priests?"

The two were fencing with words, neither addressing the real problem: the  storm
was being taken as an omen, and a bad one, on the nature of Theron's rule.

The aging  general fingered  a jeweled  goblet whose  bowl was  balanced upon  a
winged lion and  sighed deeply at  almost the same  time that Tempus's  rattling
chuckle sounded. "An omen, is it, old lion? Is that what you really want-an omen
to make this a mandate from the gods, not a critique?"

"What  / want?"  Theron thundered  in return,  suddenly sweeping  up the  artsy,
jewel-encrusted goblet of state and throwing it so hard against the farther wall
that it bounced back  to land among the  dregs spilled from it  and roll eerily,
back and forth in a circle, in the middle of the floor.

Back and forth it rolled, first one way and then the other, making a sound  like
chariot wheels upon the stone floor,  a sound which grew louder and  melded with
the  thunder  outside and  the  renewed clatter  of  hailstones which  resembled
horses' hooves, as if a team from heaven was thundering down the blackened sky.

And Tempus found the hair  on his arms raising up  and the skin under his  beard
crawling as the wine dregs spattered on  the floor began to smoke and steam  and
the dented goblet to shimmer and  gleam and, inside his head, a  rustle-familiar
and unfamiliar-began to sound as a god came to visit there.

He really hated  it when gods  intruded inside his  skull. He managed  to mutter
"Crap! Get  thee hence!"  before he  realized that  it was  neither the deep and
primal breathing  of Father  Enlil-Lord Storm-nor  the passionate  and demanding
boom of Vashanka the Pillager which he was hearing so loud that the shimmer  and
thunder and smoke issuing from the  goblet and dregs before him were  diminished
to insignificance. It  was neither voice  from either god;  it was comprised  of
both.

Both! This  was too  much. His  own fury  roused. He  detested being invaded; he
hated being an instrument, a pawn, the  butler of one murder god, the batman  of
another.

He fought the heaviness in his limbs which  demanded that he sit, still and  pop
eyed, like  Theron across  the table  from him,  and meekly  submit to  whatever
manifestation was in the process of coalescing before him. He snarled and cursed
the very existence of godhead and managed to get his hands on the stout edge  of
the plank table.

He squeezed the wood  so hard that it  dented and formed round  his fingers like
clay,  but  he  could  not  rise  nor  could  he  banish  the  babble  of divine
infringement from his head.

And before him, where a cup  had rolled, wheels spun- golden-rimmed wheels  of a
war chariot drawn by smoke-colored  Tros horses whose shod hooves  struck sparks
from the stones  of the palace  floor. Out of  a maelstrom of  swirling smoke it
came,  and Tempus  was so  mesmerized by  the squealing  of the  horses and  the
screech of unearthly stresses  around the rent in  time and space through  which
the chariot approached  that he only  barely noticed that  Theron had thrown  up
both hands to  shield his face  and was cowering  like an aged  child at his own
table.

The horses were harnessed in red leather  that was shiny, as if wet. Beyond  the
blood-red reins were hands, and  the arms attached were well-formed  and strong,
brown and  smooth, without  hair or  scar above  graven gauntlets.  The'driver's
torso was covered by a cuirass  of enameled metal, cast to the  physique beneath
it,  jointed  and  gilded in  the  fashion  chosen by  the  Sacred  Band at  its
inception.

Tempus did not  need to see  the face, by  then, to know  that he was  not being
visited by a  god, nor an  archmage, nor even  a demon, but  by a creature  more
strange: as the chariot emerged fully  from the miasma around it and  the horses
snorted and  plunged, dancing  in place,  and the  wheels screeched  to a  halt,
Tempus saw a hand raise to a brow in a greeting of equals.

The greeting was for him, not for  Theron, who cowered with wide eyes. The  face
of the man in the chariot smiled softly. The eyes resting upon Tempus so  fondly
were as  pale and  pure as  cool water.  And as  the vision  opened its mouth to
speak, the god-din in Tempus's ears subsided to a rustle, then to whispers, then
to contented sighs that faded entirely away when Abarsis, dead Slaughter  Priest
and patron shade of the Sacred Band, wrapped his blood-red reins casually around
the chariot's brake and stepped down from his car, arms wide to embrace  Tempus,
whom Abarsis had loved better than life when the ghost had been a man.

There  was  nothing  for it,  Tempus  realized,  but to  make  the  best of  the
situation,  though  seeing  the  materialization of  a  boy  who  had sought  an
honorable death in Tempus's service wrenched his heart.

The boy was now a power on his own-a power from beyond Death's Gate, true, but a
power all the same.

"Commander," said the velvet-voiced shade, "I see from your face that you  still
have it in your heart to love me.  That's good. This was not an easy journey  to
arrange."

The two embraced, and Abarsis's upswept  eyes and high curved cheeks, his  young
bull's neck and his glossy black  hair, felt all too real-as substantial  as the
splinters that had somehow gotten under Tempus's fingernails.

And the  boy was  yet strong-that  is, the  shade was.  Tem-pus, stepping  back,
started to speak but found his voice choked with melancholy. What did one say to
the dead? Not "How's life?" surely. Certainly not the Sacred Band greeting....

But Abarsis spoke  it to Tempus,  as he had  said it so  long ago in  Sanctuary,
where he'd gone  to die. "Life  to you, Riddler,  and everlasting glory.  And to
your friend ... to our friend... Theron of Ranke, salutations."

Hearing his  name shook  Theron from  his funk.  But the  old fighter was nearly
speechless, quaking visibly.

Seeing this, Tempus  recovered himself: "You  scared us half  to death. Is  this
your darkness, then?" Tempus stepped back and waved a hand toward the sky beyond
the  corbeled ceiling  overhead. "If  so, we  could do  without it.  Scares  the
locals. We're trying to settle in a military rule here, not start a civil war."

A shadow  passed quickly  over the  beautiful face  of the  Slaughter Priest and
Tempus, seeing it, wanted to ask, "Are  you real? Are you reborn? Have you  come
to stay?"

The shade looked him hard in the eye and that glance struck his soul and shocked
it. "No. None of that, Riddler. I am here to bring a message and ask a favor-for
favors done and yet to be done."

"Ahem. Tempus, will you  introduce me? It's my  palace, after all," the  emperor
growled,  bluffing  annoyance,  straining for  composure,  and  casting covetous
glances at the  horses- if such  they were-which stood  at parade rest  in their
traces, ears pricked forward, just a  bit of steam issuing from their  nostrils.
"Favors," Theron murmured, "done and yet to be done...."

"Theron, Emperor of  Ranke, General of  the Armies and  so forth, meet  Abarsis,
Slaughter Priest, former High Priest of Vashanka, former-"

"Former living  ally," Abarsis  cut in,  smooth as  a whetted  blade, "and  ally
still,  Theron. We've  a problem,  and it  lies in  Sanctuary. Speaking  through
priests is  a matter  for gods;  my mandate  is different.  Tempus, whom we both
love, must  listen to  gods, not  priests, but  on this  occasion, I  am... well
equipped..." His grin flashed as it  had once in life: "... to  interpret." Then
he shifted and his gaze caught Tempus's and held: "The message is: the globes of
Nisibisi power must  be destroyed; all  the gods will  rejoice when it  is done.
Destroyed in Sanctuary, where there are  tortured souls of yours and mine  to be
released. The favor is: grant Niko's wish in a matter of children ... yours  and
Ours."

Ours?  There  was no  mistaking  the upper-case  tone  Abarsis had  used-a  tone
reserved for  deific matters  and one  word 'spoken  by the  dead High Priest of
Vashanka who had come so  far to utter it. Liking  the smell of things less  and
less, Tempus took a step backward  and sat upon the table's edge,  thinking, For
this, he comes to me. Wonderful. Now what?

For Tempus, who could refuse a  god and obstruct an arch-mage, knew,  looking at
Abarsis, that he  could refuse this  one nothing. It  was an old  debt, a mutual
responsibility stretching far beyond  such trifles as life  and death. It was  a
matter of souls, and Tempus's soul was very old. So old that, seeing Abarsis yet
young, yet beautiful in his spirit and his honor in a way Tempus no longer could
be, the man called the Riddler felt suddenly very tired.

And Tempus, who  never slept-who had  not slept since  he had been  cursed by an
archmage and taken solace in the protection of a god three centuries  past-began
to feel drowsy. His  eyelids grew heavy and  Abarsis's words grew loud,  echoing
unintelligibly so that it seemed as if Theron and Abarsis spoke together in some
room far away.

Just before he collapsed on the table, snoring deeply in a sleep that would last
until the  weather broke  the following  day, Tempus  heard Abarsis say clearly,
"And for you, Tempus, whom I love above all men, I have this special gift... not
much, just a token: on this one  evening, my lord, I have haggled from  the gods
for you a good night's rest. So now, sleep and dream of me."

And thus Tempus slept, and when he woke, Abarsis was long gone and  preparations
for Theron, Tempus,  and a hand-picked  contingent to depart  for Sanctuary were
well under way.

Trouble  was  coming  to Sanctuary;  Roxane  could  feel it  in  her  bones. The
premonition cut  like a  knife to  the very  quick of  the Nisibisi  witch, once
called Death's Queen, who now huddled in her shrouded hovel on Sanctuary's White
Foal River, beset from within and without.

Once she had been  nearly all powerful; once  she had been a  perpetrator, not a
victim; once she had decreed Suffering and marshalled Woe upon human cattle from
Sanctuary's sorry spit to Wizardwall's wildest peaks.

But that  was before  she'd fallen  in love  with a  mortal and paid the ancient
price. Perhaps  if that  mortal had  not been  Stealth, called Nikodemos, Sacred
Bander and member in good standing ofTempus's blood-drenched cadre of  Stepsons,
it would not seem so foolish now  to have traded in immortality for the  ability
to shed a woman's tears and feel a woman's fleeting joy.

But Niko had betrayed  her. She should have  known; if she'd been  a human woman
she would have-no man, and most especially no thrice-paired fighter who'd  taken
the  Sacred Band  oath, would  feel loyalty  or honor  toward a  woman when   it
conflicted with his bond with men.

She should have known, but she  hadn't even guessed. For Niko was  the tenderest
of souls where women were concerned; he   loved them  as a  class, as  he  loved
fine horses  and young    children-not lasciviously,  but honestly   and freely.
Now that  she  understood,  it was    an insult: She   was no  waif,  no  fuddle
-headed twat,  no  inconsequential  piece of  fluff.  And there   was injury  to
add  to insult's  sting: Roxane  had given  up immortality to love a mortal  who
wasn't capable of appreciating such a gift.

She had  been betrayed  by her  "beloved" over  a matter  that should  have been
towering only in its insignificance: the "life" of a petty mageling, a  would-be
wizard called  Randal, a  flop-eared, freckled  fool who  fooled now with forces
beyond his ability to control.

Yes, Niko had dared to trick Roxane, to distract her with his charms while  this
posturing prestidigitator, whom she'd thought to have for dinner, got away.

And now Niko lurked in priestholes, palaces, and princely bedrooms, protected by
Randal (who had a Globe of Power similar to Roxane's own, and more powerful) and
the countermagical armor  given Niko by  the entelechy of  dreams. Not once  did
sweet Stealth venture riverward, though  his de facto commander, Straton  of the
Stepsons, rode this way on evenings to visit another witch.

This other witch, too, was an  enemy of Roxane's-Ischade the necromant, whom  by
rights the Stepsons  should have hated  more than they  did Roxane, vilified  in
their prayers as they nightly did Death's Queen.

There was some irony to that:  Ischade, a tawdry soul-sucker with limited  power
and unlimited lust,  was a friend  of the Stepsons,  ally of the  mercenary army
that was all that stood between Sanctuary and total chaos now that the town  was
divided into blood feuds and factions as the Rankan Empire's grasp grew weak and
the Rankan prince,  Kadakithis, was  barricaded in  his palace  with some salmon
eyed Beysib slut from a fishy foreign land.

And Roxane, who'd been Death's Queen on Wizardwall and flown high, ruler of  all
she once surveyed, was  shunned by Stepsons and  even by lesser factions  in the
town-all but her own death squads, some truly dead and raised from crypts to  do
her bidding, some only a  hair's-breadth away from mossy graves  like One-Thumb,
the Vulgar Unicorn's proprietor, a.k.a.  Lastel, and Zip, guttersnipe leader  of
the PFLS (Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary) rebels who couldn't get
along without her help.

And Snapper  Jo, of  course, her  single remaining  fiend-a warty, gray-skinned,
wall-eyed beast, snaggle-toothed and  orange-haired, whom she'd summoned  from a
nearby hell to serve her-she still  had Snapper, though lately he'd been  taking
his spy's job of day-barkeep at  the Vulgar Unicorn too much to  heart, thinking
silly thoughts of camaraderie with humans  (who'd no more accept a fiend  as one
of them than the Stepsons had accepted Roxane).

And she had  her snakes, of  course, a fresh  supply, whom she  could witch into
human  form  for   intervals  (though  Sanctuary's   snakes  weren't  bred   for
masquerading and turned out small,  sleepy in cold weather,  and even more  dull
witted than the northern kind).

Still, it was a pair of snakes-a butler-snake and a bodyguard-whom she called to
build a fire in her witching room, to bring her chalcedony water bowl and  place
it on a column of porphyry near the hearth, to stay and watch and wait with  her
while she poured salt into the water  and words came from her mouth to  make the
salt into her  will and the  water bowl into  the open wounds  in Sanctuary. Not
wounds  of  flesh, but  wounds  of spirit-the  arrogance  of loyalty  given  and
withheld, the gall of greed, the acne of innocence, the lacerations of love, the
pustules of  passion which  prickled such  hearts as  Straton's, as Randal's. as
those of  the prince/governor  and his  flounder-faced consort,  Shupansea (fool
enough to keep snakes  herself, thinking that Beysib  snakes might be immune  to
Nisibisi snake magic), and even as Niko's own consuming compassion for a pair of
children he wet-nursed like some useless Rankan matron.

And the water in her bowl took chop as the salt hit it, then began to cloud  and
then to bubble as if salt had turned to acid in hearts all around the town.  The
color  of the  water grew  grayer, more  opaque, and  outside her   skin-covered
window, snow began to fall in giant flakes.

"Go, snakes," she crooned, "go meet  your brothers in the palace of  the prince.
Meet and eat them, then defeat the peace between the Beysib and her Rankan host.
And find those children, both, and bite  them with the poison of your fangs,  so
that death beats down on midnight wings and Niko will be forced to come to me...
to me  to save  them." Almost,  she didn't  get those  last words out, because a
chuckle rose to block the speech's end-especially the word "save."

For as she'd looked into the bowl she'd seen a vision, then another. First she'd
seen riders,  and a  boat with  a lion  rampant on  its prow:  one rider was her
ancient  enemy, Tempus,  called the  Sleepless One,  avatar of  godly  mischief;
another was Jihan, a more potent enemy. Froth Daughter, princess of the  endless
sea, a copper-colored nymph of matchless passion, a sprite with all the strength
of moon and tides  between her knees; another  was Critias, Strat's partner  and
better half, the coldest and boldest of the Stepsons, and the only man among the
lot of them  who didn't need   more-than mortal help  to do his  job. And on the
boat,  now seeming  like a  wedding gift,  all wrapped  in gilt  and gloriously
colored sails as it drew nearer, was a man  she'd helped become a king, one  who
owed an unequivocal debt to Death's  Queen-Theron, Emperor of Ranke, who  was so
anxious to  pay Roxane's price he  was trekking to the empire's anus to bow  his
knee.

Oh, yes, she thought  then. Trouble, let it  come. For Roxane, once  the visions
were cleared from the salted water of her bowl by an impatient, dusky hand,  had
an idea-a thought, an inspiration, a  vengeful task to undertake fitting to  all
the harm past  and present denizens  of Sanctuary had  done her: She'd  seen the
error of her ways, and  now she'd seen a new  solution. She'd given up too  much
for Nikodemos, who'd  turned on her  and spumed her.  She'd trade this  batch of
hapless souls to get back what she'd so foolishly bargained away.

And then it was left to her only  to dismiss the snakes, drink the water in  the
bowl, and settle down spread-legged in  the middle of her summoning room  floor,
awaiting  the  Devils  of  Demonic Deals,  the  Negotiators  of  Necromancy, the
Underworld's Underwriters, to appear, to take  the bait a witch could offer  and
then, when sated, be tricked into giving Roxane back immortality in exchange for
the deaths of a  pair of children who  might be gods if  ever they grew up,  and
that of Nikodemos, who deserved no better if he'd thought to spurn the witch who
loved him and survive it. Of course,  she'd throw in Tempus, too, for fun.  He'd
make an undead of choice to send raping and pillaging up and down the streets of
Sanctuary of an evening,  streets so thick with  hatred and slick with  blood no
one would even think to worry about what kind of death they got.

For Sanctuarites cared only for this  life, not the next. They were  ignorant of
choices made beyond the grave, or  given up today for trifles. They  didn't know
or care  that an  eternity of  hell could  be had  for cheap,  or that  the gods
offered out another way.                          •                       -

This was why she liked it here, did Roxane. Even once she'd sacrificed Niko  and
his ilk-the  entire Sacred  Band and  unpaired Stepsons,  if she got lucky-she'd
stay around. Once there was no more Ischade to interfere, no silly priests  like
the Torchholder to try to resurrect a  dead god's cult, the place would let  her
have her way.

And so, decided, she  crooked a finger and,  from nowhere visible, a  sound like
hellish  hinges squeaking  reverberated through  her chamber,  a non-door  swung
down, and a  Globe of Power  could be glimpsed,  spinning gently on  its axis of
golden glyphs, its stones beginning to  glow as its song of sorcery  spun louder
aild, from hells Sanctuary wasn't used to accommodating, a demon choir began  to
chant.

It was the  old way, the  only way: evil  for evil, tenfold.  And she'd promised
hell to pay, visited upon this town for its of-fenses and its slights.

There  remained only  to touch  flesh and  nail to  the globe  spinning  larger,
closer, right before her eyes.

She reached out and braced herself,  for a demon lover would come  with contact:
One did have to pay as one went, even if one was Nisibis's finest witch.

Her  nail  screeched into  the  high peaks'  clay,  and a  demon  screeched into
existence between her knees, and a  hellish gale whose like was known  as wizard
weather up  and down  the land  stretched from  Sanctuary's southernmost  tip up
along the Ran-kan seaboard where the imperial ship was under way.

And everywhere men remarked that, even  for wizard weather, the gale was  fierce
and loud, and full of sounds the like of a goddess being raped in some forgotten
passion play.

Sanctuary promised nothing of the  sort to Critias, who'd ridden  downcountry at
an ungodly  rate with  Tempus and  his inhuman  consort, Jihan,  daughter of the
primal power men called  Stormbringer (when they were  so unlucky as to  have to
call Him anything at all).

The ride-across No Man's Land, a  shortcut full of shades and mirages  through a
desert the party shouldn't have been able to cross in twice the time-hadn't been
the sort of  trip Crit liked.  It was too  fast, too easy,  too full of magic-or
whatever the equivalent was when power was  fielded not by a human mage, but  by
Jihan, daughter of Stormbringer, lord of wind and wave.

Now that they'd  nearly reached the  town, it was  too late for  Crit to ask his
commander questions-whether, as rumor had it, Abarsis had really appeared to the
Riddler in Theron's palace; why, even if that were true, Tempus had seen fit  to
split his forces: the three of them  were worth more than the score of  fighters
accompanying Theron on his ocean voyage.

But straight answers were lacking in the Rankan Empire this season, and  Tempus,
with Jihan around, was more obscure than usual.

So it came to pass that Tempus said to Crit as they came down the General's Road
to the ford at the White  Foal River: "Make your  own way   henceforth. Stepson,
among the  pigs in  their mire.  Find Straton and reconvene your covert  actors:
I want the whereabouts of Roxane  and her power globe by midnight."

"Is that all?" Crit asked, sarcasm finding its way into his tone-no  disrespect,
but gods whispered in the Riddler's ears  and never spoke to Critias at all,  so
that orders like  these always seemed  impossible, issuing from  nowhere, though
he'd hardly ever failed to carry through a task, however vague, that the Riddler
set him.

But this time, as his sorrel stallion pawed the White Foal's mud and lewdly eyed
the  blue  roan  Jihan rode,  Crit  was  more than  usually  defensive:  Down in
Sanctuary, across the Foal somewhere, was Kama, Tempus's daughter, whom Crit had
got with child. It  had been in the  Wizard Wars, against the  Riddler's orders,
and ill had come of it for everyone involved. He'd not thought of her-an act  of
will, not fortune-until this moment, but  looking out across the Foal where  the
lights of Sanctuary's whorehold, the  Street of Red Lanterns, were  twinkling in
the dusk, suddenly the mercenary fighter could' think of nothing else.

And Tempus, who understood too much too often, who healed from every mortal  cut
he took, who buried everyone he loved in time and enjoyed the confidence of gods
and shades, said softly in a voice like the river coursing gravel, "No, not all.
A start. Take a  unit of your choosing,  find Straton, use what  he has, destroy
Roxane's power globe by dawn, then seek me in the palace."

"And is that the whole of it. Commander?" Crit asked laconically, as if the task
were simple, not a death sentence or an invitation to mutiny.

Crit  saw  even  Jihan's  feral  eyes  go  wide.  The  Froth  Daughter, achingly
attractive to a fighter  with her form clothed  in scale armor shining  like the
dusk, looked between the  two men and whispered  something to the Riddler,  then
looked back at Crit.

The  long-eyed Riddler  did not,  just stroked  his gray's  arched neck.   "It's
enough," replied the man Crit served and often had thought he'd die to please.

That evening, later, riding alone through the Common Gate in search of  Straton,
Critias was^ no longer so sure that an honorable death would be a  privilege-not
when it was here.

Sanctuary hadn't changed, or if it had, the change was for the worse. There were
checkpoints everywhere and Crit had to bully his way through two of them  before
finding a soldier he knew-someone who had an armband he could commandeer.

By then he'd  skirted the palace,  green-walled because some  sort of fungus  or
moss was growing there,  and entered the Bazaar  where illicit drugs, girls  and
boys, and even lives were hawked openly in twisting streets.

His back unguarded, his sorrel spooked and dancing, he was heading for the Maze,
a deeper slum than this one, against his better judgment because he didn't  want
to look for Strat where his  erstwhile partner probably could be found-lying  in
with the vampire woman who held sway  in Shambles Cross and used the White  Foal
to dispose of victims.

From between  two produce  stalls Critias  heard a  hiss and  a low  whistle-old
northern recognition  signs. Adjusting  the armband  (a dirty  rainbow of  cloth
specked with long-dried  blood), he  looked about:  to his  right was  a fortune
teller's tent-a S'danzo girl, Illyra, worked  there. He saw her standing in  the
door.

They'd never  met, yet  she waved-a  hesitant gesture,  part warding  sign, part
blessing.

The last thing Crit wanted was his fortune told: he could feel it in his  pouch,
where amulets grew  heavy; on his  neck, where hairs  stood on end;  in his gut,
which had  frozen solid  when Tempus  had calmly  ordered him  to his death on a
flimsy pretext. Crit  had never thought  the Riddler'd held  a grudge about  his
daughter  and  her miscarried  child.  But there  was  no other  reason  to send
Stepsons up against a witch like Roxane.

Was that, then, what Abarsis had come to say to him? That it was time a few more
Sacred Banders made their way to heaven? Was Abarsis lonely for his boys? Before
Tempus had led the Band, Crit had fought for the Slaughter Priest. But in  those
days Abarsis had been of flesh and  blood, even if obsessed with tasks done  for
the gods.

"Psst! Crit! Here!"

Between the stalls, opposite the  fortune-teller's tent, were too many  shadows.
Crit sat his horse, arm crooked over his pommel, and waited, watching where  his
mount's ears pricked like dowsing rods.

Out from the gloom  came a hand, white  and long-a woman's, despite  the leather
bracer.

Crit squeezed with his right knee  and the sorrel ambled forward-one pace,  two.
Then he said, "Hello, Kama. What's that you've got there, friend or captive?"

Beside the woman half in shadow was a waif-a flat-faced boy with almond eyes and
scruffy beard who wore a black rag bound across his brow.

The boy  didn't matter;  the woman,  crossbow pointed  half to  port so that its
flight  would skewer  Crit's belly  if she  pulled its  trigger mechanism  back,
mattered more than Crit liked.

Tempus's daughter laughed the throaty laugh that had gotten Crit in trouble long
ago. "Looking  for someone?"  Kama never  answered stupid  questions. She was as
sharp as her father, in her way. But not as ethical.

"Strat," he said simply, to make things clear.

"Our 'acting' military governor, now that Kadakithis lies abed with Beysibs? The
leader of the militias and their councils? The vampire's fancy man? You know the
way-down on the  White Foal. But  do take an  unfortunate or two  to appease her
hunger-for old time's sake, I'll warn you."

Crit didn't react to Kama's acid comments on Strat's faring-for all he knew,  it
might be true; and he'd never show her she could still reach him, let alone hurt
him. He said, "How about this pud you've got here? Will he do?" For the signs of
something intimate between the woman and the street tough were clear to see-hips
brushed, though  Kama held  the crossbow;  whispers went  back and forth through
motionless lips.

And the youth was armed-slingshot on one wrist, dagger at his hip. The slingshot
was arrogantly  aimed at  Crit's eyes  by the  time Kama  said, "Don't  make the
mistake of  thinking you  understand what  you're seeing,  fighter. You'll  need
help. If you're smart, you'll remember where and how to get it- Strat's part  of
Sanctuary's problem, not its solution."

Everyone found  comfort where  they could  in wartime,  and Sanctuary  was war's
womb, a microcosm  of every horror  man could foist  upon his brother-worse  now
with factions holding checkpoints  and militias ruling blocks  whose inhabitants
were never certain. The idea of Strat being a part of Sanctuary's problem nearly
made him draw his own bow-Crit knew  Kama well enough to know, if quarrels  were
loosed, his would find its mark first: her woman's hesitation would be her last.

And he might have,  right then, no matter  what her provenance, but  for the pud
who didn't know him and didn't  like any northern rider, especially one  talking
to his girlfriend. The slingshot grew taut, the boy's eyes steady as his  stance
widened.

So  there was  that-a deadly  interval of  stalemate broken  only when  a  drunk
caromed off a nearby doorway and knelt down, retching in the street.

Then  Crit  cleared his  throat  and said,  "If  you're still  a  member of  the
Stepsons, woman, I'll want you at  the White Foal bridge two hours  before dawn.
Spread the word among the Third Commando, too; I'll need some backup on  this-(/
the Third's still led by Sync, and if he's not succumbed to Sanctuary's  blight,
I should be able to expect it."

"Old debts? Words  of honor?" Kama  rejoined. "Honor's cheap  in thieves' world.
Cheapest this season, when everyone has a power play to field."

"Will you take  my message, soldier?"  He gave her  what she wanted-recognition,
though he'd rather call her whore and take her over bended knee.

"For you, Crit? Anything."  Teeth flashed, a chuckle  sounded, and he heard  her
mutter, "Zip, relax; he's one of us," and the youth behind her grumbled a  reply
before he slouched  against a  daub-and-wattle wall.  "Before the  break of  day
we'll be there.... How many would that be you'll need?"

And Crit realized he didn't know. He  hadn't a plan or a glimmer. What  would it
take to wrest  the Globe of  Power from Roxane,  the Nisibisi witch?  "Randal'll
know-if he's  still our  warrior mage.  Don't ask  questions woman-not here. You
know better. And Niko, find him-"

"Seh," the  young tough  behind her  swore. 'This  one's walking  wounded, Kama.
Niko? Why not ask the-"

"Zip. Hush." The woman stepped out a pace from shadows, smiling like her  father
a show of teeth  with no humor in  it. "Critias... friend, you've  been away too
long, doing  what high-bom  officers do  in Rankan  cities. If  not for...  past
mistakes ... I'd  ride with you  and explain. But  you'll find out  enough, soon
enough, from your  beloved partner. As  for Niko, if  you want him,  he's in the
palace these days, playing nursemaid to kids the priesthood loves."

Before he  could escalate  from shock  to anger,  before he  thought to move his
horse in  tight and  take her  by the  throat and  shake her for playing women's
games when so much was on the  line, she melted back into her shadows  and there
was a grating  sound, followed by  scrabbling, a square  of light that  came and
went, and when his horse danced forward,  both Kama and the boy called Zip  were
gone-if they'd ever been there.

Riding Mazeward on a horse suddenly and unreasonably skittish, he cursed himself
for a  fool. No  proof that  it was  Kama-what he'd  seen could  have been  some
apparition, even the witch, Roxane, in disguise. He'd touched nothing; only seen
something he thought was Kama-there were undeads in Sanctuary who resembled  the
forms they'd had in life, and some of those were Roxane's slaves. Though if  any
such had happened to Kama, he told  himself, Strat would have sent word to  him.
At least, the Strat he used to know would have. Right then, Critias could  count
the things he knew for certain on the fingers of one hand.

But he knew he was  going to the vampire woman's  house to find his partner.  It
was just a matter of time;  Kama's allegations were already eating at  his soul.
He had to leam the truth.

Kadakithis's palace was full of fish-eyed Beysibs: Beysib men with more  jewelry
on their persons than Rankan  women from uptown or  Ilsigi whores; Beysib  women
female shock troops with bared and painted breasts and poison snakes wound about
their necks or arms-who seemed never to blink and gave Tempus gooseflesh.

Kadakithis  wanted  to  introduce  Tempus  and  Jihan  to  his  Beysib flounder,
Shupansea; before  Tempus could  protest, in  the prince/governor's  velvet-hung
chamber, that he needed no more women in his life, the Rankan prince had  called
the woman forth.

Jihan, beside him, took Tempus's arm and squeezed, sensing what passed on  first
glance between her beloved Riddler and the lady ruler of the Beysib people.

For Tempus,  noises lessened,  the world  grew dim,  and in  his heart a passion
rose, while in his head a voice he'd not heard clear for years urged: Take  her.
For Me. Ravage the slut upon this spot/

The woman's fish-eyes widened;  a snake slithered on  her arm. Her breasts  were
fair and  gilded; they  stared at  him with  come-hither charms  and it was only
Jihan who restrained him, prince or no, from doing what Vashanka wanted then and
there.

What Vashanka wanted? Tempus, who never  backed away from any fight, took  three
retreating steps  as Jihan  whispered, "Riddler,  my lord?  What is  it? Has she
witched you? I will tear her legs off one by-"

"No, Jihan," he muttered through clenched teeth in Nisi, a tongue neither prince
nor consort  understood. He  shook Jihan's  grasp from  his arm  and rubbed  the
depressions her fingers had made:  the Froth Daughter's strength nearly  equaled
his own.  But neither  of them  was a  match for  Vashanka who,  Tempus was  now
certain,  in  some  way  had  come again.  He  was  here-  more  infantile, more
tempestuous than ever, but here.

And what that meant to a man who'd forsaken the Pillager and taken up with Enlil
to balance  a curse  no longer  so sure  upon his  head Tempus couldn't say. But
there was no doubt  in him that soon  he'd take some woman-this  one if Vashanka
had His way of it-and consecrate whatever wench into the service of the god.

He just stepped forward,  on his best behavior  where the prince could  see, one
palm sweating on the  hilt of the sharkskin-pommeled  sword, and took her  hand.
"My lady, Shupansea, men call me Tempus-"

She interrupted: "The Riddler. We have heard tales of thee."

And then from behind a curtain came Isambard, acolyte and priestly apprentice to
Molin Torchholder, running without regard to his priestly dignity, calling  out:
"Quickly! My lady! My lord! There are dead snakes in the palace! There are  more
snakes than there ought to be!  And in the children's rooms, where  Nikodemos is
... he's cut one of the sacred snake's heads off!"

Isambard skidded to a stop an  arm's length from Tempus's chest and  lapsed into
panicked silence until his master entered  the chamber. Molin Torchholder,  ever
mindful of his position and demeanor, did not immediately clarify his  acolyte's
exclamations but appraised the assembly as if they, not he, were the  breathless
intruders.

"Ah, Tempus.  Back in  town at  last?" Sanctuary's  hierarch inquired, his voice
carefully  modulated  to  conceal  the  manifold  anxieties  which  that   man's
unexpected presence caused him.

"That I am."  Tempus detested priests,  especially this one.  And so he  grinned
once more, thinking that Brachis,  when he arrived with Theron's  sailing party,
would put this foul, dark-skinned priest in his proper place. "Well, Torch, your
minion seemed to have a problem moments ago. Surely you've got it as well?"  His
sword was out by then, and Jihan's also.

Kadakithis  was  scratching  his  golden curls,  his  handsome  but  vacant face
inquiring: "What's  this, Molin?  Dead snakes?  Is your  state-cult out  of hand
again? I told you Nikodemos was no fit guardian for those children. I-"

The Beysib monarch interjected smoothly: "Let me see these dead snakes,  priest.
And mind you, I'm never sure that these troubles aren't made by the Rankans  who
announce them."

By then  Tempus and  Jihan were  running down  the hall,  toward secret passages
Tempus knew like the back of  his sword-hand or Jihan's female mysteries,  which
led to the lower chambers where,  near the dungeons, Niko and the  children-whom
some said were more than that-were being kept.

Ischade's Foalside house was more home than haunt, less forbidding than Roxane's
to the south, but hardly an inviting place to visit.

Unless, of  course, one  was Straton,  her lover  whom she'd  guided to de facto
power  in Sanctuary's  factionalized streets,  or an  undead such  as Janni   or
Stilcho (both of whom had once been Stepsons), or a mageling such as Haught, who
learned what  he could  from the  witches and  sought to  wake the  power in his
Nisibisi blood.

Strat had  been with  Ischade hardly  long enough  for a  candle to bum low when
Haught, whom Straton hated, came gusting in the door.

The place was softly lit and full of colors; precious gems and silks and  metals
strewed the floor.

Straton was, by then, the finest thing she had, though-a human man, with all his
prowess, not an animated corpse or witchling.

She could love him, could Ischade, with  a finer passion than the rest. But  she
could feel in him a struggle, one that made shoulders sweat and muscles  twitch.
She'd known  that, hold  him though  she would,  the day  must come when holding
Straton would be hard.

His narrow Rankan eyes were  haunted, deep-set, his jaw squared  with indecision
lately when he came. And now, rolling  off her at the sight of Haught,  a hated,
half-understood rival, a symptom of all about Ischade Strat couldn't justify  or
wish away, he reached for a robe she'd found him, shrugged it on and, with  just
his swordbelt, stalked outside.

"When you're done with... it, him, whatever... I'll be seeing to my horse."

Strat still grieved for his lost bay warhorse; its death was something she could
and would undo, if  only she thought Stra-ton  could handle the revelation  that
death was no barrier to Ischade.

Oh, he'd  seen Janni,  seen Niko  embrace an  undead partner.  And Strat had not
reacted well.

"What is it, Haught?" she asked,  impatient. She didn't like the hubris  growing
in this Nisi child.  He was difficult, growing  stronger, growing bold. And  she
wanted to  get back  to Straton,  who served  her ends,  who worked her will and
excused her  wiles and  helped her  hold her  interests in  the town.  Ischade's
interests were important. And they were too tied up with Strat now to let Haught
get in the way.

So she thought to dance around the  Nisi ex-slave, freed by her but not  free of
her. She'd only  started her mesmerizing  when a sanguine  hand reached out  and
grasped her wrist.

Impertinent. This one soon would need  an object lesson. She swallowed his  will
with a  stare and  let him  see he  couldn't even  blink without her say-so. She
whispered, "Yes? Your business, please."

And Haught, so pretty,  so fiery underneath his  slave's face, said, "I  thought
you'd  want  a  warning.  His  boyfriend's  coming.  ..."  Haught's  chin jutted
Mazeward. "What use he'll be once Crit's  come hence, you might not like. So  if
you want, I could-"

There was  murder in  the slavebait's  eyes. Murder  sure of  itself and offered
teasingly, a sexual ploy, a sensuous violence.

She denied it, not telling Haught that Strat was so much hers that Crit couldn't
get between them...  because she wasn't  sure. But she  was sure that  Straton's
leftside leader, Critias, could  not be murdered by  one of hers. Not  ever. Not
and allow Ischade to keep what she had now-subtle power over more factions  than
any other had, even those who dwelled in the winter palace and looked to gods to
aid them.

The dusky wraith that was Ischade said  a second time, "I don't want, Haught.  I
never want. You want.  I have. And I  have need of both  Stepsons-of Straton and
his... friend. Go back  uptown, see Moria, talk  to Vis; we'll have  a party for
returning heroes tomorrow evening-in the uptown house. Wherever Crit is,  Tempus
is as well.  Find the Band's  best and invite  them all. We'll  play a different
game this season; you tread carefully, do you hear?"

Haught, motionless and unblinking till she loosed him. sought the door with  the
slightest inclination of his head and the most refined swirl of his cloak.

Trouble, that one, by and by.

But in the meantime, if she must fight for Straton, would she? She didn't  know.
She had a horse to raise, now, to see for certain what would happen. Strat would
have more decisions to make tonight than one.

Niko was holding one child under either arm when Tempus and Jihan came upon them
in the nursery.

One babe, Alton, had thumb in mouth; the other, Gyskouras, gave a single cry  on
seeing the interlopers.

Then Gyskouras-god-child, Niko  was certain-held out  his tiny hands  and Jihan,
mayhem forgotten, stepped  over a decapitated  snake oozing ichor,  her own arms
outstretched and the red fires of Stormbringer's passion in her eyes.

"Give  him here.  Stealth," Jihan  crooned, calling  Niko by  his war-name.  "My
comfort's what he seeks."

Niko's  gaze  flickered  questioningly  to Tempus,  who  made  a  sour face  and
shrugged, sheathing his sword and squatting down to examine the snake.

Niko gave  the child  up to  Jihan and  shifted Alton,  who immediately began to
wail. "Me, too! Me, too! Take Alton, or tears come! Take Alton!"

In moments, Jihan held both children, the dark-haired and the fair, and Niko was
kneeling opposite Tempus, the snake between them.

"Greetings, Commander. Life to you."

"And  to you.  Stepson. And  glory." The  words were  only formula  tonight,  an
afterthought from Tempus, who  had out a dagger  and with it turned  the snake's
head toward him.

"How did you kill this thing. Stealth?" asked the Riddler.

"How? With my sword...."  Niko's brows knit. His  canny smile came and  went and
his hazel eyes grew bleak as he  slipped his weapon from its sheath and  laid it
across his knee. "With this sword, the one the dream lord gave me. You mean it's
not an ordinary snake?"

"That's what I mean. Not a Beysib snake, anyway. Look here." He turned the snake
and Niko could  see tiny hands  and feet, as  if the snake  had been starting to
turn into a man when Niko's stroke had killed it.

And the ichor, now, was steaming, eating like acid into the. stone of the palace
floor.

"Why did you kill  it?" said the Riddler  gently. "What made you  think it would
attack you? Did it threaten? Did it rear up? What?"

"Because..." Niko sighed and  tossed back ashen hair  grown long enough to  flop
into his eyes. He'd shaved  his beard and looked too  young for what he was  and
what he'd been through;  his scars were pale  and the haunted look  he bore made
Tempus glance away.  These two  were  each  other's  misery:   Niko  loved   the
Riddler  and   feared   the consequences; Tempus  saw  in the  youthful  fighter
the curse  of a man  the gods desire.

"Because," Niko said  again, voice low  and heavy with  words he didn't  want to
say, "Alton told  me to. Anon-the  dark-haired-he's the prescient  one. He knows
the future.  He protects  the god-child.  I'm glad  you're here. Commander. It's
hard trying to-"

But Tempus got abruptly to his feet. "Don't say that. You can't know it, not for
sure."

"I know  it. My  Bandaran... my  maat knows  what it  sees. Maat-my  balance, my
perception-shows me too much, Commander. We have things to talk over;  decisions
must be made.  These childlren must  go to the  western isles, else  there'll be
havoc. I don't want the blame of it. Gyskouras, he's yours ... your son-or  your
god's. I prayed.... Did the gods inform you?"

Tempus turned  away from  the young  fighter and  the words  came back  over his
shoulder to Niko and hit as hard as a blow from the Riddler's hand. "Abarsis. He
came and told me. Now we're all down here. Why in any god's name didn't you just
take them  and go,  if that's  the answer?  Theron will  be here  by and by." He
turned  on  his  heel  and faced  Nikodemos.  "You're  sequestered  here like  a
babysitter while Sanctuary is torn by the wolves of civil war? Are you no longer
a Sacred Bander? Do you command some regiment, a cadre of your own? Or did Strat
give you leave to-"

"It was by my order. Sleepless  One," came an unctuous voice from  behind: Molin
Torchholder. The priest was accompanied  by Kadakithis and by the  prince's side
was the  Beysib woman,  streaming tears,  holding a  dead and  definitely Beysib
snake in her arms and weeping over it as if over a stricken child.

"Your order, Molin?" Tempus said and shook his head. "I own I didn't think you'd
have the nerve."

"He's  trying to  help, Tempus,"  said Kadakithis,  looking worried  and  drawn,
trying to comfort the  weeping Beysib monarch and  keep peace as best  he could.
"You've been away too  long to judge this  at face value. Nikodemos  has been of
exceptional help to the State and we thank you for his loan." The prince's  eyes
strayed to Jihan, a child on each  hip and a beatific look in her  inhuman eyes.
"Let's go to the great hall and  talk about this over food and drink.  I warrant
you're all tired from your long journey. We have much to decide and little time.
Did  I hear  that Theron  is coming?  Tempus," Kadakithis's  princely smile  was
strained and worried, "I hope you've told him good things of me-I hope, in fact,
that you'll remember your oath. I wouldn't  want to end up like my relatives  in
Ranke-spitted and bled out like pigs in the town square."

If  the curse-or  its ghost-was  still in  effect, it  would mean  that all  the
Riddler loved were bound to spurn him and those who loved him doomed to perish.

It was  this that  bothered him  as he  put a  hand on Kadakithis's shoulder and
assured  the  prince  that  Theron  would  look  with  kindness  on Kadakithis's
particular problems here in Sanctuary,  that "he's coming because the  Slaughter
Priest manifested in the Rankan palace and  told a soldier to look to the  souls
of his soldiers. That's why we're all here, boy-and lady."

He didn't tell them not to fear. Both the prince/governor and the Bey  matriarch
were too familiar with statecraft to have believed him if he had.

It wasn't until  after dinner that  everyone realized there  were too many  dead
Beysib snakes  in the  palace for  Niko-or the  single snake  he'd killed-to  be
responsible. And by then, it was nearly too late.

Strat's horse was at the gate. The  bay horse he'd loved so well, who'd  carried
him through so many  campaigns. And Ischade was  standing in her doorway,  where
night blossoms bloomed, watching  with that look she  had which cut through  the
shadows of her hood.

She'd healed the horse,  obviously. She had the  healing touch, when she  wanted
to, had Ischade. He was so glad to see the bay, who nuzzled in his pockets for a
carrot or the odd sweetmeat,  it took him a while  to clear his throat and  make
sure his eyes were dry before he turned to thank her: "It's wonderful having him
back. There's not another in my  string to equal him-not his size,  his stamina,
his conformation. But  why didn't you  tell me? I'd  not have believed  he could
be..." His words slowed. He looked  harder at her. "... healed. That's  what you
did, isn't it? Spirited  him away somewhere after  I had to leave  him for dead,
and nursed him back to health?" The horse's teeth felt real enough, nipping  his
arm for attention. "Ischade, tell me that's what you did."

Her words were wispy as the wind. "I saved him for you, Straton. A parting gift,
if this visitor of  yours..." She pointed up  the road, where a  figure could be
seen if one looked hard through the moonlight-a rider so far away the sounds  of
his horse's hooves were yet masked by the breathing of the bay. "If this visitor
makes an end to what is-was-between us. It's yours to say."

With that, she turned and  went into her house and  the door closed, of its  own
accord, with an all-too-final sound.

He'd never heard it close that way before.

He examined the bay from head to tail, from poll to fetlock, waiting for whoever
it was Ischade said  was coming, but he  couldn't find a scar.  It was bothering
him more  and more.  He'd seen  Janni, once  a Stepson,  now a decomposing thing
motivated by revenge upon its  Nisibisi murderers; he'd seen Stilcho,  in better
shape but still not one  to be mistaken for a  living man. But the bay  was just
exactly what he'd been-all horse, all muscular quarters and deep-hearted  chest.
The bay couldn't be a zombie horse. At least he didn't think it could.

He was just thinking to mount up and see how it went when the approaching  rider
drew close enough to halloo: "Yo! Strat, is that you?"

And that voice froze Straton like a witch's curse: it was Critias. Critias,  his
leftside leader; Critias, to whom he'd sworn his Sacred Band oath. "Crit!  Crit,
why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

Crit just kept riding toward him, inexorable on a big sorrel. Crit, seeking  him
here. That meant that Crit had heard. That he knew, or thought he knew, the hows
and whys of something Straton barely understood himself.

They'd come together to Ischade's house the first time- met her together.  Then,
Crit had tried  to "protect" Straton  from the necromant.  Now, if damage  there
was, it was done.

Crit said, "Am I too late?" crooking one leg over his saddle and fishing in  his
pouch for the makings of a smoke.  In Ischade's garden there was always a  weird
light and it underlit the line  officer's face so that Strat couldn't  tell what
Crit was thinking. Not that he ever could.

Something inside  him tensed.  He said,  because there  had been  no Sacred Band
greeting between them, "Look, Crit. I  don't know what you've heard or  what you
think, but she's not like that...."

"Isn't she? Still got  your soul. Ace? Or  wouldn't you know?" Crit's  eyes were
slitted and he fingered the crossbow hanging from his saddle.

Strat noticed that there was an arrow nocked, and that the bow would fire,  from
that position, straight  into him at  the click of  a safety and  the touch of a
trigger. He tried to shrug away the suspicion he felt, but he couldn't.  "You're
here to save me from myself? She's the only reason we've survived here-the Band,
the real  Stepsons-while you  and the  Riddler have  been upcountry playing your
palace games. I'm not asking you where you've been. Don't ask me how I've  spent
my time. Unless, that is, you're ready to be reasonable."

"I can't. I  haven't time. Riddler  wants us to  roust Roxane, get  the Globe of
Power and  destroy it  by sunup.  Maybe your  soul-sucking friend'll  have a few
ideas as to how to  help us, if she likes  you so well. If she  does, maybe I'll
let her live until you can explain. Otherwise..." Crit lit the smoke he'd rolled
and the spark illumined a carefully  arranged face that Straton knew wasn't  one
to argue with. "Otherwise, I'm going to bum her ass to a crisp and then do  what
I can to beat some sense back into you... partner. Before it's too late. So, you
want to call her out? Or just come with me and we'll die like we're supposed to,
shoulder to shoulder, fighting the Nisibisi witch."

Strat didn't have to call Ischade; she was beside him, somehow, though he hadn't
heard the  door open  or seen  light spill  out and  he didn't  think Crit  had,
either.

She was so tiny in her cowl and long black cloak. He wanted to put an arm around
her shoulder, dared not, then dared. "She's on our side, Crit. You've got to-"

"The hell I do," Crit said, and shifted his gaze to her. "I bet I don't have  to
explain one  whit to  you, honey.  I just  hope you're  not too  hungry to  wait
awhile. We've got something on that's just your style."

"Critias," said Ischade with more dignity than Strat would ever have, "we should
talk. No one has been hurt, no one has to be. You come-"

"-to get my partner. We can leave it at that."

"And if he is unwilling to leave?"

"Doesn't have squat to do with  it. I've got responsibilities; so does  he, even
if he's forgotten  them. I'm here  to remind him.  As for you,   we can use you.
Come help  out,  and  I'll let   you have  your  say-later.  Right now, I've got
orders. So  does he."   Critias gestured  to Strat,  who looked   at Ischade and
could not, in   front of Critias,  plead  with her  for patience,  for  help, or
even for his partner's life.

But Ischade didn't  strike Crit dead,  or mesmerize him.  She nodded primly  and
said, "As you wish. Straton, take the  bay horse. He'll serve you well in  this.
I'll ride your dun.  And we'll give Critias  what he wants-or what  he thinks he
wants." She turned then to Crit.

"And you, afterwards, will give me the courtesy of a hearing."

"Lady, if any of us can hear  anything after sunrise, I'll be more than  willing
to listen," said Crit  as Ischade raised a  hand and Strat's dun  trotted toward
her.

Roxane had been waked  abruptly from exhausted sleep  when Niko lopped the  head
from her  finest minion-she  would miss  the bodyguard  snake. And Stealth would
regret what he had done.

She'd paid a heavy price this evening; her thighs ached and her buttocks smarted
as she got out of her bed and felt her way through the dark.

Her  Foalside  home  was  small sometimes,  large  at  others.  Tonight, it  was
cavernous with all the forces she'd disturbed.

She found  her witching  room and  and sluiced  the sweat  from her  body as she
filled her scrying bowl herself.

Then, trembling with pain  and fury, she spoke  the spell to open  the well that
held the  power globe,  and another  to summon  a fiend  of hers-the slave named
Snapper Jo who spied for her in the Vulgar Unicorn where he tended bar.

Before the fiend arrived,  she spoke her spell  of utmost power and  in the bowl
she saw a fate she didn't understand.

Men were there, and the cursed Beysa, and a goddess called Mother Bey locked  in
love or hate with Jinan's  terrible father, Stormbringer. And these  two deities
straddled the winter palace while, inside, Niko played with children and  Tempus
with the fates of men.

She trembled,  seeing Tempus  and Niko  in one  place-the very  place where  her
surviving snake (more  talented than most)  slithered corridors in  Beysib-snake
disguise, biting and killing where he could.

Good. Good,  she thought,  and brought  back Niko's  face to  the surface of her
bowl.  But this  time, the  vision was  not of  him alone.  Over one  of  Niko's
shoulders she could see  the Riddler-or the Rankan  Storm God, whose aspect  was
the same; over the other,  a woman's face and that  face was comely in an  awful
way-her own.

The meaning of it, remaining hidden, chilled her.

She could do only so much; she had certain words to say.

She  said them  and the  dark witching  room was  lit with  balefire. The  light
touched the globe in its hidey-hole of nothingness and the globe began to spin.

If there was some bond of fate between her and egregious Tempus, the thread must
be cut. Even  if it were  Niko's life, she  must do the  deed. And the  baby god
could not be suffered to survive. Both children's lives and souls were  promised
to a certain demon of her recent, intimate acquaintance.

And the cold she felt, which  raised gooseflesh on sanguine Nisi skin  as smooth
as velvet, which drew back lips as  beautiful as any that had ever spoken  death
for  men-that  cold had  to  do with  failing  and winning,  with  perishing and
surviving.

As the  door to  her outer  chamber shivered  from something  scratching on  its
farther side, she decided.

She let the globe spin faster, let the colors from its stones bathe her in their
light.

A rushing  wind filled  the scrying  room and  in its  midst was a woman's form,
changing shape.

Black mist spun around  the comeliest of female  guises. Black wizard hair  grew
long and covered limbs cut clean and  meant to hypnotize any man. Her fine  long
nose grew chitinous, then hooked; her firm flesh sprouted feathers.

And  by the  time Snapper  Jo, still  wiping his  claws on  his barman's  apron,
thought he'd better open up the door himself, an eagle with a wingspan ten  feet
wide stood where Roxane was before.

And Snapper, her spy among the Sanctuary denizens, who tended bar at the  Vulgar
Unicorn, clacked prognathic jaws together and wrung his clawed and warty hands.

"Mistress," he gurgled in his fiendish,  grating voice, "is that you?" His  eyes
that looked every  which-way squinted at  the eagle swathed  in dusky light.  He
squatted down, gray gangly limbs akimbo in submission. "Roxane?" said the  fiend
again. "Call  Snapper, did  you? Here  I be,  for what?  Some murder? Murder do,
tonight?"

And the  eagle cocked  its head  at him  and let  out a  screech no  fiend could
misconstrue,  then took  wing and  flapped by  him, out  the door,  leaving  him
bleeding from a flesh wound made by claws much sharper than his own.

Muttering, "Damn  and damn  and murder  damned," the  fiend scuttled  after her.
Looking askance at  her black shadow  in the moonless  sky. Snapper Jo  chewed a
long orange lock of hair  in dark frustration. To be  human was his wish; to  be
free of Roxane his hidden dream. But sometimes he thought he never would be free
of her.

And the trouble was, at times like  these, he didn't care. He was hungry  as the
night for blood; just the thought of carnage made him giddy.

So he scuttled on, following the  eagle in the night, cackling wordlessly  under
his breath as Roxane, in eagle's  guise, led him toward the winter  palace, then
lost him in Shambles Cross when he came across a fresh and bleeding morsel of  a
corpse.

Jihan was alone with the  two children, her scale-armor discarded,  cuddling one
to either  breast on  Niko's bed  in the  nursery when  the snake, man-sized but
silent, slithered in.

The Froth  Daughter was  not human,  but she  was lonely.  Tempus was no man for
progeny-he considered nothing but himself.

Jihan had wanted children of her own and been refused by him. Now, thanks to her
father, fate, and Niko, she had two  fine boys to care for-one of them  Tempus's
own.

She would never give them up. She was ecstatic in her joy, and drowsy.

Thus she didn't see the snake until it reared, fangs wide and gaping, and struck
like lightning, biting Arton on the arm.

Then, wide awake with  two terrified babes to  hold, one wounded and  screaming,
the other howling just as loudly, she cowered.

To reach her sword or freeze the  snake, arching high above the bed and  glaring
fire-eyed down upon her, she'd have to put down one or both children.

This the frustrated mother could not do. She tried to shield Gyskouras with  her
body, interpose her own  arm, even force it  like a gag into  the snake's gaping
jaws.

But the snake  was wise and  quick and its  jaws unhinged, so  that it bit right
through  Jihan's arm  and punctured  the godchild's  flesh and  shook the  Froth
Daughter and the child, stapled together by its fangs.

Jihan wailed in rage and agony-a sound  the like of which had not been  heard in
Sanctuary since  Vashanka battled  Storm-bringer in  the sky  at the Mageguild's
fete.

And that brought help, though she barely  knew it as her body fought the  poison
and her  arms, about  the snake's  neck, grew  weaker as  she wrestled  it. Even
Tempus and Niko paused in horror at  the sight of Jihan locked in bodily  combat
with the viper, the god-child being crushed in between.

Beside Tempus, Niko drew a breath and then reached out: "Riddler! Quickly!  Take
this dagger."

The dagger, like Niko's sword, was dream-forged and it felt hot in the Riddler's
hand.

He raced his Stepson, on his right, to reach the snake and the two of them began
to hack away.

With every stroke acid ichor spouted, so that Tempus's skin sizzled,  blistered,
and peeled.

There was  no time  to fear  for Niko,  beside him  as if  they were once more a
bonded pair.

Jihan was wound in  coils, protecting one child  who was absolutely silent.  The
other, Arton, was curled  up moaning, forgotten on  the floor except when  ichor
struck him and he squealed at the pain.

The  snake didn't  flail or  shrink from  the damage  Niko's sword  did,  though
Tempus's deeper cuts could give it pause.

The Riddler  realized just  in time  what must  be wrong-just  as the  snake was
tensing and Jihan, mouth open and  eyes bulging as the breath was  squeezed from
her, called his name  and the viper fixed  Niko with a gaze  that pushed Stealth
backward and made him drop his sword.

For no snake, not even a Nisibisi snake, should be growing larger and bolder  as
it fought and bled.

Tempus looked  up and  around and  saw the  source of  the snake's  supernatural
power: an eagle perched, bating, in the bolthole of the palace wall.

Beside him, Niko faltered, his face blistered, his ankles entangled in the  ever
growing coils of the snake.

Tempus knew he  risked Stealth's life  as he stepped  out of striking  range and
raised his knifehand.

His eyes met the eagle's and it  called softly, a cry like a baby's,  and raised
its head and clacked its beak.

Then the  dagger Stealth  had loaned  him flew  through the  air and  struck the
eagle's breast.

A screech like  a witch burning  at the stake  resounded, so that  Niko lost his
footing, hands clapped to either ear, and fell among the deadly coils.

But it was a chance Tempus had had to take.

And as he strode forward, faster than anything else within that room because, at
last, his wrath had brought the gods awake and power rose within him, the  eagle
overhead burst into flame.

The flames began around  the dagger in its  breast and licked hot  and higher as
the bird took wing.

But Tempus had  no more time  for watching birds  or taking chances;  he heard a
dagger fall  from the  bolthole's height  as he  waded amid  the coils-first  to
Stealth, who still fought  gamely though ichor had  burned one eye shut  and his
limbs were bound with writhing snake.

Pitting all his strength against the  failing power of the snake- now  shrinking
but perhaps not fast enough-the Riddler struggled.

Vaguely he heard voices behind him as palace praetorians gathered. "Stay  back!"
he shouted without looking.

He was watching Jihan's eyes pop, her more-than-mortal hands clutching the noose
of snake still at her throat.

The damned thing was dying and as it did it was whipping back and forth, tossing
Niko like  a hook  on a  fishing line,  crushing Jihan.  And somewhere,  in that
thrashing mess of green slime and human limbs, a child was lost.

His child, Niko had said. But that wasn't why the Riddler hacked as if splitting
cordwood with Niko's  dream-forged sword. He'd  never fought harder  than he did
then to  free Stealth-if  there was  kinship between  him and  any here,  it was
strongest for his partner.

Admitting this, while all around pieces of snake flew like steaks from the block
of a master butcher and smoke rose as ichor ate at stone, Tempus found  reserves
of strength in anger.

This youth, foolish Stealth, was not going  to die on his account and leave  the
Riddler with that  weight to bear  eternally. Jihan and  the god-child bom  of a
ceremonial rape-both of them were more  than mortal. Niko was just a  human fool
and  human foolishness-honor,  valor, sacrifice,  and love.-were  things  Tempus
could not ever claim.

He didn't notice when Beysib and human help pitched in beside him-his  god-given
speed made them seem too slow and the task too great to make them matter.

But Jihan, once he'd cut through the  widest coil at her throat, was help  worth
having.

And once she was free, and it was clear that she'd saved the child from  certain
death, the Beysibs and  the Rankan priest and  Kadakithis all crowded round  the
Froth Daughter and the child.

Which  suited Tempus,  who finished  cutting the  yet-quivering coils  from  the
Stepson who'd fought beside him and helped Niko to his feet.

Only when the boy, through his one good eye, put a hand on Tempus's shoulder and
said, "Life to you. Commander- and thanks," and collapsed into Tempus's arms did
Niko's leftside leader have time for snake-bitten children or Jihan.

For he'd found out, there among the butchered chunks of snake and royal ranks of
confusion, that the bond Niko and he  once shared was stronger than it had  ever
been.

Jihan limped over to him, where he lay Stealth down, and frowned at the bums  on
Niko's face and his  acid-eaten eye. "The placenta  of a black cat,  powdered at
midnight, Riddler- that will heal his eye. The rest, I can do."

The Froth Daughter's hand was gentle on Tempus's face, turning it away from  the
boy. "We have children  who are worse hurt,"  Jihan said. "Both poisoned  by the
snake who bit them." Her chest was heaving, her muscles torn; flaps of skin hung
loose from her thighs as if a man-wide rope had burned her.

But the  children-Arton and  Gyskouras, who  might be  his or  perhaps just  the
offspring  of  the  god-had crowds  to  care  for them  and  all  of Sanctuary's
priesthood to pray for them, while Stealth had only what a Stepson could expect.

Tempus sat  flat on  the floor,  knees crossed  under him,  ignoring ichor slick
which smarted and caused  his skin to hiss  and curl. "Get me  what medicine you
can, Jihan.  You and  I must  heal this  one. He  wouldn't want life returned by
magic."

They exchanged glances-one  immortal and mortally  tired, one feral  and full of
the fire of fierce and forgotten gods.

Then Jihan nodded, rose up, and  said, "Your dagger skewered the eagle-witch.  I
saw it. She's wounded, maybe gone for good."

But it didn't please him, not at the price Niko always seemed to pay for others'
folly.

Sometime in  that interval,  because Niko  was conscious  and could hear, Tempus
affirmed and  renewed their  pairbond so  that he  had a  rightside partner once
again. And so that Niko, should it matter, would know that he was not alone.

Down by the  White Foal Bridge,  the gathered Stepsons  waited: Kama was  there,
with a dozen hand-picked fighters from Sync's 3rd Commando.

It made Crit uncomfortable to command the Riddler's daughter's unit, so he  gave
them the periphery, made them the  watch guards, kept what distance from  her he
could.

Strat, on the other hand, was comfortable with everything coming out of the dark
that  evening-with  his  bay  horse, with  paired  Stepsons  riding  up, holding
torches, with Ischade's whispered council,  with men who once were  Stepsons and
now  were no  longer men-men  who stayed  in shadows  when Crit  looked at  them
straight on.

Strat had "explained" about Stilcho  and Janni and Ischade's talent  for raising
uneasy dead. Strat said it was a favor she did them, a gift to those who'd  died
with their honor blighted.

Crit hadn't argued-there wasn't time. Strat was addled, bewitched, and if he got
through this  he was  going to  beat some  sense into  the big  fool as  soon as
possible, do something final about Ischade or make her loose her hold on Strat.

If-

Something puffed  and popped  and Crit's  horse shivered.  Looking to his right,
Crit saw Randal, the Stepsons' warrior mage, decked out in Niko's armor.

"Greetings, Crit.  I heard  you'd like  some help."  The flop-eared  mage looked
older, more fearsome tonight in dream-forged battle gear. He caught Crit staring
at his cuirass. "This?"  Randal touched his chest.  "It's Niko's, still. Just  a
loan. We ... have an understanding,  but no pairbond." The freckled face  aped a
smile (hat was wan in torchlight as his horse reared and Crit realized it wasn't
quite a horse  at all-it was  definitely transparent, though  horselike in every
other respect.

"Help. Right. Well, Randal, you know  the Riddler's orders, if you're here.  Any
advice?  Or should  we ride  right in  there, storm  the place,  bum it  to  the
ground?"

At his knee came a touch as  soft as a butterfly landing. "I told  you, Critias,
just walk right in and take it-walk in by my side, if you will.... She's not  at
home and, if my guess is right, quite indisposed."

Crit looked from Ischade to  Randal for confirmation. Randal nodded.  "That's my
best guess as well." The mage scratched one ear. "Only, I'll go in with Ischade.
Roxane's  my enemy,  not yours-at  least not  so much  so. And  you don't  trust
Ischade ... no offense, dear lady."

"None taken. Yet," said  the woman whose head  reached only to Crit's  knee, but
who seemed taller than anyone else about.

Strat rode up, concerned, looking at Crit as if to say, 'You'd better not  start
trouble now, partner or not. Don't push your luck.'

"I'm going," Crit said. "I have my orders."

"Into a witch's house?" Strat shook his head. "You may be my partner, but  these
are my men, until we've worked things  out. We needn't risk them, or you.  We've
got friends  to deal  with magic  who deal  with it  routinely. Ischade. Randal.
Please be  our guests-"  As he  spoke, Strat  bowed in  his saddle and, one hand
outstretched  in a  sweeping gesture,  motioned the  mage and  the necromant  to
precede the fighters up the cart-track  to Roxane's house. And as his  gesturing
hand neared Crit's horse, it snatched a rein, and held it.

"Strat," Crit warned. "You're pushing matters."

"Me? I thought it was you, mixing in what you don't yet understand."

"Let go of my horse."

"When you let go of your anger."

"Fine," Crit sighed, holding up empty hands and feigning a smile. "Done."

Strat  stared a  moment at  him, then  nodded and  freed the  horse. "Let's  go,
then... partner?"

"After you, Strat. As you say, you're in command-at least till morning."

Inside Roxane's Foalside home was a smell like burning feathers and a glow as if
the whole place smouldered.

Ischade was well aware  that any instant, the  premises might burst into  flame.
She said so to Randal.

They'd never worked this close, the Tysian Hazard and the necromant.

It was an eerie feeling, especially when Randal drew his kris, a recurved blade,
and said, "It directs fire. Don't worry, Ischade. I didn't fight the Wizard Wars
for nothing," in his tenor voice.

They walked  over boards  that creaked  as if  the place  had been abandoned for
eternity and Ischade's neck grew cold with trespass.

Randal said,  waxing more  the fighter  with a  woman watching,  more the expert
First Hazard of the Mageguild with a famous witch pacing by his side, "I'll open
the rent where she keeps it, get it out for you. But you'll have to destroy  it.
I can't."

"Can't?" she said, disbelieving.

"Shouldn't, really. You see, I've got one of my own. I wouldn't want it to think
I'd turned hostile. You should understand."

She did.

It was odd to work so closely with a rival mage of rival power. She wondered  if
there would be a price.

And there was, of sorts, though it did not fall on them directly.

When Randal had  made the requisite  passes with his  hands and a  flap in space
fell down and the globe lay revealed, Ischade's soul wrenched: she loved beauty,
baubles, precious trinkets, and  the power globe was  all of those and  more. It
was the most beautiful,  potent piece she'd ever  seen. If not for  Randal, here
and witness, even despite Strat she would have claimed it for her own.

When he got it out, the floorboards creaked and the roof above began to smoke.

She could  see that  it singed  him and  that he'd  expected that,  now with the
timbers above flaring like tarred torches.

In the ruddy light. Randal  knelt down, and she did  also, and he told her  what
words to speak.

Then he said,  "Reach out and  set it spinning-just  a push with  your palm will
do."

As she touched the globe, Ischade felt a shock more intense than any she'd known
for ages-this was not a matter of  raising dead or ordering the lives of  lesser
mortals. This was a matter of power great enough to flout the gods.

And there was a bite to all Nisi magic, a corrosion different from her own.  She
rocked back upon her heels, nearly mesmerized herself though nothing less  could
have done it to her.

Randal pulled  unceremoniously at  her elbow.  "Up, my  brave lady.  Up and  out
before the beams fall down and roast us or she... comes back... somehow."

And then Ischade realized that her sense of Roxane's presence might be more than
just echoes from the globe.

Quick as smoke she got her feet under her and ran, Randal beside her, toward  an
open window.

Once they'd scrambled through, there was a roar as deep as any dragon's and  the
whole house burst apart in flames.

And in  the middle  of the  blaze Ischade  could see  the globe, still spinning,
spitting colored fire of its own and spouting tongues of purer fire that  licked
up towards the heavens.

Horses thundered, coming near.

Strat was there, lifting her up onto the bay's rump as if she were a child,  and
Crit did the same for Randal.

Neither asked if the task was done. All could see the globe, spinning  brighter,
whirling larger, consuming the lesser flame of burning wood and stone and thatch
and blazing like a star.

The horses were glad to be reined back; the heat was singeing. You couldn't hear
a word or even the trumpets of  mounts who hated fire as they reared  and walked
backwards on hind legs.

For it seemed, as the house  collapsed, that the sky itself caught  fire. Demons
of colored light slunk through that wider blaze and slipped away.

Wings of lightning beat against the firmament where a rising sun was dwarfed  to
dullness by their light.

And down from purple lightning and clouds that came together, combusting to form
a great cat-thing with hell-red eyes who swiped at it as it came, flew an eagle.

A flaming eagle, descending from the sky, chased by a giant cat of roiling cloud
so black it swallowed all  the heat, as if a  house cat chased a sparrow  in the
dwelling of the gods.

The bird plummeted, wings bent. The cat struck, sent it spinning, struck again.

A  scream  like heaven  rending  issued from  one,  a growl  like  hell's bowels
settling came from the other.

And the bird tumbled, then righted, then darkened and streaked, shrinking,  into
the lessening flame that had been the witch's house.

Ischade saw  that bird  dive among  the timbers  where a  Globe of Power was now
melted, fragments of white hot clay and parboiled jewels, and take a fragment in
its beak and speed away.

When she looked away, she saw  that Randal, face beaded with sweat  and freckles
standing out black as soot, had seen it too.

The mage  gave an  uneasy shrug  and smiled  bleakly. "Let's  not tell them," he
whispered, leaning close. "Maybe it's not ... her."

"Perhaps not," Ischade replied, looking up at the smouldering sky.

The morning after the sky caught fire, Tempus was sitting with Niko when  Randal
came to call.

"I'll see to him.  Commander," said the mage,  who touched his kris,  from which
healing water could be wrung.

Jihan had applied the powdered placenta of some unlucky cat, and Niko's eye  was
healing.

But these wounds would take a while, even with magic to help them.

And beside the stricken fighter, in the nursery, two children lay in sleep  from
which no one had yet managed to rouse them.

That, Tempus  knew, was  really what  Randal must  do here.  But he  had to say,
"Stealth  and  I  have  reaffirmed  our  pairbond.  Can  you  tend  him  in good
conscience, with a minimum of magic?"

Randal himself had once  been paired with Stealth,  at the Riddler's order,  and
loved the western fighter still.

The mage looked down, then up,  then squared his shoulders. "Of course.  And the
children, too... if I have- their father's permission?"

"Ask the god that; he's the stud, not me," Tempus snapped and stormed out.

He had a woman to  rape to placate the god  within him, a necromant to  thank in
person, and a welcome to prepare for Theron, emperor of Ranke, when he arrived.

But Jihan found  him before he  could find a  likely wench on  the Street of Red
Lanterns. Her eyes  were glowing and  she squeezed his  arm and wanted  to know,
"Just what kind of houses are these?"

He had  half a  mind to  show her,  but not  the time:  she'd come to get him to
mediate between Crit  and Strat in  matters of command  and to ask  whether they
could  all  attend a  "fete  for returning  heroes"  being given  by  friends of
Ischade's who  lived uptown,  and whether  he'd noticed  anything strange  about
Strat's bay horse.

And since he  had troubles enough  of his own,  and Jihan was  one, he agreed to
come with her, gave permission for the Band and Stepsons to attend the fete, and
lied about the horse, saying he hadn't noticed anything strange about it at all.

DAGGER IN THE MIND

C. J. Cherryh

"My lady-"  Stilcho said,  ever so  quietly. The  dead Stepson  hesitated in the
doorway of the back room of the riverhouse. Hesitated longer. Ischade sat in the
chair before the fire with her  hands clasped between her black-robed knees  and
gazed there,  the fire  leaping and  casting light  on her  face, on  the bright
scatter of cloaks and trinkets that made the house like some garish carnival.

And Ischade, a darkness in it, fire-limned. The wind rushed in the chimney.  The
fire roared  up with  a dizzy  sibilance. The  candles burned  brighter so  that
Stilcho flinched back. Flinched and  flinched again in the other  direction, for
he encountered a body behind him and a hard hand on his shoulder.

He turned and looked by mistake straight into Haught's dark Nisi eyes. A  muscle
jumped in his jaw. His throat  grew paralyzed. Haught's grip burned him,  numbed
him; and there was  no sound in all  the world but the  roar of the fire  and no
sight in the world but Haught laying a cautionary finger to his lips and drawing
him away, quietly.

Back and back into the tangle of silks and drapes and shadow that was that  over
small room he shared with Haught.

And in this privacy Haught seized his shoulders and put his back to the wall, in
the  slithery  touch of  the  silken hangings.  Haught's  eyes held  his  like a
serpent's.

"Let me go,"  Stilcho said. The  voice came through  jaws that tried  to freeze,
that tried to turn to the cold unburied meat and bone that they were without Her
influence. No pain, no  agony. Just a dreadful  cold as if something  very solid
had come between  him and his  life-source. "L-let me  g-g-go. She s-said-"  You
weren't to touch me  with magic-that was the  part that stuck behind  his teeth.
There were just the eyes.

"Hear it?" Haught asked. "Feel it, dead man? She's worried. She's unweaving  her
magics. Souls are winging back to hell tonight. Do you feel yours slipping?"

"Get your ha-hands from me."

Haught's  hands slid  up his  shoulders and  held there.  "She's forgotten   you
tonight. I  haven't. I'm  holding you,  Stilcho. /.  And I  can peel you like an
onion. Or save your wretched soul. Do you feel it now?"

"Ish-"

Haught's grip tightened, that of his  hands and that on his soul.  The paralysis
grew, and Haught's  voice sank deeper  and deeper, so  that it was  not sound at
all, only the dazzle of winter cold, was snowflakes falling on dark wind.

The Queen of Death is dethroned. Power is free tonight. Fragments of it drift on
the winds, sift through the air, fall on the earth.

It slays the dead.

It casts down the powerful.

Stilcho shivered, his living eye widened and the dead one saw abysses.

He tottered on the edge, reached up hands cold as clay and held to Haught as  to
his last and only hope.

There is something that shines and I see it, dead man.

It beckons the powerful with an irresistible lust.

And she dares not.

The dust shines and shimmers and falls everywhere and she dares not gather  that
power up. She seals up the ways. She burns it with fire.

Nisi power. She loathes it and desires it.

I am Nisi, dead man. And I will have  that thing. She sits blind and deaf to  me
what we say she cannot know. That is my power. And it needs one thing.

Things will change,  Stilcho. Consider your  allegiances. Consider how  you fare
when she forgets you.

He had a  very clear picture  then what Haught  wanted. He held  the image of  a
shining globe that spun and shimmered. Lust was part of it, in the same way that
light was. It was raw power. It was dangerous, dangerous as some spinning blade,
as  some terrible  juggernaut let  loose. That  shining, spinning  thing was   a
humming regularity that beat like a pulse,  that held all the gates of hell  and
creation in harmony with itself, all beating away with the same thump-thump of a
living heart, that  was the tiniest  imperfection in this  spinning. If it  were
perfect there would be nothing.

The universe exists on a flaw in nothing at all.

A little wobble in the works.

He  caught  at his  chest,  feeling an  unaccustomed  hammering. He  felt  it as
threatening at first, and then he  realized that it was a thin,  occasional beat
in a perfect stillness. It was his own heart giving a little thump of life.  And
he felt it because for a moment it had been utterly silent.

"You know," Haught  said, "you understand  it now, what  I want." Haught's  fine
hand touched his face, and a little chill numbed him. "Now forget it, dead  man.
Just forget it now. Until I need you.... I want to talk to you, Stilcho, Just  a
moment. Privately."

Stilcho blinked. It was the living eye he saw from now. It was his enemy Haught,
a Haught looking uncommonly void of  malice, a Haught holding him gently  by the
shoulder.

"I've wronged you," Haught said. "I know  that. You have to understand,  Stilcho
we were both  victims. I was  yours; you were  their pawn. Now  I have a certain
power and it's you who are the   slave. A sweet difference for me; and  a bitter
one for you. But-" The hand moved softly and warmth  spread from  it, like  life
through  clay, so  poignant  a  pain that Stilcho's  vision came and  went.  "It
need not  be bitter. You so  scarcely died, Stilcho. Earth never went over  you;
fire never touched you. Just a  little slip away from the  body, a little   slip
and she  caught you  in  her hands before  you could get much  beyond the merest
threshold  of hell, drew you back to  your  body in the next  breath; and   this
flesh   of  yours-this  is  solid,   it bleeds  if  cut however  sluggishly;  it
suffers pain of  flesh. And pain  of pride; and  pain of fear-"

"Don't-"

"And when mistress wants  you, it does infallibly  what a man's body  ought-tell
me: does it feel anything?"

Stilcho gave a wrench of his arm. It was no good. The paralysis closed about his
throat and stopped the shout; Haught's eyes caught his and held and the arm fell
leaden at his side.

"I have the threads that hold you to life," Haught said. "And I will tell you  a
secret: she has never done  as much for you as  should be done. She can't,  now.
But she could  have. The power  that could have  done it is  blowing on the wind
tonight, is falling like dust, wasted. Do you think that she would have  thought
twice of you?  Do you think  that she would  have said to  herself-Stilcho could
benefit by  this, Stilcho  could have  his life  back? No.  She never thought of
you."

Liar, Stilcho thought, fighting the silken  voice; but it was hard to  doubt the
hand that held the threads of  his existence. Liar-not that he believed  Ischade
had ever thought of him; that he  did not expect; but he doubted that  there had
ever been such a chance as Haught claimed.

"But there was," said Haught softly, and something fluttered and rippled through
the curtains of his mind. "There was such a chance and there still is one.  Tell
me, Stilcho-ex-slave  speaks to  slave now-do  you enjoy  this condition? You'll
trek to hell and  back to preserve that  little thread of life  of yours; you'll
whimper and you'll go like a beaten  dog because even death won't make you  safe
from her,   and your  life  won't  last a   moment if  she  forgets you the  way
she's forgetting those others.  But what if there  were another source of  life?
What if there were someone  to hold you up if  she neglected you-do you see  the
freedom that would give you? For the first time since you died, poor slave,  you
can choose  from moment  to moment.  You can  say-this moment  I'm hers; or: for
these few I'm his. And if anything should happen to me-that choice will be  gone
again. Do you understand?"

There was warmth all through him.  Warmth and the natural give of  his stiffened
ribs-it hurt,  like cramped  muscle. His  heart beat  at a  normal rate  and the
socket of his eye ached with a stab of pain that was acute and poignant and  for
a moment giddy with strength.

Haught caught him as it faded and the river-cold came back. Stilcho shivered,  a
natural  shiver; and  Haught's face  before him  was pale,  beaded with   sweat:
"There,"  Haught gasped,  "there, that's  what I  could do  for you  if I   were
stronger."

Stilcho only stared at him, and the  living eye wept at the memory and  the dead
one  wept  blood.  It was  a  seduction'  as wicked  as  any  ever committed  in
Sanctuary, which was going some: and he knew himself the victim of it. Of  drugs
and temptations  he had  sampled in  his life,  of ghassa  and krrf and whatever
lotos-dreams the  smoke of  firoq gave,  there was  no sensation  to equal  that
moment of painful warmth, and it was going away now.

He needs a focus, Stilcho thought;  he had learned his gram-marie in  bitter and
terrible lessons  and knew  something of  the necessities  of black  sorcery. He
wants a familiar. Nothing so simple as snake  or rat, not even one of the  birds
he wants a man, a  living man. 0 gods, he's  lying. He knows what I'm  thinking.
He's in my skull-

Yes, came a soft, soft voice. /  am. And you're quite right. But you  also taste
what my power would be. I'm still apprentice. But to hide a thing is another  of
my talents. And Mistress  doesn't see me. I've  learned the edges of  her power,
I've mapped it like a geography, and  I simply walk the low places, the  canyons
and the chasms of it. She's committed an error great mages make: she's lost  her
small focus. Her  inner eye is  set always on  the horizons, and  those horizons
grow wider and wider, so the small,  deft stroke can pass her notice; I  can sit
in a small  place and listen  to the echoes  her power makes.  It makes so  much
noise tonight  it has  no sense  of a  thing so  small and  soft. And I approach
mastery. It lacks one  thing. No, two. You  are one. The thought  will remain. I
will seal it up now,  I will seal it so  you needn't fear at all;  all that will
remain is a knowledge that 1 am not your true enemy. Wake up, "Stilcho-"

Stilcho blinked, startled  for a moment  as he found  himself face to  face with
Haught. Something was very wrong, that  he was this close to Haught  and feeling
no fear. It was a  situation that produced fear of  its own. But Haught let  him
go.

"Are you all right?" Haught asked with brotherly tenderness.

Witchery did not  obliterate memory of  past injury. It  only made things  seem,
occasionally, quite mad.

And the fire still roared in the front room, where he had no wish to go.

Ischade herded another soul home. This one  was a soldier, and wily and full  of
tricks and turns-one of Stilcho's lost  company who had deserted in the  streets
and hid and lurked down by the shambles, where there was always blood to be had.
Janni, she thought; that was a soul she sought. It wailed and cursed its  feeble
curses; not Janni, but a Stepson of  the later breed. She overpowered it with  a
thrust that shriveled its  resistance and the only  sign of this exertion  was a
momentary tension of her closed eyelids and a slight lift of her head as she sat
with hands clasped before the fire.

She had grown that powerful. Power  hummed and buzzed deafeningly in her  veins,
straining her heart.

Small magics stirred about  her, which she supposed  was Haught at his  practice
again; but she paid it no heed. She  might summon the Nisi slave and use him  to
take the backload, but that led to  a different kind of desire, and that  desire
was already maddening.

There was Stilcho. There was that release, which was not available with Straton.
But what was  in her tonight  even a dead  man might not  withstand; and she had
sworn an oath  to herself, if  not to gods  she little regarded,  that she would
never destroy one of her own.

She hunted  souls through  the streets  of Sanctuary  and never  budged from her
chair, and most of all she hunted Roxane.

She smelled blood. She  smelled witchery, and the  taint of demons which  Roxane
had dealt with. She felt the shuddering  of strain at gates enough for a  mortal
soul, but not yet wide enough for things  which had no part or law in the  world
to linger.

One  there  was which  Roxane  had called.  It  was cheated,  and  vengeful, and
demanded the deaths of gods which a mage tried to prevent. It had intruded  into
the world and wanted through again.

One there  was which  ruled it,  for which  it was  only viceroy, and that power
tried the gates  in its own  might: it was  more than demon,  less than god; but
since she had never bargained with gods or demons it had no hope with her.

Mostly she felt the  slow sifting of power  everywhere on the winds,  profligate
and dangerous.

Leave it to me, she had said to Randal, who had enough to do to cheat a demon of
his prey. She felt  Randal too, a little  spark of fire which  gave her location
and a sense of Randal's improbable self,  cool blue fire which lay at the  heart
of a dithering, foolish-looking fellow whose familiar/alterself was a black dog:
friendly, flop-eared  hound that  he was,  there was  wolf in  his well-shielded
soul; there was the  slow and loyal heart  of the hound that  lets children pull
its ears and trample it under knees and hug it giddy: but that same hound  could
turn and remember  it was wolf;  and the eyes  which were not  slitted green lit
with  a redder  fire and  a human-learned  cunning. Wolf  was clever  in a  wild
thing's way; dog  on the hunt  was another matter.  That was Randal.  She shed a
little  touch his  way and  flinched at  once, hearing  the thunder  rumble  and
feeling the raw edges of nature gone unstable.

Warning, warning, warning, he sent; and  she gathered it up and felt  the rising
of the unnatural wind.

Get the dead hence, send them home. A god lies senseless, at the edge of raving.
And he is prey to demons and their minions.

She located  another soul,  a lost  child. It  was glad  to go. And another, who
loved a man in the Maze. She drove that one away with difficulty; it was wily as
the mercenary and more desperate.

She  found a  minor-class fiend  hiding in  an alley;  it tried  desperately  to
pretend it was a man. Know you, know you, it protested, does what you want,  oh,
does everything you want. ... It wept, which was unusual for a fiend, and hid in
a tumble of old boxes  as if that could save  it from the gates. I  find HER, it
snuffled.

That  saved it.  That Her  was Roxane.  The fiend  knew instinctively  what  she
wanted. It proposed treachery (which was its fiendish part) and hoped for  mercy
(which was its human vulnerability).

FIND, she told it. And the  orange-haired fiend leapt up and gibbered  with that
hope for  mercy. It  went loping  and shambling  off shattering  boxes and  wine
bottles and scaring hell out of a sleeping drunk behind the Unicorn.

Ischade's head tilted back; the  breath whistled between her clenched  teeth and
the lust came on her with  fever-pulse, let loose by this magical  exertion. She
had expended  a certain  kind of  energy. It  had gone  far beyond  desire, went
toward need;  and she  hunted the  living now,  hunted with  a reckless, hateful
vengeance.

Nothing petty this  time. No inconsequential,  unwashed victim picked  up in the
streets, slaking need with something so distasteful to her it was self-inflicted
torment.

She wanted  the innocent.  She wanted  something clean.  And restrained  herself
short  of  that.  She  looked only  for  the  beautiful  and the  surface-clean,
something that would not haunt her.

And a lord  of Ranke, who  got up to  close the shutters  against the sudden and
importunate wind, inhaled the stench that swept up from riverside and suffered a
physical  reaction of  such intensity  he dreamed  awake, dreamed  something  so
intense and so very real that it mingled with the krrf-dream he had taken refuge
in  this  storm-fraught night.  It  had something  of  terror about  it.  It had
everything of lust. It was  like the krrf, destructive and  infinitely-desirable
in that way that knowledge of other worlds, even death, has a lust about it, and
a soul trembles on  the edge of some  great and dangerous height,  fascinated by
the flight and the splintering of its own bone and the spatter of its own  blood
on the pavings-

Lord Tasfalen  took in  his breath  of a  sudden and  focused in  horror at  the
starlit  pavings  of his  own  courtyard, realizing  how  close he  had  come to
falling. And  how desirable  it had  been. He  blamed it  on the  krrf and flung
himself away and  back to the  slave who shared  his bed, vowing  to have a  man
whipped for  the krrf  that must  have something  in it  beyond the ordinary. He
experienced a taint of fear, stood  there in his bedroom with the  slave staring
up at him  in purest terror  that the handsome  lord was suffering  some kind of
seizure, that he had perhaps been  poisoned, for which she would be  blamed, and
for which she would die. Her whole life passed before her in that moment, before
Tasfalen sank  down on  the bed  in a  convulsion he  shared with  a woman a far
distance from his ornate bedchamber.

That was  the extent  to which  Ischade's power  had swelled.  It hunted  like a
beast, and  left Tasfalen  shaking in  a lust  he could  not satisfy,  though he
tried, with the slave, who spent the  hour in a terror greater than any  she had
yet experienced in this gilt prison, with this most jaded of Rankene nobles.

Ischade leaned  back and  shut her  eyes, lay  inert for  a long  time while the
thunder rumbled  and rattled  above the  house and  a flop-eared,  freckled mage
labored to save a god and a seer.  Sweat bathed her limbs, ran in trails on  her
body beneath the robes.  She felt the last  impulses of that convulsion,  tasted
copper on her tongue, rolled her  eyes beneath slitted lids and thanked  her own
foresight that she had sent Straton to Crit this night.

Not yet for this fine nobleman.  Sweets were for prolonging. She lay  there with
the fires sinking in the  hearth and on the candles  round the room; and in  her
blood. She stretched  out the merest  tendril of will  and wrapped it  about the
house, ran it like  lightning along the old  iron fence and up  to the rooftree,
where a small flock of black birds took flight.

She sent it pelting gustlike down the chimney and scouring out across the  floor
with the roll of a bit of ember.

"Haught!"     ,

Haught was there, quickly, catfooted  and sullen-faced as ever, standing  in the
doorway of the room he shared with Stilcho. Ex-slave and ex-dancer. She gazed at
him through slitted eyes, simply  stared, testing her resolve; and  beckoned him
closer. He came a foot or two. That was all. Cautious Haught. Wary Haught.

"Where's Stilcho?"

Haught nodded back  toward the room.  The fires were  silent. Every word  seemed
drawn in ice, written on the still air inside and the stormwind without.

"This is  not a  good night,  Haught. Take  him and  go somewhere.  No. Not just
somewhere." She pulled a ring from her finger. "I want you to deliver this."

"Where, Mistress?" Haught  came and took  it, ever so  carefully, as if  it were
white-hot; as if he would not hold it longer than he had to. "Where take it?"

"There's a house fourth up and across the way from Moria. Deliver it there.  Say
that a lady  sends to Lord  Tasfalen. Say that  this lady invites  him to formal
dinner, tomorrow  at eight.  At the  uptown house.  And tell  Moria there'll  be
another place for dinner." She smiled, and Haught found sudden reason to  clench
his hands on the  ring and back away.  "You're quite right," she  said, faintest
whisper. "Get out of here."

She lay back a moment, eyes shut in her dreams (and Tasfalen's) as she heard the
door open  and shut.  She felt  the tremor  in the  wards which ringed the place
about and sealed its gates.

Come with me, Randal had said, knowing what he faced in god-healing. Ischade,  I
need you-

And Strat: Ischade-for the gods' sake-

For no gods' sake. No god's.

She had fled Straton's presence as  she would have fled the environs  of hell...
fled running, when she had left that place and left him and the ruin of Roxane's
house, in utmost confusion and dread,  her heart pounding in terror of  what was
loose, not in the  night, but in her  own inner darkness-a thing  which made her
shun mirrors and the sight of her eyes. So she sat before her hearth and  hurled
magic into the fires and into the wind and into the gates of hell until she  had
exhausted the power to control that power and direct it; then the fire went into
her bones and inmost parts and smouldered there.

Thunder rumbled again, instability in the world, fire in the heavens.

She drew a shuddering breath, tormented the dreams of the fairhaired Rankan  and
thrust herself to her feet, took  up her cloak and put  it on with careful  self
discipline.

The door opened with a crash,  fluttering the candle flames, which blazed  white
for a moment and subsided.

So hard it  was to manage  the little things.  The merest shrug  was lethal. The
gaze of her eyes might do more than mesmerize. It might strip a soul. She  flung
up the hood and walked out into the wind and the night.

The door crashed  shut behind her  and the iron  gate squealed' violently  as it
banged open. The wind took her cloak and played games with it, with a power that
might have leveled Sanctuary.

"Damn it, no. Let me be." And Straton left the mage-quarter room and headed down
the outside stairs.

Left Crit, with argument echoing in the room and the dark.

Crit came to the  door, came out onto  the landing. "Strat," Crit  said; and got
only Strat's back. "Strat."

Straton stopped then and looked up at  his left-side leader, at the man he  owed
his life to a dozen  times and who owed him.  "Why didn't you shoot? Why  didn't
you damn well  pull the trigger  when you came  into the yard  if you're so damn
convinced? Ask me why  things in Sanctuary have  gone to hell-come in  damn well
late and find fault with  me when I've kept this  town alive and kept the  blood
from running down the damn gutters-"

Crit came down the steps and  leaned on either wooden railing. "That's  not what
I'm talking about. It's your choice of allies. Strat, dammit, wake up."

"We're public. We'll talk about it later. Later isn't tonight."

Crit came a step further, checked him on the step. "Listen to me. We've got  the
witch-bitch out. The other one's got  you. Command of this city, hell,  you lost
it. Ace, you lost  it a long time  ago. I don't know  how the hell you're  still
alive but if the  Riddler gets his hands  on you now you're  done-dammit, Strat,
where's your sense? You know what she is, you know what she does-"

"She killed me weeks ago. I'm a walking corpse. Sure, Crit. I'm best at full  of
moon. Dammit, that woman's why we're clear of the Nisi witch, she's why you  had
a city left down here, and why the empire has a backside left at all. I'll  tell
you what it is with you, Crit; it's knowing your partner was damn well right and
you were wrong; it's having your mind made up before you got here and riding  in
there to haul  me out for  a traitor-that's what  you came to  do, isn't it?  To
shoot me down  without a chance  if I went  for your throat?  It's not catching,
Crit. It's not  even true. They  blame her for  every body that  turns up in the
alleys; in the Maze, for the gods' sake- as if corpses never happened before she
came to town. Well,  I've been with her  when those stories spread;  I know damn
well where she was at night; and they still blame her-"

"-like they blame lambs on wolves; sure,  Strat; but a wolf's still a wolf.  And
you're damn lucky this  far. I'm telling you.  The Riddler will order  you. Stay
the hell out of there."

"Stay the hell out of my business!" Strat slammed an offered hand aside and  ran
the steps down to the bottom.

"Strat!"

He looked up in mid-turn. By the tone there might have been a weapon. There  was
not. He hardly broke stride as he went for the stable, flung the door open,  and
fumbled after  the lantern  that hung  there. A  soft whicker  sounded. Another,
rowdier, sounded off loud and two steelshod hooves hit the stall: Crit's sorrel,
ill-tempered  and fighting  the rein  every step  of the  way into  the stable,
bucking and banging boards and making itself heard upstairs.

"Shut up!" It was the same as  yelling at Crit. About as useful. The  hooves hit
the boards again.

And Crit arrived in the stable  doorway, stood there dark against the  starlight
on the  cobbles outside.  Straton ignored  him and  made another  attempt at the
light. It took. He adjusted the wick and hung the lamp on its peg, and did  what
he knew might  be fatal. He  turned his back  on Crit and  walked away down  the
aisle.

Not a  quarrel between  friends. It  was nothing  private. Tempus's  orders were
involved. Tempus disavowed him, disavowed everything he had done, everything  he
had set up, every alliance he had made; and told him (through Crit) to break off
with his woman and own up to failure. Sent his own leftside leader to kill him.

He gave Crit  the chance. He  walked the stable  aisle and got  his tack off the
rail, flung it up onto the rim of the bay's box stall. He kept listening through
the sorrel's ruckus, for  the soft stir of  straw that would be  Crit walking up
behind him.

Try it. From disspirited suicide, to a gathering determination to fight back, to
the imagination that he could beat Crit, beat him to the ground, sit on him  and
make him listen.  Not kill him  when he could.  Then Crit would  come to sanity.
Then Crit  would be  sorry. Then  Crit would  go and  tell Tempus  it was  all a
mistake, and his partner had done the best that any man could do, tried his damn
heart out and done what no one else had been able to do, gods, had held the Nisi
witch at bay, had worked out at least a fragile truce with the key factions, had
patched the whole hellhole of Sanctuary together and held onto it.

He deserved thanks, by the gods. He deserved something besides a partner  trying
to murder him.

Come on, Crit, dammit. Not a sound in the straw, not a move.

He turned  around and  looked. Crit  was not  there at  all; had gone-somewhere.
Upstairs again, maybe. Maybe to pass an order.

Straton turned and flung the blanket on the bay, stroked its shoulder. The horse
bent its head back and delicately nipped at his sleeve, nosed his ribs. He flung
his  arms about  its neck,  which indignity  the bay  protested by  backing  and
fidgeting; gave the warm neck a hug  and a  slap and tried to stop  the stinging
of  his eyes  and the pain  in his heart  by holding onto  something that simply
loved him.

She loved him that way. Supported him. Helped him. Never contested with him  for
credit for this or credit for that, handed it all into his lap with a whispered:
But I don't want that,  Strat. You're the mind behind  it, you tell me what  you
need. I  do it  for your  sake. No  other in  all the  world. Yours  is the only
judgment in the world I  trust more than my own.  You're the only man I've  ever
trusted. The only one, ever.

She was quiet, was safety, she understood what he needed and when he needed  it.
She was the only  woman who knew him  the way Crit had  known him; knew what  he
did, knew  he was  the Stepsons'  interrogator, unraveled  his own pretense that
cruelty gave him no sexual thrill at all: took the body-knowledge which was  his
skill at interrogation and at lovcmaking and bent him round again till he  could
see  the  torment   he  inflicted  on   himself,  inner  war   against  his  own
sensibilities. She  took all  these things  and knit  them up  and let  him turn
gentle and sentimental with her, which  was his deepest, darkest secret- it  was
this  fragile, inner  self she  got to,  which Crit  rarely had.  That he  could
deliver himself to her inside and out, and  sleep in her arms in a way he  never
slept with his lovers-not without an eye and an ear alert, somehow-alert in  the
way a cynic  never sleeps, never  trusts, never hopes.  Ischade's embrace was  a
drug, the gaze of her eyes a well in which Straton the Stepson became Strat  the
man, the young man, Strat the wise and the brave-

Strat  the fool  to Crit.  Strat the  traitor to  Tempus. Strat  the butcher  to
everyone else he knew.

He flung the saddle up and the bay which was her gift stood quietly while Crit's
damn sorrel kicked a stall to ruin and Crit did not come to see to the animal.

He checked the bridle and turned the  bay and led it out into the  stable aisle,
from there to the door.

Perhaps Crit would  be waiting there,  having known his  chances slipping up  on
him. Perhaps it would be  one fast bolt through the  ribs and never a chance  at
all to tell Crit he was a fool and a blackguard.

Strat leapt up to the bay's back and ducked his head, sending the bay flying out
that door  with a  powerful drive  of its  hindquarters. If  a bolt flew past he
never saw it. The bay scrabbled for a tight turn on the dirt of the little  yard
and lit out down the cobbles of the alley, never pausing until he reined it to a
walk a block away.

Where he was going he had no idea. Stay away, Ischade had said. He had  believed
her then, the  way he believed  implicitly when she  spoke in that  tone to him,
that it was something she understood and he did not. It was something to do with
Roxane. It was something that brought a wildness to her eyes and meant hazard to
her; but it was a witch-matter, not  his kind of dealing. Nothing he could  help
her with.  And he  and Ischade  had the  kind of  understanding he had once with
Crit, an understanding he had never  looked to have with any woman:  an unspoken
agreement of personal competencies. Witchery  was hers. The command of  the city
was his. And he would not go there tonight, though that was where every bone  in
him ached to go, to reassure himself that she was well, and that it was not some
misapprehension between them that had driven her away. Things had changed.  Crit
being back, and Tempus-gods knew what was in her mind.

If this visitor makes an end to what is-was-between us-

It's yours to say-

His to say.  His to say,  by accepting her  command to stay  away tonight? or by
defying it?-He suspected one  and then the other  with equal force; he  agonized
over it and called up every nuance of her voice and body and behavior over weeks
and months,  trying to  know what  she had  meant, whether  it was  keeping that
unspoken pact with her inviolate or defying it and risking (he sensed) his  life
to pass those wards tonight- that would cancel that doubt he had felt in her. Or
confirm it.

Damn Crit. Damn Tempus's coming now,  late, when he had everything virtually  in
hand. Damn their  arrival that suddenly  undermined everything he  had built and
poisoned the air between himself and Ischade, the only (he suddenly conceived of
it as such), the only unselfish passion he had ever owned, the only peace he had
ever conceived of having in the world.

The bay horse picked  up its pace again,  moved with astonishing quiet  over the
cobbles and down  the long street  where the scars  of factional violence  still
lingered.

Factions and powers.  He waked suddenly,  as if he  had been numb  since Ischade
flung  him at  Crit and  Crit flung  him away  again. He  heard Ischade's  voice
whispering in his brain: The only  man-the only one who understands how  fragile
things are-

The only one who stands a chance of holding this city-

The only one who might make something of it yet-truer than the weakling  prince,
truer than priests and commanders who serve other powers-

You're the only hope I have, the only hope this city has of being more than  the
end of empire-

You might  not have  their love,  Strat, but  you have  their respect. They know
you're an honest man. They know you've always fought for this town. Even llsigis
know that. And they respect you if nothing else of Ranke-

-llsigis! he had laughed.

You are the city's champion. The city's savior. Believe me, Straton, there is no
other man  could walk  the line  you've walked,  and no  other Rankan  they know
fights for this town.

... They respect you if nothing else ofRanke.

Tempus counted  him a  failure. Tempus  arrived in  the midst  of Roxane's death
throes and laid that chaos to his account.

Let Tempus see the truth, let Tempus see that he could pull strings in this web,
let him hand peace  with the factions to  Tempus and let Tempus  deal with gods:
Tempus was not inclined to tie himself down to one town, one place; Crit loathed
the place-but one of  Tempus's men next  in line, one  of Tem-pus's trusted  men
could find that answer to everything he wanted.

Ischade and Sanctuary.

There had been disturbance downstairs, a  door had opened, and Moria hugged  the
quilts to her in her lonely bed,  lay hardly daring to lift her head.  The whole
night was terrifying with thunders, with the fitful, fretful character of a  sky
which promised no rain and perhaps the renewed warfare of witches. Her with  the
Nisi  witch. The  full scope  of disasters  possible in  that eluded  gutter-bom
Moria; Moria the elegant,  the beautiful, curled into  a fetal ball in  the soft
down comforters and the satin and  the lace of the mansion Ischade  provided Her
most  pampered  (and  hitherto  least used)  servant.  But  the  depth ofMoria's
imagination was better than most-who had  seen the dead raised, the fires  blaze
about Ischade and  pass harmless to  her- but not  to others. And  she had every
Ilsigi's reason for terror-  a dead man had  turned up one morning,  outside her
very  door:  the  skies  arced  lightnings   overhead,  terrible  storms haunted
Sanctuary nights, and there were  wails and scratchings  round about the   house
and the  shutters, thumps  in  the  pantry  and  the basement  which  sent  even
the  hardened staff shrieking  down the halls in  terror of ghosts and  haunts-a
murdered man had lived  here; he manifested in  the basement all wrapped  in his
shroud, to Cook's  abject terror and the ruin of a whole jug of summer  pickles.
A ghostly child sported in the hall of nights and once Moria had wakened to  the
distinct and most  horrible feeling  that something had depressed a  body-shaped
nest  on  the   feather-mattress  beside  her.   (For  that,   she  had   sent a
terrified message   to Ischade,  and the  manifestations abruptly  stopped.)  If
that were   not enough,  there  were  pitched battles  in the  streets downhill,
fires, maimed  men carried  past in   blood-soaked litters-a  fiend had rampaged
through the house of the very Beysib lady Moria had visited on Ischade's orders,
and Moria knew all  too much about the  Harka Bey and their  dreadful snakes and
their way  of dealing with people who  brought  harm to one  of their  own.  She
feared jars,  jugs, and  closets  of  late; she  feared packages    and  baskets
brought   in   from  market    (on  those   days    market  functioned): she was
sure  that  some  viper  might  lurk there,  some  Beysib  horror  come  to find
Ischade's helpless agent in some moment that Ischade was  elsewhere occupied-the
Mistress would  take a  terrible vengeance  for such  an attack:  Moria believed
that implicitly; but it was also  possible that Moria would be dead   and unable
to appreciate it.

And, o Shipri and Lord Shalpa, patron of a one-time thief and Hawkmask, even the
dead were not safe from  Ischade, who might well raise  her up to let her  go on
like poor Stilcho, like the Stepson-slave Ischade took to her bed and  performed
gods-knew-what  with because  he was  dead and  could not  succumb to  Ischade's
curse-could not die as every man  died who had sex with Ischade-or  Stilcho died
nightly and Ischade raised  him up from hell  (though how her living  and latest
lover, the Stepson Straton, had survived  beyond one night she could not  guess;
or did guess, in lurid imaginings of exotic practices and things that she  dared
not ask Haught-does he, does Haught, with Her? Would he, could he, has he ever-?
with direst jealousy  and helpless rage;  for Haught was  hers). It was  all too
confusing for Moria, once-thief turned lady.

And now the Emperor was dead in Ranke, the world was in upheaval, and back  from
the Wizard  Wars the  Stepsons came  scouring through  the streets,  all grim in
their armor and on their tall horses; back in Sanctuary again and determined  to
set things into their own concept of order.

Make the house presentable, Ischade had  sent word through Haught; and told  her
the house had to host the chiefest of these devils, including Tempus, who was an
Ilsigi's direst enemy: an  Ilsigi  hostess  had to  entertain these   awful men,
with what  end to   the business Moria could not foresee.

A  door had  opened downstairs.  It closed  again. She  lay between  terror  and
another thought-for Haught came  to her now and  again. Haught came wherever  he
liked  and sometimes  that was  to her   bed. It  was Haught  who had  made  her
beautiful, it was Haught  who cared for her  and made her imprisoned  life worth
living.

It was Haught  who had prised  a knife from  her fingers and  prevented her from
suicide a half  a year ago,  then kissed those  fingers and made  gentle love to
her. It was Haught who stole a little of the Mistress's magic for her and cast a
glamor  on  her that  had  never yet  gone  away. Perhaps  the  Mistress tacitly
approved. But the Mistress had never laid  eyes on her new self; and that  might
happen tomorrow night-

That would happen. Oh, if there were  a way to make herself invisible she  would
do it. If that were Haught-it must be Haught, coming up the stairs so quietly.

A shiver came over her. She remembered the thing which had been in bed with her.
She remembered the cold in  the air and the steps  which used to come and  go in
the basement,  which might  pass a  door in  the middle  of the  night and  come
padding up the stairs-

The latch of her  room gave gently. The  hinge creaked softly. She  lay with her
back to these sounds in that paralysis that a bad dream brings, in which a thing
will not be real until one looks and sees it standing by one's bed-

The step came close and lingered there. There was a water-smell, a  river-smell,
a beer-smell unlike Haught's perfumed, wine-favoring self. It was wrong, wrong-

She spun over the edge of the bed  and came up with the knife she kept  there on
the floor, as  someone dived across  the bed at  her. She leaped  back with that
knife held with no uptown delicacy: she was a knife-fighter, and she crouched in
her be-ribboned lace  and satin whipping  the tail of  her gown up  and aside to
clear her legs. A ragged shape hulked  on its knees amid her bed, silhouette  in
light from the hall. It held up its hands, choked for air.

"M-mo-ri-a," it said, wept, bubbled. "Mo-ri-a-"

"0 gods!"

She knew the  voice, knew the  smell of Downwind,  knew the shape  and the hands
suddenly, and fled for the  door and the lamp to  borrow light in the hall,  her
hands atremble and the  straw missing the wick  a half a dozen  times before she
lit the lamp and brought it back  again in both hands, the knife tucked  beneath
her arm.

Mor-am her brother huddled like a lump of  brown rag amid her satin sheets.  Mor
am stinking of the gutters,  Mor-am twisted and scarred  by fire and the  beggar
king's torture, as he was when She withdrew her favor.

"M-moria-M-m-moria?"

He had never seen her like this, never seen the glamor on her. She was an uptown
lady. And he-

"0 gods, Mor-am."

He rubbed his eyes with a grimy  fist. She-found the lamp burning her hands  and
set it on a bureau, taking the knife from beneath her arm. "Gods, what happened?
Where have you been?"  But she needn't ask:  there was the reek  of Downwind and
liquor and the bitter smell of krrf.

"I-been-lost," he said. "I w-went-H-Her business." He waved a hand vaguely away,
riverward, toward Downwind or nowhere at all, and squinted at her. The tic  that
twisted his face did so with a vengeance. "I c-c-come back. What  h-ha-hap-pened
t' you, M-m-mo-ria? Y-y-you don't look-"

"Makeup," she  said, "it's  makeup, uptown  ladies have  tricks-" She  stood and
stared in horror  at the kind  of dirt and  the kind of  sight she had  grown up
with,  at  the way  Downwind  twisted a  man  and bowed  the  shoulders and  put
hopelessness in the eyes. "Lost. Where, lost? You could've sent word- you  could
have sent something-" She watched the tic by Mor-am's mouth grow violent: it was
never that way  when Ischade prevented  it. Ischade was  not preventing it.  For
some reason  Ischade had  stopped preventing  it. "You're  in trouble  with Her,
aren't you?"

"I-t-tr-tried. I tried to do what she w-wanted. Then I-1-lost the m-m-money."

"You mean you  drank it! You  gambled it, you  spent it on  drugs, you fool! Oh,
damn you, damn you!"

He  cringed.  Her  tall,  her  once-handsome  brother-he  cringed  down  and his
shoulderblades were  sharp against  the rags,  his dirty  hands were  like claws
clutching his knees as he crouched rocking in the cream-and-lace of her bed.  "I
got to have m-m-money, Mo-ri-a. I got to go to Her, I got to make it g-g-good-"

"Damn, all I've got is Her money,  you fool! You're going to take Her  money and
pay Her back with it?"

"You g-g-got to, you g-g-got to, the p-pain, Moria, the pain-"

"Stay here!"

She set the  knife down and  fled, a flurry  of satin and  ribbons and bare feet
down the polished, carpeted  stairs, down into the  hall and back where  even in
this  night  Cook's  minions  labored over  the  dinner-the  infamous  Shiey had
acquired a partner with  a monumental girth and  a real skill, who  co-ruled the
kitchen: one-handed Shiey  managed the beggar-servants  and Kotilis stirred  and
mixed and sliced with a deft fury that put an awe into the slovens and  dullards
that were the rule  in this house. They  thought She had witched  this cook, and
that the hands that made  a knife fly over a  radish and carve it into  a flower
could do equally well  with ears and noses:  that was what Shiey  told them. And
work went on this night.  Work went on in mad  terror; and if anyone thought  it
was strange that one more beggar went padding in the front door at night (with a
key) and Little Mistress came flying downstairs in her night-gown to rummage the
desk in the hall for the money not one thief in the house dared steal-

No one said  a thing. Shiey  only stood in  the door in  her floured apron,  and
Kotilis went on butchering his  radishes, while Moria ignored them  both, flying
up the stairs again with the copper taste of a bitten lip and stark fear in  her
mouth.

She loved her brother, gods help a fool.  She was bound to him in ways that  she
could not untangle; and she stole from Her to pay Her, which was the only  thing
she could do. It was damnation she courted. It was the most terrible ruin in the
world.

It was for the arch-fool Mor-am, who was the only blood kin she had, and who had
bled for her and she for him  since they were urchins in Jubal's employ.  It was
not Mor-am's fault that he drank too much, that he smoked krrf when the pain and
the despair got to be too much; he had  hit her and she forgave him in a  broken
hearted torment-all the men she loved  had done as much, excepting only  Haught,
whose blows were never  physical but more devastating.  It was her lot  in life.
Even  when Ischade  clothed her  in satin  and Haught  touched her  with  stolen
glamor. It was her lot that a drunkard brother had to show up wanting money; and
adding to the sins  that she would carry  into Ischade's sight tomorrow.  It was
men's way to  be selfish fools,  and women's to  be faithful fools,  and to love
them too much and too long.

"Here," she said, when  she had come panting  up the stairs, when  she had found
Mor-am huddled still amid her bed,  weeping into his thin, dirty hands.  "Here-"
She came and sat  down and put her  hand on his shoulders  and gave the gold  to
him. He wiped his eyes and snatched it so hard it hurt her hand; and got up  and
shambled out again.

He would not go to Ischade. He  would go to the nearest dope-den; he  would give
it all to some tavemkeeper who would  give him krrf and whatever else the  place
offered to the limit of that gold; and maybe think to force food down him;  then
throw him out on the street when he had run through his account.

And when Ischade knew  where he was-if Ischade  got on his track  and remembered
him among her other, higher business-

Moria sank down on her soiled bed  and hugged her arms about herself, the  satin
not enough against the chill.

She saw the bureau surface. The  ivory-and-silver knife was gone. He had  stolen
it.

The starlit face of  Tasfalen's mansion was buff  stone; was grillwork over  the
windows, and a  huge pair of  bronze doors great  as those which  adorned many a
temple.  The detail  of them  was obscured  in the  dark and  the windows   were
shuttered and barred against the insanity of uptown.

But Haught had no trepidation. "Stay here," he told Stilcho, and Stilcho  turned
a worried one-eyed stare his way and wrapped his black cloak tighter about  him,
melting  into  the  ornamental  bushes  with  which  (unwisely)  Lord Tasfalen's
gardener decorated the street side.

Haught simply walked up  to the door and  took the pull-ring of  the bell-chain,
tugged it twice and waited, arms folded, face composed in that bland grace which
he practiced so carefully.  A dog barked in  some echoing place far  inside; was
hushed; there was some long delay and  he rang again to confirm it for  them-no,
it was no drunken prankster.

And now inside there  had to be a  consultation with the major  domo and perhaps
even with the master himself, for it was not every door in Sanctuary that  dared
open at night.

Eventually, in due course,  there came a step  to the door, an  unbarring of the
small barred peephole in the embrace of two bronze godlets. "Who is it?"

"A messenger." Haught put  on his most cultivated  voice. "My mistress sends  to
your master with an invitation."

Silence from  the other  side. It  was a  message fraught  with ambiguities that
might  well  make  a  nobleman's  nightwarder  think  twice  about  asking  what
invitation and what lady. The little  door snapped shut and off went  the porter
to more consultation.

"What are they doing?" Stilcho asked-not  a frequenter of uptown houses, or  one
who had dealt with nobility in life or death. "Haught, if they-"

"Hush," said Haught, once and sharply, because more steps were coming back.

The peephole opened again. "It's an odd hour for invitations."

"My mistress prefers it."

A pause. "Is there a token?"

"My mistress' word is her token.  She asks your master to attend  tomorrow night
at eight, at a formal dinner in the former Peles house; dinner at sundown.  Tell
Lord Tasfalen that my  lady will make herself  known there. And he  will want to
see her, by  a token he  will know." He  reached up and  handed a black  feather
toward the entry,  a flight-feather of  one of Sanctuary's  greater birds. "Tell
him wear this. Tell him my lady will be greatly pleased with him."

"Her name?"

"She is someone he will know. I will not compromise her. But this for taking  my
message-" He handed up a gold coin. "You see my lady is not ungenerous."

A profound pause. "I'll tell my lord in the morning."

"Tell him  then. You  needn't mention  the gold,  of course.  Good rest  to you,
porter."

"Good night and good sleep, young sir."

Young sir. The peephole  closed and a tight  small smile came to  the ex-slave's
face; a fox's smile. He stepped briskly off the porch with a light swirl of  his
russet cloak and a wink of his sword-hilt in the starlight.

"Gods," Stilcho said, "the ring- the ring, man-"

"Ah," Haught said, pressing a hand to his breast. "Damn. I forgot it." He looked
back at the door. "I can't call them back-that wouldn't impress them at all."

"Dammit, what are you up to?"

Haught turned and extended a forefinger, ran it gently up the seam of  Stilcho's
cloak, and dragged him a safe distance from the door. "You forget yourself, dead
man. Do you need a lesson here and now? Cry put and I'll teach you something you
haven't felt yet."

"For the gods' sake-"

"You can be  with me," Haught  said, "or you  can resign this  business here and
now. Do you  want to feel  it, Stilcho? Do  you want to  know what dying  can be
like?"

Stilcho stepped  away from  him, his  eye-patched face  a stark  pale mask under
black hood  and black  fall of  hair. He  shook his  head. "No.  I don't want to
know." There was a flash of panicked  white in the living eye. "I don't  want to
know what you're doing either."

Haught smiled, not the  fox's smile now, but  something darker as he  closed the
distance between them a second time. He caught Stilcho's cloak between thumb and
forefinger. "Do me a  favor. Go to Moria's  place. Tell her expect  one more for
dinner tomorrow; and wait for me there."

"She'll kill you."

Moria  was not  the She  Stilcho meant.  There was  terror in  the single   eye.
Stilcho's scarred mouth trembled.

"Kill you," Haught said. "That's what you're afraid of. But what's one more trip
down there, for you? Is hell that bad?"

"Gods, let me alone-"

"Maybe it is. You ought to know. Tell the Mistress, dead man, and you lose  your
chance with me."  Haught inhaled, one  great lungful of  Sanctuary's dust-ridden
air. "There's power to be  had. I can see it,  I breathe it-you like what  I can
do, don't deny it."

"I-"

"Or do you want  to run to Her,  do you really want  to run to Her  tonight? She
told us to leave Her alone-But you've dealt with Her when the killing-mood is on
Her, you know what it's like. You  heard the fires tonight; have you ever  heard
them bum like that? She's taken Roxane, she's drunk on that power, the gates  of
hell reel under her-do you want that to take you by the hand tonight and do  you
want that to take you  to Her bed and do  what She's done before? You'll  run to
hell for  refuge, man,  you'll go  out like  a candle  and you'll  rot in   hell
whatever there is left of you when She's done."

"No-"

"No, She wouldn't, or No, you won't go there, or Yes, you're going to do exactly
what I asked you to do?"

"I'll take your message."  Stilcho's voice came hoarse  and whispered. And in  a
rush: "If you get  caught it's your doing,  I won't know anything,  I'll swear I
had no part in it!"

"Of course.  So would  I." He  tugged gently  at Stilcho's  cloak. "I  don't ask
loyalty of you. I have ways to ensure it. Think about that, Stilcho. She's going
to kill you. Again. And again. How long will your sanity take it, Stilcho?  Shut
your eyes. Shut them. And remember everything. And do it."

Stilcho made a strangled sound. Flinched from him.

Stilcho  remembered.  Haught took  that  for granted;  and  smiled in  Stilcho's
distraught face.

Before he swept the russet cloak back, set a fine hand on the elegant sword, and
walked on down the street like a lord of Sanctuary.

Straton stood still  and blindfolded as  the door closed  behind, as the  little
charade played itself out. He heard the tread of men on board and the scrape  of
a chair and smelled the remnant of dinner and onions in this small, musty room.

"Do I take this damn thing off?" he asked, after too much of this shifting about
had gone on.

"He can take it off," a deep voice said. "Get him a chair."

So he knew even then that his contact had not played him false; and that it  was
Jubal. He reached up and pulled off  the tight blindfold and ran a hand  through
his hair as he stood and blinked at  the black man who faced him across a  table
and a single candle-a black man thinner and older than he ought to be, but  pain
aged a man. White touched the  ex-slaver's temples, amid the crisp black:  lines
were graven deep beside the mouth,  out from the flaring nostrils, deep  between
dark,  wrinkle-set  eyes.  Jubal's  hands rested  both  visible  on  the scarred
tabletop; those of the hawknosed man in the chair beside him were not visible at
all. And Mradhon Vis, who lately sported a drooping black mustache to add to his
dusky sullenness, sat in the comer with one booted foot on the rung of the  next
chair and  elbow on  knee, a  broad-bladed knife  catching the  candlelight with
theatrical display.

A man shoved  a chair up  at Straton's back;  he turned a  slow glance that way,
took the measure of that  man the same as he  had of the two more  in the comer.
Thieves. Brigands.  Ilsigis. A  Nisi renegade.  Jubal from  gods knew where. And
himself, Rankan; the natural enemy of all of them.

"Sit down,"  Jubal said,  a voice  that made  the air  quiver. Straton did that,
slowly, without any haste at all. Leaned back and put his hands in his belt  and
crossed his ankles in front of him.

"I said I had a proposal," Straton said.

"From you or from the witch? Or from your commander?"

"From me. Privately. In regard to the other two."

Jubal's square-nailed finger traced an  obscure pattern on the aged  wood. "Your
commander and I have a certain-history."

"All the more reason  to deal with me.  He owes the witch.  She owes me. I  want
this town quiet. Now. Before it loses whatever it's got. If Tempus is here  he's
here for reasons more than one."

"Like?"

"Like imperial reasons."

Jubal laughed.  It was  a snarl,  a slow  rumbling. He  spoke something  in some
tongue other than Rankene. The man by him laughed the same. "The Emperor, is it?
Is it treachery you propose? Treachery against your commander?"

"No.  Nobody benefits  that way.  You make  your living  in this  town. I   have
interests here. My commander has interests  only in getting out of here.  That's
in your interest. You can go back  to business. I get what I want.  My commander
can get out of here without getting  tied down in a fight in Sanctuary  streets.
All that has to happen is a few weeks of quiet. Real quiet. No theft. No  gangs.
No evidence of sedition."

"Stepson, if your commander heard you promise that he'd have your guts out."

"Give me  the quiet  I need  and I'll  give you  the quiet  you need.  You and I
understand each other. You won't have a  friend left in our ranks-if I fall.  Do
you understand me?"

"Do I understand you've got your price, Rankan?"

"Mutual advantage." Heat rose to his face. Breath came shorter. "I don't give  a
damn what you  name it, you  know where we  all are: trade's  slowed to a  stop,
shops are closed, taverns shut down-are you making money? Merchants aren't;  you
aren't; no one's  happy. And you  know and I  know that if  this PFLS  craziness
goes on we've got  a town in cinders,  trade gone down the  coast, revolutionary
fools in  control or  martial law  as long  as it  takes, and  corpses up to the
eaves. You see profit in that?"

"I see profit everywhere. I survive, Rankan."

"You're not fool enough to go up against the empire. You make money on it."

Bodies stiffened all around the room. Strat folded his arms across his chest and
recrossed his ankles top to bottom.

"He's right." Jubal snapped his fingers.  "He said the right word. Let's  see if
he goes on making sense. Keep talking."

There was disturbance on the Street of Red Lanterns; but the crowd that gathered
did it in the discreet way of Red Lantern crowds: peered through windows and out
of doorways of brothels and taverns  and just stopped in ordinary passages  down
the Street  if they  were far  enough away.  It was  glitter and drama, was this
district; and a great deal of the tawdry, and in this thunder-rattling night and
the bizarre quiet in town since the fire, it was a rougher-than-usual place, the
clients that showed  up being the  sort who were  less delicate about  their own
safety, the sort who took care of  themselves. So the whores on the Street  were
unsurprised at the commotion down by Phoebe's: the small office where Zaibar and
the remaining  Hell-Hounds served  quiet duty  as policemen  on the  Street-that
office  was  unastonished  tod, and   tried to  ignore the  matter as   long as
possible.  Zaibar in fact  was deliberately ignoring  it, since rumor had spread
who was on the Street.

He poured himself another drink, and looked up as a rider on a sorrel horse went
clattering past his office as if that man had business.

Stepson. He was  relieved, and took  a studied sip  of the drink  he had poured,
feeling his problem on  its way to resolution  without him. The disturbance  was
far from the house  in which he had  a personal interest; and  that rider headed
down  the  Street was  one  of Tempus's  own,  which interference  stood  a much
likelier chance of  curtailing the trouble  down the street.  So it was  wise to
have sat still a moment and trust  the problem to go away; the screams  went on,
but they  would stop  very shortly,  only one  life was  in the balance, and the
madam  of  the  house  (if  not  the  whore)  would  probably  agree  that  this
intervention was better than police.

They were nothing if not pragmatic on the Street.

"Well," said Jubal. "I like your  attitude. I like a sensible man.  Question is,
is your commander going to like you tomorrow?"

"An empire runs on what works," Straton said. "Or it doesn't run. We can be very
practical."

Jubal considered a moment. A grin  spread on his dark, lined face,  all theater.
"This is my friend." He looked left and right at his lieutenants, and his  voice
hit registers that ran along the  spine. "This is my good friend."  Looking back
at Straton. "Let's call it a deal-friend Straton."

Straton stared at him,  with less of relief  than of a profound  sickness in his
gut. But  it was  a victory.  Of sorts.  It just  did not  come with parades and
shouting crowds. It came of common sense. "Fine," he said. "Does this include  a
deal about that stupid blindfold? Where's my horse?"

"At the contact point. I'm afraid it doesn't include my whereabouts, friend. But
I'll send you back with a man you know, how's that? Vis."

Mradhon Vis slipped his  knife into sheath and  let the front legs  of his chair
meet the floor as he got up.

It was not the man Strat would have chosen to go with, blindfolded and helpless,
down an alley.  Protesting it sounded  like complaint and  complaint did nothing
for a man's dignity in this situation that had little enough of dignity about it
and precious little  leeway. Straton stood  up, his arms  at his sides  as a man
behind him took the chair away. Another  man put the blindfold back in front  of
his eyes and tied  it with no less  uncomfortable firmness. "Dammit, watch  it,"
Straton muttered.

"Be careful of him," Jubal's deep voice said. But no one did anything about  the
blindfold.

It was less trouble finding Tempus  than Crit had anticipated when he  talked to
Niko and knew where Tempus had gotten  to. He reined in at Phoebe's Inn  (so the
sign said) and shoved the sorrel's reins through a ring at the building's  side.
There were bystanders;  and part of  their interest diverted  to him, who  added
himself to  the diversion-he  scowled blackly  and glanced  around him  with the
quiet promise what  would befall the  hand that touched  his horse or  his gear.
Then he walked on into Phoebe's front room and confronted the proprietor, a  fat
woman  with  the predictable  amount  of gaud  and  matronly decorum.  "Seen  my
commander?" he asked directly.

She  had.  Chins  doubled  and  undoubled  and  painted  mouth  formed  a  word.

"Where?"

She pointed. "T-two of them," she said. "F-foreign lady, sh-she-"

That took no guesswork. "Tell my commander Critias is downstairs. Do it."

There was another scream from upstairs.  Of a different pitch. For a  whorehouse
the desertion of  the front room  was remarkable. Not  a whore of  either gender
came out of the  alcoves. The madam ran  the stairs and went  careening down the
upstairs hall, vanishing into the dark.

And still not a beaded curtain  shadowed in the downstairs. Not a  sound, except
upstairs: a knock at a door, the madam's voice saying something unintelligible.

A door opened finally. A heavier  tread sounded in the upstairs and  Crit looked
up as Tempus appeared at the head of the stairs-looked up with a stolid face and
a moil  of trepidation  in his  own gut  that was  only partly due to disturbing
Tempus at this particularly agitated moment.

He watched Tempus come down the stairs; stood quietly with his hands in his belt
and composed himself to inner quiet.

And it occurred to him, staring Tempus eye  to eye, that he had been a fool  and
that he might have just killed the partner he was trying to save, because it was
not reason he saw there.

"What?" Tempus asked with economy.

"Strat-after we  cleaned up  on riverside,  the witch-left.  Strat and  I parted
company. He's gone missing. He's not back at riverside."

Of a  sudden it  seemed like  his problem,  like something  he never should have
brought here. He seemed  like a thoroughgoing fool.  There was another tread  on
the  stairs now,  and that  was Jihan  coming down,  trouble in  duplicate.  But
Tempus's face got that masklike look, his  long eyes gone inward and deep as  he
looked aside, a frown gathering and tightening about his mouth.

"How  far-missing?"  Tempus asked  with  uncomfortable accuracy  and  looked him
straight in the eye.

"He told me to go to hell," Crit said, had not wanted to say, but Tempus did not
encourage reticence with  that look. "Commander,  he'd listen to  you. She's got
him-bad. You, he'd listen to. Not me. I'm asking you."

For a long, long moment he reckoned Tempus was going to tell him go to hell too.
And assign him there. But he was a shaken man, was Critias. He had seen the most
practical-minded man he knew go crazy  and desert him. Possession he could  have
coped with; he might have put an end to Strat the way he would have dispatched a
comrade in  the field,  gut-wounded and  suffering and  hopeless; a  man dreamed
about a thing like that and never forgot  it, but he did it. Not this time.  Not
with  Strat cursing  him to  his face   and telling  him he  was wrong.  He  was
accustomed to regard Strat when he said wrong and stop, and hold it, Crit, Crit,
stop it-.  Straton the  level-headed. Straton  who seemed  at one  moment coldly
rational and in the next rode off on-whatever that bay horse had become.  "Where
did you leave him?"

"Mageguild post.  He left  me. He  rode off.  I-lost track  of him. He wasn't at
Ischade's. I thought he'd come to you. Niko said not, Niko said-find you."

Tempus exhaled a long breath, took the  sword he was carrying and hung it  where
it belonged. Thunder rattled. The inn echoed  with it as Jihan came on down  the
steps. "Barracks, maybe," Jihan said. "I  don't think so," Crit said. "Where  do
you think he's  gone?" Tempus asked.  "To do something,"  Crit said, and  out of
that fund of knowledge a pairbond held: "To prove something."

Tempus took that in with a grave and quiet look. "To whom?"

"To me. To you. He's being a fool. I'm asking you-"

"You want an order from me? Or you want me to find him?"

Of a sudden Crit did not know what he wanted. One seemed too little; the  other,
fatal.

"I'll find him," Crit said. "I thought you'd better know."

"I know," Tempus said. "He's still in command of the city. Tell him he'll be  at
Peres on time. And he won't have done anything stupid; tell him that too."

A horse snorted softly, hooves shifted  on cobbles; and Straton heard the  sound
of their steps between  narrow walls, knew before  the hands left his  arms that
they had come back to the alley and the little stable-nook where he had left the
bay. He felt the  grip lift, heard retreating  steps as he raised  his hands and
pulled the blindfold off.  The bay whickered softly.  A trio of cloaked  figures
went rapidly down the alley, one more  than had brought him; the third would  be
the man who had kept the horse safe in the interval.

He walked over and  patted the bay's neck,  finding his hands shaking.  Not from
any fear of violence. Even Vis's personal grudge did not do that to him. It  was
himself. It was knowing what he had done.

He took the reins and  swung up to the bay's  back, reined about to ride  out of
the alley and caught his balance as the bay rose up under him: a cloaked  shadow
had slipped round the comer in front of him.

"That horse isn't hard to find," Haught said as the bay walked backward and came
down on four feet again, still shying. Strat reined him out of it, and held him,
hand to the sword he had never given up.

"Damn you-"

Haught held up something between two fingers. "Calm yourself. She sent me.  With
this."

Strat reined the bay quieter, still too wary to bring his horse alongside a  man
who might have a knife. He slid down to his own feet, keeping the reins in hand,
met the ex-slave on a level and took the object Haught offered at arm's length.

A ring lay in his palm. It was Ischade's.

"She  wants  you-not  at the  uptown  house  tomorrow. Stay  away.  Come  to the
riverhouse. After midnight."

He closed his hand on the ring. A shudder ran through him with a reaction he had
no wish to betray to the slave's amusement. He kept his face cold and his  voice
steady. "I'll be there," he said.

"I'll tell her  that," Haught said  with uncommon civility,  and whisked himself
around the comer again.

Strat slipped the ring  on his littlest finger,  and suffered a spasm  that took
his  sight  away. The  bay  horse pulled  the  reins from  his  hands and  then,
sheepish, stood there  with the reins  adangle while his  master recollected his
sight and got his heart settled from its pounding.

It was apology, from Ischade. It was invitation as plain as ever witch or  woman
sent a man. His heart  pounded as he climbed up  to the saddle and clenched  his
fist on the ring that had now the slow sweet bliss krrf never matched.

He fought his  head clear, knew  that what the  slave asked- what  she asked-was
trouble, trouble not with Crit this time. Trouble that might take everything  he
had done and his  life and sweep everything  away, but the witch  knew that, but
Ischade wanted him and by this gift he knew how much she wanted him; he felt  it
continually and the world swam in front of his eyes.

What are you doing? he asked her in absentia. Do you know what you're asking?

And in the  gnawing doubt that  had been between  them at the  beginning and now
again: Does it matter to you?

The bay moved, and the alley passed in a blur of starlit cobbles, the glare of a
lantern. Things passed in and out of focus.

And in a profound effort he took the ring from off his finger and put it in  his
pocket where it was only mildly euphoric.

Sweat ran on his body. He mopped at  his face, raked his hair back and tried  to
think despite the  erotic mist that  hazed the seeping  brick, the effluvium  of
rubbish and the gutter. The bay's steps clopped along with a distant, dazed echo
in the  alley's wending  transformation into  a street  where a  dope den  and a
tavern maintained half-open doors and a clutch of krrf-dazed sleepers sitting in
the mire outside. Music  wailed; strings needed tuning.  No one cared, least  of
all the player. The alley meandered on.  The horse did, while the mist came  and
went.

Tempus would want him at that gathering  at Peres. Tempus would want to talk  to
him, want sense out of  him, would look at him  with that piercing stare of  his
and spit him with it till he had spilled everything. That was what Ischade knew.

That was why Ischade wanted him out of there.

But then what, when he had fought  with Crit and defied his commander and  dealt
with Jubal and through Jubal, with the  gangs. There were ways and ways to  die.
He had invented one  or two himself. Lying  to Tempus offered worse.  Desertion,
dereliction. Treason.

He felt a stab of ecstasy, and one  of utmost terror; and knew he ought to  take
that ring and fling it in the mud and go confess everything to Tempus, but  that
was against his very nature- he had never run for help, had never thrown himself
at anyone's feet, never in his life.  Fixing things took nerve. It took the  raw
guts to hang on to a situation long after it stopped being safe.

He was no  boy, no  twenty-five-year-old in  shining armor,  head full  of glory
stories. He  had worked  the Stepsons'  shadowy jobs  for a  decade. He had just
never had to think that Tempus himself  might be involved in a mistake. The  man
the gods chose-But gods had self-interest right along with the rest of creation;
gods might trick a man-might trick an empire, play games with souls, with a  man
who served their cause.

Tempus could be  wrong. Gods know  he could be  wrong. He doesn't  care for this
town. I do. I can give it to him. Is that treason?

An empire runs on what works, doesn't it?

I've just got to live to get it  working. Prove it to Crit. Prove it to  Tempus.
If it takes staying out of their way till I can get this thing organized-I  know
holes Crit doesn't.

Damn, no. They'll go for her.

He gripped the ring in his pocket, suffered a twinge that dimmed his vision  and
reminded him it was no small power the Stepsons might take on in Ischade.  There
would be fatalities. Calamity on both sides.

He made up his mind, then, what he had to do.

The sun was  a glimmer of  red-through-murk above Sanctuary's  east when Ischade
came to  the simple  little shop  in the  Bazaar; she  came after a trek through
Sanctuary's streets and in a sordid little room in the Maze left a dead man  the
world would  little miss.  That man  left her  disgusted, pricklish, soiled; and
such was the  charge of energies  in the air  of Sanctuary that  she hardly felt
that ebb of power his death made, felt not even a moment's relief from what  ran
along her veins and suffused her eyes  and made that victim, in the last  moment
of his life, wish he had never existed at all.

It left not the least satisfaction; more, it left a gnawing terror that  nothing
would ever be enough, that there was no man in all the world sufficient to  ease
that power which  threatened to break  loose in the  muttering storm and  in her
vitals. She blinded herself:  she saw too much  of hell and not  enough of where
she was going, and if a  gang of Sanctuary's predatory worst had  confronted her
and seen her eyes this moment, at dawn's breaking, they would have stopped  cold
and slunk away in terror. She had become-known. Victims were harder to come  by.
Only fools approached her. And they were without sport and without surprise.

Tasfalen. Tasfalen. She clung to that name and that promise as to sanity  itself
a prey that offered wit, and hazard, and difficulty.

Tasfalen could be savored, over days. Put off and extended for a week-

She might, she reasoned with herself, make Strat understand.

She might-yet-get  through that  shell of  unbelief Strat  made around  himself,
teach him the things he had to know. He was ready for that. His infatuation  was
sufficient. That her hunger threatened him, this, everything-was unbearable.

It was weakness. And  she had not yet  accounted for Roxane. No  scouring of the
town had discovered her. That the dimwitted fiend had not found her tracks,  but
that she had discovered nothing to indicate that Roxane had not perished-did not
make her secure in her present weakness. It was exactly the moment and the  mode
in which the Nisi would seek her out....

... Strike through  Strat, through this  stranger Tasfalen, through  anything at
all she least expected; most of all through a weakness....

And she was blind.

Knowing that, she came  here, after a fruitless  murder and a night's  searching
all of Sanctuary for Roxane's traces....

... To find the traces Roxane left on the future.

A light  burned inside  the little  shop. So  someone was  astir this  dawn. She
rapped at a door she might have opened, waited like any suppliant at the fane.

Heavy steps came to it; someone opened  the peephole and looked out and shut  it
rapidly.

She knocked  a second  time. And  heard a  higher voice  than belonged with that
tread, before the bar thumped back and the door opened inward.

The S'danzo Illyra stood to meet her, and that shadow to the side was Dubro, was
a very distraught Dubro; and Illyra's face was tearstreaked. The S'danzo wrapped
her fringed shawl about her as at-some ill wind sweeping through her door.

"So the news has  come here," Ischade said  in a low voice;  and was pricklingly
conscious of Dubro to  the side. She forced  herself to  calm, concentrating  on
the  woman only, on  a mother's aching   grief. "A mage  is with your son  since
last night, S'danzo; I would be, but my talents are-awry tonight. Perhaps later.
If they need me."

"Sit down." Illyra made  a feverish movement of  her hands, and Dubro  cleared a
bench. "I was making tea...." Perhaps  the S'danzo conceived this as a  visit of
condolence, some sign of hope; she wiped at her eyes with brisk moves of a  thin
hand and turned to her stove, where a pot boiled. It was placatory  hospitality.
It was something else, perhaps.

"You see hope for your son in me?"

"I  don't See  Arton. I  don't try."  The S'danzo  poured boiled  tea through  a
strainer, one, two, three cups. Brought one to her and ignored the other two.  /
don't try. But a mother might, whose son lay sick in the palace, in company with
a dying god. Priests or some messenger from Molin had been here already. Someone
had  told  the S'danzo;  or  she had  Seen  it for  herself,  scryed it  in  the
fracturing heavens, or tea leaves, gods knew.

And consolation might make a clearer mind in her service.

"Do you think they'll slight your son," Ischade asked, and sipped the tea,  "for
the other boy? Not if they value this city. I assure you. Randal's very skilled.
You certainly needn't doubt  which side the gods  are on in your  son's case. Do
you?"

"I don't know ... I can't see."

"Ah. My own complaint. You want to  know the present. I can tell you  that." She
shut her eyes and indeed it was little  work to do, to sense Randal at work.  "I
can tell you the  children are asleep, that  there is little pain  now, that the
strength of  the god  holds your  son in  life. That  a-" Pain assaulted her, an
acute pain  behind the  eyes. Mage-fire.  "Randal." She  opened her  eyes on the
small, cluttered room again,  on the S'danzo's drawn  face. "I may be  called to
help there. I don't know. I have the power. But I'm hampered in using it. I need
an answer. Where is Roxane?"

The S'danzo shook her head desperately.  Gold rings swung and clashed. "I  can't
See that way-it's a present thing; I can't-"

"Find her tracks in  the future. Find mine.  Find your son's if  you can. That's
where she'll go. A man named  Niko. She'll surely try for him.  Tempus. Critias.
Straton. Those are her major foci."

The S'danzo went hurriedly aside, snatched at  a small box on the shelf.  "Dubro
please," she said when the big man  moved to interfere; and he let her  alone as
she sank down on her knees in the middle of the floor and laid out her cards.

Nonsense, Ischade thought; but something stirred, something twitched at the nape
of her  neck, and  she thought  of the  magic-fall that  still swept  the winds,
recalling that  prescience was  not her  talent, and  she had  not a  way in the
worlds and several hells  to judge what the  S'danzo did, how much  was flummery
and how much self-hypnosis and how much was a very different kind of witch.

The cards flew in strong,  slim fingers, assumed patterns. Re-formed  and showed
their faces.

Illyra drew her hand back from the last, as if she had found the serpent on that
card a living one.

"I see wounds,"  Illyra said. "I  see love reversed.  I see a  witch, a power, a
death, a  castle; I  see a  staff broken;  I see  temptation-" Another card went
down. Orb.

"Interpret."

"I don't know how!" Illyra's fingers hovered trembling over the cards.  "There's
flux. There's change." She pointed to  a robed and hooded figure. "There's  your
card: eight of air. Lady of Storms-hieromant."

"Hieromant! Not I!"

"I see  harm to  you. I  see great  harm. I  see power  reversed. The  cards are
terrible-Death and Change. Everywhere, death and change." The S'danzo looked up,
tears flowing down her cheeks. "I see damage to you in what you attempt."

"So." Ischade drew a  deep breath, teacup still  in hand. "But for  my question,
fortune-teller: Find me Roxane!"

"She is Death. Death in the meadow. Death on the path of waters-"

"There are no meadows in Sanctuary, woman! Concentrate!"

"In the quiet place. Death in the place of power." The S'danzo's eyes were shut.
Tears leaked from beneath her lashes. "Damage and reversal. It's all I can  see.
Witch, don't touch my son."

Ischade set the cup aside. Rose and gathered her cloak over her shoulder as  the
S'danzo gazed up  at her. She  found nothing to  say of comfort.  "Randal's with
them," was the best that occurred to her.

She turned and went out the door. The power was still a tide in her blood, still
unabated. She inhaled it in  the wind, felt it in  the dust under her feet.  She
could have blasted the house in  her frustration, raised the fire in  the hearth
and consumed the S'danzo and her man to ash.

It seemed poor payment for an innocent woman's cup of tea. She banked the  inner
fire and drank the wind into her nostrils and considered the daybreak.

"I can't, I can't, I can't!" Moria cried,  and went down the hall in a cloud  of
skins and satin-till Haught caught her up, and took her by the arms and made her
look at him. Tears  streaked Moria's makeup. A  curl tumbled from her  coiffure.
She stared at Haught with blind, teared eyes and hiccuped.

"You'll manage. You don't have to say where I am or where I went."

"Then take him with you!" She pointed  aside to the study, where a dead  man sat
drinking wine  in front  of her  fire and  getting progressively more inebriate.
"Get him out of here, I can't do anything  with the staff, they know what he  is
for the gods' sakes get him out!"

"You'll manage," Haught said.  He carefully put the  curl where it belonged  and
adjusted a pin for her while she snuffled. He wiped her cheeks with his  thumbs,
careful of her kohl-paint, and of her  rouge, and tipped up her face and  kissed
her gently on salty lips. "Now. There. My brave Moria. All you have to do is not
mention me. Say I delivered my  messages. Say Stilcho's with me and  we're going
to go down to a shop and see about that lock you want for your bedroom-now won't
that fix it? I promise you-"

"You could witch it."

"Dear woman, I might, but you don't do a thing with an axe when a penknife  will
do. You don't want your maid blasted, do you? I doubt you want that. I'll find a
lock / can't pick  and see if you  can. If it suits,  I'll have it installed  on
your door within the week. I promise. Now go upstairs, fix your make-up-"

"I want you here! I want you to tell Her what you did to me, I want you to  tell
Her you made me beautiful!"

"Now, haven't we been over  that? She won't care. I  assure you she has quite  a
many things on her mind, and you  are the very least, Moria. The very  least. Do
your job, be gracious, be everything  I've helped you be, and the  Mistress will
be very happy with you. Don't ruin your makeup. Smile. Smile at everyone.  Don't
smile too much. These men have been a long time out of a house like this.  Don't
attract them. Behave yourself.  There's a love." He  kissed her on the  brow and
followed the sudden panicked dart of her eyes, the appearance of a shadow in the
study doorway.

Stilcho leaned there reeking of wine, his thin, white face uncommonly grim  with
its eye-patch and comma of dark hair. "My lady," Stilcho said wryly. "Very sorry
to distress you."

Moria just stared, stricken.

"Come on," Haught said, and caught Stilcho by the arm, heading him for the door.

"I can't  find him,"  Crit said,  reporting in  to the  palace where  Tempus had
appropriated an office, down  the hall and up  a stair from the  uneasy business
Crit had no wish to know about.

Tempus made a mark on a map. The place was a litter of scrolls and books and the
plunder of  the map  room. They  lay on  the floor  as well  as the  desktop and
afternoon light shone wanly through the window, a murky afternoon, beclouded and
rumbling with rain that never fell. He rose, walked to the window, hands  locked
behind  him-stared out  into the  roiling cloud  beyond the  portico.  Lightning
flashed. Thunder followed.

"He'll show," Tempus said finally. "You've tried the witch's place again."

"Twice. I..." There was a moment  of silence that brought Tempus around  to face
the man. "... went as far as the  door," Crit said, much as if he had  said gate
of hell. Stolidly. Eyes carefully blank. Tempus frowned.

"King of Korphos," Crit said then.

"I remember." A king invited his  enemies to reconcile. Archers turned up  round
the balcony at dinner and killed  them all. Witchfire might serve. And:  Nothing
new  under the  sun, an  inner voice  said; while  another voice  recalled  dead
comrades: tortured souls of yours and mine which must be released. ... At  times
the world went giddy, skidded between past and present. Korphos and a  Sanctuary
mansion. A missing Stepson,  and a sorely wounded  one, both prey to  witches. A
thing that had happened, would happen, inevitably happened? Sometimes he had run
risks from mere expediency. Or perversity. He did not take his men into it to no
purpose.

Crit stood there, statue-quiet.  Too damn willing. A  snake had gotten in  among
them,  and Stepson  hunted Stepson  and stood  there with  that look  that  said
Anything you order.

"I've no doubt  the witch can  find him," Tempus  said. "If he  doesn't show up.
Don't worry  about it."  He gestured  toward the  door. Crit  took the hint, and
Tempus walked as far as the hall beside him. "Just see you're on time."

"Is Niko-"

"Better."

Maybe the tone invited nothing further.  Crit went. Tempus stood there with  his
hands slipped into the back of his belt until Crit had dwindled into a shape  of
light and shadow on the white marble stairs that led to outer doors.

Niko was where Niko had no business being, that was where Niko was.

He struck his hand against his leg and headed down another stairs, past  priests
who plastered themselves and  their armfuls of linen  and simples to the  narrow
walls.

Through doors and doors and doors, till the thunder overhead diminished and  the
last door gave way to a sanctum sanctorum deep in the palace bowels. He  stepped
inside, saw the  cluster around the  bed, a half  dozen priests, the  mage, with
enough incense palling the room to choke a man. A child whimpered, a thin, faint
sound. And  Tempus's eye  picked out  his partner  standing in  that group. "Get
Niko," he said as a priest passed him, and the priest scuttled into the  cloying
room where he had no personal wish to go. The stuff offended his nose, gave  him
the closest thing  to a headache  he was wont  to have. He  stood there with the
pressure throbbing  in his  temples which  might be  rage at  Niko or  the whole
damned business of priests and mummery and a mage's ill-smelling concoctions, or
just the world gone awry. He stood  there while the priest snagged Niko and  led
him into reach, Niko  walking as if he  would break, one eye  running and filmed
with gelatinous stuff,

the other patched.

"Damn," Tempus snarled at the priest, "does it need the smoke?" He took Niko  by
the arm and led him  out into clean air, closed  the door. "I'm not asking  this
time; get to bed."

"Can't sleep," Niko said. The ashbrown hair fell loose across his brow,  trailed
into Jinan's unspeakable unguents. "No use-"

"You're raving." He took Niko's arm willy-nilly, led him

on.

"I saw Janni," Niko  said, mumbled, in a  sick man's disjointed way.  "I saw him
here-"

"You don't see a damn thing, you're not going to see a damned thing if you don't
get out of that foolery and leave those brats to the priests."

"Randal-"

"-can take care of it." He reached Niko's appointed bedchamber, opened the  door
and led him as far as  the rumpled bed. "Now stay there,  or do I have to set  a
guard?"

"Eyes aren't that bad," Niko murmured. But  he felt of the bedside and sat  down
like a man with too many bruises.

Tempus had none. They  healed. Everything slid off  him and vanished. Only  Niko
had the bandages, Niko  had the scars, Niko  was fragile as all  he loved. "Stay
there," he said, too sharply. "I've too much else. I don't need this."

Niko subsided quietly. Lay back with his eyes shut. It was not what he had meant
to say or do. He walked over and pressed Niko's hand, walked out then.

Call off the damn dinner,  he thought. What's to be  gained? How did I agree  to
that?

It was before hell broke loose; it was to calm a nervous town. It was to get the
measure of a witch  and her intentions. And  to discover the threads  that Strat
had run here  and here and  here through the  town. In that  regard it made more
sense than not.  The affair was  a stone in  motion, downhill, and  it would say
something now to the town to break off this engagement. "... Souls of yours  and
mine..." Straton was  one of those  souls at imminent  risk. And if  there was a
thing which might  pull Straton into  reach it was  this, his own  witch-lover's
arranging.

Why meet with them? Why this courting of Stepsons?

That was the insane  question. He thought ofKorphos  again; and the arrows.  And
poisoned wine. And the Emperor.

He was not accustomed to direct challenge, but it was still possible.

The door stayed open  to a steady stream  of martial guests, arrivals  afoot and
ahorse  out front,  with the  clank of  swords in  the foyer,  the inpouring  of
wolfish men who towered and clattered with  weapons they did not give up at  the
door. Hand after huge hand took Moria's  as she stood sentry at the door  of her
borrowed house, a powdered, perfumed mannequin that said over and over How kind,
thank you, welcome, sir and smiled till her teeth ached. Hands which could  have
crushed her  lingers  lifted them  to  lips smooth,  bearded,  mustached,  olive
skinned and white-skinned and unmarked and scarred; and each time she  recovered
her hand and stared a  moment too long into the   eyes of this or that  man  she
felt the blue satin  dress too low and the  perfume too much and her whole  self
estimated for  value right along with  the vases and  the house silver.  And she
was the thief!

Man after  man and  not a  woman in  the lot  until a  tall woman  with one long
pigtail came  strolling in  and crushed  her hand  in a  grasp rougher  than the
men's. "Kama," that one said. Her hand was callused as the men's. Her eyes  were
smouldering and  dreadful. "Pleased,"  Moria breathed,  "thank you.  Do come in.
Dining hall to your right under  the stairs." She worked her fingers  and thrust
out her hand valiantly to the next arrivals, seeing more on the street. More and
more of  them. There  could not  be enough  wine. A  stray lock  of her coiffure
slipped and strayed down her neck, bouncing there. She borrowed both hands up to
stab it back into  place with a hairpin,  realized the tall soldier  in front of
her was staring down her decolletage and desperately thrust out her hand.  "Sir.
Welcome."

"Dolon," that one  said, and headed  in the wake  of the woman  with the pigtail
while others came up the steps.

0 Shalpa and Shipri, where's the  Mistress, what am I doing with  these Rankans?
They know I'm Ilsigi, they're laughing at me, they're all laughing....

A man arrived who was not a soldier, who came with servants: she mistook him for
a passerby until  he abandoned the  servants and came  up the steps,  seized her
hand and kissed it with a flourish of his cap.

He looked up. His hair was fair brown, his eyes were blue; he was Rankan of  the
Rankans and  noble and  he stared  into her  eyes as  if he  had discovered some
strange new ocean.

"Tasfalen Lancothis," he murmured,  and never let go  of her hand. "You  are the
lady-"

"Sir," she said, quite paralyzed by a nobleman who stared into her eyes in  that
way. And she was  further baffled when he  plucked a black feather  from his cap
and offered it to her. "How  kind," she murmured, blinking at him  and wondering
whether she had  gone totally mad  or was another  Rankan here to  make sport of
her. She put  it in her  decolletage, having no  better place, and  saw his eyes
follow that  move and  lift to  hers again  with profoundest  concentration. "My
lady," he said, and kissed her hand  a second time, which meant men standing  in
line  behind  him.  Her  heart  raced in  a  sense  of  impending  disaster, the
Mistress's dire displeasure. Heat and cold chased one another from her breast to
her face. "Sir-"

"Tasfalen."

"Tasfalen. Thank you. Please. Later. The others..."

He let go her hand. She turned desperately to the men next, passed them  through
with a hand to each and caught her  breath as she stared at the tall pair  next,
the taller one with the face that she had seen only at distance, riding  through
the streets on  a fine horse.  His clothing was  plain. His face  was smooth and
cold and he  was younger than  she had thought  until he took  her hand and  she
looked up into his eyes by accident.

She stood there in mortal terror, mumbled something and surrendered a limp  hand
to the man next-"Critias," he named himself. "Moria," she said, never taking her
eyes from  the man  who walked  through the  hall, an  apparition as dreadful as
anything the house had yet hosted. 0 gods, where is She? Is She going to come at
all? They'll steal the silver, they'll  drink down the wine and wreck  the house
and come at me next, they'll kill me, they will, to spite Her....

Thunder rumbled above the house, the  light outside was stormlight, and never  a
drop of rain spotted the cobbles. She looked outside in mortal terror, expecting
more apparitions. Wind skirled, committed indiscretion with her skirts. She held
her threatened hair  and watched wide-eyed  as a last  man came from  around the
comer where the horsemen had turned in, where the beggar-stableboys Ischade  had
provided did service with the horses,  in the little stable-nook to the  rear of
the house. The man wore cloak and hood. For a moment she thought it was  Stilcho
and held onto her coiffure  and dreaded his approach. But  it was not, it was  a
different man, who came up the step with a matter-of-fact tread and looked up at
her with an expression different than the rest-with an expression as if she were
a wall in his way  and he had suddenly realized  something was in front of  him.
For a moment as he threw his  hood back he looked confused, which in  these grim
men was different in itself.

"I'm due here," he said.

She liked this one better.  He was human. She stared  at him and blinked in  the
wind and got out of his way.  "Down the hall," she called after him,  and seized
the door, seeing no one else on  the street, and pulled it to. Caught  her skirt
and freed it and got the door shut. By that time he was gone down that hall, had
found the dining hall for himself.

There was a sudden quiet when he  passed that door. She stopped in her  own rush
toward the hall, terrified that there was something going on, rushed on,  waving
frantically  at  Shiey, who  appeared  be-aproned and  floured  in the  doorway.
"Food?" Shiey asked.

"Wait on  the Mistress,"  she hissed.  "When the  Mistress comes."  And then she
eased through that dining room door where a great deal of quiet had fallen.  The
last-come stood still in the doorway, the Commander was at the other end of  the
hall, and the two were staring at each other.

"Straton," Tempus said. So she knew who it was; she felt the cold; she heard the
thunder rumbling over  the roof  and these  great men  with their  swords all  a
bristle with some offense  that had to do  with this man and  his presence. Only
Tasfalen stood nonplussed, holding his wine glass and staring at Tempus as if he
had suddenly realized he was in very dangerous and exclusive company.

"Commander." Straton came unfixed from the doorway and walked into the room.  It
was all slipping  out of control.  Moria took a  quick step forward,  her throat
paralyzed with fear and her wits with doubt.

"Our hostess," Tasfalen said, and swept in  to seize her hand. She drew a  great
breath, strangled by the lacings of the gown, and the air felt thin and strained
and charged, her head swirling with sleeplessness and the smell of wine she  had
not even drunk. She took a hesitant step with Tasfalen clasping her hand.

"Please," she said. Her voice came out a hoarse breath. "Please sit down.  Shiey
" No, no, one did  not shout for Cook in  a formal party. She struggled  to free
her hand. "Please."

Tempus moved. A mountain  might have moved at  her wish and amazed  her no less.
She saw to her dizzy relief all  the men moving toward their seats, all  of them
moving in on the double tables which did, miraculously, have room enough and  to
spare....

Tempus  took a  seat. Tasfalen  led her  inexorably forward,  past the  rows  of
chairs, toward the head of the  table. Straton- Her Straton-walked on the  other
side of the  tables, got as  far as Critias  and Tempus, slung  his cloak onto a
pile of  others in  the comer,  and quietly  stood behind  a chair he chose. Not
looking at them. Or at her. She might have been walking the edge of a chasm.

Tasfalen delivered her to the place centermost of the head table. She shook  her
head  furiously,  desperately, with  Tempus  standing next  to  that chair,  the
Mistress's chair;  she belonged  at the  door, she  had forgotten  to take their
cloaks, they had draped them  off in the comer in  a pile on an unused  bench or
hung them over the backs of their chairs; Cook delayed with the food, she had to
go back to the kitchen and get Cook into motion....

Eyes shifted from her toward the door. She turned, clutching the finials of  the
carved chair, and saw Ischade in the doorway-an Ischade without her cloak; in  a
deep-necked gown of deepest blue; the  sparkle of sapphire at her tawny  throat,
her black, straight hair in upswept elegance.

Straton left his place, walked through that vast silence and offered his hand to
Ischade. Quietly she took it, and he  walked her the whole long distance up  the
tables in mortal  silence. Moria caught  a breath, having  forgotten to breathe.
The effort strained the limits of  the corset and dizziness tightened her  hands
on  the chair  as Tasfalen's  hand left  her waist.  Ischade had  paused in  her
walking to offer her hand to him, leaving Straton's. The silence trembled there,
and Moria desperately  transferred her grip  to the next  chair over, displacing
Tasfalen to endmost. She caught the edge of that glance: Ischade's nostrils were
white about the edges and her mouth set in an anger carefully controlled.

He's Hers, Moria thought, weak-kneed. Tasfalen's Hers- with all that meant. With
absolute terror that stole  the strength from her  knees and made her  wish that
she could bolt from the room. She felt the feather ride between her breasts with
every  breath.  Felt-something  terrible  in  the  air.  Straton  stood   there,
motionless, his face frozen. No one had moved.

"Lord Tasfalen,"  Ischade said,  and turning  that glance  smoothly to Moria and
reaching out her hand. "Moria, my dear." Ischade's hand closed on hers. Drew her
close, closer, so close that the musk of Ischade's perfume was in her  nostrils,
Ischade's hand  firm on  hers, Ischade's  lips dry  and cool  on her cheek. "How
splendid you look,"

Moria swayed on her feet. Ischade's  hand ground the bones of her  hand together
and sent pain  through her; Ischade's  eyes caught hers  and for a  moment gulfs
opened at her feet.

Then Ischade  released her  hand and  offered it  past her  toward Tempus. Moria
turned her head, clutched the chair again, staring in helpless terror as she had
view of Tempus's face and the  terrible delicacy with which he lifted  Ischade's
small hand in his. Power and Power. She felt the hair rise on her nape as if the
whole air were charged.

"I owe you thanks," Tempus said. "So I'm told. In the matter of Roxane."

There was the smallest delay, another prickling of storm. "Welcome to Sanctuary,
Commander. How fortunate your arrival."

0 my gods-

But Ischade turned then and let Tempus and then Straton draw her chair back. She
sat. Everyone settled into chairs. Moria fumbled weakly at hers before realizing
Tasfalen was drawing it back for her.  She gathered her skirts, sat down as  her
knees went to water.

Tasfalen seated himself and slipped his hand to hers beneath the table and  held
with firm strength. Straton  passed to Ischade's other  side, took the chair  at
Tempus's left, next to Critias. By  some mercy, men had started talking  to each
other. Then by a further one,  the kitchenside door swung open and  food started
coming.

Tasfalen's hand rested  on her thigh.  She failed to  care. She stared  down the
long tables, listened to Tempus and Ischade speaking quiet banalities about wine
and food and weather-

0 gods, get me out of here! Haught!

She would have hurled herself even into Stilcho's arms.

"I don't know where she is," Ischade was saying, again, in a voice not meant  to
carry. "I've searched. I've  spent the night searching.  I had hoped for  better
news."

"How much do you know?" Tempus asked.

A pause.  Perhaps Ischade  looked his  way. Moria  drank a  mouthful of wine and
tried not to shiver. "I know," Ischade said. And reached for Moria's hand  again
beneath the table.

"Who told you?"

Another profound silence. "Commander. I am a witch."

Thunder  rolled  and cracked  overhead.  "Damn," Tasfalen  said.And  reached for
Moria's hand again beneath the table.

Gentle  man, she  thought. Gentleman.  He doesn't  understand this.  He  doesn't
understand what he's into,  he's as lost as  I am-Ischade invited him,  she must
have. Oh,  what are  they talking  about, priests  and searching  and a demon? 0
gods, where's Haught? It was a lie  about the lock, he's not off on  any errand,
not now, with Her like this and the storm and the house full of Rankan  soldiers
Why was Stilcho with him? What could he have to do with Stilcho?

She took another glass of  wine. A third when that  ran out. The room swam  in a
haze, and the voices buzzed distantly in her ears. She picked at food and picked
at another course  and drank another  cup until she  could stare about  the room
without more than  a distant trepidation.  The conversation about  the hall grew
more relaxed. Tasfalen whispered invitation in her ear and she only blinked  and
gave him  a dazed  look at  close range,  lost for  a moment  in blue eyes and a
masculine scent unlike Haught's, whose clothes always smelled of Ischade.

Doomed, she thought,  damned. Dead. Gods  save this man.  Gods save me.  And she
held his hand until his closed on hers with painful force.

"My lady," Tasfalen whispered once, "what's wrong? What's happening here?"

"I can't say," she whispered back; while Ischade said something else to  Tempus,
which made less sense than before.  Of a sudden she realized they  were speaking
some foreign tongue.

And there was no laughter. There was  sudden quiet all about the table. No  word
from  Straton or  the man  next to  him. Critias.  The men  nearest caught  that
contagion and it spread down the table. Wine stayed untouched.

"It's sufficient," Ischade said at last. "Your pardon." And rose.

Tempus got to his feet. Straton was  next. The whole company began to rise,  and
Moria thrust herself  from her seat,  tangling her legs  and the skirts  and the
resisting fabric of the chair until Tasfalen's arm steadied her. She stood there
with her heart pounding in terror no wine could numb, suffered Ischade's  direct
glance, suffered a moment  that Ischade put out  a hand, lifted her  chin with a
delicate forefinger and stared her straight in the eyes.

"M-m-mis-"

"How fine you've become,"  Ischade said, and there  was hell in that  look, that
sent a  weakness through  her bones  and her  sinews and  made her  sway against
Tasfalen. Ischade let her go then,  and nodded to the lord Tasfalen,  as Straton
came and took her arm. She  walked toward the door with Straton,  while everyone
stayed standing and the confused kitchen started sending out another course.

A low murmur went past their backs. Slowly Tempus settled to his chair again. It
was going to go on.  She was left with these  men after all. Moria sank  back to
her chair with the last strength in her legs and smiled desperately at Tasfalen.

Ischade walked for the  door, paused to gather  her cloak from the  bannister of
the stairs, and let Straton drape it about her shoulders. "Thank you," she said,
and walked on toward the door. Stopped abruptly as he followed. She looked  back
at him and felt her whole frame shudder with the effort of calm, with the effort
to keep  her face  composed and  her movements  natural. "I  said," she told him
carefully, "that I  needed time to  myself. Don't touch  me-" As he  reached his
hand toward her.

"I hod to come, dammit!"

"I said not!"

"Who is that man?"

She saw  the madness  in his  eyes. Or  it reflected  hers, which pounded in her
veins and grew to physical  pain. He caught her arms  and she flung up her  head
and stared him in the eyes until the hands lost the strength in their grip.  But
the pain grew; became madness, became the thing that killed.

She shoved him back,  violently, walked with quick  steps to the door  and heard
his steps behind her. She turned before he reached her.

"Stay away!" she hissed. "Fool!"

And jerked the door open and fled, into the wind, and on it.

CHILDREN OF ALL AGES

Lynn Abbey

It was  spring in  the lush  forests far  to the  south of  Sanctuary. Trees and
shrubs put  forth their  leaves; delicate  flowers swayed  on gentle  winds and,
beneath a swag  of ivory blossoms,  a mongoose sneezed  violently. He sneezed  a
second  time and  for a  moment he  was not  a mongoose  but something   larger,
something with huge, flapping ears. Then  he was a mongoose again- preening  his
thick, musteline  fur; fluffing  out his  tail and  casting coy  glances at  the
female a leap and a bound away. The female chattered her response and they  were
off along the branches, across a  stream and ever further from the  magical trap
Randal had laid for her.

The Tysian mage had conjured and cast to exhaustion looking for her. She was the
finest  mongoose alive:  the largest,  the fastest,  the boldest,  and the  most
intelligent. She had, at least, evaded  every snare he'd set from his  power-web
in distant Sanctuary until, in desperation, he'd transferred his essence to  the
forest  to  pursue her  in  person-or, rather,  in  mongoose. She  was  also, as
mongooses measured  such matters,  the most  wildly attractive  creature in  the
forest. Giving  himself over  to mongoose  instincts was  doing Randal's  vow of
chastity no good at all. If he didn't lure her into the charmed sphere soon he'd
forget himself completely and settle down to the business of begetting.

Forgetting  Sanctuary  and  everything  it   stood  for  was  not  an   entirely
unattractive notion-especially when her tail flicked across his nose and he  was
lost enough in mongoose-ness that he didn't sneeze. Roxane was missing;  Ischade
was irrational and  bloated with power;  the Stormchildren were  moribund with a
venom the snake-worshiping Beysib did  not understand pooling in their  veins; a
dead god's high priest had been revealed to be a Nisibisi warlock-and those were
only Randal's magic-tainted  concerns. The mage  had, however, one  concern that
stood above all the rest; which made him secure against momentary lust and  drew
him, and her, back to  the grove where a circle  of stones glowed a faint  blue.
Nikodemos, the impossible Stepson whom  Randal worshiped with a chaste,  fervent
love, was trapped at the focus of every dangerous incongruity prowling Sanctuary
and anything  that might  help Niko  was worth  every risk  Randal might have to
take.

She had caught  him when they  reached the grove.  They were rolling  across the
grass when they pierced the sphere  and hurtled through nothingness back to  the
palace alcove where the body of  Randal slumped over an embossed Nisibisi  Globe
of Power. The transfer back into himself was all the more uncomfortable for  the
mongoose teeth digging  into his neck  and the pottery  crags of the  Wizardwall
mountains pressing against  his breastbone. Randal  slipped from the  world back
into nothingness and sheer panic. He had almost regained himself when a weighted
net slapped over him.

"The cage, Molin. Damn you, the cage before she eats through my damned neck!"

"Coming up." The erstwhile high priest of Vashanka brandished a  wicker-and-wire
cage while magician and mongoose thrashed on the table.

Having the cage was not the same as having the unrequited mongoose in the  cage.
Both men were bloodied and torn before the bolt was thrown.

"You were supposed to have the cage ready."

"And you were  supposed to be  back before sundown-  sundown yesterday, I  might
add."

"You're my  assistant, my  apprentice. Apprentices  are like  children: Children
don't make decisions;  they do as  they're told. And  if I tell  you to have the
cage  ready-you have  the cage  ready no  matter when  I return,"  the  magician
complained, daubing at the wounds on his neck.

The men stared at each other until Randal looked away. Molin Torchholder was too
accustomed to power to be any man's apprentice.

"I thought  it best  to save  the globe  after you  and she  knocked it  off its
pedestal," he explained, nodding toward the table where an unremarkable  pottery
sphere rested against a half-emptied wine glass.

Randal slumped back against the wall. "You touched an activated Globe of Power,"
he mused. He possessed the globe and still hesitated before touching it, but the
high priest simply picked it up.  "You could have been killed-or worse,"  Randal
added as  an afterthought.  His fingers  wove glyphs  that made  the globe first
shimmer, then vanish  into that way-station  between realities magicians  called
their "cabinets."

"I've made my way doing  what had to be done,"  Molin said when the process  was
complete. "You've led  me to believe  that the destruction  of that globe  could
unbind the  planes of  existence. I  can see  that, at  its heart,  the globe is
nothing but  a piece  of poorly  made pottery.  Perhaps it  was necessary to use
magic to destroy it, as you and Ischade did with Roxane's, but, perhaps,  simply
falling off the pedestal would be  as effective a destruction. I could  not take
the risk of experiment; I moved the globe."

Priesthoods, Randal  considered as  he met  Molin's stare,  did a  better job of
educating  their  acolytes  than  the  mageguilds  did  with  their apprentices.
Askelon, at  his most  magnificent, could  breathe more  life into  the simplest
phrases, making every word a threat and  a promise and a truth. But Askelon  was
hardly  mortal  anymore.  Not   that  Molin  Torchholder  was   exactly  typical
ofVashanka's priesthood. Randal had met Brachis, Molin's hierarchical  superior,
and  been singularly  unimpressed. The  truth was  that only  Tempus, who  broke
mercenaries', mages',  and priests'  rules at  his whim,  could conceal more raw
power in his voice and gestures.

It was a realization to make  a cautious mageling look in some  other convenient
direction. "You  might make  a mistake  one day,  Torchholder," he  said with  a
confidence he did not feel.

"I will make  many mistakes; I  already have. Someday,  I expect, I  will make a
mistake I cannot survive-but I haven't yet."

Randal found  himself staring  at the  unfinished portrait  of Niko, Tempus, and
Roxane  that  Molin had  nailed  to the  wall  behind his  worktable.  There was
considerable similarity  between the  witch and  the priest  even though she had
been portrayed  transforming herself  into her  favored black  eagle and Molin's
facial bones showed some of the refinements ofRankan aristocratic patrimony.  It
wasn't surprising: the priest had been born  to a Nisi witch. He had, thus  far,
adhered  to  his promise  to  learn only  enough  to defend  his  soul from  his
heritage,  but  if  he  ever  wavered  from  that  determination,  now  that the
destruction of  Roxane's globe  had every  latent magician  in Sanctuary  on the
threshold  of Hazard  status, he  would make  the Wizardwall  masters look  like
children.

Molin said, "Not if  you help me," as  if he'd read the  younger man's thoughts.
"The price is too high."

The mongoose, who in the transfer  from the forest to Sanctuary had  experienced
being Randal as much  as he had experienced  being a mongoose, responded  to her
desired mate's distress with  an eruption of motion  and noise that bounced  the
cage onto the floor. She set her teeth into the wooden slats and splintered  two
of them before Randal reached her. Two were all she needed, however, to  squeeze
out of her confinement. She was on his shoulder in an instant, her claws finding
purchase in his brocaded cloak and her tail ringing his neck.

"I'm ... going  ... to ...  sneeze!" And he  did-with an eruption  that sent his
defender, and a small portion of his left ear, flying across the room.

Molin  dove toward  the door  to capture  the lithe  creature before  it  gained
freedom  in the  endless corridors  of the  palace. Randal  laughed through  his
sneezes;  the sight  was worth  an earlobe.  Nothing remained  of  Torchholder's
intensity or his dignity as he slid along the polished stone on his belly.

Despite these losses the priest kept his reputation: he did what had to be done.
Blunt fingers  pinched the  animal's collarbone  and a  well-protected arm  both
supported her and pinned her against his ribcage.

"Chiringee?" Molin crooned, rubbing  a free finger under  her chin as he  got to
his feet,  his long  robe wrinkled,  twisted, and  revealing the naked, muscular
thighs of an experienced  soldier and brawler. "So  eager, are you?" He  squared
his shoulders,  the weighted  hem dropped,  and he  resumed his perfect lifelong
disguise as priest and court functionary.  "Well, let us go to the  nursery then
and let you meet the little ones you'll be guarding."

Randal followed, blotting his wounds with his sleeve.

The nursery  was more  a chaotic  phenomenon of  palace society  than a physical
location. Its denizens were moved from dungeons to rooftops, from the depths  of
the Beysib enclave to the warmth and abundance of the kitchens as the fears  and
influence of its overlords shifted. For three days a cavern-ceilinged hall known
as the Ilsig Bedchamber had managed to contain it to everyone's satisfaction.

Protocol demanded that no one pass the guards without careful inspection. Molin,
Randal, and Chiringee waited until Jihan  pushed her way through the doors.  She
accepted the men in an eyeblink but stared hard at the mongoose, drawing on  the
arcane intuitions  she possessed  as Froth  Daughter to  archetypal Stormbringer
only temporarily in mortal form.

"So this  is the  unnatural creature  who is  supposed to  protect the  children
better than I? It smells of Wizardwall magic."

"Well,  she  is larger  and  more intelligent  than  she should  be.  It was  an
unexpected benefit from the transition-"

Randal had more to say, but Molin took command again, leading their way into the
nursery.

The  hour  candle  beside  Jihan's  cross-legged  stool  was   half-burnt-nearly
midnight. The chamber was silent except for the rapid, shallow breathing of  the
Stormchildren  who should  have been  in their  hardwood beds  but had  been  in
Jihan's arms and were  now draped one over  the other on the  floor. She scooped
them up before settling back on the stool.

"They should be  in their beds,"  Randal complained. "How  can you protect  them
with them sleeping in your lap?"

"They were restless with fever."

"They're two steps from death, lady. They haven't moved in a week!"

"I will protect them as I see  fit-and I don't need a little mage  flaunting his
borrowed power and his menagerie...." Her eyes had begun to glow and the air  in
the bedchamber had gone frosty.

Molin dropped the mongoose  and placed his hands  against both of them.  "Jihan,
Chiringee is only another precaution, like the guards outside, to assist you. No
one challenges what your father has ordained: you are the Caretaker."

Jihan's eyes cooled and the room began to warm.

In point of fact, Randal  was not tremendously impressed by  Jihan's caretaking.
The woman, if she could be called that, was obsessed with maternal longings; she
had clutched the Stormchildren to her breast when Roxane's snake made its attack
rather than drawing her  sword and attacking like  the hellcat fighter she  was.
Both children  had been  bitten and  she had  taken a  divine battering, but the
worst injuries had fallen on Niko when he had come to her rescue.

Jihan had recovered almost at once  and Sanctuary was better off with  Arton and
Gyskouras  deep in  envenomed slumber  but Niko,  despite Tempus's  concern  and
Jihan's healing, looked and felt worse than the White Foal undead. He was  also,
because of  his need  for Jihan's  healing touch,  a permanent  resident of  the
nursery along with the Stonnchildren.

Randal didn't pretend to understand Niko's  enthrallment with Roxane or his  all
consuming  interest  in  the Stonnchildren-he  didn't  even  understand his  own
affection for  the jinxed  mercenary who  had rejected  his friendship more than
once.  He  had touched  Chiringee  when they  mingled  in the  transfer  sphere,
inoculating her with his love for Niko and an awareness of Roxane's essence  (an
essence  which,  albeit  neutralized,  pervaded his  own  Globe  of  Power whose
previous owner  had loved  and used  the beautiful  witch countless  times). The
mongoose might not  be able to  slay the snakes  but she would  give Niko a  few
moments of warning and that, not  the safety of the Stormchildren, was  all that
mattered to Randal.

"We had a cage built for her but, with the influence of the transfer, it  wasn't
enough to hold her," Molin was  explaining to Jihan. "We'll have Arton's  father
make a stronger one in the morning. In the meantime I'll tell the guards to keep
the Beysib women out. She'd go after their vipers."

"Then don't build a cage," the Froth Daughter said with an icy laugh. "They need
a few less snakes."

"The vipers are sacred  to the Beysib and  to Mother Bey. You,  most especially,
should respect this," Molin said sternly as the temperature continued to drop.

"Mother Bey! Mother  Bey, my hind  foot. Do you  know where she  found her first
snake? That's all she needs, you know, a silly blood-mouth World Serpent. Not my
father. No, she doesn't need him at all!"

When  she  wasn't  doting  on  the  children,  Jihan  fumed  about  her father's
progressive entanglement with  the fish-folk's goddess,  Mother Bey. Jihan,  who
had never had  a rival for  her father's affection,  was developing a  dangerous
resentment for all things Beysib.

Gods were the priests' problems. Randal had heard the adolescent protests before
and was openly relieved to leave them to Molin. He found a fist-sized watch-lamp
beside the glowing brazier, lit it, and headed toward the curtained alcove where
Niko convalesced. Tempus  had forbidden the  direct application of  magic on his
partner's wounds so Jihan worked her healing through vile unguents; the taint of
rotting  offal  drew  Randal  to the  alcove  more  surely  than the  flickering
lamplight. He swallowed his  sneezes as he drew  the curtain aside and  stood at
Niko's feet.

The mercenary thrashed on his pallet in the grip of nightmares or pain.

"Leave me be!"  he gasped-and Randal  pressed his back  against the wall  of the
alcove.

Chiringee had  followed the  magician. She  stalked across  the damp,  discarded
linens, easily  eluding Randal's  cautious attempts  to restrain  her. Her teeth
glistened and her tail quivered as it only did when she was closing on her prey.
Randal set the lamp carefully on the footboard and moved closer.

"Leave me!" Niko murmured again before his words became incoherent moans and his
body stiffened into an arch above the pallet.

Randal froze,  horrified not  merely because  the creature  he had  enchanted to
protect Niko was going to rip through the soft flesh of that Stepson's neck  but
because  he  knew, despite  his  chastity, that  Niko  was a  victim  of neither
nightmares nor pain.  The injured mercenary  collapsed flaccidly on  the linens;
Chiringee's jaws clicked shut harmlessly and Randal watched as Niko's lips moved
silently around the word he most feared: "Roxane..."

The mongoose  reared up  and began  a keening  that drew  Molin and Jihan to the
alcove.

"He's had a relapse," Randal said, a tremor in his voice. "I'll go tell Tempus."
He ran from the alcove and the nursery hoping he could reach privacy before  the
deceit and sick fear that had taken root in his bowels overcame him.

"I can see that," Jihan  said coldly as she stared  first at Molin, then at  her
patient. She drew the  linens up to  cover him. "Go  now, I'll take  care of him
alone."

Molin was  alone in  his sanctum  when Illyra  arrived at  the palace to deliver
Chiringee's  new  cage. She  had  been instructed  to  take it  directly  to the
nursery, but she was the natural mother of one of Sanctuary's Stormchildren  and
when she insisted that she would see Vashanka's priest first no one argued  with
her.  She dumped  the iron-wire  contraption on  the floor  and ordered  Molin's
scrivener, Hoxa, from the room.

"Is something  wrong, Illyra?  I assure  you: Alton  receives the  same care  as
Gyskouras." Molin stood up from her table and gestured to take her heavy cloak.

"I have Seen things." She kept the  cloak tight at her neck though braziers  and
windows  made the  sanctum one  of the  more comfortable  private rooms  in  the
palace. "Torchholder- it's getting worse, not better."

"Sit down, then, and tell me what you've Seen," He dragged his own chair  around
to the  front of  the worktable  for her.  "Hoxa! Get  some mulled cyder for the
lady!" Propping  himself against  the table,  he addressed  her with  calculated
familiarity. "Since the... accident?"

"That night."

"You said you Saw nothing," he chided her.

"Not about Arton or the other boy; not something I even noticed or understood at
the time. But the  others have felt it  too." She pulled the  cloak close around
her; Molin understood  that once again  Illyra was violating  some S'danzo taboo
with her revelations. "There are stones-spirit stones-from the times before  men
needed gods. When they  were lost that was  when the S'danzo were  born and when
men began to create gods from their hopes and needs....

"If men possessed these stones again there would be no need for gods."

She paused when Hoxa came into the room with two goblets.

"Thank you, Hoxa.  I won't be  needing you again  tonight. Take the  rest of the
cyder and have a pleasant evening." Molin handed Illyra the goblet himself. "You
think that with these stones we could free your son and Gyskouras?" he suggested
when it seemed she would  say no more but only  stare at the twisting plumes  of
steam.

Illyra shook her head. Tears or the fragrant vapor of the cyder had smeared  the
kohl under her eyes. "It's been too long. One of the lost stones was invoked and
destroyed that night- some of its magic was directed against the children,  some
went into a woman  who came to me  with death in her  eyes, some of it  is still
falling to the  ground like rain,  but all of  it was evil,  Torchholder. It had
been damaged when the demons hid it  in the fires of creation. Our legends  have
played us false. Men can no longer live without gods.

"The other  women have  felt the  falling but  I've felt  something else  in the
shadows. Torchholder-there's another stone in Sanctuary and it is worse than the
first one."

Molin took the goblet from her trembling fingers and held her hands between  his
own. "What you call  spirit stones are, in  fact, the Nisibisi Globes  of Power,
the talismans of their witches and  wizards. The one that was destroyed  was the
source of most,  if not all,  of the witch  Roxane's power. She  was evil, it is
true, and the demons  will have their sport  with her, I'm sure.  But the globes
themselves  are only  pottery artifacts.  The S'danzo  needn't worry  about  the
second one, whatever its previous owners  might have been." He stopped short  of
telling her that Randal's globe  still rested, enveloped by nothingness,  on the
table behind him.

Illyra shook her head until her hood  fell back and her dark, curling hair  fell
freely around her shoulders. "It is a spirit stone and the demons have  tampered
with it," she insisted. "It is not safe for men to possess it."

"It could be destroyed, like the other one."

"No." She shrank  back as if  he had struck  her. "Not destroyed-Sanctuary,  the
world, wouldn't survive. Send it back to the fires of creation-or to the  bottom
of the sea."

"It is safe, Illyra. It will hurt no one and no one will hurt it."

She stared  distractedly at  the table;  Molin wondered  what her  S'danzo sight
could actually reveal. "Its evil cries out in the night, Torchholder, and no one
is  immune." She  lifted her  hood and  moved toward  the door.  "No one,"   she
reminded him as she left.

The priest  finished his  cyder, then  opened the  parchment window. Time always
passed strangely  when he  was with  Illyra-it had  seemed no  later than  early
afternoon when she arrived, but  now the sun had set  and a fog bank was  moving
across the harbor to the town. He should have arranged an escort for her back to
the Bazaar. Despite her prejudices Illyra was one of his most prized informants.

"Isn't  it  rather early  to  be sending  them  home. Torch?"  a  familiar voice
inquired from behind.

Molin turned  as Tempus  settled himself  into the  chair which  creaked and was
dwarfed by his size.

"She is the mother  of the other child.  Sometimes she brings me  information. I
don't mix business with pleasure, Riddler."

They used mercenaries' names when  they met; their personalities always  created
the aura of a battlefield between them.

"What was her information?"

"She is worried about the globes and their owners."

"Globes,  owners:  plural?  Aren't  we left  with  globe,  singular,  and owner,
singular?"

Molin smiled  and shrugged  as he  dragged Hoxa's  stool across  the room to sit
beside his guest. "I suppose you'd have to ask an owner."

"Why haven't you? You're supposed to be Randal's apprentice."

"Haven't seen our  long-eared Hazard since  he left to  find you sometime  after
last midnight. It seemed young Niko had some sort of relapse."

Tempus put a mild edge  on his voice: "I haven't  seen Randal in days and  I saw
Niko just  before I  came here.  He was  up and  complaining about Jinan. No one
mentioned any 'relapse'."

"Well, our little mage is a bit naive about these things, chaste and virgin-pure
as he is. He saw something he didn't want to see, though, something he called  a
'relapse', and went  running from the  room like he'd  seen a ghost.  You put it
together, Riddler."

The edge, and some of the confidence, faded from Tempus's voice: "Roxane.  Death
doesn't stop Death's Queen. She reaches me where I cannot defend myself.  Hasn't
Niko suffered enough?" he asked a god who no longer listened.

"We never did find  Roxane's body, you know.  And by your own  reports she could
steal a body as easily as a soul. She pacted with demons that night; she had the
power to slip inside his skull like a whisper-and we'd never know!"

"But Jihan would. She  says there's not one  iota of Niko that  isn't pure. Pure
pain. I tried to make him hate me once, and he suffered more."

"Damn you, man! He wasn't suffering  when I saw him last night,"  Molin shouted,
slamming his  fist on  the table  to get  the mercenary's  attention. "If Roxane
hasn't possessed Niko, then he's calling her back himself with these dreams.  We
could have a serious problem on our hands."

"I'd go to  hell itself to  set him free  of her," Tempus  resolved, starting to
rise from his chair.

"Roxane's  not  in hell-she's  in  Niko. In  his  memories. In  his  lusts. He's
bringing her back, Riddler. I don't know how but I know what I saw."

"The curse won't have him."

"Which curse? Yours, hers, or his? Or hasn't it occurred to you that Niko  loves
the witch-bitch far better than he loves you?"

"It is enough that he loves me at all."

"Very convenient,  Riddler. This  Bandaran adept,  reeking of  moat, brings  the
world's own  chaos in  his wake  and it's  all because  he has the misfortune to
admire you. I suppose you'll tell me  Vashanka's gone because he loved you,  too
after his fashion."

"All right," Tempus  roared, but he  sat down again.  "My curse-all mine-on  the
people I love. Does that satisfy you?"

"Well, at least I should be safe from it," Torchholder replied with a smile.

"Don't play games with me, priest. You're not in my league."

"I'm not playing with you; I'm trying  to set you free. How many years  have you
been dragging that around with you? You think the universe spins in your  navel?
The only curse you've got is the arrogance of believing yourself responsible for
everything." It  was sudden  death to  provoke Tempus's  wrath- everyone  in the
Rankan Empire  knew that-so  the priest's  audacity left  the immortal mercenary
flat-footed and muttering • about magicians, love, and other things that  passed
the understanding of ordinary, uncursed, men.

"Let me tell  you what I  do understand, Riddler.  I understand that  a curse is
only a  threat-a potential.  No wizard-no,  more than  that: no  god-can curse a
disbelieving man. No acceptance-no curse: it's as simple as that, Tempus Thales.
You made some backwater  mage's curse a prophecy.  You rejected love in  all its
forms."

The shock was beginning to wear off;  Tempus stiffened, his lips a taut line  of
displeasure across his face. Molin rocked back on the stool until its front legs
were off the floor and his shoulders rested against the worktable: a posture  so
vulnerable  it was  insolent. "In  fact," the  priest said  amiably, "a   mutual
acquaintance of ours-the highest authority in these matters, as it  were-assures
me that your curse is, shall we say, all in your mind. A bad habit. He says  you
could sleep like a babe-in-arms if you wanted to."

"Who?"

"Jinan's father: Stormbringer," Molin concluded with a smile.

"You? Stormbringer?"

"Don't look so surprised." The stool  thumped back to its normal alignment  with
the  floor. "We  were both,  in a  sense, orphans.  I..." Molin  groped for  the
appropriate description, "-experience him quite regularly. Now that is a  curse.
Our  paternal  ancestor is  head-over-heels  in lust  with  the Beysib's  Mother
Goddess-except they don't have a matching set of heads, heels or whatever."

"Torch, you push me  too far," Tempus warned,  but the power wasn't  there. "The
Empire's coming back. Vashanka's coming  back." His voice was more  hopeful than
commanding.

Molin shook his head,  tsk-tsk'ing as if he  spoke to a child.  "Open your eyes,
Riddler. Unbelievable as it might seem, the future is here in Sanctuary. There's
an empire coming, and a war-god as well, but it won't be Rankan and it won't  be
Va-shanka.  You came  here, I  imagine, to  tell me  to toe  the line  when  the
imperial ship arrives. Let me  make a counter-proposal: Make your  commitment to
your son-keep  Brachis, Theron,  and all  Ranke alive   only until  Sanctuary is
ready to conquer it."

"You'll see your guts spinning on a windlass for that, priest," Tempus hissed as
he stood up and headed for the door.

"Think it over, Riddler. Sleep on it. You look like you need some sleep."

The big  man said  nothing as  he disappeared  into the  darkness beyond Molin's
apartments. If  he could  be brought  into line,  or so  Stormbringer said,  the
ultimate triumph of the Storm-children would be ensured. There were things  even
the primal  war-god didn't  know, Molin  mused as  he closed  the window, but he
might be right about Tempus.

"I tell you-she's gone mad. She's lost control. She's gathering her dead-but she
can't find them all."

The young man wrung his hands together as he talked; his words slurred and broke
in a constant agitation of pain  and chronic drunkenness. The fog of  his breath
in the cold, damp air was enough to intoxicate a sober, living man. Both witches
raised better looking corpses, better smelling ones for that matter, but  Mor-am
wasn't dead-yet.

"S-She's l-l-lost c-control. S-she's  l-l-looking for s-someone to  k-k-k-k-" he
gasped and coughed his way into incoherence.

Walegrin sighed, poured two-fingers of cheap wine, and slid it across the barrel
head. In a backwater town renowned for its depravity and despair, this  one-time
hawkmask had drifted beyond the pale. Mor-am needed both white-knuckled hands to
get the mug to  his lips; even then  a dirty stream oozed  out the comer of  his
ruined mouth. The garrison captain looked away and tried not to notice.

"You mean Ischade?" he asked when the wine was gone.

"Seh!" Mor-am's back straightened  and his eyes cleared  as he uttered the  Nisi
curse. "Not Her name. Not aloud.  S-She's l-l-looking for s-someone to  k-k-kill
someone p-powerful. I c-could find out h-his name."

Walegrin said nothing.

"I s-saw  Her w-with  T-T-Tempus-at m-m-my  s-sister's h-h-house.  S-She w-w-was
angry."

Walegrin studied the stars overhead.

Mor-am gripped the cup again,  throwing his head back, sucking  loudly, futilely
on the  rim. He  made a  supreme effort  to control  his wayward tongue. "I know
other things.  She's looking  for the  witch. Got  to have  power-have her focus
back. I can follow Her-She trusts me."

A flock of the white Beyarl made their way to the palace. A falcon's cry  echoed
across the rooftops.  The white birds  swooped back toward  the harbor. Walegrin
watched  their  slow-circling patterns  and  Mor-am lurched  forward  across the
barrel head to grip his wrist with moist, sticky hands.

The young man began to speak in a rapid, malodorous whisper: "M-Moria's changed.
G-G-Got f-friends w-w-who aren't Her  f-friends. D-Deads at the P-Peres  h-house
w-w-who s-should b-b-be in h-hell. T-Taken  a 1-1-lover. M-Moria's a  th-thief-1
1-like H-Her. H-He's  a m-mage-m-maybe  b-b-better th-than  H-Her. S-She'll  t-t
tell you w-w-what e's-"

The captain wrenched his arm away and whistled sharply. A burly soldier  emerged
from the inky doorway where he had been posted.

"Take him to the palace," Walegrin commanded, taking a cloth from a sack at  his
feet and carefully cleaning his hands.

"S-s-she'll know.  When I  d-d-don't come  back. She'll  look for  me." The   ex
hawkmask's voice was shrill with desperation as he was hoisted to his feet. "You
said gold-you said: 'gold for information'."

"It doesn't pay to sell out your family-pud, I thought you'd've learned that  by
now," Walegrin replied coldly. "Take him  to the palace." He nodded and  another
soldier stepped forward to see that the command was carried out quietly.

Walegrin threw Mor-am's mug into the garbage  that lay everywhere in the  burned
out, sky-roofed warehouse. It had  come this low: Rankan soldiers  holding forth
in ruins; listening to the ramblings of the city's scum; talking to the dead and
the undead. A delegation  was coming from the  capital. His orders were  to keep
Sanctuary quiet, to keep it free of surprises and, above all, to keep an ear out
for rumors about the Nisi witch. He rested his hand on his sword hilt and waited
for the next one.

"He might be right, you know," a voice called from the darkness.

A man separated from the shadows-mounted and armed. He came through a gap in the
walls-the man's head wreathed in shifting moisture, the horse as cool and  shiny
as a marble statue. Walegrin stood up, his hand remaining on the sword.

"Slow up there," the stranger ordered, swinging his leg over the saddle. "Word's
out you're talking to anybody-even other Rankan soldiers." His words emerged  in
a plume but the bay horse, though it snorted and shied from the lingering  scent
of the fire, made no mark on the night air.

"Strat?" Walegrin inquired and received a confirming nod. "Didn't think you came
uptown much these days."

The hawk cried again. Both men glanced up past the charred, skeletal roof-beams,
but the sky was empty.

"I was  up here  the other  night at  Moria's dinner  party." Straton kicked the
broken barrel Mor-am had used for a seat aside and selected another one from the
rubble. "This place secure?" He glanced around at the gaping walls.

"It's mine."

"He might be worth listening  to," Strat said, shrugging  a shoulder toward  Mor
am's path.

Walegrin shook his head.  "He's drunk, scared, and  ready to sell the  only ones
who've stood by him. I'm not looking to buy what he's selling."

"Especially scared-especially scared. I'd say  he knows something no cheap  wine
can hide. I've seen the new face Moria's wearing these days; Ischade didn't  put
it there. I'd talk to him about that-get his confidence. Ease the burden on  his
mind."

Strat was  known to  live within  the necromancer's  curse- and  without it,  if
current rumor were true. He knew Ischade's household as no other living man knew
it.  Likewise, he  was the  Stepson's interrogator-a  superb judge  of a   man's
willingness to talk and the worth of what he said.

"I'll talk to him, then," Walegrin  agreed, wishing he had a larger  fraction of
Molin's canniness. The Stepson had gotten the upper hand in their  conversation.
He was sitting, silent and smiling, while Walegrin was sweating. The younger man
pondered  possibilities  and  motivations,  listened  to  the  lonely  hawk, and
abandoned all attempts at subtlety. "Strat,  you didn't come here to help  me do
my job with that wrecked hawkmask and it's not safe for a Stepson to be east  of
the processional-so why're you here?"

"Oh, it's about a hawkmask:  Jubal." Strat paused, bit an  offending fingernail,
and spat into the darkness for effect. "He made an agreement with me and I  want
you and yours to honor it."

Walegrin snorted. "Commander-this  had better be  good. Jubal made  an agreement
with the Stepsons?"

"With me,"  the Stepson  said through  taut lips.  "For peace  and quiet. For no
confrontations while Sanctuary has imperial  visitors. For business as usual  as
it used to be. He's pulling back; I'm pulling back. The PFLS will be exposed and
we'll take care of them-permanently.  Consider yourself honored that I  think we
need your voluntary cooperation."

"What cooperation?"  Walegrin snapped.  "Are we  the ones  rampaging through the
streets? Are we running rackets?  Strong-arming merchants? Did we turn  the town
on its ear, then run off to  war leaving the locals masquerading in our  places?
You want to take care  of the PFLS-there wouldn't  be any PFLS without  the high
and-bloody-mighty Third Commando and there wouldn't be any Commando without  you
and yours. Dammit, Commander, I haven't got a headache you didn't cause one  way
or another."

Straton sat  in stony  silence. There'd  never been  any love  lost between  the
regular army  soldiers, enlisted  to the  service of  the Empire,  and the elite
bands like the Stepsons  or the Hell-Hounds, bound  only to the interest  of the
gold that paid them.  For Straton and Walegrin,  whose orders-keep the peace  in
Sanctuary-were identical and  whose positions-military commander-were  untenably
identical, the antagonism was especially acute.

Walegrin, having spent the  better part of his  life in blind admiration  of the
likes of Straton, Critias,  or even Tempus, expected  the Stepson to blast  them
out of their conversational impasse. He felt no relief when, after long  moments
of staring, enlightenment overcame him: Strat  was out of his depth and  sinking
faster than he, himself, was.

"All right,"  Walegrin began,  leaning across  the makeshift  table, forcing the
anger from his  voice the way  Molin did. "You've  got the garrison's  voluntary
cooperation. What else?"

"We're changing the rules-some of the  players won't like it. The PFLS  is going
to push-"

Walegrin raised  a finger  for silence;  the hawk's  cry rose  and fell in a new
pattern. "Keep  talking," he  told the  Stepson. "Don't  look around-we're being
watched. Thrush?" he asked the darkness.

"There  was  one following  him-"  a voice  explained  from the  shadows  behind
Walegrin's  back. "He's  up on  the roof  over your  right shoulder-with  a  bow
that'll put  an arrow  through you  both. There  was another-no  weapons that we
could  see- came  up a  bit later.  Now the  second's seen  the first  an'  he's
circling around."

"Friends of yours?"

"No, I came alone," Strat replied  without confidence as a hiss that  might have
been an arrow crossed the open sky above them.

"Let's go," Walegrin ordered, pushing away from the barrel head.

The gods  alone might  know who  had followed  Straton, Walegrin  thought as  he
crouched and ducked into the shadows  where Thrusher was waiting for him.  Every
Stepson had enemies in this part of town and Strat had more than most. He  might
even have enemies who'd kill each other for the privilege of killing him.

Walegrin couldn't indulge  in expectant curiosities,  though- not with  Thrusher
picking a cat's path through the garbage ahead of them. His squads had  patroled
these warrens and  knew where safe  footing lay. He  could only follow  and hope
Strat  had the  good sense  to do  the same.  Thrush led  them onto  the  nearby
rooftops in time to see their bow-carying quarry land on the muddy  cobblestones
below.

"Recognize him?" Walegrin demanded, pointing at the receding silhouette.

"Crit."

Stepsons hunting  Stepsons, was  it? "After  the other  one," Walegrin barked at
whichever of his men could hear. There were better ways to get information  from
Critias than risking a rooftop  confrontation. He turned to follow  Thrusher and
realized that Strat hadn't moved since identifying his erstwhile partner.

"It's no time to be asking yourself questions, Straton."

"He came to kill  me," Strat whispered, then  stumbled on a loose  roof tile and
lurched toward the eaves.

Walegrin caught a  fistful of shoulder.  "He hasn't-yet. Now  move it before  we
lose the other one, too."

Strat glowered and thrust Walegrin's arm aside.

The second interloper  knew the backways  of Sanctuary and  was hugging darkness
back toward  the Maze  and safety.  Moonlight caught  a youthful outline arching
from one rooftop to the next and Thrusher's crablike scuttle as he followed.

"Not for the likes of us,"  Walegrin decided, judging the weight of  the leather
armor he and Strat wore. "We go below. It's our only chance."

He led the way, crashing through  the rubble and needing Strat's help  more than
once to shoulder through a crumbling door or wall that threatened to block their
way.

"Lost  'em,"  Strat muttered  when  they burst  through  a flimsy  gate  to find
Lizard's Way deserted.

Walegrin cupped his palms around his lips and emitted a passable imitation of  a
hawk. "Gave it a good try, though," he added between gasps. "Worth a jug between
us."

Strat was nodding  when a hawk  cried and a  face appeared in  the gutters above
them.

"Round the alleys and back. Captain. We caught her."

"Her?" both men said to themselves.

Kama  glared at  the night  from the  calf-deep stench  of a  Maze rooftop  rain
cistern. Stupidity and bad luck. Another  fifteen steps and she would have  been
so deep in  the Maze they  would never have  found her, but  not this time. This
time the damn shingle had to give  way and take her sliding down a  rain trough.
That was the bad luck. Stupidity was  not knowing the trough ended in a  cistern
when she had taken this exact route a dozen other nights. She would have ignored
the makeshift rope Thrusher dangled above her if survival weren't more important
than pride or if her ankle weren't  already swollen from the fall and her  hands
abraded by her efforts to free herself on her own.

She bore the indignity of being hauled up like a sack of dead fish, knowing that
the worst was yet to come.

"0 gods, no-" a familiar voice breathed softly. "Not you-"

Kama refused  to look  in that  direction but  stared instead  at the  young-ish
officer in charge of the garrison troops who had pursued, then rescued, her.

"Well," she demanded, "are you satisfied or  are you going to drag me up  to the
palace?"

Walegrin felt  his throat  tighten. Not  that he  wasn't accustomed  to seeing a
woman  in men's  clothing-in a  thief's night-dark  clothing at  that. This  was
Sanctuary, after all. The garrison soldier guarding their flank was a woman he'd
hired himself and as nasty a fighter as was ever bred in the Maze. But the young
woman standing in front  of him, her wet  clothes plastered to her  and her long
hair snapping like whips when she  tossed her head, was the backbone  and brains
behind the 3rd Commando, and probably  the PFLS, for that matter. Worse-she  was
Tempus Thales's daughter.

"Who sent  you?" he  stammered, and  had the  god's good  luck to  find the  one
question that would leave her as uncomfortable as he was.

"Did your... did  Tempus send you?"  Strat asked, stepping  into the light  of a
freshly kindled torch.

Kama tossed her  head, barely acknowledging  Strat's question, and  stood silent
until Thrusher stepped forward and grabbed her weapon hand.

"Lady, you want to use this again?"

"Yes-let go of me-"

"Thrush." Walegrin moved to restrain his lieutenant who had already  unstoppered
his wineskin. "I'm sure the lady has her own... resources."

Thrush turned  around, exposing  the wound  to the  torchlight. Everyone  in the
courtyard who  carried a  sword felt  a twinge.  The skin  on Kama's palm lay in
twisted spikes cross-hatched with black splinters from the cistern walls; not  a
wound that killed but one that  stole reflexes and precision, which was  just as
bad. Kama shed a fraction of her composure.

"Lady," Thrush stared up into Kama's eyes, "you got a good doctor in there?"  He
shrugged a shoulder Mazeward and pointed the wineskin at her palm.

"Are you any better?"

Thrusher bared all his teeth.

"He's not bad," Walegrin confirmed, "but the demon's piss he keeps in that  sack
of his is guaranteed." ,   "Given to me by my one-eyed grandmother...." Thrusher
explained as a stream of colorless liquid spurted toward Kama's hand.

"It'll hurt like hell," a faceless voice warned from beyond the torchlight.

But Kama already knew  that. Her face went  white and rigid and  stayed that way
until Thrusher put the cork back in  the wineskin. Strat offered a strip of  his
tunic as a bandage as her own clothing was as filthy as the wound had been.  She
seemed relieved when Strat put his hand under her arm.

"Why?" Strat asked in a voice Walegrin saw rather than heard.

"Go on back to the barracks," Walegrin ordered quickly but made no move to leave
the courtyard  himself. "We'll  see the  lady to  her lodgings."  He met Strat's
glower and outlasted it. "You and I  have a jug of wine to split,"  he explained
when his men had vanished.

"Why, Kama?" Strat repeated. "Didn't he think Crit would carry out his orders?"

They began  moving slowly  toward the  warehouse where  Strat had  left his  bay
horse.

"I've been following Crit," Kama admitted. "When I saw him with the bow-I  don't
know if he's got orders  or not." She paused to  tuck a hank of hair  behind her
ear. Whatever pain  remained in her  face had nothing  to do with  her injuries.
"Nobody  in  the palace  understands  any more.  They  haven't set  foot  in the
streets. They don't understand what's happening. ..."

Like everyone else  who had spent  the winter in  Sanctuary- rather than  in the
palace, or Ranke or some relatively secure war zone-Kama had lived through hell.
Walegrin guessed she  would have more  faith and friendship  for anyone who  had
also endured those long, dead-cold  nights on the barricades, regardless  of the
color on their armband, than she could feel for any outsider-even her father.

"It takes someone who's been out here to understand," he agreed, sliding his arm
under Kama's  other arm  so she  didn't need  to put  any weight  on her twisted
ankle. "There's one I trust. I'd trust him at my back on the streets and I trust
him in the palace...."

Molin Torchholder slouched back against the outstretched wings of a gargoyle. He
would have preferred to be somewhere  well beyond the city walls but  winter was
finally yielding to Sanctuary's fifth  season: the mud, and he  wasn't desperate
enough to brave the quagmires masquerading as streets and courtyards. The palace
rooftop  was deserted  except for  workmen and  laundresses who  could still  be
counted on to leave him alone. He closed his eyes and savored the gentle  warmth
of the sun.

In a methodical fashion he reviewed the conversations and rumors that had passed
his way. The garrison commander,  Walegrin, was finally showing promise;  acting
on his own  initiative, he had  established friendly relations  with Straton and
Tempus Thales's daughter, Kama. That was  a good sign. Of course, the  fact that
Straton was  on the  streets, cut  off from  both Ischade  and the  Stepsons and
dealing  with  Jubal,  was  a  bad sign.  And  confirmation  that  Kama  was the
intelligence behind the PFLS was the worst information he'd had in months-  even
if it wasn't a surprise. Tempus, never an easy man to predict under the best  of
circumstances, would be chaos  incarnate if any of  his real or imagined  family
turned on one another.

The whining hawkmask the garrison  had interrogated had told them  everything he
knew, and a good deal he did not, about Ischade. Like Straton, the priest  found
it interesting that Ischade had rivals within her own household-rivals who could
transform an Ilsig harridan into a  Rankan lady. Molin knew the necromancer  had
been  detaching herself  from her  magic since  her raven  had appeared  on  his
bedpost with no message and less desire to return to the White Foal. If  Ischade
found her  focus again,  the bird  would let  him know  by its departure. If she
didn't, well: Jihan could protect the children, Randal would protect his  globe,
and the rest of magic could destroy itself for all he cared.

On the balance, then, the thoughts percolating through his mind were satisfying.
The street powers-the Stepsons, Jubal,  the 3rd Commando, and the  garrison-were
reining in their  prejudices and rivalries  without overt interference  from the
palace.  Sanctuary-flesh-and-blood Sanctuary-would  be quiet  when the  imperial
delegation made its appearance. The  disorganization of magic and the  broodings
of Tempus Thales seemed soluble problems by comparison.

"My Lord Torchholder-there you are!"

Prince  Kadakithis's relentlessly  cheerful voice  dragged the  priest from  his
reverie.

"You're a  devilish hard  man to  find sometimes.  Lord Torch-holder.  No, don't
stand-I'll sit beside you."

"I was just enjoying the sunshine-and the quiet."

"I can imagine. That's  why I followed you-to  get you while you  were alone. My
Lord Torchholder-I'm confused."

Molin cast a final glance at the glimmering harbor and gave his whole  attention
to the golden-haired aristocrat squatting in front of him. "I'm at your service,
my prince."

"Is Roxane dead or alive?"

The young man wasn't  asking easy questions today.  "Neither. That is, we  would
know if she were dead-a soul such as hers makes quite a splash when it  surfaces
in hell. And we would know if she were alive-in any ordinary sense. She has,  in
effect, vanished which we think, on the  whole, is more likely to mean that  she
is alive, rather than dead, but  safely hidden somewhere where even Jihan  can't
find her-though such a place is beyond all imagining. She might, I suppose, have
become Niko herself-though Jihan assures us  she would know if such a  thing had
happened."

"Ah," the  prince said  with an  indecisive nod.  "And the Stormchildren-nothing
will  change with  them one  way or  another until  she's either  fully dead  or
alive?"

"That's a rather inelegant  way of summing up  a week's worth of  argument-but I
think that you're fairly close to the heart of the matter."

"And we  don't want  our visitors  from the  capital to  know about  her or  the
Stormchildren?"

"I think it would be  safe to say that whatever  chaos the witch could cause  on
her own it would be made immeasurably worse were it witnessed by someone, as you
say, 'from the capital'."

"And because we  don't know where  she is, or  what she's going  to do, or  when
she's going to do it; we're  trying to guard against everything and  starting to
distrust each other. More than usual, that is-though not you and I, of course."

Molin  smiled  despite  himself-beneath  that  affable  dense-ness  the   prince
concealed a certain  degree of intelligence,  leadership, and common  sense. "Of
course," he agreed.

"I think, then, we're making a mistake. I mean, we couldn't be making it  easier
for her-assuming she actually is planning something."

"You would suggest we do something different?"

"No," the youth chuckled, "I don't make suggestions like that-but, if I were you
I'd  suggest  that,  rather than  guarding  against  her, we  put  some  sort of
irresistible temptation in front of her-an ambush."

"And what sort of temptation would / suggest?"

"The children."

. "No," the priest  chided, only half in  jest now; the prince's  suggestion had
him thinking  of intriguing  ways to  deal with  both Tempus  and magic.  "Jihan
wouldn't stand for that."

"Oh." The prince sighed and got to his feet. "I hadn't thought about her. But it
was a good idea, wasn't it-as far as it went?"

Molin nodded generously. "A very good idea."

"You'll think about  it then? Almost  as if I  had inspired you?  My father said
once that his job wasn't finding the solutions to all the Empire's problems  but
inspiring other men to find the solutions."

Molin watched the prince make his way back to the stairway, greeting each  group
of laborers. Kadakithis had been raised  among the servants and was always  more
confident,  and  more  popular,  among  them  than  his  aristocratic  relations
suspected. He might astound  them all and become  the leader Sanctuary, and  the
Empire, needed.

The priest waited until  the young man had  reentered the palace before  quietly
making his way  toward a different  stairway and the  Ilsig Bedchamber where  he
would promote the prince's notions and  his own inspirations to those most  able
to implement them.

Jihan was bathing Gyskouras when the Beysib guard announced him. She handed  the
inert toddler to  a nursemaid with  evident reluctance and  headed for the  door
with  the  long, rangy  stride  of a  woman  who had  never  worn anything  more
confining than a scale-armor tunic. Water  was her element; she glowed where  it
had splashed against her.

For a moment Molin forgot she was a Froth Daughter, remembering only that it had
been well over a month since his wife  had left him and that he had always  been
attracted to a more predatory sort  of woman than was socially acceptable.  Then
an involuntary shiver raced down his spine as Jihan passed judgment on him;  the
flash of desire vanished without a trace.

"I  was expecting  you," she  said, stepping  to the  side of  the doorway   and
allowing him into the nursery.

"I didn't know I was coming here myself until a few moments ago." He lifted  her
hand to his lips, as if she were any other Rankan noblewoman.

Jihan shrugged. "I can  tell, that's all. The  rabble," she gestured toward  the
doorway and the city  beyond it, "aren't really  alive at all. But  you, and the
others-you're  alive  enough  to  be  interesting."  She  took  the  Stormchild,
Gyskouras,  from  the  Beysib  woman's  arms  and  went  back  to  the obviously
pleasurable task of bathing him. "I like interesting..."

The  Froth  Daughter  paused.  Torchholder followed  her  stare  to  its target.
Seylalha,  the  lithe temple-dancer  and  mother of  the  motionless toddler  in
Jihan's arms, was  doing a very  attentive job of  wiping the sweat  from Niko's
still-fevered forehead.

"Don't touch that bandage!"

Seylalha turned to meet Jihan's glower. Before becoming the mother of Vashanka's
presumed heir, the  young woman  had only  known the  stifling world  of a slave
dancer,  trained and  controlled by  the bitter,  mute women  whom Vashanka  had
rejected; she seldom needed words to  express her feelings. She made a  properly
humble obeisance, cast a  longing glance at the  child, her own son,  Gyskouras,
cradled in Jihan's arms, and went back to stroking Niko's forehead. Jihan  began
to tremble.

"You were saying?" Molin inquired,  daring to interrupt the fuming  creature who
was both primal deity and spoiled adolescent.

"Saying?" Jihan looked around, her eyes shimmering.

If Jihan had not had the power to freeze his soul to the bedchamber floor, Molin
would have laughed aloud. She couldn't  bear to see something she wanted  in the
possession of anyone else and she  always wanted more than even a  goddess could
comfortably possess.

"I wanted your advice,"  he began, lying and  flattering her. "I'm beginning  to
think that we should seize the initiative with Roxane, or her ghost or  whatever
she's become, before our visitors from Ranke arrive. Do you think that we  could
bait a trap for her and-with your assistance, of course-catch her when she  came
to investigate?"

"Not the children," she replied, clutching the dripping child to her breast.

"No, I think we could find something even more tempting: a Globe of Power-if  it
looked sufficiently, but believably, unattended."

Jihan's grip on Gyskouras relaxed, a  faint smile grew on her lips;  clearly she
was tempted. "What do I do?" she asked, no longer thinking of children, or  even
men, but of the chance to do battle with Roxane again.

"At first, convince Tempus that it's a good idea to give the appearance of doing
something very foolish  with the Globe  of Power. Suggest  to him that  he could
solve the problems within the Stepsons  by letting them prove to themselves  and
everyone else that Roxane is dead and powerless."

"Tempus? He spends more time  with his horses than he  does here with me or  the
Stepsons. I'd like to do more than talk to Tempus." Her smile grew broader  when
she mentioned the man who was, by Stormbringer's command, her lover,  companion,
and escort during her mortality. "The two  of us alone could take the globe  and
the witch...."

Molin felt  a trickle  of sweat  run down  his back.  Jihan had  taken the bait,
embroidering his notions with  her own, mortally incomprehensible,  imagination.
If he could not lure her back to plans he could shape and control, the  exercise
would become a disaster of monumental proportions.

"Think of  the Stormchildren,  dear lady,"  he said  in what  was both  his most
unctuous  and commanding  voice. "Think  of your  father. You  can't leave  them
behind-not even to travel with Tempus or to destroy the Nisibisi witch."

Jihan wilted.  "I couldn't  leave them."  She patted  Gy-skouras's golden  curls
apologetically. "I must put those thoughts behind me." With her eyes closed, the
Froth Daughter focused divine determination  against mortal free will until  her
shoulders slumped in defeat. "I have  so much to leam," she admitted.  "Even the
children know more than I do."

"When  the Stormchildren  are well  again, then  you will  travel with  them  to
Bandara; you will leam everything that they learn. For now, though, only you can
sense Roxane through  her deceits and  disguises. Tempus can  devise a trap  for
her-but only you will know if she falls into it."

She brightened and Molin almost felt sorry for Tempus. The mercenary would  have
no choice now  but to close  ranks within the  Stepsons and concoct  the tactics
necessary  to  lure  Roxane  out  of her  hiding  .place;  no  one,  not even  a
regenerating  immortal, could  stand for  long against  Jihan's enthusiasm.  The
priest relaxed, then caught a flicker of movement at the comer of his eye.  Niko
had  pushed  away from  Seylalha's  tenderness and  was  staring, with  his  one
unbandaged eye, off into nothingness. Perhaps he had heard them mention Bandara?
Perhaps-? Molin shook his head, preferring  not to think at all about  any other
possibility.

The hand  that reached  out of  the darkness  to grab  Molin's shoulder  had the
strength of an iron trap. It was  only by yielding to its force, collapsing  and
rolling through  the mud,  that the  priest avoided  becoming a  prisoner of his
assailant. He scrabbled for balance, tearing a small knife free from the hem  of
his priest-robe's sleeve as he  scanned the courtyard for some  detectable sound
or movement. Then  he saw  the silhouette  and threw  the knife  aside; no  four
finger blade would deter Tempus for long.

"I've taken all I'm going to take  of your schemes. Torch." The mud squished  as
the big mercenary took a step forward.  He leaned down and hoisted Molin to  his
feet by the front of  his robe, then pressed him  against the damp brick of  the
palace wall. "I warned you once-that's more than you deserve."

"Warned  me of  what? Warned  me that  you're in  over your  eyes with   capital
politics that have no meaning in  this town? You want Sanctuary quiet  when your
high-and-mighty usurping friends get here-well, what are you doing about it? You
started off well: you  got Roxane's Nisi globe;  drove her into hiding-  but you
haven't  done anything  since." Molin's  voice was  cracking from  the  pressure
Tempus put against his breastbone but it could not be said that his courage  had
failed him as well.

"The streets will be quiet-I've seen to that."

"Straton saw to  that. You can't  take credit for  the acts of  a man who thinks
you've issued orders to have him killed by his partner, Riddler."

Tempus gave the priest one last, vicious shake, then released him to slide  down
the wall to his proper height.

"But this scheme of Jihan's-of yours. Torch, it's beneath you, using her against
me like that. We've  got all our vulner-ables  in one place and  the strength to
guard them. It's no time to  be traipsing through the countryside splitting  our
forces."

"I'm a siege engineer, Riddler. I build walls and I tear them down. It took  our
golden-haired light-weight, Kadakithis, to point out how predictable our tactics
have become. I've got  one idea for luring  the bitch into the  open-but I don't
want to  try it.  I was  counting on  Jihan's provoking  you into coming up with
something better."

"And if she doesn't?"

"I'll bum  the portrait  that little  Ilsigi painter  made of  you, Roxane,  and
Niko."

"Vashanka's balls. Torch-you aren't afraid of anything, are you? We better  talk
this through. Where've  you got that  painting now? Still  here in the  palace?"
Tempus took Molin's arm, more gently this time, and led him toward the West Gate
of the palace.

"It's where it's always seemed to be,  Riddler," Molin said as he shook free  of
the other man's assistance. "But don't think that because you can see it you can
reach it. Randal's taught me a bit about hiding things in plain sight."

They went through the gate in silence,  not because of the tension between  them
though it was  as thick as  the perennial fog-but  because they were  both aware
that the walls were the most porous part of the palace and that nothing  private
should  be said  in their  shadow. They  continued in  silence, Tempus  leading,
through the  better pans  of town  into the  Maze and  toward the  Vulgar Unicom
where, improbably enough, privacy was sacred.

"I'd leave that picture wherever you've hidden it if I were you, priest," Tempus
warned after he'd bellowed their orders toward the bar,

"Certainly it would be  cleaner if the little  ginger-man had painted a  simpler
picture. I gather he's had more  problems with things coming to life.  He claims
not to know at all what happens when his paintings cease to exist."

Molin looked  at a  recently replastered  section of  the wall, still noticeably
less grimy than the  rest and completely unmarked  by grafitti or knife  gouges.
Lalo had painted  the soul of  the tavern there  once and a  score of people had
died before it  had been laid  to rest again.  Both men were  thinking about the
painter's unpredictable art when a warty, gray arm thrust between them.

"Good beer.  Special beer  for the  gentlemen^" the  wall-eyed bouncer  with the
garish orange  hair said  with a  smile that  revealed corroded,  and not  quite
human, teeth.

Tempus froze and Molin, whose aplomb was sturdier, took the mugs.

"A fiend,  I should  think. Not  quite what  Brachis and  his entourage  will be
expecting when they order a drink. If we're lucky they'll blame it on the beer,"
Molin commented as the acid, lifeless brew crossed his lips.

"Hers," Tempus said and hid his face behind his hands. After a moment he  raised
his eyes. "And nobody notices. Roxane's fiend is ladling the Unicorn's swill and
no one bloody notices'"

"A living  fiend, my  friend. You've  been away  too long.  In this part of town
being alive, in your own life, is all that really matters."

Tempus sighed. He drained the crudely  made mug and motioned for another  round.
Now that he had adjusted to the smoky light, Molin could see that the  Riddler's
eyes were bloodshot and the skin around them was bruised from exhaustion.

"I should kill you  for that, too," Tempus  said, rubbing his eyes,  making them
redder. "A bad habit, you said.  There's a magician-The Dream Lord, Askelon;  my
brother-in-law- he overstepped himself at the  Festival of Man, as you may  have
heard. Been exiled to Meridian by  greater powers than his own. Usually  I don't
have to worry about him but now,  thanks to you, he's always right there  at the
comer of my mind, waiting to get into my dreams."

"He  gets  into  everyone else's  dreams  and  they're none  the  worse  for it,
Riddler."

"Not into my dreams, damn you!" He took the second mug from the fiend without  a
flinch, downing it as he had the first.

"More beer? Good beer for the  gentleman?" the fiend inquired. "Snapper Jo  gets
good beer for the gentleman. Snapper Jo remembers this gentleman, this  soldier.
Mistress made sure Snapper always remember... Tempus."

Tempus's hands were  on Snapper Jo's  throat; Molin's were  on a long,  wickedly
efficient knife but the fiend only  smiled. He knotted the muscles in  his warty
neck and belched his way to freedom.

"Just where is your Mistress?" Tempus demanded, rubbing his knuckles.

The creature shrugged and crossed its eyes. "Don't know," he admitted.  "Snapper
went looking for her. Nice dark lady asked Snapper to look for the Mistress."

"Did Snapper Jo find his Mistress?" Molin asked.

"No,  not find.  Look everywhere-look  in hell  itself. Not  find. No  Mistress!
Snapper Jo free!"

The notion overwhelmed  Snapper Jo. He  hugged himself, trembling  with joy, and
went back to the bar without another thought for the two men watching him.

"If we believe  him, then she's  not dead," Tempus  admitted. "If I'd  believe a
fiend," he corrected  himself. "Torch, I  talked to Niko  about all of  this. He
says he's free of her-free like he hasn't been in years. I believe Niko,  Torch.
There's nothing left of Roxane except memories-and bad habits."

It was Molin's  turn to bury  his head in  his hands. "Niko  and the fiend: both
free of Roxane. Thank you, Riddler-I'll believe the fiend. He says he looked  in
hell and didn't  find her; Ischade  sent him to  hell looking for  Roxane and he
didn't find her there. Now,  Niko, I'll wager he not  only told you that he  was
free of Roxane but that all our precautions were unnecessary. I'll wager he told
you that he could take care of the Stormchildren all by himself."

"All right. Torch. We'll tell Niko we're moving the globe and the kids-and  then
we'll watch him. We'll even send a  little procession out past the walls to  one
of the estates. But by Enlil, Vashanka, Stormbringer, and every other  soldier's
god-you're wrong. Torch. Niko's free of her-she's nothing but nightmares to him.
Maybe  there's  something still  after  the Stormchildren-or  the  globe-but not
Roxane and not through Niko."

Tempus set his ambush for the night  of the next full moon. Walegrin muttered  a
number of choice, unreproducible words when half of the garrison was pulled  off
duty to shovel dirt,  patch roofs, and in  other ways make a  tumble-down estate
north of the city  walls look like the  prospective home for what  Tempus called
his "vulnerables." His muted protests erupted into a full-scale tirade when,  by
noon of the appointed day, it was clear that any advantage to having the charade
on the night of  the full moon would  be offset by one  of Sanctuary's three-day
torrents.

The palace parade ground was an oozing morass which had already foundered  three
good horses-and  it was  clear sailing  compared to  any other  street, road, or
courtyard. It would be well nigh impossible to get the carriage from the stables
to the gate much less up the slopes to the estate. Walegrin pointed this out  to
Critias as they huddled down  under oiled-leather cloaks and slogged  across the
parade ground on foot.

"He says, use oxen," Crit replied impassively.

"Where am I supposed to get a team of oxen before sundown?"

"They're being provided."

"And who's going to drive them? Has he thought of that? Oxen aren't horses,  you
know."

"You are."

"The bloody hell I am, Critias."

They had reached the comparative shelter of the stable doorway, where the  water
gushed off  the eaves  in streams  that could,  with care,  be avoided.  Critias
removed his dripping rain helmet and wrung it out.

"Look, pud,"  he said,  tucking the  hat into  his belt,  "I don't  make up  the
orders. Orders come from the Riddler  and your man, Torchholder. Now when  those
oxen get here, you hitch them to the carriage and drive them out to the  estate.
If they're,"  he pointed  a thumb  back toward  the palace,  "sitting tight with
their gods, everything  will go  according to  plan-somehow. And  if they're not
then you could  be the best  bloody drover in  the world and  it wouldn't make a
whore's heart's bit of difference."

Thus, some  hours after  nightfall, Walegrin  found himself  still in  his oiled
leathers standing beside the ungainly rumps of a pair of oxen. Randal was slowly
making his way  down the rain-slicked  stairs clutching the  skull-sized package
containing his  Nisibisi  Globe  of  Power. The  mage  wore  a  ludicrously  old
fashioned  panoply which  hindered his  already over-cautious  progress.  Tempus
looked uncomfortable as  he waited under  the stone awning  with a child  tucked
under each arm.

"Almost there," Randal assured them, glancing back toward the torchlight and, as
luck would  have it,  overbalancing himself  just enough  to slip  down the last
three steps.

There wasn't a person, living or dead, within Sanctuary who hadn't heard a rumor
or two about  the witch-globes. Walegrin  dropped his torch  and lunged for  the
package. His efforts were, however, unnecessary as the package hung politely  in
mid-air until Randal stumbled to his  feet and reclaimed it. The effect  was not
lost on Walegrin or any of the dozen or so others detailed to escort the oxen-or
on Tempus who came down the stairs behind Randal to deposit his silent, unmoving
bundles within the ox-cart.

The mage and the mercenary commander exchanged whispers which Walegrin  couldn't
hear above the sound of the rain.  Then Tempus shut the door and came  up beside
Walegrin.

"You know the route?" he inquired.

Walegrin nodded.

"Then don't move off it. Randal can-take care of the magic regardless but if you
want protection from anything else you stay in sight of the spotters."

With a noncommittal grunt Walegrin loosened the long whip from the bench  beside
him and tickled the oxen's noses. Tempus stepped quickly to one side as the cart
lurched into motion. The beasts had no halters or reins, responding only to  the
whip and the voice of their drover. Walegrin figured he'd try to keep everything
moving from the  driver's bench but  he imagined, accurately  as it turned  out,
that he'd be in  the mud beside the  oxen before they cleared  the old Headman's
Gate and lumbered onto the nearly deserted Street of Red Lanterns.

"It'll be  dawn before  we get  there," Walegrin  cursed when  the rightside  ox
paused to add its own wastes to the sludge in the street.

But the  man-high solid  wheels of  the cart  kept turning  and the oxen were as
strong as they were slow and stupid.  Straton and a pair of Stepsons joined  the
procession where it cleared the last of the huge, stone-walled brothels.  Strat,
a lantern dangling from the pike he  carried in his right hand, brought his  bay
horse alongside  the ox-cart.  Walegrin gripped  at a  dangling saddle-strap for
some security in the treacherous footing.

It was  nearly impossible  to keep  the torches  lit. The  men on horseback were
having a harder time of it than Walegrin and his team. Walegrin watched the  mud
directly in front  of them and  lost track of  how many checkpoints  or spotters
they had passed. They halted once, when the undergrowth cracked louder than  the
rain, but it was only a family of half-wild pigs. Everyone laughed nervously and
Walegrin  touched the  oxen with  his whip  again. Another  time Strat   spotted
shadows moving above them on the ridge,  but it was only their own men  breaking
cover.

They had reached the  stony trail leading to  the estate when the  oxen bellowed
once in unison, then sank to their knees. Walegrin dropped the saddle-strap  and
went racing back to the cart  where his sword was stashed. The  horses panicked,
rearing up  and collapsing  as much  from the  bad footing  as from the metallic
drone every man and beast was hearing, feeling, between his ears.

"Do something!" Walegrin yelled to his passenger as he tugged his sword free  of
its scabbard. The first touch of En-librite steel against his skin made a shower
of green sparks, but it dulled the pain in his head as well. "Stop her, Randal!"

"There's no  one out  there," the  mage replied,  poking his  head and shoulders
through the cart's open window. His archaic armor, like Walegrin's sword, had  a
faintly green presence to it.

"There's damn sure someone out here!"

Walegrin stood on the drover's bench. Save for Strat all of the escort had  been
thrown into the mud;  save for Strat's bay  all the horses were  either on their
sides screaming or plunging into the morass of the fallow fields surrounding the
estate. One  horse, he  couldn't tell  which, shrieked  louder than  the rest- a
broken leg most  likely. Walegrin felt  a rising tide  of panic only  marginally
related to the dull roar in his skull.

Strat heeled  the bay  horse around  as if  it were  a sunny  day on  the parade
ground, then launched it at the  only stand of trees in sight.  Walegrin watched
the bobbing lantern for a few moments before it disappeared.

"Move in.  We haven't  been hit  yet," he  yelled to  the garrison men who, like
himself, held the strange  green-cast steel of Enlibar  in their fists and  were
somewhat insulated from whatever  assaulted them. "Well, do  something, Randal!"
he added for the  benefit of the mage  who had vanished back  into the darkness.
"Use that bloody ball of yours!"

As abruptly  as it  had begun,  the droning  ceased. Except  for the  one in the
field, the horses  quieted and got  back to their  feet. One of  the men slogged
through the mud groping for a torch, but Walegrin called him back to the circle.

"It's not over," he warned in a soft voice. "Randal?"

He crouched down by the window, expecting to see the freckled mage bathed in the
glow of his magic. Instead he walloped his chin on Randal's helmet.

"Shouldn't you be doing something with that globe? Raising some sort of  defense
for us?"

"I don't have the globe," the  mage admitted slowly. "We never intended  to move
it or the Stormchildren. Sorry. But there's no one out there, no one watching us
in any way."

Walegrin grabbed the mage by his  helmet and twisted it around until  Randal was
facing him.  "There bloody  well better  be someone  watching us-a  whole damned
estate full of some-ones watching us."

"Of course  there is,"  Randal sighed  as he  freed himself.  "But no one, well,
magically inclined."

"What happened, then? The horses just decided to panic? The oxen just felt  like
sinking into the mud? I imagined there was a swarm of bees in my head?"

"No, no one's  saying that," a  familiar voice, Molin's  voice, called from  the
nearby darkness. "We don't  know what happened any  more than you do."  He swung
down from his  horse, handing the  reins to one  of the five  garrison men who'd
accompanied him down from the abandoned estate.

For  once  Walegrin was  not  about to  be  mollified by  his  patron's soothing
phrases. His men had been endangered for nothing. A horse, no easy thing for the
garrison to  replace, was  this very  moment being  put out  of its  misery. His
complaints and opinions  were still flowing  freely when a  lantern was seen  to
emerge from the trees.

"Strat?" Walegrin yelled.

There was no reply heard above the sound of the pelting rain. Each man  silently
put his hands  back on his  sword and waited  until the bay  was an arm's length
from the ox-cart and Strat's grim, torchlit face could be seen clearly.

"Haught."

"What?"

"Haught,"  Strat repeated,  throwing a  piece of  dark cloth  onto the  drover's
bench. "And someone else-maybe Moria, maybe dead."

"Haught?" Randal poked  his head out.  "Not Haught. He's  got Ischade's mark  on
him. I'd have recognized-"

"I'd recognize him before you would," Strat interrupted, and there was no one in
the group who could gainsay that claim.

"Does that mean Ischade?" Molin asked nervously. They accepted the necromant  as
the lesser of  the two witches,  but even so  neither was a  force that any man.
except Straton, was comfortable with.

"It means Haught. It means he wants  the globe. It means he wants to  be Roxane,
Datan, or some other bloody magician. You can take the Nisi away from Wizardwall
but you can't boil the treachery out of their blood."

Molin stood silent for  a moment after Strat  had finished. "At least,  then, it
wasn't Roxane. Tempus will be glad to hear that."

The  other  groups Tempus  had  assigned to  guard  the oxcart's  progress  were
beginning to  appear. Crit  came up  with a  half-dozen Stepsons,  most of  whom
appeared to have  heard Strat's accusations  or at least  had no desire  to look
their erstwhile field commander full  in the face. The  3rd Commando, or a  good
sized  part  of  it, rode  up  from  behind. Whatever  Tempus's  opinion  of the
operation, he'd made certain it didn't lack for manpower.

"I  think  we've found  out  what we  wanted  to know,"  Molin  said, not  quite
takingcommand away from Strat, Crit, and Walegrin, but eliminating the need  for
them to decide who was in command. "Randal, borrow a horse. We'll head back  for
the palace. They'll want to  know what's happened. Straton- you  should probably
come along. The rest of the Stepsons can lend a shoulder to the garrison men  in
getting this cart  turned around and  back to the  palace. I'll leave  it to you
two," he nodded toward Critias and Walegrin, "to decide if you need the  Third's
help.  I've arranged  for brandy  and roast  meat to  be waiting  at the  palace
barracks: Be sure that everyone- regulars. Stepsons, and the Third if they  want
it-gets a share."

Molin waited  until Randal  had directed  a docile-looking  horse toward Straton
before turning his own  gelding away from the  men gathered around the  ox-cart.
Critias had  ridden down  to talk  to the  3rd and  Walegrin was proving himself
quite capable of getting the oxen to turn the cart around. A few riders from the
3rd split off toward  Strat and Randal but  most of them headed  back toward the
General's Road and whatever billets they had Downwind or near the Bazaar.

He held the gelding to a slow walk a good number of paces behind them. They were
all Rankan people, allied in one way  or another to the Emperor or the  remnants
of the  Vashankan priesthood  he was  no longer  on good  terms with.  They were
probably as uncomfortable around him as he was around them but here they had him
outnumbered.

The riders were well beyond the ox-cart and still a good distance from the walls
when Molin felt  the first twinges  of divine curiosity.  Blood-red auroras rose
from the horizon; the ground heaved and stretched, moving him further apart from
the others. Despite the rain soaking  through every garment he wore, the  priest
felt a cold, nauseous sweat break out on his forehead and spread, quickly, until
it reached his weak, suddenly numb knees.

Stormbringer.

Gathering every mote and shred  of determination, Molin concentrated on  weaving
his fingers around  the saddle hom.  Not there. Not  on a rain-swept  field with
Tempus's men all around him. His  heart pounded wildly. He heard, but  could not
feel, the loose stirrups clanking against the lace-studs of his boot.

One step. One more step. The longest journey is made of single-

The  red auroras  rose until  they touched  the zenith.  Molin felt  the  scream
trapped in his throat as the god reached out and pulled him from his body,  mind
and soul.

"Lord Stormbringer," he said, though he had no proper voice in the  featureless,
ruddy universe where he met with the primal storm god.

You tremble before me, little mortal.

The roaring came from everywhere and nowhere. Molin knew it well enough to  know
it could be  louder, more painful,  and that the  present modulation revealed  a
certain, dangerous, humor.

"Only a foolish mortal would fail to tremble before you, Lord Stormbringer."

A foolish mortal who seeks  to elude me? I do  not have time to waste  searching
for foolish mortals.

Here, in the god's  universe or perhaps within  the god, there was  no place for
hidden thoughts or  verbal gymnastics. There  was only nothingness  and the raw,
awesome power of Stormbringer himself.

"I have been such a foolish mortal," Torchholder acknowledged.

You trouble yourself with the opinions of those not sworn to me or the children.
You know that all Stormgods are but shadows of me-as Vashanka is a shadow I have
abandoned,  the llsig  god a  shadow I  have forgotten,  and the  one they  call
"Father Enlil" a shadow which shall not fall across Sanctuary.

"I did not know. Lord Stormbringer."

Then know now! The universe throbbed with Stormbringer's pique. I am Sanctuary's
god. Until  the children  claim their  birthright I  am their,  and Sanctuary's,
guardian. Fear only me!

Of course  they fear  you.  A  second presence,  feminine  but  no less awesome,
wove  its   way  through   and around   the  presence   that  was  Stormbringer.
Mortals fear everything.  They fear the   woman's god  more than  they fear  the
man's god,  and  they fear a  woman without  a  god most of  all. You must  tell
them where to find the witch-woman who killed my snakes.

The deities twisted around  each other but did  not mix or merge.  Molin knew he
was in the presence  of what was already  being called the Barren  Marriage. Yet
there was  something like  mortal affection,  as well  as immortal lust, between
these two.  He felt  the part  that was  Stormbringer contract,  and an  upright
figure with the head of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the lower parts of  a
bull manifested itself out of the red mist.

"I cannot tell you where she is,"  the apparition said in a voice that  was both
male and female. "There  are things forbidden even  to me. Demonkind is  brother
and sister to you mortals, but no kin to gods. The S'danzo have the greater part
of the truth; the Nisi witches have the rest.

"Roxane promised the souls of the children-or her own if she failed. She is  not
where you  or I  can find  her-and she  is not  fallen among  the demons. What I
cannot find, what the Archdemon cannot find, must lie in Meridian or beyond."

Molin discovered that he, like Stormbringer, had become corporeal and, so far as
he could tell, very much the man  he had always been. Tracing his fingers  along
the familiar, imperfect embroidery of his sleeves, he considered what he knew of
the  topology of  nonmortal spheres  and Meridian,  the realm  of dreams   where
ASkelon held sway. He thought about ASkelon as well and reflected that if  there
were one entity-ASkelon hardly qualified as a man-who could both complicate  and
resolve their problems, the Dream Lord was that entity.

He made the mistake, however, of thinking that because he felt like himself,  he
was himself and  slipped into rapid  considerations as to  which of the  players
would be best for the part.

"That is not for you to decide," the lion reminded Molin, baring its  glistening
teeth. "ASkelon has already made his choice."

"Tempus will not go."

"Give  him  this,  then."  Stormbringer  laid  a  linen  scarf  across   Molin's
unwillingly outstretched hands.

The netherworld that was the gods'  universe fractured. Molin held the scarf  to
his face for  protection as the  lion-head apparition became  hard, dark pellets
that beat him into a dizzying backward spiral. The scream he had left frozen  in
his throat tore loose and engulfed him.

"It's over now; relax."

A strong,  long-fingered hand  was wrapped  around his  wrist, pulling his hands
away from  his face.  The hard  pellets were  wind-driven raindrops.  His hands,
Molin realized as he unclenched them, were empty. He was on his back-had  fallen
from his horse.

"You're back with  us ordinary folk,"  the woman told  him as she  yanked on his
cloak and twisted his torso until his shoulders were propped on a relatively dry
pile of straw. "Are you all right? Your tongue? Your lips?"

He pushed himself up on his elbows.  There wasn't a muscle, bone, or nerve  that
didn't ache-as it always did after  Stormbringer. But it was, he told  her while
still trying to  understand where he  was and what  had happened, nothing  worse
than that.

"They say that my... Tempus would bite through his lip, or break a bone. I never
saw it. He wouldn't notice it, really. You're not him, though."

"Kama?" Molin guessed.

He was in some crude shelter-a lean-to  the shepherds used, by the smell of  it.
The worst of the  weather was deflected, anyway.  She'd hung a lantern  from the
center-pole  but it  didn't provide  much light  and the  priest had  only  seen
Tempus's daughter a few times, mostly when she was considerably younger.

"I  saw  you stiffen  up  like that.  I  guessed what  would  happen. It  wasn't
Vashanka, was it?"

"No."

She  squatted  down  beside  him;  the  lantern  lifted  her  profile  from  the
surrounding  darkness.  She  wore  a  youth's  leather  tunic,  laced  tight and
revealing nothing. Her hair was twisted into a knot at the crown of her head and
was clinging to her face in damp tendrils where it had come loose. She shuddered
and went looking for  her own cloak which,  when she found it,  was covered with
mud and useless from the rain.

"Did the others go on?" Molin asked.

Kama nodded. "They'll have reached the palace by now. Strat knows I'm with  you.
He won't say anything."

Molin looked into the lantern. He should, by right, stagger to his feet and  hie
himself back to the palace. His life  was full of gods, magic, and the  intrigue
that went with  them. There was  no room for  love, or lust-especially  not with
Kama.

"You needn't have  stayed with me,"  he said softly,  shifting the focus  of his
analysis and persuasion away from politics.

"I was curious. All winter I've been hearing about the Torch. Almost  everything
that worked had  your fingerprints on  it. Nobody seems  to like you  very much,
Molin  Torchholder, but  they all  seem to  respect you.  I wanted  to see   for
myself."

"So you saw me falling off my horse and foaming at the mouth?"

.She gave him a quick half-smile. "Will the Third actually share that brandy and
meat?"

"I don't have the Empire or  the priesthood behind me anymore," Molin  admitted.
"I can't coerce a man's loyalty and I can't inspire it either-I know my  limits.
I bribed  the cooks  myself long  before I  left the  palace." A stream of water
broke through the branch-and-straw roof, hitting him full in the face. "No  one,
if he's done work for Sanctuary, should be out on a night like this without some
reward. If the Third went to the barracks, they got their share."

"What about you?"

"Or you?"

Kama shrugged and picked at the loose threads of a bandage tied around her right
palm. "I won't find what I want at the barracks."

"You won't find it with the Third-"

Kama turned to stare darkly at him.

Stormbringer, the witches,  the children: everything  that was important  in the
larger scheme of  things fell from  Molin's thoughts as  he sat up,  closing his
hands over hers. "-You won't find it with any of his people."

It was a thought that had, apparently, already occurred to her, for she  unwound
into the straw beside him without a heartbeat's hesitation.

They returned  to the  palace after  the sky  had turned  a soft, moist gray but
before, they hoped,  any of those  whom Molin had  to see were  awake. There was
nothing to  set them  apart from  any other  weary, soaked  travelers coming  to
shelter within the palace walls. Molin did  not help her from the saddle or  see
to the  stabling of  her horse.  True, he  found himself  gripped by  an emotion
uncomfortably close to sudden love, but not  even that was enough to make him  a
fool. He would have said nothing if she had wheeled her horse around and  headed
back toward the Maze;  he said the same  when she followed him  up the gatehouse
stairs.

He led  the way  to the  Ilsig Bedchamber  where, in  consideration of  all that
hadn't happened during the night, he expected to find Jihan, the  Stormchildren,
Niko, and the  bedlam residents. He  found, instead, a  funereally quiet chamber
with only Seylalha hovering between the cradles.

"The mere's guild?" Kama inquired, reading  the same omens the priest did.  "The
mage's?"

Molin shook his head. His mind reached out to that distant comer where his  Nisi
magic  heritage,  the   gods,  or  his   own  luck  sometimes   placed  reliable
inspirations. "With the  Beysa," he said  slowly, then corrected  himself: "Near
the snakes."

When the Beysib arrived in Sanctuary  they had brought with them seventy  of the
mottled brown  eggs of  their precious  beynit serpents.  These eggs,  packed in
unspun  silk, had  been installed  in a  specially reconstructed  room where   a
hypocaust kept  the stones  comfortably warm.  The eggs  had hatched  before the
start of  winter and  the room  itself, filled  with the  fingerling snakes, had
become the favorite haunt of the Beysa and her immediate entourage.

It  had  also become,  because  of the  skill  of the  Beysib  snake-handlers in
preparing decoctions of any venom or herbal, the meeting place of all the palace
healers. Jihan  brewed Niko's  vile unguents  there and  occasionally, when  the
other residents  of the  Ilsig Bedchamber  objected loudly  enough, administered
them there  as well.  Molin knew  he had  guessed correctly  when he  saw Beysib
snake-handlers milling forlornly in the hypocaust antechamber.

"You  took your  own time  getting down  here," Tempus  grumbled as  the  priest
entered the room. He might have added  more, but he fell silent when Kama  eased
through the doorway as well.

Molin took  advantage of  the lull  to look  around. Crit  caught his  eye first
because he, like Tempus,  was staring at Kama  as if she'd grown  a second head.
Jihan was here as  well, though her smile  was warmer than Torchholder  had seen
before. She set down a mortar brimming with dark, spiky leaves and embraced Kama
as a long-lost friend. Her movement allowed him to see the real reason they were
all in the uncomfortably warm room: Nikodemos.

The Stepson  lay on  his back,  trussed like  a roasting  chicken and, though he
seemed to be  sleeping quietly enough  now, his face  was bruised and  his hands
covered with blood. Molin took a step closer and felt Tempus's hand close around
his arm.

"Leave him be," he warned.

"What happened?"  Torchholder asked,  retreating until  Tempus relaxed.  "Randal
said-"

"You guessed right," Crit interrupted  with a bitterness that made  the priest's
blood run cold. "She made her move through Niko at about the right time."

"It was Haught," Tempus  spat out the name.  "Niko bolted for the  window saying
'Haught'. It was a warning."

Critias ran his hand  through dark, thinning hair.  "But not for us.  Haught was
making his own moves and Roxane had to stop him."

"That's what Strat says," Jihan added.

"It doesn't matter whether Strat's right  or not." Crit had begun pacing  like a
caged tiger. "It doesn't matter whether Haught's Ischade's catspaw or  Roxane's.
It doesn't matter if Jihan-"

"I didn't."

"-Told Niko about the double-shuffle with  the globes. All that matters is  that
the witch-bitch had Niko. Again."

"What happened?" Molin repeated,  though by this point  he was getting a  pretty
good idea and was more interested in the shifting alliances of the threesome.

"When Jihan tried to  keep him from jumping  out the window he  went berserk. It
took four guards to  hold him until she  could get something down  his gullet to
keep him quiet," Critias explained calmly.

Molin moved closer to Niko,  this time without Tempus's interference.  The young
man had taken a beating, but the priest wasn't looking for bruises.

"What about the  mongoose, Chiringee?" he  asked, examining the  bloody tears on
Niko's hands and wrists. "Randal said it was attuned to Roxane."

Jinan  looked at  Tempus, Tempus  looked at  the wall,  and Crit's  voice was  a
monotone: "It attacked him-and he killed it. Ripped it apart and started to  eat
it-didn't he?"

The Froth Daughter reached back to grasp Tempus by the wrist. "He was  berserk,"
she said softly. "He didn't know  what he was doing. It doesn't  mean anything."
Glittering crystals of ice and water formed in her eyes.

Critias gave them a malignant stare. When  he reached the door he gave Kama  the
same stare, for reasons Molin could not begin to understand, then he shoved  her
aside. Molin  felt the  muscles tighten  along his  sword arm.  It would  be the
height of folly-Kama fought her own battles and Critias was as cold a killer  as
moved through the shadows-but the Stepson would answer for that gesture.

"Roxane has  taken Stealth?"  Kama asked  the frozen  room. None  of the  rumors
circulating in the Maze had presumed so much.

Tempus pulled his  arm away from  Jihan. "Not yet,"  he muttered as  he followed
Crit from the room.

Molin and Kama  turned to Jihan  who, with a  slight nod of  her head, confirmed
their worst suspicion. Kama  sank back against the  wall, shaking her head  from
side to side. The Froth Daughter, for her part, reclaimed her mortar and went to
kneel beside the slate-haired Stepson.

"He was drunk," the dark-haired mercenary  said to herself. "Too much wine.  Too
much krrf. Too much everything." She  closed her eyes, purging herself of  grief
and Niko with long, ragged breaths.

"It's not over yet," Molin told her, daring to take her arm and realizing,  with
some surprise, that  he looked straight  ahead, not down,  into her eyes.  "Last
night I was with Stormbringer."

Her eyes widened but she didn't resist  as he guided her from the hypocaust  and
past anxious snake-handlers.

"I have to talk  to Tempus-convince him to  do something he doesn't  want to do.
But it's far from over, Kama."

She nodded and slipped from his grasp.  "I'll want to see you again," she  said,
holding his hand lightly as she stepped away.

"I have a wife.  Sabellia's priestess and a  noblewoman in her own  right. She's
staying  out at  Land's End  with my  brother, Lowan  Vigeles, and  she'll  make
whatever trouble she  can." Molin swallowed  hard, knowing that  Rosanda had her
good qualities as well but that they no longer meant anything to him. "I am  the
priest of a dead god and the nephew  of a dead emperor. I walk a dangerous  path
in full view of my enemies-and I would not walk any other."

Kama laughed, a  sensuous laugh that  could get a  man in trouble.  "If I cannot
walk through your doorway wearing gowns and  jewels then you'll find me as I  am
outside your windows or already  in your bedchamber." Then, with  another laugh,
she was gone-heading back to Jihan and Niko.

Molin returned to his quarters, ordering Hoxa to prepare a cauldron of hot water
and  to  find,  somewhere, dry  robes  and  boots. The  young  man  procured the
bathwater and the boots, but when he came from the wardrobe with a fresh robe he
brought an unwelcome surprise  as well: a scarf  of linen the length  of a man's
outstretched arms and the color of Storm-bringer's horizons.

"Have  the day  for yourself,  Hoxa," Molin  had mumbled  as he  drew the  cloth
through his fingers. "I need time alone."

He'd taken that time, sitting in a room that had been an arcane attic.  Randal's
Nisi globe remained not on his worktable; Lalo's triple portrait was not  nailed
to the wall  behind him; Ischade's  abandoned  raven, in   all its  ill-tempered
glory,  was truly  flapping from one  perch to another,  and now Stormbrin-ger's
gift for Tempus had made  its appearance as  well. Unlike  the other  artifacts,
the   strip of   cloth with  its ordinary,  girlish embroidery  seemed innocent
enough-until  he considered  that the  sight of  it  was  supposed to   convince
Tempus to  risk sleep and  a visit to the realm of Askelon.

The rain  finally stopped.  It would  be days  before the  streets dried-if they
dried at all before  the next storm swept  through. Molin tucked the  scarf in a
pouch and threw a  cloak over his shoulder.  There wouldn't be a  better time to
find Tempus. He didn't  have to go far,  just a sidelong glance  out the window.
The Riddler,  followed closely  by an  exceptionally grim  looking Critias,  was
coming to pay him a visit.

"That picture," the  nearly immortal mercenary  snarled, pointing above  Molin's
head as the heavy wood door slammed against the wall.

Pointedly  ignoring  the  priest,  Crit walked  around  to  examine  the picture
closely. After touching it  with his fingers he  used his knife to  scrape off a
bit of the background-and got plaster-shavings for his efforts.

"It's not there, Critias," Molin warned.

"Get it," Crit ordered.

"You don't come in here giving me orders."

"Let him see it," Tempus asked wearily. "/'// make sure no harm comes to it."

Molin tried to concentrate. He'd been childishly pleased with himself when  he'd
hidden the actuality of the  canvas while leaving its semblance  plainly visible
on the  wall. It  was hard  enough for  an apprentice  of his experience to tuck
something away in  magic's shadows but  now, with Tempus  and Crit watching  him
impatiently, it was proving impossible to  find it again. He had almost  located
the frayed edges when the door slammed open again and he lost them.

"You can't bum it," Randal said, the words coming between gasps for air. "No one
knows what will happen when you do."

"We bum the witch-bitch when we bum it-that's what happens." Critias touched his
knife to  the facsimile  ofRoxane's face  as he  spoke. "Find  it," he added for
Molin's benefit.

"We don't know what happens to Niko... or Tempus," Randal continued.

Critias fell  silent and  Molin, getting  desperate, lucky,  or both, closed his
mind around the canvas and gave it a little tug. The image on the wall shimmered
before vanishing and, with an unpleasant sulphurous discharge, the rolled canvas
dropped to the floor at Tempus's feet. He reached down and held it in his fist.

"No," the big man said simply.

"We can't destroy the globe," Critias said as Randal shuddered in agreement. "We
can't kill  the Stormchildren."  Molin's knuckles  went white.  "And now  you're
telling me we can't bum the picture. Commander, what can we do?"

Molin saw his opportunity open before him. Opening the pouch, he laid the  scarf
across  the  worktable  and  waited for  reaction.  Randal  stared,  Crit looked
nervous, and Tempus jerked upright.

"Mother of us all," he sighed, laying the canvas on the table, taking the  scarf
in its place. "Where did you get this?" His fingers read the uneven stitches  as
he spoke.

"Stormbringer," Molin answered softly enough that only Tempus could see or hear.

"Why?"

"To convince  you that  you have  to sleep;  that you  have to  talk to  ASkelon
because Askelon's decided he'll only  talk to you. And, more  important, because
Stormbringer thinks Askelon's got a way to reach Roxane."

"Thinks? The god thinks? He doesn't know?" He closed his eyes a moment. "Do  you
know what this is? Did he tell you?"

Molin shrugged. "He thought it would  be sufficient to convince you to  go where
I'd already told him you had no intention of going."

"Damn her," Tempus said, throwing the scarf on the table and taking the  picture
again. "Here," he threw it  at Critias, who let it  drop to the floor, "do  what
you damned well want with it."

DEATH IN THE MEADOW

C. J. Cherryh

I

The floor creaked to the slightest  step, and Stilcho moved quietly as  he could
across to the  old warehouse door,  not trying escape,  no, only that  it was so
everlasting cold and  he wanted the  sun to warm  his flesh, the  sun that shone
bright through a crack in the shutters. He wanted it, and he had thought a  long
time about getting up from that board floor and venturing outside-

-he had thought about going further too, but the front step would be enough, the
front step was  all he dared  think of, because  Haught sleeping back  there had
ways to know what he planned-

-so he thought, o gods large and small, gods of hell and gods of earth, only  of
getting out  into that  light where  the sun  would warm  the stone step and the
bricks and warm his  dead flesh which right  now had that lasting  chill of rain
and mud and misery. He could not abide the stink and the cold of mud, that  made
him think all too much of being dead, in the ground, in the river cold-

I'm not running,  I'm not going  anywhere, just the  sun.... That, for  Haught's
benefit, should he wake-with his hand on the door.

The hair  stirred at  Stilcho's nape.  His flesh  crawled. He  stopped still and
turned and looked, and saw Haught sitting up in the shadows, a bedraggled Haught
with a bloody scrape  on his face and  the whites showing dangerously  round his
eyes. Stilcho set his back against the door and gestured toward it with a shrug.

"Just going out to get the-"

Do you play games with me? With me, dead man?

No, he thought quickly, made that a torrent of no, letting nothing else through,
and felt every hair on  his body rise and his  heart slow, time slow, the  world
grow fragile so  that for a  moment he knew  the progress of  Haught's mind, the
suspicion that his one  failure had diminished the  fear of him, that  a certain
piece of walking meat needed a  lesson, that this thing Ischade slept  with (but
not with him) could be dealt with,  shredded and sent to the deepest hell  if it
needed to learn respect-

-Stilcho knew all that the way  he suddenly knew Haught was running  through his
thoughts,  knowing his  doubt, his  dread, his  hate, everything  that made  him
vulnerable.

"On your knees," Haught said, and Stilcho found himself going there, helplessly,
the way every bone and sinew in him resonated to that voice. He stared at Haught
with his living eye while the dead one  held vision too, a vision of hell, of  a
gateway a thing wanted to pass and could  not. But if he was sent there now,  to
that gate, to meet that thing-

"Say you beg my pardon," Haught said.

"I b-beg your  pardon." Stilcho did  not even hesitate.  A fool would  hesitate.
There was no hope for a fool. Ischade would banish him down to hell to  confront
that thing if  he went back  to her now  after what Haught  had done, and Haught
would tear his soul to slow shreds before he let it go to the same fate. Stilcho
knelt on the bare boards and mouthed whatever words Haught wanted.

For now. (No, no, Haught, for always.)

Haught gathered himself to his feet and ran a hand through his disordered  hair.
His pale, elegant face had a gaunt look. The hair fell again to stream about it.
The smile on his face was fevered.

He's  crazy,  Stilcho  thought,  having  seen  that  look  in  hospital  and  in
Sanctuary's own street lunatics. And then: 0, no, no, no, not Haught! No!

The prickling of his  skin grew painful and  ceased. Haught came closer  to him,
came up to  him and squatted  down and put  his hand on  Stilcho's cheek, on the
blind side. Chill followed that touch, and  a deep pain in his missing eye,  but
Stilcho dared not move, dared not look anywhere but into Haught's face.

"You're still useful," Haught said. "You mustn't think of leaving."

"I don't."

"Don't lie to me." Silken-soft. And the pain stabbed deep. "What can I give  you
to make you stay?"

"L-life. F-for that."

"No gold. No money. No woman. None of that."

"To b-be alive-"

"That's still our bargain. Isn't it?  They know about us. They took  care enough
to set a trap for us. You think then that She doesn't know? You think then  that
we have infinite time? I've covered us thus far. They might not know who we are.
But careful as 1 am, dead man, Stralon came close to us. He probably knew us. He
probably passed that  on. And that  damnable priest and  that damnable mage  may
know who they're looking for now. They  might have thought it was Her. Now  they
may go to Her and tell Her our  business. And that won't be good for us  at all,
will it, dead man?"

"No." It came out hoarse and strangled. "It won't."

"So let's don't take chances in the daylight, you and I. I have my means.  Let's
just be patient, shall we? I'll take the Mistress. I'll deal with Her. You  wait
and  see."  Gently  Haught  patted  him  on  the  cheek  and  smiled  again, not
pleasantly. "The thing we  need went back to  the priest. It's not  there and it
is. I know how it works now. And I know where it went. Right now we need to move
a little closer uptown-when it's dark, do you see?"

"Yes," Stilcho said. If  Haught asked him if  pigs flew he would  have said yes.
Anything, to make Haught go away satisfied  short of what he could do, and  what
he could ask.

"But in the meanwhile there's a trip for you to take."

"Oh gods, no, no, Haught-there's this thing, I see it, gods, I see it-"

Haught slapped him. The blow was  faint against his cheek. The dark  gateway was
more real, the thing ripping at it was clearer, and if it looked his way-

"When it's dark. To Moria's house."

Stilcho slumped aside on his knees, rested his back against the door, his  heart
hammering away in his chest. And Haught grinned with white teeth.

The old stairs creaked under any step (they were set that way deliberately,  for
more than  one Stepson  used the  mage-quarter stables  and the  room above)-and
Straton trod them carelessly,  which was the best  way to come at  the man whose
sorrel horse was stabled below.

He had left the bay standing in  the courtyard. It would stand. He left  it just
under the stairs,  out of line  of the dirty  window above, if  Crit had come to
look, if he were wary. But perhaps he would be careless. Once.

Or perhaps Crit was waiting behind the door.

Strat reached the top landing and tried the latch. It gave. That should tell him
enough. He flung the door inward, hard; it banged against the wall and rebounded
halfway.

And Crit was standing there in the center of the room with the crossbow aimed at
the middle of his chest.

The stream Janni followed ran bubbling over the rocks, among the trees, cold and
clear; and a wind sighed in the leaves with a plaintive sound, like old  ghosts,
lost friends. The trees stood, some unnaturally straight, some twisted, like old
monuments. Or memories. They  afforded cover, and the  place had a good  feel to
it, this shade, this shadow of green leaves.

The brook left that place and flowed into sunlit grass. The meadow beyond hummed
with the sound of bees, was  dotted with wildflowers, was eerily still,  no wind
at all moving the  grass, and Janni looked  out into that place  with a profound
sense of terror. That meadow stretched on and on, lit in uncompromising day, and
the grass that  showed so trackless  now would betray  every step. There  was no
cover out there.

If  he were  so foolish  she could  find him,  Roxane could  track him  down  in
whatever shape she chose,  and he could not  stand against her. He  knew that he
could not. He had failed once before, and that failure gnawed at his pride,  but
he was not fool enough to try it  twice. Not fool enough to go out where  Roxane
waited in the bright sunlight, in  a center defended by such emptiness  and calm
that there was no surprise possible; but he had the most terrible feeling   that
the sun which had stood overhead  had at last begun to  move toward its setting,
and that that sunset  would signal a change and a fading of life in this  place.
The moment he conceptualized it, that movement seemed true, though  he could not
see  it clearly through the  trees-he  saw shadows at this margin of  the woods,
cast out on the yellow grass, and  they inclined by some degree.

"Roxane!" he called out, and Roxane-ane-ane the forest gave back behind him;  or
the sky echoed it, or  the silence in his heart.  He felt small of a  sudden and
more vulnerable  than before.  He had  to keep  moving in  the woods, constantly
seeking some  place of  vantage, some  place where  the trees  ran nearer to the
heart of that meadow where the trouble lurked.

But wherever he went, however far he circled this place, the brook reappeared in
its meanderings. He knew what it was, and that if there was a place where it did
not exist, then it would be very bad news indeed.

It ran  slower than  it had,  and more  shallow. Now  and again some dead branch
floated down it, which presaged something. He was afraid to guess.

"Come in," Crit said. "Keep your hands in sight."

Strat held his  hands in view  and walked into  the doorway of  the mage-quarter
office. He kept  the door open  at his back.  That much chance  he gave himself,
which was precious little. In fact there was such an ache in him it was unlikely
that he could  run. It had  been anger on  the way here.  It had been resolution
going up the stairs. Right now it was outright pain, as if that bolt had already
sped. But he cherished a little hope.

"You want to put that damn thing down, Crit? You want to talk?"

"We'll talk." But the crossbow never wavered. "Where'd she go, Strat?"

"I don't know. To hell, how should I know?"

Crit drew a deep breath and let it go. If the crossbow moved it was no more than
a finger's width. "So. And what are you here for?"

"To talk."

"That's real nice."

"Dammit, Crit, put that  thing down. I came  here. I'm here, dammit!  You want a
better target?"

"Stay where  you are!"  The bow  centered hard  and tendons  stood out on Crit's
hands. "Don't move. Don't."

It was as close as he had ever come to death. He knew Crit and what he knew sent
sweat running on him. "Why?" he asked. "Your idea, or the Riddler's?" If it  was
the one, reason was possible; if it was the other. ... "Dammit, Crit, I've  kept
this town-"

"You've tried. That much is true."

"So you try to kill me off a friggin' roof?"

The bow did move. It lifted a little. About as much as centered it on his  face.
"What rooP"

"Over there by the warehouse. And come bloody fnggin' along with me last  night,
that's why I came here, dammit, this morning, to see whether you'd gone crazy or
whether you think I didn't bloody see you up there yesterday. I figured I'd give
you a good chance. And ask you why. His orders?"

Crit shook his head slowly. "Damn, Ace, I saved your life."

"When?"

"On that roof.  It was Kama,  you understand me?  It was Kama  that was at  your
back."

A little chill went through him. And a minuscule touch of relief. "I hoped. Why,
Crit? Is she under his orders?"

"You think the Riddler'd do it like that?"

"You might. If he was going to. I don't know about her. You tell me."

Crit swung the bow off a little to the side, turned it back again, then aimed it
away and let it angle to the floor. He looked tired. Lines furrowed his brow  as
he stared back. "She's into  something of her own. Into-gods,  something. That's
all. The Third's got interests here and she has, and gods know- What the  bloody
hell is it about this town? Damn woman goes crazy, up on the roofs with a  bow-.
It's Walegrin she's after, I'm thinking; and then I'm not so sure-"

"You were following me."

"Damn right I was following you. So was  she. She bends that bow,. I put a  shot
right across  to discourage  her and  put the  wind up  you, what the hell d'you
think I'm doing? IfI'd've meant to shoot you I'd have hit you, dammit!"

Strat wanted to think that.  He wanted to believe every  word of it. It was  all
tangled, Kama with Crit-that was old business; but maybe not so old to either of
them. And Kama the Riddler's daughter. He  saw the trouble in  Crit's eyes,  saw
the pain  which  was  the real   Crit, behind  the nothing-mask.   "I guess  you
would,"  he  said  hoarsely.  It  was  not  so   easily patched  up. There   was
nothing mended  but maybe  the  roughest of the   edges. "I guess that  was what
set me to thinking. It didn't feel right."

"Dammit, wake  up! What  does it  take? Tempus  is going  to have  your guts for
string if you don't solve it, hear me? He's given you more room than you've  got
a right  to, he's  left you  your rank,  he's left  you in  titular command, for
godssake, how  long is  he going  to be  patient, waiting  for you? You know how
patient he's being? You know what he'd have done with another man?"

"He left me in command. I still am.  Till he takes it." The last came out  hard,
and left a  dull shock behind.  Tempus could ask.  And get nothing  from him. He
knew that, the way he knew rain fell down and sun came up. He was hollow inside.
Crit could have shot him. That would have been all right. That would have solved
things. As it was, he failed to care. He walked over to the table and the  cheap
bottles of wine they had here because it kept and the water here tasted like lye
and copper. He pulled a loose cork  and poured a little glass, knowing it  was a
deadly man at his back and matters were no more resolved now than they had been.
He turned and held it out to Crit. "Want one?"

"No." Crit  still stood  there with  the bow  aimed at  the floor.  "Where's the
horse? You leave that damned horse down there in the yard in full view?" .

"I don't plan to stay." Strat drank a mouthful of the sour wine and made a face.
His gut was empty. Even a little wine  hit it hard. "I've patched up a peace  in
this town. I figured it could make me some enemies. And Kama has contacts in the
Front, doesn't she? I figure-I figure  maybe she's got her answers, and  they're
not mine."

"She tried to shoot you in the back. I stopped it. You come in here madder  than
hell at me; and her,  you just-No. You're not bloody  mad, are you? You came  in
here-what for? Why did you walk in here, if that was what you expected?"

"I told you. I  thought if you'd meant  to hit me you  would have. Didn't get  a
chance to talk to you last night. That's all." He downed the rest of the wine in
the cup and set it  down before he looked around  again at Crit, at the  bow and
the open door. "I'd better go. My horse is in the yard."

"That damn horse-that damn spook. Ace, the damn thing doesn't sweat, it  doesn't
half work, like the zombies, f'godssake, Ace, stay here."

"Are you going to stop me?"

"Where are you going?"

He had not truly considered that. He  had not known whether there was truly  any
time beyond this room. Nothing he did presently made sense: there was no need to
have come, no need to have patched things up with Crit, only it was something he
had not been able to avoid thinking  on since yesterday and last night, and  now
there was no more need to think  about that. His partner was not trying  to kill
him. Tempus was not. Unless Tempus had sent Kama, but somehow other things  rang
more true.  Like the  PFLS. The  Front. Like  the agencies  that wanted chaos in
Sanctuary. He felt himself carrying the whole town on his back, felt his life as
charmed as if  the gods that  watched over this  town watched over  him, who was
trying to save it. And they both  were corrupt, and they both were wreckage,  he
and the town.  He perceived compromises  that he had  made, by degrees.  He knew
where he was now, and it was on the  other side of a wall from Crit and all  his
old ties.

He had not seen Ischade since that day outside Moria's. Since he had blinked and
lost her round a  comer. Or somewhere. Somewhere.  The wards drove him  from the
river house. He hunted Haught and  failed to find him. He was  altogether alone,
and altogether losing everything he had thought he had his hands on.

"I don't know," he said  to Crit. "I don't know  where I'm going. To find  a few
contacts. See what I can turn up.  If you haven't figured it out, it's  my peace
that's holding so far. The bodies that've turned up-aren't significant. Or  they
are. It means that certain people  are keeping their word. Keeping the  peace in
their districts.  You could  walk the  Maze blind  drunk right  now and come out
unrobbed. That's progress. Isn't it?"

"That's something," Crit admitted. And stopped  him with a hand on his  arm when
he tried to walk past him. Not a hard hand. Just a pressure. "Ace. I'm listening
to you. You want my help, I'll give it to you."

"What kind of trap is it?" It was an ingenuous question. He meant it to be.  The
whole affair, Kama, the shot from  the roof, had ceased to trouble  him acutely,
had  become  part  of  the  ennui  that  surrounded  him,  everywhere,  in every
inconsequential move  he made,  every damned,  foredoomed, futile  move he  made
since She had turned her back on him and decided to play bitter games with  him.
Haught had given him the ring; Haught  had made a move which might be  Her move,
gods  knew, gods  knew what  she was  up to.  The whole  world seemed  dark  and
confused. And this man, this distant,  small voice, wanted to hold onto  his arm
and argue  with him,  which was  all right  as far  as it  went: he had a little
patience  left, while  it asked  nothing more  complicated than  it did.  "Whose
orders, Crit?"

"I'm on my own. I'll go with  you. Easier than following you. I'll do  that, you
know. I've been doing it."

"You've been pretty good."

"You want the company?"

"No," he  said, and  shrugged the  hand off.  "I've got  places to go, rounds to
make. Stay off my track. I'd hate for  somebody to put a knife into you. And  it
could happen."

"But not to you."

"Not so likely."

"You hunting that Nisi bastard?"

It  was  more  complicated than  that.  Ischade  was involved.  It  was  all too
complicated to answer. "Among others," he said. "Just stay off my track. Hear?"

He walked on out the door.

The bow  thunked at  his back,  the air  whispered by  him and the quarrel stood
buried in a single crash in the stout railing just ahead of him. He stopped dead
still, then turned around to Crit and the empty bow. His knees had gone weak for
a moment. Now the anger came.

"I just wondered if you'd wake up," Crit said.

"I am awake.  I assure you."  He turned on  his heel and  headed down the stairs
with his  knees gone  undependable again,  so that  he used  the lefthand  rail,
shaking and shaken,  and hoping with  the only acute  feeling he had  left, that
between the wine and the shock he would not stumble on the way. That it was Crit
up there watching him, Crit who knew how to read that white-knuckled grip on the
rail, made his shame complete.

Damn Crit to hell.

Damn Tempus  and all  such righteous  godsridden prigs.  Tern-pus had dealt with
Ischade. Tempus had said something to her  at that table, in that room, and  she
had said  something to  him at  great length,  concluded her  business like some
visiting queen, before she went running off, leaving him for a fool in front  of
the whole damned  company. He had  not gone back  after his cloak.  Had not been
able to face that room.

But suddenly it occurred to him that Crit might know what Tempus and Ischade had
said together. He stopped at the bottom, by the bay horse, his hand on its neck,
and looked up the stairs where Crit  stood with the unarmed bow dangling by  his
side.

"What's the Riddler's dealing with her?" Strat asked.

"Who? Kama?"

Strat frowned, wondering whether it was deliberate obtuse-ness. "Her, dammit, at
the Peres. What was she after?"

"Maybe you ought  to ask him.  You want to  shout his business  up and down  the
stairs? Where's your sense, for gods-sake?"

"That's all right." He  turned and gathered up  the bay's dangling reins.  "I'll
manage. Maybe I will ask him." He  flung himself up to the bay's back,  felt the
life in it  like a waking  out of sleep,  a huge and  moving strength under him.
"It's all  right." He  turned the  bay and  rode out  of the courtyard, down the
narrow alley.

Then the malaise came back again, so  that the street began to go away  from his
vision, like  an attack  of fever.  He touched  his waist,  where he carried the
little ring, the ring that would fit only his smallest finger.

She had sent it by Haught.

Haught attacked the column and tried  for-whatever Tempus was on the other  side
of. Tempus and the priest. And the gods.

Damn, it shaped itself into pattern,  it shaped all too well: Ischade  owned  no
gods.  Haught and   the dead  man,  who  made a   try that might,  succeeding at
whatever they were after-have shaken the town.

Ischade had sent  him back to  Crit that night  Crit came to  the riverhouse and
nothing had been the same.

He slipped the ring  into the light and  slipped it onto his  finger, the breath
going short in his throat and the touch of it all but unbearable; it was like  a
drug. He had not dared wear it into Crit's sight, a token like that. But he wore
it when he thought there was no one to see, no one but the Ilsigi passersby  who
might see him only as the faceless rider all Stepsons were to the town: he was a
type, that was all, he  was a power, he was  a man with a sword  and everyone in
town wanted to pretend they had no special reason to look anxiously at a  Rankan
rider too tall and too hard to be other than what he was. So if that man's  eyes
were out  of focus  and all  but senseless,  no one  noticed. It  was only for a
moment. It was always, in the last two days, only for a moment, because when  he
held that metal in his hand he had a sense of contact with her and his soul  was
in one piece again.

He  shivered and  looked up  where a  rare straightness  of a  Sanctuary  street
afforded a sliver of sunlight, the gleam of uptown walls.

                                    *  *  *

There was a rattle at the  window, a spatter of gravel against  the second-story
bedroom shutters, and Moria started, her hand to her heart. For a moment she had
thought of some  great bird, of  claws against her  shutters; she expected  some
such visitation, even in the daylight. But she came up off her bed where she had
flung herself, dressed as she was in the stifling, tight-laced satins that  were
what a lady  in Sanctuary had  to wear, 0  Shalpa and Shipri,  so that her  head
reeled and  her senses  wanted to  leave her  every time  she climbed  stairs or
thought too much on her situation.

Now she knew  that rattle of  gravel for what  it was: someone  down in the side
lane that led back toward the rear of the house and the stable. Someone who knew
where her bedroom was,  maybe that importunate lord  who had beseiged her  step;
maybe- Shalpa! maybe it was Mor-am come back. Maybe he was in some dire trouble,
maybe he needed her, maybe he would try that window, the only one off the street
except the servants' and the kitchen at the back.

She went  and flung  the inside   shutters open,  looked out  and saw   a lately
familiar, handsome face staring  up at her with  adoring eyes. At one  breath it
drove her to rage that he was back, rage and fear and grief at once, for what he
was, and what  a fool he  was, and how  handsome and how  helpless in Her spells
which had somehow gone all amiss.

"Oh, damn!" She flung open the  casement and leaned out, her corset-hard  middle
leant across the sill and the compression  of her ribs all but choking the  wind
out of her as she set her palms on the rough stone. Cold wind stung her face and
her exposed  front and  blew her  hair. Loose  ribbons hit  her in the face. "Go
away!" she cried. "Hasn't my doorkeeper told you? Go away!"

The lord Tasfalen looked  up with a flourish  of his elegant hands,  a glance of
his eyes that would  melt a harder heart  than an ex-thief's. "My  lady, forgive
me-no! Listen to me. I know a secret-"

She had started to pull back. Now  she leaned there all dizzy in the  wind, with
the air chilling her upper breasts and  her bare arms, and her heart beating  so
that the  whole scene  took on  an air  of unreality,  as if  something thrummed
unnaturally in her  veins, as if  the feeling that  had come on  her when Haught
touched her and turned her like this went on happening and happening and growing
in her, so that she was a danger and a Power herself, poor Moria of the gutters,
a candle to singe this poor lord's wings, when a conflagration waited for him, a
burning that was Power of a scope to drink them both down....

"0  fool," she  moaned, seeing  that face,  hearing that  word secret  and  that
urgency in his voice. It  had as well be both  of them in the fire.  "Come round
back," she  hissed, and  closed the  casement and  the shutters without thinking
until  then that  she had  just asked  a lord  of Sanctuary  to come  in by  the
scullery, and that at her merest word he was going to do it.

She stepped into her slippers, unable to bend in the corset, and worked one  and
the other  on with  a perilous  hop and  a catch-step  as she  headed out to the
stairs, saving herself on the railings as she flew down in a flurry of too  many
damned Beysib petticoats that  kept her from seeing  her feet or the  steps. She
fetched up at the bottom  out of breath, with a  catch at the newel-post and  an
anguished glance at a thief-maid who gawped at her.

"There's a man out back," Moria said, and pointed. "Go let him in."

"Aye, mum," the gaptoothed  girl said, and tucked  up her curls under  her scarf
and went clattering  off in unaccustomed,  too-large shoes to  see to that.  The
maid was one of those who had come for the Dinner; and stayed, Moria not knowing
anything else to do with her. Like  the new chef. As if She had  forgotten about
everything, and left her with this huge staff and all these people to take  care
of, and, gods, she  had given Mor-am part  of the house accounts,  had given him
too much. Ischade would find it out. She would find this out....

Moria heard the maid clattering and clumping along the back hall, heard the door
open, and went into the drawing room  where there was a mirror. She stood  there
hunting her hair for pins to put the curls back in place.

0 gods, is  that me? Am  I like this,  this ain't me,  outside, this is Haught's
doing and She's  got Haught by  now. She has.  Maybe She's outright  killed him,
taken him into Her bed and thrown him in the river an' all-like She'll throw me,
all these damn' beggars to  come on me in the  night and cut my throat-  0 gods,
look at my face. I'm prettier'n Her, She must've seen that-

A step sounded in the  hall. A face appeared in  the mirror beside her own.  She
turned,  dropping her  hands as  a curl  tumbled loose,  her breast   heaved-she
suddenly knew what effect she projected, natural as breathing and dangerous as a
spider.

She saw adoration glowing in Tasfalen's face, and the terrified pounding of  her
heart and the constriction of the laces brought on that raininess again.

"What secret?" she asked.  And Tasfalen came and  seized up her hand  in his, in
one move closer to her than she had planned to let him get. He smelled of spices
and roses.

Like a flower seller. Or a funeral.

"That I want you," Tasfalen said, "and that you're in deadly danger."

"What-danger?"

He let  go her  hand and  took her  by both  shoulders, staring closely into her
eyes. "Gossip.  Rumors. You've  become known  in town  and someone has slandered
you-incredible slander. I won't repeat all  of it. Say that you've been  accused
of- trafficking with  terrorists. Of being  catspaw for-Is that  part true? That
woman, that dark woman-I know her name, dear lady. My sources are highly placed.
And they mention your  name-" His eyes rolled  toward the uptown height,  toward
the palace, the while he  slid his hands to hers  and drew them against him.  "I
want to take  you into my  house. You understand,  you'll be safe  there. In all
uncertainties.  I have  connections, and  resources. I  place them  all at  your
disposal."

"I can't, I daren't, I daren't leave-"

"Moria." He gathered her against him, hugged her so tightly that the sense  half
left her,  tilted her  face up  and brought  his mouth  down on  hers, which was
perhaps all he  could do, being  a fool; and  perhaps there was  something wrong
with her too, because his touching her did something to her that only Haught had
done before, of  many, many men,  some for money  and some for  need and most of
them come to grief and  no good in the scattering  of the hawkmasks. That was  a
world that had nothing to do with the silk and the perfume and the smell and the
craziness of the uptown lord who smothered  the breath that was left in her  and
ran his hands over her with an abandon that would have gotten him a knife in the
gut back in her old wild days,  but which now, through the lacings and  the silk
and the lace, made her think nothing in the world so desirable as shed ding  all
that binding and  breathing and doing  what she had  wanted to do  with this man
since first she had laid eyes on him there on her doorstep. He would not be like
Haught, not reserved, not holding  so much of himself  back: this man was  fever
mad, and  it was  all going  to happen  right here  in the  drawing-room for the
servants and all to gawk at if she did not prevent him....

"Upstairs," she murmured, fending off his hands from her. "Upstairs."

Somehow they got there, him carrying her  part of the way, till she lost  a shoe
and he stopped for it; and she pulled him up the steps by the hand, damning  the
shoe and the laces and all, which  he started undoing at the top of  the stairs.
She shed ribbons all the  way to the bedroom, and  they fell down together in  a
cloud of silk  sheets and her  petticoats, which he  made shift to  shove out of
their way, layer after layer.

He got the last laces of her  bodice and the damned corset finally, and  she lay
there with her ribs heaving in the sheer sensuous pleasure of clear breaths  and
the feel of his hands on her bare skin.

She knew, when the sense  had gotten back to her  along with her wind, that  she
was the most  utter fool. But  it had all  gone too far  for more thinking  than
that.

"I love you," he said, "Moria."

He had to, of course. She knew that, the way that the air thrummed and whispered
and the blood ran in her veins with that kind of magic Haught had put into her.

Am I a witch myself? What's happening to me?

She stared into Tasfalen's face, that of a man bewitched.

Or what is he? 0 gods, save him! Shalpa, save me!

"He's quiet again," Randal said. Randal's foolish face was beaded with sweat and
white under  its freckles,  and his  hair hung  down in  sweat-damp points;  and
Tempus stared bleakly  at the mage,  his hand curled  round a cup  that sat on a
polished table, there amongst  his maps and his  charts. Behind the mage  in the
doorway Kama stood, looking frayed herself.

Kama. Gods  alone remembered  how many  others gone  to bones  and dust. She was
smart as she was likely to be: she had that hard shining in her eyes, about  her
face, that he knew all too well: it was youth's conviction it was without sin or
error; and if  he troubled he  could think his  way through the  maze of all the
things she  thought, but  he did  not trouble:  there  was  enough to occupy his
mind, and   Kama was  only a  shallow part  of it,  shallow as  a young fool was
likely to  be,  though  complex in  her potentials.  She had  the potential  for
surprises to an enemy;  was one part  crazy and one part calculating and he  had
not missed the gravitation of the two points that were her and Molin.  The  look
of a young woman in love?  Not in Kama. The look of a young woman with a complex
of things  seething in  a  still  callow mind,  which muddle   he evaded  with a
mental shrug of something  close to pain: another complex fool, not born to be a
fool ultimately, but at  that  stage of  growing   when the  wisest  were  prone
to  the most  wearisome,  repetitious mistakes as if they were new in the world.
He knew what she had  come to say.  He read  it  before she  opened her   mouth,
and  that irritated  him to the point of fury.

"I'm going back into the town," she said. "I can't sit still here."

Of course  she couldn't.  Who of  her age  and her  nature could? The battle was
going on here, but it was nothing she could get her hands into, so she went  out
to find trouble.

"I'm going to find this Haught," she said, and he could have mouthed the words a
second before they left her mouth.

"Of course  you are,"  he said.  And did  not ask  Where are  you going to look?
because of course she  had no particular idea.  Haught was the witch's  servant;
Haught was the trouble  they had had previous;  and Ischade-was by far  the more
interesting question.

Ischade was keeping a promise. Or she  was not, and a bargain was off.  That was
something it would take  time to leam. The  souls of his dead,  she had promised
him. And the  safety of his  living comrades as  far as she  could guarantee it.
There was  something deadly  dangerous in  the wind  and the  woman was onto it,
doing battle with  it-if she had  told the truth.  The possibility that  she had
lied was one of those lines down which he was quite willing to think, down which
he had been thinking continually.

"Find Ischade while you're at it," he said. "Ask her whose Haught is."

Kama blinked. He watched her put it together. He watched the caution dawn in her
immature-pretematurally mature mind, and watched the predictable thoughts go on,
how she would do this, how she  would need more caution than she had  planned on
in the other business.

Good. Things in the lower town wanted more caution than Kama was wont to use.

"Get out of here,"  he said then, staring  past her and thinking  what the world
would be like without Niko,  if they lost; if they  lost Niko they would lose  a
great deal more than one man; and he, personally-Niko was one who engaged him on
all levels, on too many levels. Niko was one who could cause him pain because he
could give  him so  much else,  and without  Niko, that  magnet for  the world's
troubles,  that fool  of fools  who thought  the world  his  responsibility-Niko
almost made him feel  it was, when he  knew better. Niko was  vulnerable the way
his  kind was  when the  uncaring little  fools got  past his  guard; when  the
holding-action  stopped and  the  god came  thundering  in to  wrench  the world
apart   again  and  Niko  was   the  one  standing  rearguard   to  fools  more
vulnerable than himself.  One like Kama  was walking around  and Niko was  lying
there in a bed losing a fight far too abstract for Kama to understand. She  went
out to do battle.

He did his fighting from this table, with a cup in hand. And could not, now that
he wanted to surrender, find the god. Even that, he might have foreseen.

Randal stayed when Kama had gone. Randal  was a fool of Niko's breed; and  for a
moment Randal, sweating and white as he  was, looked at him with Nik&'s kind  of
understanding, and came and  took the cup out  of his hand, which  gesture might
have gotten another man killed. Foolish man. Foolish little mage. Who  blundered
his way along with more deftness and a keener sight and more guts than most ever
had at their best.

So Tempus let him do it.

"You won't dream," Randal said, "if you pass out."

"I won't pass out," Tempus said, patiently, oh so patiently. "I heal,  remember.
There isn't any damn way. Now I want the damn god I can't get there."

"I've got a drug might... put you down a bit. If you let it."

"Try it." It took patience to say  that. He already knew it would not  work, but
Randal was trying.

No god answered him. Not even Stormbringer, who was- gods knew where. There  was
not a cloud to be had out there.

Randal went away to find-whatever concoction he meant to try. Tempus filled  his
glass again, perversely, in a cold fury at his own vitality, a fury on the  edge
of panic. His body was  not even in his control  when the god was out  of it. He
could not do so simple  a thing as fall asleep,  when the ache of the  world got
too much. He healed,  and that was what  he did. He healed  of the very need  of
sleep  and the  effects of  alcohol and  the effects  of drugs  and every  other
mortality. Askelon could have come and  claimed him by force. But the  gods were
not answering today.

None of them bloody cared.

Even Abarsis failed him. Or was held, somewhere.

II

A door  opened somewhere  far away.  Ordinarily this  would have  alarmed Moria,
though servants came  and went for  their own reasons.  This sounded deeper  and
heavier than inside doors.

But just  at that  moment Tasfalen  did something  which quite  took her  senses
inside out; and in the danger in which they both pursued this moment she  cursed
herself for butterflies  and turned her  mind to doing  something which she  had
learned off a hawkmask lover-easy to pick a man's brain when he was feeling that
good. Then Tasfalen gave  as good back, and  better- Shalpa and Shipri,  she had
never known a man with his ways, never bedded with a man who knew what he  knew,
not even Haught, never Haught-

"Oh,"  she said,  "oh," and  "0 gods!"-when  she brought  her head  up from  the
pillows and saw the dark figure standing in the doorway.

Ischade  said not  a thing.  The air  became charged  and heavy,   copper-edged.
Tasfalen turned on an elbow. "Damn-" he said, and that was all, as if more  than
that had strangled somewhere in his chest.

Moria caught at her bodice, caught her clothing together against a chill in  the
air that breathed through from the hall.  A scent of incense had come in,  heavy
and foreign, recalling the riverhouse  so acutely that the present  walls seemed
darkened and  she seemed  to be  in that  room, strewn  with its gaudy silks and
hangings and the spoils of dead lovers....

"Moria," Ischade said, in a voice  that hardly whispered and yet filled  all the
room. "You may go. Now."

It was life and not instant extinction. It was an order that sent her  wriggling
amongst the sheets and her rumpled petticoats as if there were hot irons  behind
her. Tasfalen caught at  her arm, and his  fingers fell away as  she reached the
edge of the bed and her bare feet hit the floor.

Ischade moved out  of the doorway,  and extended a  dark-sleeved arm toward  her
freedom and the hall.

Moria fled in a cloud of her undone clothing, barefoot down the stairs, not  for
the downstairs hall but for the door, for anywhere, o gods, anywhere in all  the
world but this house, Her servants. Her law-

It was not where Ischade would have chosen to be-here, standing in a doorway, in
a ludicrous Situation in her own  house: because the uptown house was  hers, and
Moria  one of  her more  expensive servants  who had  considerably exceeded  her
authority.

This man who sat half-naked and staring at her-this lord of Sanctuary and Ranke,
who lived his delicate life on the  backs and the sweat of the downtown  and the
harbor and the  ministerings of Ilsigi  servants, this perfect,  golden lord-she
felt him straining at the  spell of silence she wove,  saw him try to shift  his
eyes away. But he was  at once too arrogant to  clutch the covers to him  like a
frightened stableboy and far too arrogant  to be caught in the situation  he was
in. She let the spell go.

"It's supposed to be an outraged husband," he said, from his disadvantage.

She smiled. For a moment the black  edges cleared back from her mind. /'//  walk
out, she thought.  There's more to  him than I  thought. I could  even like this
man. But the  power strained at  her fingers, at  her temples, the  soles of her
feet and ran  in red tides  in her gut.  She felt Strat's  attention, somewhere,
felt the essence  of him trying  to get at  her, to tear  at her and  wound like
something gnawing its own flesh to get  at the iron that ringed it; Strat  would
find her, he would  kill himself finding her  and that, for her,  was her wound.
She could walk out  and find another victim,  find anyone else, anywhere,  stave
off the hunger an hour, a day, another few days....

Tasfalen patted the sheets  beside him. "We might  discuss the matter," he  said
with his own arrogant humor. And tipped the balance and sealed his fate.

She walked in, and smiled in  a different, darker way. Tas-falen stared  at her,
the  humor  dying  from  his  face, eyes  quite  fixed  on  hers  in a  mesmeric
fascination. His lust became evident.

Hers was uncontrollable.

Pavings tore Moria's  bare feet, a  dozen passersby stared  in shock, and  Moria
burst past a gaggle of old housekeepers on their way up from market. Apples  and
potatoes tumbled and bounced after her  on the pavement, old women yelled  after
her, but  Moria dived  into an  alley down  a track  she knew, ran dirty-puddled
cobbles and  squelched through  mud and  cut herself  on glass  and rubbish, mud
spattering up on her satin skirts and silk petticoats, blood as well, while  the
breath ripped in and out of her unlaced chest.

The old warehouse was  there. She prayed Haught  was. She flung herself  against
that door, bleeding on the step, pounded with both her fists. "Haught! Haught, o
be here, please be here-"

The  door  opened inward.  She  gaped at  the  dead man's  eye-patched  face and
screamed a tiny strangled sound.

"Moria," Stilcho  said, and  grabbed her  by the  arms, dragged  her across  the
threshold and into the dark where Haught waited, in this only refuge they  knew,
the place  Haught had  told her  to come  if ever  there was  a time  she had to
escape. He was here.

And  the change  in him  was so  grim and  so profound  that she  found  herself
clinging to Stilcho's  dead arm and  pressing herself against  him for dread  of
that stare Haught gave her.

"She," Moria said, and pointed up the hill, toward the house, "She-"

Only then  in her  terror did  it sink  in that  she was half-naked from another
lover's bed, and that it was rage which turned Haught's face pale and terrible.

"What happened?" Haught asked in a still, steely voice.

She had to tell him. Ischade's anger was worth her life. It was all their lives.
"Tasfalen," she said. "He-forced his way in. She-"

A dizziness came over her. No, she heard Haught saying, though he was not saying
a thing. She saw Tasfalen leaning over  her in the bed, saw Ischade as  a shadow
in the doorway, felt  all her terror again,  but this time Haught  was there, in
her skull, looking out her  eyes and running his  fingers over Tas-falen's  skin
Haught's anger  swelled and  swelled and  she felt  her temples  like to  burst.
"Gods!" she cried, and:  "Stop it!" Stilcho was  shouting, his dead arms  around
her, holding her up while the blood  loss from her wounded foot sent a  chill up
that leg and into her knees.  She was falling, and Stilcho was  shouting: "Gods,
she's bleeding, she's all over blood, for the gods' sake, Haught-"

"Fool," Haught said, and  took her arm, gripping  her wrist so hard  the feeling
left her hand.  The pain in  her foot grew  acute, became heat,  became agony so
great that she threw back her head and screamed.

The bay horse  clattered up the  street and sent  fragments of apple  and potato
flying, sent a clutch of slavewomen  screaming and cursing out of its  path, and
Straton did not  so much as  turn his head.  The ring had  no need to  be on his
finger. He felt. He felt all of it, lust running in tides through his blood  and
blinding his vision so that he  had only the dimmest realization what  street he
was on or what  house he had come  to. He slid down  from the saddle as  the bay
came right up on the walk and the jolt when his feet hit the ground was physical
agony, much beyond any pleasure, as if sex would never again be pleasure to him,
as if it had always  been pain masquerading as enjoyment  and now he was on  the
other side of that line.  He came up the steps,  grabbed the latch with all  his
strength, expecting a locked door.

It gave way and let him in. A fat woman stood in the hall, mouth agape. He never
focused on her, only  lifted his eyes toward  the stairs and the  next floor and
went that way, knowing where he was  going because there was at the moment  only
one focus in all creation. He grabbed the bannister and started up, blind in the
shaft of sunlight that flooded in there through a high small window, and feeling
the pounding of his blood as if he breathed awareness in with every breath, like
the dust that danced in the light.

"Ischade!" he cried. It was a wounded sound. "Ischade!"

The  woods were  held in  a terrible  stillness. Janni  stopped, having   worked
himself to the edge again, that margin where the sunlight and the meadow  began.
But the  sun was  surely sinking.  It was  sinking rapidly,  and the  breeze had
stopped.

He looked down at the stream which always guided him and it was still. The water
had stopped running  at all, and  stood invisible except  for the sky-reflection
and the light-reflection  on its surface,  which showed the  maze of interlocked
and breathless branches overhead.

A leaf fell and  another and another, disturbing  that surface, breaking up  the
mirror in which he  and the sky were  true. It began to  be a shower of  leaves,
falling everywhere in the forest.

"Niko!" he cried.  He abandoned hope  of attack. He  tried to wake  the sleeper,
back deep in  the safe shadow,  in the dark.  "Niko, wake up,  wake up, for  the
gods' sake. Niko-"

A breeze stirred from off the meadow, loosening more leaves, which turned yellow
and tumbled and lay like a carpet, covering the stream.

Then the water began to move, reversed  its former course and flowed out of  the
meadow into the forest, moving sluggishly at first, sweeping the leaves on in  a
golden sheet. Then the current gathered  force and swept all the leaves  away as
he hastened into the dark.

A red thread had begun  to run through the water,  a curling wisp of blood  that
ran the clear depths and grew to an arm-thick skein.

Janni ran and ran, breaking branches and stumbling over falling branches and the
slickness of the dying leaves.

"Ischade!"

Strat ran the stairs and nearly took the fragile bannister post down as he  spun
round it on  his way to  the bedroom. He  hit the doorframe  with his arm  as he
fetched up in it and  stopped still at the sight  of the figures in the  tumbled
bed, the dark and the light entangled.

He stood with his mouth open, with the words choking him. And then waded forward
in a blind rage and grabbed the man by the shoulders with both his hands, hurled
him over and confronted a face he had seen before in this house.

"Strat!" Ischade shouted at him. It had the grotesquerie of comedy, himself, the
shocked uptown lord, the  woman's shout in his  ears. He had never  looked to be
made a fool of,  dealt with the way  she and Haught had  dealt with him, made  a
partner to her rutting with another  man-who for one moment hung shocked  in his
grasp and in the next flung up both arms to break his grip. "Damn you," Tasfalen
yelled at him, "damn you and damn this lunatic house to hell!"

And the man  tumbled against him,  collapsing in a  way that nothing  alive ever
felt. Straton caught him in first  reflex, recoiled on the second with  the dead
man tumbling down off the bed and  onto his feet. Movement drew his eye  and his
reflexes: he seized Ischade's wrist in  an access  of disgust and horror  as she
got  to  her knees;   he jerked   her off   the bed   and to   her feet   in her
disarray and  the entanglement of the sheets and the lord  lying on his face  on
the floor  against his feet.

"Damn!" he cried, and shook  her by both arms till  her black hair flew and  her
slitted eyes  rolled white  in her  head. "Damn  you, bitch,  what do  you think
you're doing, what have you done?"

Her eyes opened wider, still showing  whites, blinked again with the dark  where
it belonged, a widening  dark, a dark that  filled all their centers  and turned
those eyes into  the pit of  hell. "Get out  of here." It  was not the  voice he
knew. It was a feral snarl. "Out! Get out, get out, get out-"

The blood pounded in his veins. He shoved at her, flinging her onto the bed in a
flood of grief  and rage and  outright hate. She  scrambled to get  to the other
side, and he dived after  her to stop her, hurling  his weight on her, felt  her
under him and himself  in control for a  moment, himself in a  position to teach
her once for all that he was not hers to tell to come and go and do her  errands
and do it all her way, when she wanted it, if she wanted it....

"Get off me!" she yelled at him, and hit him like any woman, with her fist.  His
own hand cracked open  across her face and  blood spattered from her  mouth, red
flecks on the pale  satin pillow, her black  hair flung in webs  across her face
with the recoil. He  jerked with one hand  at his own clothing,  pinned her with
his weight and his forearm, and elbowed her hard when she twisted like a cat and
tried to bite his arm. In that  distraction she came within a little of  getting
her knee into  him, but he  got his where  it counted instead,  and got both her
hands pinned.

"Fool!" she screamed into his face. 'Wo/"

He looked into her eyes. And knew suddenly that it was a terrible mistake.

"Let me  go," Niko  whispered to  Randal, while  Jihan was  off doing something,
while Jihan flitted somewhere about  the countless things that somehow  diverted
the Froth Daughter in wild gyrations of attention. It might be Tempus, who still
courted  unwilling  sleep, and  who  was, in  his  present state,  a  magnet for
Stonnbringer's daughter. It might be some other difficulty. She was likely where
trouble  was.  And Niko,  so  wan and  wasted,  so miserable  his  voice sounded
childlike soft, wrung at Randal's heart.

"I can't, you know," Randal said. "I'm sorry, Niko."

"Please." Niko strained at  the ropes. His unbandaged  eye was open, bleary  and
glistening with  Jihan's godsawful  unguents. His  skin was  white and glistened
with sweat.  "I'm all  right, Randal.  I hurt.  In the  gods' mercy give me some
relief. I've got to-"

"I'll get a pot, it's all right."

"Let me up.  Randal. My back  hurts, you know  what it's like  to lie like this?
Just let me shift my arms a little. Just a moment or two. I'm fine now. I'll lie
back down, I'll let you  put the ropes back again,  oh, for the gods' own  sake,
Randal, it's not your joints that feel  like they've got knives in them. Have  a
little pity, man. Just let me sit up a moment. Do for myself. All right?"

"I'll have to put you back again."

"That's all  right. I  know that.  I know  you have  to." Niko  made a  face and
shifted his shoulders. "0 gods. My back."

Randal bit his lip and put  out a little magical effort on  the strain-tightened
knots. They loosened, one  after the other. He  got the two closest,  which tied
Niko's feet to  the bedframe. And  got up off  the end of  the bed and carefully
undid the one on  the left wrist, carefully,  around the thick padding  they had
put there to protect the skin. Niko  sighed and flexed his legs and dragged  his
arm down to  his chest while  Randal went around  the bed to  get the other one.
"Thanks," Niko said, a ghost of a voice. "Ah. That's better. That's a relief."

"Ought to give you  a rubdown, that's what."  Randal unwound the last  rope, and
held onto Niko's hand to work a little life into the arm.

Then something hit him in the side of  the head and he went down blind and  numb
and dazed from the impact of his skull on a marble floor.

"Niko," he  cried, trying  to focus  his eyes  or his  talent or to organize his
defenses, but the dark  and the daze swirled  around him in clouds  and gray and
shooting flashes of red. He heard bare feet, going away at speed. "Ischade!"  He
shouted the name aloud, silently, threw  all he had of talent into  that scream.
"Ischade! Help!"

Two men lay  motionless in the  bedchamber. Tasfalen was  one, already chilling,
his eyes half-open, his body curled up like a child where he had fallen, wrapped
half in the bedspread  and the sheets. The  other lay sprawled in  a twist where
she had pushed him when he lost consciousness. He was still breathing. His  face
ticced in what might be dream, in such dreams as she gave him, tilled his nights
with, confused the truth with.

And Ischade was trembling all over, shuddering and shaking from sheer fright and
aborted rage and the rush of power  that, given time, would have done more  than
wrenched the life away from the  uptown libertine, would have wrenched his  soul
out and shredded it beyond any power of demons or fiends to locate it.

As it was something got to it, something that wanted that kind of rage as it had
known when it died. That something wanted through, wanted the essence of a  god,
wanted to be a god, or something like. It wanted a witch's soul at second  best,
and got Tasfalen's, which was far from enough to pay what Roxane had raised.  It
scented Straton's  soul unguarded,  loosened from  its ordinary  resistance, and
Ischade flung power about him, a shrug as she caught her cloak up from under his
legs and jerked it free in a series of violent, angry pulls.

Ischade!

The appeal hit her like a scream  at her back. She physically turned and  looked
in the  direction from  which it  had come.  It was  Randal's voice. It was blue
light. It was...

She  ran to  the window,  flung open  the shutters,  flung wide  the window  and
launched herself from the floor of  the bedroom to the incoming wind  that swept
the curtains, never questioning  whether she had the  control or knew where  she
was  going: Randal's  outpouring was  a shriek  of utter  panic, shuddering  and
wavering in  and out of focus in a wild undulation across the whole of the town.

Ischade! Help!

It's Roxane!

"She's gone," Haught whispered, gathering himself to his feet. "Her  attention's
elsewhere. It all is-"

"What are you doing?"  Moria gathered herself up  off the dust of  the warehouse
floor and the mouldering sacking which was the seating Stilcho had provided her.
Her foot still hurt, though the bleeding had stopped. She staggered, blinked  at
the ex-slave turned magician, her Haught,  who had stood straight up and  looked
off toward  a blank  wall of  the rotting  building as  if his  eyes saw through
walls. Stilcho caught her  arm when she wobbled  on her feet, his  hand cool but
not cold, certainly not  the deathly cold she  always expected to feel.  He held
her there; she held onto him a moment; then Haught just stopped being there.

There was a thunderclap that rocked the building, a wind jerked roughly and once
at her  clothing and  her hair  toward the  spot where  Haught had been, and her
skull all but split with Haught's voice  thundering in it and into her soul  and
her bones and her gut.

Go home. She's not there now. I'll find you at the house.

There was threat  implicit in that  order. There was  rage and jealousy  and all
promise what that power that racketed about her skull could do.

That and disgust for her soiling. Haught was always fastidious.

Dead man and damned drab. Wait for me.

She sobbed. It  was different than  a voice. It  got into her  soul and she  had
never felt so dirty and so small and so worthless to the world.

Stilcho hugged her head  against his chest, hard.  She heard his heart  beating,
which, through all her pain and  her confusion, confounded her further; she  had
not thought it beat at all.

The door to Molin's office slammed wide,  hit the wall and started a cascade  of
books and papers about the feet of the apparition which staggered into the  room
half-naked and  wild and  going straight  for him,  his desk,  his life. And the
pottery globe  which was/was  not there.  Molin flung  himself in  a dive  which
intercepted Niko in mid-lunge as they both skidded over the desktop and off  it.
The sick  man rolled  and twisted  and it  was Molin  who hit  the ground on the
bottom, Molin who had  the wind half knocked  from him and his  skull cracked on
the rebound of his  neck as he tried  to curl and save  himself. Sparks exploded
across his vision; Niko  was trying to rip  free, sweating, naked skin  offering
precious little purchase as he surged to his feet.

Molin grabbed Niko's leg with both arms, rolled and brought the Stepson down  in
another scrape and clatter of furniture. The chair this time. As shouting closed
in on the room and he  had hope of help if he  could only hang on to the  madman
who was trying to scrabble  and twist round to get  at him. He bent the  leg and
grabbed the ankle and got his own foot around to slam into Niko's face.

"Get him," someone yelled from the doorway.

"Niko!" That shout was Tempus.

And something exploded through the window  in a shower of glass, something  that
existed a moment in  midair and then toppled  in a tumble of  black cloak, black
hair and dusky skin that landed with a thump in front of Molin's dazed eyes.

Ischade lay on the floor like a  dead thing, eyes open, lips apart, a  strand of
her black hair lying  across her open eyes  without a reaction at  all, her bare
arm outflung, fingers curled in the light of the broken window. Blood welled  up
in cuts on that  arm-did not spurt, but  only leaked, slowly, to  pool under the
arm, amid the fragments of glass. All this he had time to see: Niko had suddenly
gone limp as Molin  sprawled atop him. Ischade  lay not breathing at  all and he
was desperately afraid that Niko was not breathing either.

He pushed himself  up on his  arms, had help  as a strong  hand grabbed him  and
pulled, and Tempus waded in, shoved the  oak desk aside to get room and  grabbed
Niko up in his arms.

"He collapsed," Molin said, "he-just-"

Reason tottered. He felt himself pulled up  and set aside like a child, and  the
Froth Daughter let  him go and  sank down to  grab Tempus's arm  as he held onto
Niko.

"I can't get through," Tempus shouted in desperation. "Dammit,  Stormbringer-let
me get to him!"

"You can't go in there," Jihan yelled. Her fingers closed on his arm and  dented
the muscle. "She's there, Riddler, she's in there, and you want it too much-Stay
here!"

It was wreckage, everywhere wreckage. Ischade cast about her in the woods,  with
the wind blowing everything to wrack and the trees creaking and groaning in  the
gusts. A  stream ran  there, and  it was  clear water  around its edges, but its
center was blood;  and in the  center of the  blood was a  thread of black, like
corruption.

She knew where the attack came from. She clutched her cloak about her to  shield
herself from it as best she could and  ran with her back to the wind, trying  to
find the lost soul whose refuge this was. A little bit of hell had crept in  and
settled in the meadow. A great deal of  it was not that far away, and there  was
in a place this numinous a great deal of what it could use, if her enemy was  an
utter fool and let it in.

A tree gave way at the roots and crashed down, taking others with it,  showering
her with its ruin. She had no magic in this place. She had nothing but her mind,
and that was unfocused, chaotic as this place was chaotic: she was the worst  of
helps for it, a raw  Power without a center of  her own, an existence without  a
reason. It was the worst of places for her to come.

The ground  quaked. Thunder  rolled and  a voice  pursued her  without words,  a
shrieking shout that impelled the winds and stung with mortal cold.

She stumbled upon  a tumble of  rocks, a little  rise, a place  where a guardian
waited, faceless, selfless,  a pale shape  that shone with  inner light and  its
hands glowing  more terribly  than its  face as  it lifted  them to bar her way,
light against her black,  certainty against her doubt.  It had had a  name once,
and she suddenly knew it: once she  knew that name, it took on shape  and became
Janni, a torn and failing ghost that blew in tatters in the wind.

"I need his help," she said. "Janni, I need yours."

She had raised only his Seeming out of hell; the part of Janni that stood  there
flaring with light came on loan from elsewhere, an elsewhere with which she  had
as little to do as possible, wanting its expensive bargains no more than hell's.

But he  had come  for this.  To stand  here. For  hell's reason:  revenge; and a
reason out of that other place: raw devotion. It shone out of him like a  candle
through  paper, and   made his  face  unbearable:  she flinched  and avoided the
sight  of it. He   blinded. He burned  the  eyes and  left his  imprint when she
looked  aside, so  that a  shadow-Janni drifted  in front  of her  eyes  when  a
shining  hand  at  the   edge of  her  vision   indicated  the  sleeper by   the
streamside.

"Niko,"  she said,  and exerted  all the  power she  had stored,  one vast  push
against  the wind  and the  accumulated ruin  of this  place. "Niko.  Nikodemos.
Stealth, it's not your time. Do you hear me?"

Mine, a voice said on the wind. Damn you. Damn you, Ischade.

It was, delivered out of a witch's power, a curse that wrenched at the locks  on
hell.

"Fool!" Ischade whirled in the echoing gust and shoved back with all that was in
her, keeping that Gate shut. It strained. It manifested, over across the stream,
a barred door  in the stone  cliff beside the  stream, a door  bent and creaking
under the blows of what might be a shoulder, an arm, a fragment of night  itself
reaching for Niko's soul-

"Niko!" she shouted. And: "Roxane, you utter fool!"

Niko's back arched. It was Jihan and Tempus who held him. Molin attempted to get
his jaws  open and  to stop  him choking  while an  occasional flutter  of white
betokened a priest dithering this way and that in the doorway, between help  and
hindrance. "Get her!" Molin snarled at the priest, applying all his strength  to
Niko's spasmed jaws,  and nodding with  a toss of  his head toward  the crumpled
black-cloaked form  on the  floor. "Keep  her warm,  I don't  care if  she isn't
breathing, tie up those wounds, shut her eyes, she'll go blind, for  godssakes-"
Niko spasmed again and  Tempus swore and yelled  his name as another  staggering
form appeared in the doorway.

Randal came reeling in, with blood all down his chin and down the front of him.

"Nooo!" Randal cried, his eyes lighting suddenly as if they had spied something,
and  he made  a wild  lunge toward  the desk,  but the  priest got  in his  way,
staggered him and knocked him reeling into a chair against the wall as something
which was not-there burst with light.

Fire came back, blue and scorching as Randal recoiled out of the chair and threw
power at  it. White  light blazed  out, for  a moment  illumining a  figure that
clutched a Globe in its hands. The  Globe spun without moving. It lit the  whole
room.

And when it and the holder vanished the contents of bookshelves came pouring out
in a thunderclap.

"He put himself into it," Randal  yelled, his hands clenched, his hair  standing
up in blood-matted  spikes. "Into the  cabinet! He put  himself in and  he moved
it!"

"I'll get it," Jihan cried, and: "Danunit, no!" Tempus shouted at her, for  Niko
flung out the arm she let go: she grabbed it again, grabbed all of him and  held
onto him with bonecrushing strength, her unnatural skin aglow and her eyes  full
of violence for whoever had done this thing.

It was  still going  on, in  whatever Place  that racked  body contained  or was
linked to: Molin could not describe  it. He had only the conviction  it existed,
and it  was coming  apart under  their hands:  Roxane was  tearing it apart from
inside, he  understood that  much, while  Niko's joints  and muscles cracked and
strained. Niko  would shatter  his own  bones, rip  tendons from their moorings,
break his own spine in the extremity of the convulsions: it was a  preternatural
strength. It destroyed the body it lodged in; and the mind-

A wind was blowing through  the room, the air was  cold where it met bare  skin,
and Straton came up from  his abyss with a gasp  after air and a wild  motion of
his arm that sought after Ischade.

It met chill, empty sheets.

"Damn!" he cried and rolled off the  bed, staggering on the rumpled rug and  the
sheets and  the forgotten  obstacle of  Tas-falen's body  lying there  stark and
cooling with the chill.

It was true.  It was all  true, what they  said about Ischade,  she had left him
with her dead and gone off somewhere to sleep it off. He felt of his throat  and
felt of  his chest  with a  chilled hand  and staggered  about with  a throbbing
headache and no concept of direction while he got his clothes to rights.

Damn her. Damn, damn, and damn her to bloody hell.

Am I alive? Am I like that poor sod Stilcho, alive-dead, killed and brought back
out of hell, o gods-

A door opened downstairs; wind sucked in a chill gust from the window.

"Ischade," he yelled,  and flung himself  past Tasfalen's corpse,  out the door,
toward the stairs. He caught himself at the top, looking down on Moria in a torn
and muddy gown, on Stilcho standing there ghastly as the truth in that bedroom.

He came  down the  stairs, broke  through between  them and  headed out the door
where the bay horse stood curiously nosing the remnants of an apple core on  the
walk. He ran for it, took the reins  in his hand with no idea in heaven  or hell
where he was going.

To Crit, maybe, to that place where Crit was waiting for him.

He got his  foot in the  stirrup and heard  a sound he  had heard on  a score of
battlefields and a  hundred ambushes. An  arrow hit the  wall and shattered.  He
dropped from the stirrup, whacked the bay to get it out of fire, already knowing
it was stupid;  he should have  the horse for  cover, the damned,  foolish horse
which was the only thing in all the world which had never betrayed him.

It snorted and shied up and stayed. That was what made him hesitate in his  dive
for cover, one half-heartbeat of disbelief...

... that persisted when the arrow  smashed high into his chest and  he staggered
back and  fell on  the pavings.  There was  a smell  of apples. The pavings were
cold. The sky showed a clear,  strange glow, going lavenders and white,  and the
upper stories of the buildings went all dim. It did not particularly hurt.  They
said those were the really bad ones.

III

Moria saw him fall.  She never thought. She  ran out onto the  walk with Stilcho
shouting after  her and  the bay  horse rearing  and plunging  in hysterics over
Straton's body. She ran; and a man's arm grabbed her around the waist and  swept
her back to the safety  of the doorway. In that  moment she had time to  realize
that she had just risked her life for a man she knew for another of Hers, for  a
man she had seen  only twice in her  life, who had burst  past her down her  own
stairs, shoved her painfully against a wall and run out like the devils of  hell
were after him.

She could comprehend pain that strong. Ischade's service was full of it. It  was
that fellowship which sent her pelting  out after him, no other reason;  and now
Stilcho in a terrible slowing of time and motion drew his hands from her  waist,
turned in a  flying of his  cloak, a falling  of the hood  that normally hid his
eye-patched face-for a moment it was the good side toward her, the sighted side,
mouth open  in a  gasp for  air, legs  already driving  in a  lunge back  to the
street. He skidded in  low almost under the  bay's legs, grabbed the  Stepson by
the collar and one hand and dragged him toward the door-he looked up as he came,
his half-sighted face wild and pale, the dark hair flying, and his mouth opened.

"Get out of there!" he yelled at her, "get out of the way!"

An arrow whisked  past with a  bloodchilling sound she  had heard described  and
instantly recognized. She spun back around the comer to the door and the  inside
wall, and saw the arrow lying spent on the rug as Stilcho dragged the Stepson in
past her to drop him in the hall.

Moria hurled herself  at the door  and slammed it  with all her  might, shot the
bolt  and went  and shuttered  the drawing-room  window in  haste, ducking  down
beneath  to  slam the  shutters  tight and  shoot  the deadbolts.  "Shiey!"  she
screamed. "Shutter the downstairs! Quick!"

Something banged  back in  the kitchens.  Outside on  the street  she heard  the
clatter of  hooves, the  horse still  outside the  window: it  whinnied loud and
stamped this way and that. Hooves  struck stone pavings up close to  the window;
and another shutter banged shut at the rear of the house.

"Upstairs," Stilcho  said. He  squatted over  the unconscious  Stepson. He had a
knife out and he was cutting away the cloth from around a wound that might  have
been high  enough to  miss the  lung but  which might  have cut the great artery
under the collarbone-there was blood everywhere, on him, on the carpet.  Stilcho
lifted a pale face contorted in haste and effort. "The upstairs shutters, woman!
And be careful!"

Moria gasped  a breath.  "Help him,"  she yelled  as Cook  came waddling  out in
panic, one-handed Shiey, who was worse as  a cook than she had been as  a thief.
But they knew wounds  in this house. There  were servants who knew  a dozen uses
for a knife and a rope. She never  looked back to see what Shiey did, only  flew
round the newel-post, never  minding at all the  pain of her sore  foot. She had
only the new and overwhelming fear  that a shutter might be open,  someone might
find a way in even on the upper floor-

She  reached the  bedroom and  froze in  the doorway,  dead-stopped against  the
doorframe.

Not a sound came  out of her throat.  She was Moria of  the streets and she  had
seen corpses and made a few herself.

But the sight of a man who had  lately made love to her lying dead on  the floor
in her bedspread-her  heart clenched and  loosed and sent  a flood of  nausea up
into her throat. Then she swallowed it down and ducked down low, got across  the
room to get  the shutters closed  and bolted-for the  window itself she  did not
try.

Then she ran, past the dreadful death  on the floor, out of that place  and down
the stairs again for the comfort  of Stilcho's presence, for the dead-alive  man
who was the only ally she had left, and to the Stepson who had come running  out
of that upstairs room the same as she.

He was still lying  on the hall floor,  there beside the stairs,  with Stilcho's
cloak wadded under his head and Stilcho crouching over him. Stilcho looked up as
she came down the last  steps, and his face and  the face of the Stepson  on the
floor were the same pale color.

"Name's Straton," Stilcho said. "Her lover."

"T-Tasfalen's d-dead," Moria said.  She had almost said  my lover, but that  was
not true, Tasfalen was only a decent man who had treated her better than any man
ever had, and  who had died  a fool. Of  her doing, never  this Straton's fault:
Moria knew who she had left him  with; and suddenly Moria the thief felt  a pang
of tears and the sting and ache  of all her wounds. "What'll we do?"  She leaned
with her arms about the bottom  newel-post and stared helplessly at Stilcho  and
stared at the man who  was dying on her hall  rug. Stilcho had gotten the  shaft
broken. The remnant  of the arrow  stood in the  wound, with bloodstained  flesh
swelling it in tight.  High in the ribs  with bone to help  lock it up and  gods
knew what it had hit. "0 gods, gods, he's done, isn't he?"

Stilcho held  up the  fletching-end of  the arrow  from beside  him. It had been
dipped in blue dye. "Jubal," he said.

She felt a twinge of chill. Jubal was another who had owned a piece of her soul,
once. Before Ischade took  her and set her  in this house that  no longer seemed
safe from anything. "You know how to pull it?" she asked.

"I know how. I don't know what I'm  cutting into. Your staff-that cook of  yours
ran back in the kitchen after another knife. I need two to get on either side of
this thing. I  need waddings and  I need hot  oil. Can you  get them moving back
there?"

"They've locked themselves  in the cellar,  that's where they  are!" The silence
out of the servants' end of the house suddenly interpreted itself and filled her
with blind rage. She knew her  staff. She flung herself from the  newel-post and
started down the hall.

And screamed as a light and a thunderclap burst into the drawing-room beyond the
arch beside them. Wind hit her.

She turned and saw  Haught there, Haught disheveled  and without his cloak,  and
holding a pottery sphere in his hands,  a sphere that by odd seconds seemed  not
to be there at all and at others seemed to spin and glow.

Haught grinned at them, a wolf's grin. And he let go the globe which hung  where
he had left it, in midair, spinning and glowing white and a thousand colors. The
light fell on him and on her  drawing room and paled everything. Then he  tucked
it up again under his  arm and ran one hand  through his hair, sweeping it  from
his face  in that  child-gesture that  was like  the Haught  she had  known, the
Haught who had shared her bed and been kind to her. Both of them stood there  on
the same two feet, the mage she feared  and the man who had given her gifts  and
loved her and gotten her and him into this damned mess.

Whatever  it was  he had  gotten, it  was not  a natural  thing and  it was  not
something the Mistress meant him to have, Moria knew that by the look of it  and
of him. And she was  cold inside and full of  a despair so old it  made her only
tired and angry.

"Dammit, Haught, what the hell are you into?"

He grinned at her. Delight radiated from him. And he looked from her to  Stilcho
to the man on the floor, the grin fading to curiosity.

"Well," he said, and  came closer, his precious  strange globe tucked up  in his
arms. "Well," he  said again when  he looked down  at Straton. "Look  what we've
got."

"You can help him." Moria remembered her  foot and a touch of hope came  to her.
"You can help him. Do something."

"Oh, I will." Haught bent down and laid one hand on the Stepson's booted  ankle.
And the Stepson's whole body seemed to come back from that diminished,  shrunken
look of something  dead, to draw  a larger breath  and to run  into pain when it
did. "How did this happen?"

She opened her mouth to say.

"That's all right," Haught said. "You've told me." He still had his hand on  the
Stepson's  ankle,  and closed  it  down till  his  fingers went  white.  "Hello,
Straton."

Straton's eyes opened.  He made a  small move to  lift his head  from the wadded
cloak, and perhaps he saw Haught, before the pain got him and twisted his  face.
"Oh, damn," he said, letting his head back, "damn."

"Damned for sure," Haught said. "How does it feel, Rankan?"

"Haught!" Moria cried, as the Stepson made a sound nothing human ought to  make.
She jerked with both hands at Haught's shoulders. "Don't! Haught!"

Haught stopped. He stood up, slowly, the globe still beneath his arm. And  Moria
flinched  in the  first backward  step, then  stood her  ground, jaw   clenched,
muscles shaking in the threat of this utter stranger who stared at her with eyes
that held  nothing of  the Haught  she had  known. There  was something terrible
inside. Something that burned and touched her inside her skull in ways that  ran
constantly through her nerves.

"Oh, I know what you've done, I know everything you'll say, and what you  really
think. It's more than a little  trying, Moria." He reached and brought  a finger
under her chin. "It can be a damned bore, Moria, it really can."

"Haught-"

"Ischade doesn't own  you anymore. I  do. I own  you, I own  Stilcho, I own this
house and everything in it."

"There's a dead man in my bedroom! Dammit, Haught-"

"A dead man in  your bedroom." Haught's mouth  tightened in the ghost  of an old
smile. "You want me to move him?"

"0 my gods, no, no-" She backed away from Haught's hand. He could. He would. She
saw that in his  eyes, saw something like  Ischade mixed with Haught's  prankish
humor and a slave's dire hate. "0 gods, Haught-"

"Stilcho," Haught said, turning his face to him, "you've just acquired company."

Stilcho said nothing at all. His mouth was clamped to a hard line.

While upstairs something  thumped, and that  board that always  creaked near the
bed-creaked; and sent ice down Moria's back.

"Gods, stop it!"

"You don't want your lover back?"

"He's not my lover, he  wasn't my lover, he was  a poor, damned man She  got her
hands on, I just-I just-I  was sorry for him, that's  what, I was sorry for  him
and he was good, and  I don't give a damn,  Haught, I'm not your damn  property,
I'm not Hers, you can blast me to hell if you like, I've had all I'll take  from
all of you!"

Her shouting died. Her fists were still clenched. She waited for the blow or the
blast or whatever it was wizards did and knew she was a fool. But Haught's  face
stressed and it smoothed, and something  flowed over her mind like tepid  water.
"Congratulations," he said. "But you don't get those kind of choices. The  world
doesn't give them to you. / can. I have the power to do whatever I like. And you
know that. Stilcho  knows it. You  want power, Moria?  If you've got  a shred of
talent I  can give  you that.  You want  lovers, I  can give you those, whatever
amuses you. And I'll amuse you myself  when the mood takes us. Maybe you'd  like
Stilcho. Ischade's  probably taught  him a  lot of  interesting things.  I'm not
jealous."

The hell you're not.

Haught's  eyebrow twitched.  Dangerously. And  the cold  eyes took  on a  little
amusement. "Only of your loyalty," he  said. "That, I'll have. What you  have in
your bed is your business. As long as I have the other. I don't hold anybody  my
property. Moria."

Slave, she remembered, remembered the whip-scars  on him, and saw his face  grow
hard.

"I was apprenticed on Wizardwall," he said. "And Ischade was fool enough to take
me on. Now  I have what  I need. I  have this house,  I have hands  to do what I
want, and I have one of my enemies. That's a beginning, isn't it?"

He looked  up toward  the head  of the  stairs. Moria  did, unwillingly, and saw
Tasfalen standing there naked to the waist  and with his hair all rumpled as  if
he had just risen from sleep.

But  there was  something wrong  in the   way he  stood there,  in the  lack  of
reaction, in the way the hand reached out listlessly for the bannister, all  the
reactions of life but no reaction to what ought to stir a man. As if he did  not
know that there was anything amiss with him or in what his eyes must register in
the hall below him.

"The  body's  working," Haught  said.  "The mind's  rather  spotty, I'm  afraid.
Memory's not what it was. The  soul might retain the missing bits-decay  sets in
very soon, you know; some tiny bits  of him have just rotted, already. So  a lot
it had is gone.  But it doesn't need  a soul, does it?  It doesn't need one  for
what I want."

"You  said you'd  help me,"  Stilcho said  from where  he knelt  by the  wounded
Stepson.

"Oh. That. Yes. Eventually."  As the body that  had been Tasfalen came  down the
stairs in total disinterest.  And stopped and stood  at the bottom. "It  doesn't
have much volition. But it doesn't need that either. Does it?"

Niko's body went into still  another spasm. Jihan had  gotten his jaws open  and
Tempus had forced a  small wooden rod there-gods  knew where Randal had  come up
with it, out of what debris of  the office. It kept Niko from biting  his tongue
through. And Randal had pulled another thing out of that otherwhere of a  mage's
storage-had gotten bits and  pieces of that armor  he had worn and  tried to fit
the breastplate to a body that kept trying to break its own spine.

Niko screamed when that touched him. He screamed and flung himself into a  spasm
that Molin would not have thought was left in that wracked body; his own muscles
ached with pity and  his hands sweated. "It's  killing him," Tempus yelled,  and
shoved Randal and  the collection of  metal aside. "Dammit,  let him be;  Jihan,
hold onto him, hold onto him-"

Tempus hugged him hard against him and  shut his eyes and tried. Molin saw  what
he was trying, sensed  the effort to break  through the barrier that  existed in
Niko now. He threw his own strength into it, and felt Randal add his.

Trees groaned in the wind, crashed and fell, and the ground quaked. Ischade  put
out all her  effort to stay  others, her arms  about the sleeper,  Janni's white
shape holding  him from  the other  side. The  wind grew  colder, and  the thing
battering at the gate grew more powerful.

Even Roxane was afraid  now. Ischade knew it.  "Get out of him!"  Ischade yelled
into the wind. "Witch, you've lost, get out of him, leave this place!"

I'll  know when  to go,  the voice  came back.  Give me  Niko. "Fool,"   Ischade
murmured, holding tight.  "Fool, fool-You won't  get him, Roxane,  I'll send his
soul to hell before you get your hands on it, hear me?"

And then a gate would exist indeed, snake swallowing its tail, a gaping hole  in
the world's substance which would pull them all in. She said it and knew it  was
not bluff, that she was not going to let go; she did not know how to let go,  in
the way that Roxane did not know how; and at the end that was what would happen,
the thing would find its way up out of the pit that had opened in this place and
take  the sleeper,  and when  it did,  when it  did, that  snake-swallowing-tail
effect would envelop them all. Her doing, and Roxane's.

Storm broke overhead.

Something else had  manifested. Lightnings crashed.  The ground shook;  and of a
sudden  a  bolt  crashed down  nearby,  where  the gate  was.  All  of existence
shuddered.

And there was sudden nothingness in her arms and in Janni's. The sleeper  melted
from them. The sky dissolved in rack and lightnings.

And a dark shape flew  from the direction of the  meadow to mingle with it,  one
fused  whirling  mass of  lightnings,  of gray  cloud,  and of  night  that shot
destruction everywhere....

Niko's  unbandaged eye  opened. He  flung himself  in a  spasm against   Jihan's
strength and Tempus's inert  weight and Molin flinched  at the scream that  came
past the gag. Let him die, he prayed, was praying, when Randal scrambled out  of
his  disarray with  the armor  and reached  after something  else. The  painting
manifested in his grip.

"Get a light," Randal  yelled at him. In  one dullwitted moment Molin  knew what
Randal was after, recoiled from the thought of the deed and wondered in the same
numb-minded flicker why a  candle, why not call  fire: but a candle  was apt for
fire, the canvas was magical and unapt, it resisted destruction. "Light!"  Molin
bellowed at the priest who hovered  terrified in custody of Ischade's body.  The
priest cast about this way and that, and in that selfsame moment Randal snatched
up a handful  of papers and  blasted them into  flame. The fire  whumphed up and
took the corner  of the canvas  on which Tempus  and Niko and  Roxane existed in
triad, and Molin clenched his hands on the back of the chair in front of him and
flinched as the smoke poured up from  it, as Randal held onto burning paper  and
burning canvas, his face twisted in the pain of the burning that went up and up,
the fire  licking out  at sleeves,  at robe,  at hair,  at anything it could get
while Randal  turned and  twisted in  what looked  like some  grotesque dancer's
contortions, keeping it away from himself  and what else it reached for.  Silver
smoke poured up, mingled unnaturally with black. There was a stench of  sulphur,
and a shadow  poured out of  that smoke, a  presence of intolerable  menace. The
priest screamed and covered his head. Then that darkness went- somewhere.

At the same moment Niko's body went limp as the dead and a slow trickle of blood
flowed down from his nose and around the comer of his mouth where the stick  was
set between his jaws. Jihan looked  puzzled and Randal stood there breathing  in
great gasps with the  sweat standing on his  white face and his  hands all black
and red, his lips drawn back in a grimace of pain and doubt.

Cloth whispered. Molin glanced  aside in his distress  and saw Ischade move  and
rise on one elbow and the opposing hand. Her dark hair hid her face. She  looked
up then, toward Niko, and that face was drawn and grim.

Tempus stirred and shoved himself up off the floor. His jaw clenched and knotted
as he  looked into  Niko's face;  while Jihan  carefully pulled  the stick  from
between Niko's jaws  and closed his  mouth, down which  a ribbon of  blood still
poured.

"He's alive," Ischade said. Her voice was ragged and hoarse. "He's free of her."

"But not of it," Tempus snarled, "dammit, not of it-"

"Let it alone!" Ischade shouted. Her  voice broke. She reached out a  forbidding
hand and straightened the other  arm, supporting herself. "It's not  loose. Yet.
Don't meddle with it. It's not something you can handle. Or that I can. I  don't
make that kind of bargain."

"Do it!"

"No!" She got herself up on her knees and staggered to her feet. "He's got Janni
still. And Janni on that ground is power enough to keep him till he wakes. She's
still loose, do  you hear me?  Roxane's still free,  and she's pacted  with that
thing. She's somewhere, and your meddling in that Place can only make it  worse:
she's still got ties there. She doesn't want that gate open any more than we do:
not unless she can get it what she promised. Then she'll open it. She's lost her
power, she's lost her hiding-place, we're  that much better off, but not  if you
go head-on against her ally-"

"That's not the worst of it," Randal said. "Your apprentice just stole the globe
in all the confusion. I heard him coming  and I couldn't get here in time. I  do
trust it wasn't your idea." Ischade  opened her mouth to say something.  The air
shuddered and Niko choked  and moaned. Then she  shut it and her  jaw went hard,
her fists clenched. "It  wasn't," she said. And  did not speak any  curse, which
restraint sent a chill down Molin's back and reminded him what she was.  "Well,"
she said, "now we know where Roxane's gone, don't we?"

"Don't hurt him," Moria said, "Haught, don't."

"Another of  your lovers?"  Haught asked,  and prodded  Straton's side  with his
booted toe.

"No. For Shalpa's sake-"

"Your old patron." Haught shifted the globe he held to the crook of his arm  and
touched her under the chin. "Really, Moria,  I make you a lady and look  at you,
you smell like a whore  and you swear like a  gutter-rat. Carry a knife in  your
garter, do you? No? Your brother stole it. What a life you lead."

"Stay out of my mind, dammit!"

"You're going to have  to leam to control  yourself, you know. Stilcho  does. He
thinks about things when I ask him questions. He thinks about things other  than
what I'm asking, he's gotten very good at it. Sometimes he remembers being dead.
That's his greatest weapon. Sometimes I see other things in his head, like  what
it feels like to have people flinch away from you- bothers you terribly, doesn't
it, Stilcho? You ran right out there to collect this bit of dogmeat just because
Moria was going to do it, just because death doesn't mean a damn to you and  you
wanted to do something she wanted, you wanted her to look at you and not flinch,
you want her, don't you, you sorry excuse for a living man?"

"Stop it," Moria cried.

"I just want the ones I love to know themselves the way I know them. Isn't  that
fair? I think we ought  all to know where we  stand. You want to go  to bed with
him? He's dying to."

"That's very funny," Stilcho said. "Excuse him, Moria, he's not himself."

She clenched her hands together to  stop their shaking and clenched her  jaw and
stared up the bit she had to go  to stare Haught in the eyes. "Well, dead,  he's
still got a heart in him. Where's yours? They beat it out of you?"

It scored. It scored all  too well. For a moment  she thought she would die  for
that, and  she ought  to be  scared; but  she was  what he  had said,  she was a
gutter-rat, and a rat was a coward until it got cornered, its back to two walls.
Then it would fight anything. And these were her walls. This was her house.  "My
house, damn you, and mind your manners, I don't care what you've brought in with
that damn jug. Get this man off my  floor, put him to bed where he belongs,  get
this other poor thing set down  somewhere where he won't scare my  servants, and
let me go up and take a bath, I've had enough of this goings-on."

"There's a love." Haught  chucked her under the  chin. She hit at  his hand. "Go
clean up. I'll take care of the rest."

She  tightened her  lips as  if she   would spit  at him.  It occurred  to  her.
Childhood  reflex.  Then  her eyes  fixed  on  a move  behind  his  shoulder. On
Tasfalen, who had stood listless till  then; now Tasfalen's head lifted and  the
eyes  focused sharp;  the chest  gave with  a wider  breath and  the whole  body
straightened. Damned trick of his, she thought, to scare me with it.

"Not a  trick," Haught  said, turning  even while  that cold  touch ran over her
mind. "We have a visitor. Hello, Roxane."

IV

Crit slid down from the saddle breathless and sweating, was on the marble  steps
at the second stride, and took them  two at a time. "Watch my horse,"  he yelled
at men whose proper job at the doors was not hostelry, but one of them ran to do
that, and Crit kept going, inside the building in long strides-he wanted to run.
Being what he was, where he was, he refused to show that much of his anguish  to
the locals.

He grabbed a middle-aged man by the  arm, a Beysib who turned and stared  at him
in that way a Beysib had to, with eyes  that had no white and no way to turn  in
their sockets. "Tempus," Crit spat. "Where?"  His haste was such that he  had no
time to waste hunting; no time even to hunt an honest Rankan: he took the  first
thing he could get.

"Torchholder's office," the Beysib lisped, and Crit let him go and strode on.

Broke finally into a jog, his  steel-studded boots ringing down the marble  hall
and echoing  off the  central vault.  He saw  the room,  saw white-robed priests
hanging about outside its open door, and came up on them in his haste.

"Wait," one said, but he shoved through  and into the stench of burning and  the
tumble of chaos in the room.

Tempus was there. Ischade. Molin. And a couple of priests. Molin and the priests
he ignored;  he ignored  the stink  of fire,  the ashes,  the strewn  papers and
tumbled books.

"They shot  Strat," he  said. "Riddler,  your damned  daughter's friends've shot
Strat, they got him in Peres, someone in Peres pulled him in and we're trying to
pick the snipers off the street so  we can get in there. They've got  it ringed,
only thing they can't hit  is that damned horse, they  got Dolon in the arm  and
Ephis got two in the leg-"

"Damn, who?" Tempus grabbed him by the arm. "What in hell's happened?"

"The Front, the damned  piffles! They made one  try on him, this  time they shot
him. News  is all  over town,  we got  barricades going  back up,  we got  every
precinct flaring up,  we haven't got  the men to  cover the whole  damn city and
fight a sniper  action: they got  that whole damn  street and I  had to come way
wide and around to get in here."

"My house," Ischade said. "Strat's there?"

"The Peres house. They got him in. We don't know whether he's alive or not-"

"Gods blast it!" Tempus shouted. "What's your intelligence doing?"

Crit sucked in  his breath. Walking  rings around your  daughter, was the  thing
that leaped up behind his teeth, but he stopped it before it got out. "We fouled
up," he said. That was all there was to say.

"Tempus." Molin thrust out a hand to  stop him on his way out. "Niko.  Niko's at
risk, you understand me."

"Haught's there," Ischade said. "So's Roxane by now. Right in the middle of  it.
And Roxane's got her ally  poised here. In Niko. You  need me for either and  we
could lose it in either place. You choose. You're the strategists."

The  witch stirred  a step,  looked down  at her/his  own body,  and up   again.
Tasfalen's  eyes  burned   with  a  preternatural   clarity.  "Give  me   that,"
Tasfalen/Roxane said, taking  a second step  toward Haught; and  Haught clutched
the pottery globe the tighter and backed that step away while Moria shrank  back
against the outside of the bannister.

"Oh, no,"  said Haught.  "Not so  readily as  that-compatriot. You  may even  be
outranked. Do you want to try me? Or  do you want to take the gift I've  already
given you and be reasonable?"

The witch laid a hand on her own naked chest, ran it down to the belly. "Is this
your sense of humor, man? I assure you I'm not amused."

"I worked with what I  had at hand. If you've  seen the staff in this  house you
know I did quite  well. This one-" Haught  grasped Moria by the  arm and dragged
her behind him. "-is mine. The body is Tasfalen Lancothis. He's quite rich.  And
with your tastes I'm sure you'll find amusement one way or the other."

Tasfalen's eyes looked up from under the brows and all hell looked out.

"We'll do better," Haught  said, "if we both  live that long." He  nodded toward
the street.  "There's considerable  disturbance out  there. They're  back at  it
again. I found you, I offer you a body. I have the globe. For two wizards,  this
is an opportune place and an opportune  time: Ranke is dying in the streets  out
there by what I  gather. And here-" he  moved his foot aside,  against Straton's
leg. "Here's Tempus's  own lieutenant. His  chief interrogator. His  gatherer of
secrets. I think we have something to discuss with him, you and I. Don't we?"

Tasfalen's nostrils flared. The face  seemed hollowed. "I want a  drink," Roxane
said. "I'm parched."

"Moria," Haught said.

"I'm not your damned servant!"

"I'll get it," Stilcho said, and got up from beside the unconscious Stepson  and
went for the drawing room.

"Moria," Haught said. "Don't  be a total fool."  His hand caressed her  shoulder
but he never looked her way. "Lover's quarrel," he said to Roxane.

"Who are you?" Roxane asked, and  Haught stiffened; his hand stopped its  motion
and Tasfalen's face went hard and careful.

"Answer enough?" Haught asked. "You knew my father. We're almost cousins."

Roxane/Tasfalen said nothing to that. But the expression became thoughtful,  and
then something else again, that sent a shiver up Moria's Ilsigi spine. The  face
of the man she had lately made love with began to take on different lines, flush
with lifelike color, and settle into expressions alien to its personality.

Stilcho brought the drink in a glass, from the carafe and service on the drawing
room sideboard. Tasfalen  reached for it;  Roxane took it  and lifted it  with a
lingering suspicion in the look she turned toward Haught. Then she sipped at  it
carefully, and let go a small sigh.

"Better," she said. "Better." And finished the glass and gave it to Stilcho. She
put out her male hand in the next instant and stayed him in his departure,  then
turned the hand  as if it  had suddenly interested  her as much  as Stilcho. The
fingers ran up the fabric of Stilcho's  sleeve. And he stared back with a  hard,
revolted stare. Of a sudden Tasfalen's  face broke into Tas-falen's grin, and  a
small short laugh came out. "Well." Then the hand dropped and the face turned to
them again with the eyes aglitter. "You hold onto that globe so  tightly-cousin.
You're young, you're handling something you're only half able to use, and you're
vulnerable, my young  friend. This house  is Ischade's property.  Anything she's
ever  handled  is a  focus  she can  use;  and this  is  a place  she  owns, you
understand me. I felt your wards when I came through them, a nice little bit  of
work for what they are, but that streetwalking whore isn't what she was, either.
Now do we put something around this house she'll have trouble breaking, or do we
just stand  here playing  power games?  Because she's  on her  way here, you can
believe me that she is."

Haught  tucked the  pottery globe  the more  tightly in  his arms,  then  slowly
reached out and  set it in  the air between  them. It spun  and glowed and Moria
flinched away, her arm  flung up between herself  and that thing. It  hummed and
throbbed and hung there defying reason; it beat like a heart as it spun, and her
own hurt in her chest; her tangled hair lifted on its own with a prickling eerie
life, her silken, muddy-hemmed petticoats crackled and stood away from her  body
with  a life  of their  own. All  their hair  stood up  like that,   Tasfalen's,
Stilcho's, Haught's,  as blue  sparks leapt  from Tasfalen's  outstretched hand,
from  Haught's  fingertips,  flying against  the  globe  and spattering  outward
against the walls, lining the crack of the door, whirling up the stairs and into
the drawing room and everywhere. From  somewhere in the cellars and the  rear of
the house there was a general outcry of panic; it had gotten to the servants.

The sound became pain. It throbbed in time to the pulse. It screamed with a high
thin shriek  like wind  and became  her own  scream. "No,"  she cried,  "make it
stop-"

Strat moved. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, torn muscles and swollen
flesh tensing round the shaft in  his chest; something else tore, and  the swirl
of  light spotted with black and went all  to gray, but he knew where his  enemy
stood and he had coordination enough to  brace his good hand against the  floor,
draw up the opposite  leg while the pain   turned every move weak  and fluttery,
muscles shaking and weak: one good push, his  foot behind the damned Nisi's leg-

He shoved, with all  that was in him.  Haught screamed; he thought  that was the
scream he heard, or it was his own.

Tasfalen's hands  clutched the  globe. Tasfalen's  face grinned  a wolf's   grin
"There, wizardling."

Moria made herself  as small as  she could against  the side of  the stairs: she
shut both eyes, expecting a burst of fire, and opened one, between her  fingers.
Haught and the witch stood facing each  other, Stilcho was down on his knees  by
the writhing Stepson, but no fire flew.

"You've a bit to leam," Tasfalen said. "Most of all, a sense of perspective. But
I'm willing to take an apprentice."

From Haught, a long silence: then, quietly: "Is it mistress or master?"

Tasfalen's right eyebrow jerked in wrath. Then a grin spread over his face. "Oh,
I  like you  well, upstart.  I do  like you."  The pottery  globe vanished  from
his/her hands. "First lesson: don't leave a thing like that in reach."

"Where is it?" There  was the ghost of  panic in Haught's voice,  and Tasfalen's
grin widened. Male hand touched male chest.

"Here," Tasfalen said. "Or as close as hardly matters. I learned that trick of a
Bandaran." He-Moria shuddered: it was impossible to look at that virile body and
think she- walked closer  and stood looking down  at the Stepson, who  lay white
and still by Stilcho's knee. "Ischade's  lover. Oh, you are a find,  aren't you?
And you're not going to die on us, oh, no, not a chance of that-"

                                   *   *   *

"... A  chance of  that," a  strange voice  said; and  another, hated:  "I've no
intentions of it. Not with what he knows."

"He has uses other than  that. Her lover, after all.  It has to play havoc  with
her concentration. Even if personal pride is all that bothers her."

"Oh, it's more than that." A grip  closed on Strat's wrist, lifted that, let  go
and lifted the other, the wounded hand,  with a pain that drove Strat far  under
for a moment; he came back with  the feeling of someone's hands on him,  roughly
probing among his clothing. "Ah. Here it is."

"Hers?"

"I gave it to him. It should have come to you. In your other life."

He thought what it was then. He would  have kept the ring. He was sorry to  lose
it.  He  had been  a  fool. He  was  sorry for  that  too. Play  havoc  with her
concentration.

With what he knows.

He understood that well too. He had asked the questions for years. His turn now.
He thought of a dozen  of his own cases and  had no illusions about himself.  He
tried to die. He thought of it as  hard as he could. Probably his own cases  had
thought the identical thought at some stage.

"He wants to  leave us," the  one voice said.  A feathery touch  came at Strat's
throat, over the great artery. "That won't do." A warmth spread out from it, his
heart sped, a hateful, momentary surge of strength, like a tide carrying him  up
out of the dark. "Wake up, come  on. We're not even started yet. Open  the eyes.
Or just think about  what I'd like to  know about your friends.  Where they are,
what they'll do-it's awfully hard, isn't it, not to think about a thing?"

Crit. 0 gods. Crit. Was it you after all?

"We can take him  into the kitchen," one  suggested. "Plenty of room  to work in
there."

"No," a woman cried.

"Let's not  be difficult,  shall we?  There's a  love. Go  wash. You'd rather be
taking a bath than stay for this, wouldn't you? You do look a mess, Moria."

THE SMALL POWERS THAT ENDURE

Lynn Abbey

Battlefield chaos  reigned in  what had  once been  Molin Torchholder's  private
retreat from disorder. Niko lay on the worktable while Jihan brought her healing
energies  to  bear  on one  tortured  joint  after another.  Now  and  again the
mercenary's eyes would bulge open and the sounds of hell would explode from  his
mouth. The others would  cease their arguings until  the Froth Daughter had  him
quiet; then the frantic bickering would begin again.

Crit's simple statement, "We fouled up," applied to everyone in the room-none of
whom were accustomed to failure on such a grand scale. Niko's physical pain  was
the least of their  worries. The demon erupting  in his moat- molded  rest-place
had the power to reshape  all creation-if Roxane didn't do  something preemptive
with the Globe of Power or the mortal anarchy of the PFLS-inspired riots  didn't
overwhelm them all first.

None of then noticed a new shadow at the threshold.

"Divine Mother! This is intolerable!"

Shupansea, exiled Beysib Empress and, by  virtue of foreign gold and the  strong
arms of  clan Burek,  de facto  ruler of  Sanctuary, stopped  short in  the open
doorway. She stared-  knowing that it  discomfitted these drylanders,  but there
was no other way. Her mind,  moving behind glazed, amber eyes, scanned  from one
shadowed  comer  of the  room  to the  other,  from the  floor  to the  ceiling,
absorbing every detail without the distraction of movement.

They had been arguing, singly and severally, but the sight of her united them in
silence. She knew them all,  except for the dark-clad, disheveled  woman sitting
on a low stool with a half-full goblet leaning out of her hands. Their  combined
presence in such a small, private room could only mean disaster.

Shupansea  was  caught in  an  undertow of  emotion  as the  images  of violence
patterned themselves against  her memories of  the Beysa's court  those last few
days before her supporters in clan Burek had effected her rescue, and exile. Not
even the silken touch of her  familiar serpent moving between her breasts  could
break her horror-struck fascination with Niko's broken, blood-streaked body. The
tears and shrieks  of terror she  had resolutely concealed  from her own  people
could not be withheld from this insignificant drylander.

Divine Mother, she repeated, this time a prayer as the silent undertow swept her
back toward incapacitating fear. Help me!

The downward surge was  broken by the soft  strength of Mother Bey  cradling her
mortal  daughter. Shupansea  felt her  pulse quicken  as the  goddess'  vitality
flowed within her own envenomed  blood. She ascended through the  Aspects: Girl,
Maiden, Mother and  Crone, to Sisterhood,  then broke through  to Self-ness. She
blinked and stared across the room again.

"He yet lives," the  Presence said to her,  and through her to  the still-silent
assembly. "The mortal soul survives."

Shupansea took long, gliding steps toward Niko. Tempus moved away from his  self
assigned post at Niko's side in  a slow, graceful fury, determined to  stop her.
She  paused  and stared-seeing  him  clearly for  the  first time:  this  nearly
supernatural man now spiritually naked and silently invoking the names of  puny,
man-shaped  gods. She  lifted a  finger of  Power but  was spared  its use  when
Another reached out to restrain him.

"That's the snake-bitch goddess within her," Jinan hissed, getting a handful  of
Tempus's biceps and squeezing it hard.

The Beysa reached out to catch a drop  of Niko's blood in the curve of her  long
fingernail, then brought  it to her  lips. Blood was  sacred to Mother  Bey. She
savored the taste of it and absorbed all it told about Niko, his rest-place, and
the  uneasy  truce which  held  there. Visions  of  the handiwork  of  moat, the
Bandaran   imitation  of   divine  paradise,   came  as   an   unwelcome-indeed,
unimaginable-surprise.

You should be ashamed of yourselves, she, who tolerated no other deities in that
portion of paradise she  called her own, roared  at the pantheons and  protogods
who shared a suddenly imperfect omniscience with her. THAT. An ephemeral  finger
pointed toward the blazing column that  was Janni and the ominous bulge  beneath
it. That is  what comes of  giving mortals their  own dreams. That  is what they
have built with free will: a gateway for demons-for the destruction of us all!

Mother Bey reserved special ire  for her erstwhile lover, Stormbringer,  but her
mortal  avatar  was spared  that  confrontation. The  goddess  withdrew, leaving
Shupansea somewhat flushed and tingling with righteous indignation.

"How could you allow this to happen?" she demanded of Molin.

Molin straightened his robe and his dignity. "You knew all that we knew.  Roxane
took control of Niko's body; another magician has stolen the Globe of Power. The
rest, the consequences, we are only just beginning to understand."

"I have seen  with my mother's  eye, and the  force within that  young man," she
gestured  toward  Niko with  a  bloodstained finger,  "has  nothing to  do  with
witches! Can't you fools tell the difference between a demon and a witch?"

Tempus freed himself from Jihan's restraint. He towered over Shupansea. "We know
exactly what we're dealing with, bitch," he said in a softly menacing voice.

"Well, what are we  dealing with?" Shupansea replied,  her head tilted back  and
glowering with a stare he could not  hope to break. Her serpent made its  way up
the stiff wires of her headdress. Its tongue flickered; Tempus blinked and Molin
spoke instead.

"Roxane promised the Stormchildren to  the demon. She poisoned the  children but
she couldn't deliver their souls and got herself wounded in the bargain. We knew
she was hiding; some of   us thought  she had  a  hold  on Niko  but we   didn't
guess she'd gotten behind him until  it  was too  late and the  demon'd come  to
collect its  payment from  her. That  was  ASkelon's  message for  Tempus:  that
she'd gotten behind  him somehow."

Ischade shook her  head. "It was  never so simple.  Roxane promised the  demon a
gateway  in  exchange  for  Niko.  The  only  gateway  she  knew  about  was the
Stormchildren. She thought she was  safe from everything where she  was-and that
Niko was safe as well. Now that it's trying to take Niko, as it would have taken
the Stormchildren, she's frantic herself.  She understands less than we  do-but,
with a globe again, she has vastly more power."

"We  understand  the  demon  must be  destroyed  and  the  rest-place with  it,"
Shupansea agreed.

Randal staggered forward, his face swollen and glistening from the fire, bits of
charred canvas and flesh trailing  from his clawed fingers. "Not  destroyed." He
had breathed the flames; his voice rasped and gurgled in his throat. "It will go
someplace  less defended.  We need  the globe.  We can  make it  right with  the
globe." Passion  exhausted  him;  he slumped  forward into  Jihan's outstretched
arms.

"Is this true?" the Beysa demanded.

"It is likely," Jihan admitted,  trying to divide her ministrations  between the
'stricken mage and Niko, who moaned  when her hands weren't resting against  his
flesh. "We can defend  the rest-place, or the  Stormchildren, but if Roxane  has
the globe she'll always be one step ahead."

"Roxane, Niko, or your son, Riddler," Ischade interrupted, focusing her own, and
everyone else's, attention on Tempus. "You must make your choice. No matter what
I do, I will need time. I cannot wait any longer!"

But Tempus only shook his head. He took Niko's hand and the unconscious  Stepson
seemed to breathe easier. "Go where you want," he said slowly.

Ischade set the goblet down and made ready to leave the room.

"Guards!"  Shupansea shouted,  and a  pair of  the shaven-pated  Burek  warriors
appeared  in the  doorway. "Provide  her with  shoes and  clothing. Escort   her
wherever she wishes to go-"

The  necromant stared  across the  room, hell-dark  eyes flashing  rejection  of
Beysib hospitality.

"You ought not squander yourself by leaving the same way you arrived," the Beysa
said gently,  a faint  smile on  her lips;  her eyes  still defended against the
power of that stare.

Ischade  lowered her  eyes and  picked her  way carefully  across the  shattered
glass. The great black raven, which had arrived moments after the first Globe of
Power had been shattered and had held itself aloof from all the commotion since,
spread its  wings and  flapped out  the window  its mistress  had broken  by her
entrance.

"How did Roxane  get in there?"  Tempus asked once  Ischade was gone.  "How? Not
even the gods can violate moat's sanctuary."

"Randal?" Molin asked.

The mage pushed himself away from Jihan's healing hands. He started to speak but
the words were too great an effort. Quivering, he sank back to his knees;  tears
ate their way down  his cheeks. "They had  him for a year,  Riddler," he pleaded
for understanding. "He  hates her. He  remembers and he  hates her but  when she
comes for him.... A year, Riddler. 0  gods, after a year he remembers; he  hates
but he can't-won't-refuse."

Critias pounded the windowframe. "Seh!" he said, watching the smoke rising  from
the city's rooftops.  The Nisi obscenity  was somehow appropriate.  If the gods,
what  remained of  them, had  intended to  cripple what  remained of  order  and
competence in  Sanctuary they  could not  have done  a better  job. He  had even
allowed the  fatal thought-that  the situation  could not  possibly get worse-to
percolate through his consciousness.

"Commander," he said with a heavy sigh. "You'd better take a look at this."

Tempus followed the lines of his lieutenant's outstretched arm. He said nothing,
so the  others-Molin, Jihan,  Shupansea, and  finally Randal-crowded  around the
broken window.

"It's all up now." Torchholder turned away and slouched against the wall.

Jihan closed her eyes, reaching deep into her primal knowledge of all water  and
salt water in particular. "We've got a bit of time. With the tides they won't be
able to enter the harbor until after sundown."

"I don't expect you'd be able to send them back the way they came?" Molin asked.

Shupansea tried looking, staring, and leaning perilously far out the window  and
saw nothing but  the myopic fuzziness  of the wharves  and the ocean  beyond it.
"Send what back?" she inquired with evident irritation.

"The Rankan Empire, my lady," Tempus  explained. "Come to find out what's  going
on in this forsaken backwater."

"How many ships?"

"Lots," the big man said with a feral grin.

The  Beysa stepped  back from  the window,  suddenly remembering  that she   had
dismissed her guard and that none of those between herself and the door could be
considered willing allies to her  cause. "We must make preparations,"  she said,
edging backward toward escape.

"You put the fear of Ranke's strong right arm into her," Crit snorted, once  the
nervous woman had disappeared down the narrow steps. The lone ship fighting  its
way through the tidal currents carried  no more than two hundred men,  including
oarsmen, and was equipped for tribute, not combat.

"I should have killed her," Jihan muttered.

"You would never have left this room alive," Tempus informed her.

"I? I would  never have left  this room? I  could have frozen  that little bitch
before she knew what happened to her."

"And what would your father have said to that?" Tempos retorted.

The Froth Daughter went red-eyed and icy for a moment. She raised a fist  toward
the Stepson's  commander and  shook it  at him.  Her scale  armor creaked as she
stomped back to the table where  Niko was moaning softly. Molin peered  intently
out the window lest  she see his smile;  Crit was fighting laughter  himself and
nearly lost the battle when he glimpsed the priest biting his lower lip.

"I'm  taking  Stealth  back  downstairs,"  Stormbringer's  daughter   announced,
effortlessly holding the grown man in her arms. "Is anyone coming with me?"

She  had strength  and power  it was  dangerous to  mock, however  immature  its
manifestation. Not even Randal, who of  the men was the most clearly  respectful
of gods and magic, dared to answer her.

"What  now?" Randal  asked, easing  himself onto  the stool  Ischade had   used.
Jihan's touch had cleansed and sealed the surfaces of his wounds; he had his own
healing  resources to  call on  but his  continuing tremors  indicated that  the
little mage had not yet paid the full price for the day's exertions.

With the last of the women departed, Tempus felt his confidence returning:  "For
you-rest. If we need  you again we'll need  you healthy. Go stay  with Jihan and
Niko if you can't finish the job  yourself over at the Mageguild. Crit, you  get
someone in that damn house others. And  get Kama-however you have to do it.  The
rest of us will see about restoring  the appearance of order in this damn  place
before that ship docks."

He looked out the window again  as trumpets blared from the gateways;  Shupansea
had evidently reached her advisors.  Squads of Burek fighters, deadly  swordsmen
and  archers  despite their  baggy  silk pantaloons  and  polished scalps,  were
double-timing across  the courtyards.  Either all  Beysib were  nearsighted like
their empress and believed the entire Rankan fleet loomed beyond the horizon, or
they were taking no chances.

When the triple portrait had burned,  the fire had touched Tempus-not as  it had
touched Randal, but purging him of the dark associations between Death's  Queen,
Niko, and  himself. The  shock, and  the pain,  were still  strong-he'd kill the
witch  when  he could  for  the crippling  scars  she'd left  in  Niko- but  the
compulsion he'd felt since the black storms in the capital was fading.

"Damn plague town,"  he said to  himself. "Infecting everything  it touches with
its disease. Let the fish people have it."

Torchholder looked over at him. "You just. might have something there, Riddler."
He liked the  idea coalescing in  his thoughts; unconsciously  he tugged at  his
sleeves as a sense of competence  returned to him. "Now, then-whatever we  might
feel  about the  long-term implications of   Theron's delegation I  think we all
agree that  this is not the time to have  any outsider wandering around. Right?"

The other men nodded reluctant agreement.

"We also  know them  well enough  to know  that once  they suspect  we're hiding
anything  they'll  make  imperial  nuisances  out  of  themselves.  And  they're
suspicious right now just from the smoke."  He didn't wait for them to nod  this
time. "They'll want to be out there unless we give them a bloody good reason for
staying exactly where we put them: plague-quarantined for their own protection."

Critias arched an eyebrow. "Priest, I could find myself liking you."

Ischade made her way  to the White Foal  alone. She'd separated from  her Beysib
escort near the  Peres house when  the anarchists and  so-called revolutionaries
had challenged them. With their twirling swords they'd seemed more than a  match
for the poorly-armed quartet that had come charging out of the alley and she had
been grateful for the opportunity to slide into the shadows unnoticed.

The house had called out to her: her possessions, her lover, her magic, the tiny
ring  now  on Haught's  slender  finger. Not  long  before-before her  explosive
journey to the palace-the call would have been irresistible. She would have  had
the power to sunder any wards Roxane had concocted. And she would have done just
that: gone blundering into another abortive confrontation with the Nisi witch.

If the battle within Niko's rest-place  had done nothing else it had  vented the
excess of  power which  had blighted  her vision  since Tempus  had returned  to
Sanctuary  and  ordered the  destruction  of the  Globes  of Power.  Purged  and
refreshed, she perceived the wards not simply as Haught's betrayal or  Rox-ane's
arrogance but as the finely strung trap that they were.

They think  I am  still blind  to the  finer workings,  she'd said  to the raven
perched on the stone finial beside her. Their first mistake. Let's see if  there
are others.

No  one bothered  her as  she picked  her way  across the  open expanse  of  mud
surrounding the new White Foal bridge.  It was probable that none of  the bravos
running between  Downwind and  the more  profitable riots  uptown could  see her
though even she was uncertain how far her magic, or her curse, extended in  such
directions, now that her power had resumed its normal proportions.

Her house showed signs of her  indisposition. The black roses brawled with  each
other,  sending up  bloomless canes  armed with  wicked thorns  that flaked  the
rusted iron fence where they rubbed against it. And the wards? Ischade shuddered
at  the sight  of the  heavy blotches  of power  smeared stridently  across  her
personal domain. With small movements of her hands, hands now less powerful  but
once again skilled and certain, she constrained the roses and reshaped the wards
into a more acceptable pattern.

The gate swung open to greet her; the raven preceded her to the porch.

Once  across the  threshold, Ischade  kicked the  heavy-soled boots  the  Beysib
soldier had given her  into a comer where,  in time, her magic  would twist them
into something  delicate and  brightly colored.  She retrieved  her candles, lit
them, and settled into  the small mountain of  shimmering silk that was,  in the
final sense, her home.

Inhaling the familiarity-the lightness-of it, she gathered the tangled skein  of
imaginary silk which bound the Peres  house to her and studied her  options. She
touched each  strand gently,  so gently  that no  one in  the uptown house would
suspect her interest as she  reacquainted herself with what rightly  belonged to
her. Then she drew the  thread that bound her to  Straton as surely as it  bound
him to her.

Straton!

Ischade lived at the fringes of time, as she lived at the fringes of the greater
magics practiced by the likes of Roxane  or even Randal. She was older than  she
looked; probably older than  she remembered. Straton was  not the first who  cut
through her defenses-even  her curse-to hurt  her, but anguish  had no sense  of
proportion:  it was  now. The  Peres house,  Moria, Stil-cho,  even Haught;  she
wanted those back through pride but  the sandy-haired man who hated magic  had a
different claim. Not love.

Partnership,  perhaps-someone  who, because  he  had shattered  the  walls which
surrounded her,  lessened the  loneliness of  existence at  the fringes. Someone
whose demands and responses were simple and who, like all the others, eventually
broke the rules  which were not.  She'd sent Straton  away for his  own good and
he'd come back, like all the  others, with his simple, impossible demands.  But,
unlike  the others,  he hadn't  died and  that, the  necromant realized  with  a
shiver, might be- for want of a better word-love.

He would not die, or be stripped of his dignity, in the Peres house, if she  had
to destroy the world to stop it.

Walegrin paced  the length  of the  dark, malodorous  cellar. Life, specifically
combat, had been much easier when he  had been responsible for no more than  the
handful of men he personally led. Now he was a commander, forced to stay  behind
the lines of imminent danger coordinating the activities of the entire garrison.
They said he did the job well but  all he felt was a vicious burning in  his gut
as bad as any arrow.

"Any sign?" he shouted through the slit window to the street.

"More smoke," the lookout shouted back so Walegrin missed Thrusher's hawk-call.

The wiry  little man  swung himself  feet first  through another window, landing
lightly but not before Walegrin had his knife drawn. Thrush took the arrows  out
of his mouth and laughed.

'Too slow, chief. Way too slow."

"Damn, Thrush-what's going on out there?"

"Nothing good. See  this?" He handed  the blond man  one of his  arrows. "That's
what the piffle-shit  are using. Blue  fletch-ings-like the one  that took Strat
down up near the wall."

"So it wasn't Jubal starting all this?"

"Hell no-but  they're in  it now:  them, piffles,  fish. Stepsons-anyone with an
edge or  a stick.  They're giving  no quarter.  It's startin'  to bum out there,
chief."

"Are we holding?"

"Holding what-" Thrusher began,  only to be interrupted  by the lookout and  the
arrival of  a messenger  with a  scroll from  the palace.  "There's no territory
bigger than the ground under your feet."

Walegrin  read Molin's  message, crumpled  the paper,  and stomped  it into  the
offal. "Shit-on-a-stick," he  grumbled. "It's gonna  get worse-a lot  worse. The
palace  wants plague  sign posted  on Wideway  and the  Processional; seems  our
visitors have arrived."

"Plague sign?" Thrusher  whistled and broke  his remaining arrow.  "Why not just
bum the whole place to the ground? Shit-where're we supposed to get paint?"

"Use charcoal, or blood. Hell, don't worry about it; I'll take care of it. I got
to get out of here anyway. You find me Kama."

The little man's  face blanched beneath  his black beard.  "Kama-she started the
whole thing...  taking Strat  down with  Jubal's arrow!  There isn't  a blade or
arrow out there not marked for her back!"

"Yeah-well, I don't believe she did it, so you get her back to the barracks  for
safe-keeping. You and Cythen."

"Your orders, chief? She's probably meat by now anyway."

"She'll be alive-hiding somewhere near where we caught her that night."

"An' if she's not?"

"Then I'm wrong and she did start it. My orders, Thrush: Find her before someone
else does."

Walegrin endured Thrush's disappointed sigh  and watched as the little  man left
the same way he'd come; then he went up to the street.

Plague sign: the palace wanted plague sign to keep the visitors on the  straight
and narrow. It might work. It might keep the Imperials tight on their ship, away
from the madness that  was Sanctuary. But it  would sure as hell  bring panic to
what was left of  the law-abiding community and,  the way things were  going, it
would probably bring plague as well.

He wrenched a burning brand out of a neighboring building and, after sending the
lookout down to the cellar, headed off to the wharves. It wasn't two hours since
the afternoon  sky had  been split  by a  dark apparition  streaking between the
Peres house and  the palace. Damn  witches. Damn magic.  Damn every last  one of
them who made honest men die while they played games with gods.

                                   *   *   *

Understanding came slowly to Stilcho, which was not at all surprising. There was
no  peace in  Ischade's one-time  house for  understanding and  a man,  once  he
understood himself to be dead, did  not reconsider <he issue. Indeed, his  first
reaction on seeing  Straton there with  an arrow by  his heart was  considerably
less  than  charitable.  This  bleeding  hulk  who  had  supplanted  him  in Her
affections;  this  murder-dealing Stepson  who  had massacred  his  comrades was
getting naught but what he deserved.

His opinion hardened  further when the  globe was spinning  madness into all  of
them  and the  injured Stepson  had summoned  the strength  to reach  into  that
dazzling blue array of magic to disrupt  it. At first, all Stilcho had seen  was
the  globe passing  from Haught  to Roxane:  from bad  to worse;  he had  cursed
Straton with all the latent power his hell-seeing eye possessed. He had not been
gentle getting  his hands  under Strat's  shoulders and  dragging him  along the
hallway while Roxane gloated and Haught wore a superficial obsequiousness.

Then he saw the little things they did  not: the subtle wrong-ness in the  globe
wrought wards, the holes through which She  might be yet able to reach. He  felt
the pulse of  fear and anticipation  pounding at his  temples, making his  hands
sweat-and  that  he  had  never expected  to  feel  again;  he even  remembered,
distantly, what it meant.

Haught had said She had cut him loose-had proved it- but now Haught had  nothing
except  what Roxane  had allowed  and Death's  Queen would  surely have  claimed
him... if he'd been dead.

"I'm alive?"

He  paused  for a  heartbeat's  time and  went  immediately back  to  moving the
Stepson, as they had ordered. What man could bear to lose such a precious  gift?
But he tugged more  gently now; Strat, whatever  he had meant with  his gesture,
had given him life. He pushed the kitchen door shut with his foot and wiped  the
spittle from the fallen man's chin.

"Kill me," Strat begged when Stilcho bent over him.

Their eyes  locked. Stilcho  felt himself  assaulted and  dragged to  a level of
consciousness he had never, living or dead, imagined.

Strat was going to be tortured; was going to be systematically stripped of every
image his  memory held.  Death would  spare him  nothing but  the pain  and, for
Strat,  the pain  would not  be the  true torture.  Stilcho remembered  his  own
torture at Moruth's hands. He shrank with the knowledge that no little  heroics,
like a slash to the  carotid, would spare this man.  He had never, at his  best,
risen above little heroics but he would now, for Straton. The determination came
instantaneously and  suffused the  resurrected man  with a  glow that would have
chilled the Nisi witches beyond the door-had they seen it.

"It won't work. Ace," he informed the Stepson as he contrived to make him a  bit
more comfortable on the floor. "Think of something else. Think of lies until you
believe them. Haught can't  see the truth; he  can only see what  you believe is
the truth." He ripped a comer  from Strat's blood-soaked tunic and tucked  it up
his sleeve. "Don't fight them; just lie."

Strat blinked and groaned. Stilcho hoped he'd understood. There wasn't time  for
more. The door was opening. He prayed he wouldn't have to watch.

"I said the table," Haught said in his soft, malice-laden voice.

Stilcho shrugged  and thought,  carefully, about  being dead.  But Haught had no
energy for the likes of him, not with Roxane-Stilcho's empty eye saw Roxane, not
Tasfalen-hovering behind him and Strat helpless at his feet.

"Find me  Tempus's secrets,"  a man's  voice with  strange, menacing inflections
commanded. "If they hide the son from me, I'll have the father."

The witch produced the globe from  wherever she had hidden it. Stilcho  clutched
his sleeve where the  bloody cloth was hidden  and backed toward the  door. They
didn't notice him  leaving-or perhaps they  did. They were  laughing, a laughter
that rose in pitch until it blended with the maniacal whine of the globe itself.
But  they didn't  call him  back as  he edged  around the  newel-post and  slunk
upstairs.

It was not difficult to find Moria.  She had only gotten to her bedroom  doorway
before succumbing  to the  horror around  her. Stilcho  found her  with her arms
wrapped around her ankles and her Rankan-gold hair spilling past her knees  onto
the floor.

"Moria!"

She lifted her head to look at him-blankly at first, then wide-eyed. Her  breath
sucked in and held, ready to scream if he came any closer.

"Moria, snap out of it," he demanded in an urgent whisper.

Her scream was  nothing more than  a series of  mewling squeaks as  she scuttled
away from him. She  froze, except for her  eyes, when her spine  butted into the
wainscoting. Stilcho, no stranger to utter terror himself, felt pity for her but
had no time to give in to  it. Grabbing her wrist he hauled her,  one-handed, to
her feet and slapped  her hard when the  mewling threatened to become  something
louder.

"For godssakes get control of yourself-if you want to live through this at all."
He shook her hard and she went silent, but alert, in his arms. "Where's a window
that overlooks the  street?" He had  never willingly come  to the uptown  house,
never wanted to remember the times that he had.

Moria pulled back from him. Her bodice, much torn and retied, fell down from her
shoulders. She  did not  seem to  notice but  Stilcho, with  death still  in his
nostrils and hell itself downstairs in  the kitchen, knew beyond all doubt  that
he was as alive as he had ever been.

"Moria, help me."  He took her  arm again. Haught  hadn't slighted her  with his
magic: tear-streaked and disheveled she  retained her beauty. 0 gods,  he wanted
to go on living.

"You're ... you're-" She put a hand out to touch the good side of his face.

"A window," he repeated even after she  fell against him, burying her face in  a
shirt that had seen better days. "Moria, a window-if we're going to help him and
save ourselves."

She pointed at the window beyond her bed and sank back to the floor when he left
her to fight, oh so silently, with its casement.

Stilcho panicked for a second when  the salt-rusted window swung wide open.  Not
from the noise,  because Strat screamed  then, but from  the wards he  could see
shimmering like  whorehouse silks  flush against  the outer  walls. He forgot to
breathe until his heart pounded and his vision blurred, but it seemed the  wards
were for larger forces and were not affected by the iron-and-glass casement.

The horse was still out there: Strat's bay horse that Ischade had  painstakingly
restored to life. It danced away from the fires burning beyond the wards and the
occasional bravo racing down  the street but it  had no intention of  abandoning
its vigil-not even when Stilcho reached out to it as he had learned to reach for
all of Ischade's creations. Eyes that were red, vengeful, and not at all  equine
regarded him for a moment, then turned away.

Stilcho stepped back from  the window, smiling. He  retained the ability to  see
the workings of  magic but magic  no longer took  notice of him.  It was a  very
small price to pay  for the ordinary sensations  returning to him. Moreover,  it
was one he had anticipated. He grabbed  a handful of rumpled linen from the  bed
and had  begun tearing  it into  strips before  he noticed  Moria huddled on the
floor.

"Get dressed."

She  stood  up,  examining  the  tangled  ribbons  of  her  bodice.  Heaving  an
exasperated sigh, Stilcho  dropped the sheets  and gripped her  wrists. The soft
flesh of her breasts rested against his hands.

"Gods, Moria-your clothes,  Maria's clothes! You  can't get out  of here dressed
like that."

Moria's face  lost its  complete vacantness  as the  idea penetrated through her
terror that Stilcho-living, breathing Stilcho-would somehow get her out of here.
She yanked the ribbons free, tearing the dress and its memories from her, diving
into the ornate  chests where, beneath  the courtesan's trappings  which Ischade
had endowed her with, her stained and tattered street clothes remained.

She made a fair amount of noise in her industry, hurling unwanted lace and satin
to the floor behind  her, but between the  globe's whine and Strat's  screams it
was doubtful  that anyone  in the  kitchen heard  or cared  about the  commotion
upstairs. Stilcho finished ripping the linen.

Blood would draw the  bay horse. Stilcho pulled  the bloody rag from  his sleeve
and tied it to the  linen. He'd used blood to  bring the dead across water  into
the upper  town. Strat's  blood would  bring the  horse into  conflict with  the
wards, chipping away at the flaws in them.

"What are you doing?"  Moria demanded, forcing the  last of the rounded,  Rankan
contours into a now snug Ilsigi tunic.

"Making a blood lure," he replied, lowering the makeshift rope and swinging  the
dull red knot at its end toward the horse.

She bounded across  the room. "No.  No!" she protested,  struggling to take  the
cloth from him. "They'll see; they'll know. We can get out across the roof."

Stilcho held her off with one arm  and went back to swinging the lure.  "Wards,"
he muttered. He had the bay's attention now. Its eyes, in his other vision, were
brighter; its coat rippled with crimson anger.

But wards and warding had no meaning to Moria, though she was one of  Ischade's.
She rammed stiff fingers into his gut  and made a lunge for freedom. It  was all
he could go to grab her around  the waist, keeping her barely inside the  house.
The  linen slipped  from his  hands and  fluttered to  the street  below.  Moria
whimpered; he pressed her face against his chest to muffle the sound. Ward-fire,
invisible to her but excruciating nonetheless, dazzled her hands and forearms.

"We're trapped!" she gasped. "Trapped!"

Hysteria rose in her face again.  He grabbed her wrists, knowing the  pain would
shock her into silence.

"That's Strat down there.  Straton! They'll come for  him. The horse will  bring
them, Moria. Ischade, Tempus: they'll all come for him-and us."

"No, no," she repeated, her eyes white all around. "Not Her. Not Her-"

Stilcho hesitated. He remembered that  fear; that all-consuming fear he  felt of
Ischade, of Haught, of everything that had had power over him-but he'd forgotten
it as well. Death had burned the  fear out of him. He felt danger,  desperation,
and the  latent death  that pervaded  this house  and this  afternoon-but  bowel
numbing fear no longer had a claim on him.

"I'm going to save Strat-hide him until they come for him. I'm going to save me,
too.  I'm  lucky  today,  Moria:  I'm alive  and  I'm  lucky.  Even  without the
horse...."

But he wasn't  without the bay  horse. The bloody  rag had landed  on the carved
stone steps that  had been, many  years ago, the  Peres family's pride.  The bay
pounded on the steps, surrounded but unaffected by ward-fire. It scented Strat's
blood soaking into the wood planks  of the lower hallway and heard  his anguish.
Trumpeting a loyalty that transcended life and death, it reared, flailing at the
ephemeral flames which engulfed it. Stilcho  watched as the mortal image of  the
horse vanished and the other one became a black void.

"Moria, the back stairs,  the servant's stairs to  the kitchen, where are  they?
It's only a matter of time."

Candlelight flickered over Ischade's dark-clad body. She had collapsed backwards
into her silken lair. Her hair made tangled webs around her face and  shoulders.
One arm arced around her head, the other fell limply across her waist; both were
marked with dark gashes where the priest's glass had cut her. Ischade had  death
magic, not healing.

She was, if not oblivious to her exhausted body, unmindful of it. If her efforts
were successful there would be time enough for rest and recovery. She  continued
manipulating the bonds which made all she had ever owned a focus for her  power.
She set resonances at each flawed boundary, reinforced them as motes of  warding
eroded away and tried not to feel the tremors that were Straton.

It was not her way to move with such delicate precision- but it was the only way
she had left. Balancing  her power through every  focal object within the  Peres
house which could contain  it, she hoped to  build her presence until  she could
pull from all directions  and burst the warding  sphere Roxane had created.  She
had discarded the thread tying her to the bay horse. She had never regarded  the
creature as hers but only as a gift, a rare gift, to her lover. Thus the  moment
when it  had scented  Strat's blood  passed unnoticed  but the  instant when  it
penetrated the wards was seared into her awareness.

Her first response was a heartfelt  curse for whatever was causing havoc  in her
neat,  tedious  work. The  curse  soared and  circled  the wards  until  Ischade
understood she had  an ally within  the house. She  examined the small  skein of
living and dead within whom she had a focus and found that one, Stilcho, was  no
longer anchored.  Stilcho, whom  Haught had  stolen and  fate had  set to living
freedom.

Smiling,  she  pushed  her  imperceptible  awareness  past  the   ward-consuming
emptiness.

"Haught," she whispered, weaving into his mind. "Remember your father.  Remember
Wizardwall.  Remember slavery.  Remember the  feel of  the globe  in your  hands
before she stole it from you. She does not love you, Haught. Does not love  your
fine Nisi face while  she wears a Rankan  one. Does not love  your aptness while
she is trapped  in a body  that has none.  Oh, remember, Haught;  remember every
time you look on that face."

The  ambitious  mind of  the  ex-slave, ex-dancer,  ex-apprentice  shivered when
Ischade touched it.  Foolish child-he had  believed she would  not look for  him
again and had taken none-of the simple  steps to ensure that she could not.  She
sealed her hypnotic surgery with a gentle  caress on the ring he wore: the  ring
he had thought to use against her.

Ischade retreated, then,  behind the little  statues, the gewgaws  and the sharp
knives she had scattered throughout the house. Her thoughts would eat at a  mind
already disposed to treason just  as the essence of  the bay horse ate  the ward
fire. It was only a matter of time.

"You have to eat. Magic can't do everything."

Randal opened his mouth to agree and received a great wooden spoonful of Jihan's
latest  aromatic posset.  His eyes  bulged, his  ears reddened,  and he   wanted
nothing more than to spit the godsawful curdled lump to the floor. But the Froth
Daughter  was  watching him  and  he dared  do  nothing but  swallow  it in  one
horrendous gulp. His hands were  immobilized in gauze slings, suspended  in oval
buckets filled with a salted solution of the Froth Daughter's devising. His  own
magical resources were insufficient to guide  the spoon to his mouth- if  he had
been so inclined in the first place.

He had been to the Mageguild  and found his treatment there even  less pleasant.
Get  rid of  the globe;  get rid  of the  demon; get  rid of  the  witches,  his
colleagues had  told him-and don't come   home again until you do. So  he'd come
back to the  palace to be  tended by Jinan  and to  fret  over the way  fate was
unfolding for him.

"You tried," Jihan assured him, setting the bowl aside. "You did your best."

"I  failed. I  knew what  happened and   I let  her trick  me. Niko  would  have
understood; I knew that Niko would have understood why we had him down here. But
I listened to  her instead." He  shook his head  in misery; a  lock of hair fell
down to cover his eyes. Jihan leaned forward to brush it back, moving  carefully
to avoid the  shiny, less severe  bums on his  face or the  singed, almost bald,
portion of his scalp that still smelled of the fire.

"We've all made more  than our share of  mistakes in this," Tempus  commiserated
from the doorway. He  unfastened his cloak, letting  it drop to the  floor as he
strode across the room. The hypocaust fires had been banked for two days but the
room was still the warmest, by far, in the palace. "How is he?" he asked when he
stood beside Niko.

The young man's body showed few traces of his ordeal. The swellings and  bruises
had all but disappeared; his face, in sleep, was serene and almost smiling.

"Better than  he should  be," Jihan  said sadly.  She laid  her hand  lightly on
Niko's forehead. The half-smile vanished and the hell-haunted mercenary strained
against the leather straps  binding him to the  pallet. "The demon has  his body
completely now  and heals  as it  wishes," she  acknowledged, lifting  her hand.
Niko, or his body, quieted.

"You're sure?"

She shrugged, reached for Niko  again, then restrained that impulse  by gripping
Tempus's arm instead. "As sure as I am of anything where he's concerned."

"Riddler?" The hazel eyes flickered open  but they did not focus and  the voice,
though it had the right timbre, was not Niko's. "Riddler, is that you?"

"Gods-no," Tempus took a step forward then hesitated. "Janni?" he whispered.

The body that contained the demon  and Janni and whatever remained of  Nikodemos
writhed and pulled its lips back into a skull-like grin.

"The globe, Riddler. Abarsis. The globe. Break the globe!"

Its fingers splayed  backwards, seeming to  have no bone  within them; its  neck
snapped from  side to  side with  force enough  to make  the wooden  slats jump.
Tempus rushed to weave his hands through Niko's slate-gray hair, cushioning  the
other-world tortures with his own flesh.

"Do something for him!" he bellowed  as the spasms rocked Niko's body  and blood
began to seep from his nose and lips.

"Do something for him!"

The demon's mocking  echo erupted from  somewhere in Niko's  gut. Sparks sizzled
along  Tempus's  forearm,  paralyzing him.  Niko's  arms,  no longer  trembling,
strained purposefully against the leather straps.

"It's  going  to transfer!"  Randal  screamed, leaping  up  from his  chair.  He
gestured with  bum-twisted fingers.  His will  called forth  fire but his ruined
flesh could not support it. Groaning, he sank to his knees.

"Poor little mageling," the familiar voice issuing from a shimmering blue  globe
chuckled with  strychnine sweetness.  "Let me  fix that  for you."  A tongue  of
indigo flame licked out from the globe; Randal, like Tempus, was motionless.

Jihan took  a deep  breath that  formed ice  in the  salt-water buckets an arm's
length  away.  She  had  been  patient  with  these  mortals,  abiding  by their
constraints, accepting  their wisdom  even when  it contradicted  everything her
instincts demanded, and now that they were finally helpless she was going to  do
things her way.

Niko  turned  endless,  empty  eyes toward  the  blue  sphere,  asking a  silent
question.

"Stormbringer's Froth," Roxane replied, with the malice and disdain reserved  by
women for lesser women.

A frigid  wind swirled  through the  once-warm room.  No one,  especially a Nisi
witch or a nameless  demon, spoke that way  about Jihan and survived.  No matter
that Stormbringer  had created  his parthenogenic  offspring from  an arctic sea
storm, Jihan  knew an  insult when  she felt  one. She  pelted the sphere with a
thick glaze of ice, then she leaned her palms on Niko's chest.

"I'm here!" she announced, bringing a  howl of cold air into Niko's  rest-place.
"I'm here, damn you."

She rode her anger across  the once-beautiful landscape of a  moat-endowed mind.
The  dark crystal  stream roiled  and froze  in agonized  shapes. Charred  trees
snapped and crashed to the ground under  the burden of the ice that came  in her
wake. She reached the meadow where the pure light of Janni guarded the gate.

"I'm going in," she told him, though she had no communion with such spirits  and
could not hear nor understand his reply.

The heavy door with its man-thick iron bars loomed before her. Leaving a pattern
of rime on the metal, she passed  beyond it to confront an eternity as  vast and
empty as the demon-Niko's eyes had been.

"Coward!" the Froth Daughter shrieked  as nothingness, which was the  essence of
all demonkind,  leeched her  substance away.  She lashed  out blindly,  stupidly
expending herself against an  enemy whose chief  attribute was its  absence. "Co
war-"

She retreated,  a ragged  wisp streaming  back to  the frost-bound  doorway, and
collapsed in the meadow, her fury and her confidence equally diminished. Demonic
laughter using her own stolen voice compounded her shame. In her impotence Jihan
gathered shards of ice and hurled them at the gate.

"I'll be back," she told it as  the ice melted into the thawing crystal  stream.
"You'll see."

She sniffled and  wiped her eyes  on a damp  forearm. The ground  was slick with
melting ice; she slipped more than once. Pain and cold became part of her mortal
vocabulary as she  made her way  home, never once  looking back to  see that the
meadow was brighter or the crystal stream rushing fast and clear.

"I thought we'd lost her," Tempus admitted as he watched the Froth Daughter pick
her way slowly across the hillside.

We? Do we care? Stormbringer inquired in a dangerously friendly tone.

Tempus didn't bother  to turn around.  He wouldn't be  wherever he suddenly  was
without  some  god or  another's  interference; and  he  was no  longer  awed by
interference. "I care- isn't that obvious? She damn near annihilated herself for
me."

Your care is not enough. She is mortal now and requires something less abstract.
If  love  is  beyond  you,  surely  you  remember  rape?  The  Father-of-Weather
manifested  himself before  Tempus: all  blood-red eyes  and pans  that did  not
become a single whole.

The man who  had been Vashanka's  minion shrugged his  nonexistent shoulders and
gave the god a critical glance. "It is an option / retain," he said defiantly.

You are a nasty little man-but I have need of you-

"No."

She is a goddess.

"No."

I'll attend to this abomination.

"You'll do that regardless-for what it did to her. The answer's still no."

I'll turn my daughter's eyes toward another.

"It's a deal."

The Stormchildren lay in state  on a velvet-covered dais in  the vault-ceilinged
room known as the Ilsig Bedchamber. Musicians gathered in an alcove, playing the
reedy, discordant  melodies beloved  by the  Beysib and  guaranteed to set Molin
Torchholder's neck hairs on end.  He pressed his forefingers against  the bridge
of his nose and sought a pleasant thought, any pleasant thought, that might make
the waiting easier.

Shupansea, in a curtained alcove opposite the musicians, was equally anxious but
had not the  luxury of isolation.  Her waiting-women swarmed  around her fussing
with her hair, her jewels, and the splendor of her cosa. She was the Beysa  this
evening-as she  had not  been since  her cousin's  execution in  the summer. Her
breasts had been dusted with luminous powders and gilt with gold and silver; her
normally slender hips were augmented by the swaying brocade-jeweled panniers  in
which her personal  vipers were accustomed  to ride. Her  thigh-length fair hair
had been supported and wired until it hung about her like a cloak and  condemned
her to look neither up nor down,  nor side to side, but only straight  ahead. It
was a costume she had worn since childhood but now, after a season in the modest
attire of the Rankan  nobility, she felt awkward  and feared for the  outcome of
the rites they were about to perform.

"You  must  not sweat,"  her  aunt chided  her,  reminding her  of  the physical
discipline demanded of Mother Bey's avatar.

She steeled herself and the offending perspiration ceased.

Footsteps came through the tiny doorway behind her. "You're nervous," a  welcome
voice consoled her as the prince reached out to take her hand.

"Our priests would have us wait until  the fifth decoction has been made but  we
dare not. Not after this afternoon. We have countermanded the priests; it is the
first time we have done  so. They are anxious but  we think the waiting is  more
dangerous than success or failure."

"Mother Bey guides you," Kadakithis assured her, squeezing the be-ringed fingers
ever so gently.

Shupansea lifted her  shoulders a fraction.  "She says only  that I must  not be
alone afterwards."

The prince, who had finally edged his  way through her women to stand where  she
could see him, made a wry face. "You are never alone, Shu-sea."

She smiled and  gave him a  stare which proved  Beysib eyes could  be erotic and
unsettling at the same time. "I will be alone tonight-with you."

The music changed  abruptly. Before the  golden-haired prince could  express his
surprise or pleasure he was politely, but firmly, shoved to one side.

"It is time."

The Beysa came forward onto a  cloth-of-gold carpet laid between the alcove  and
the altar. Her first steps were tentative; she tottered between the outstretched
arms of her waiting-women. Her glazed eyes held no power, only simple terror  of
the ancient bald priest  who waited for  her  with a delicate glass'  vial and a
knife of razor-sharp obsidian.

Her beynit vipers, tasting the incense and the music, rose from the panniers  to
begin their  own journey.  Shupansea trembled  involuntarily as  the scales slid
coldly  between  her  thighs-  for  the  cosa  was  meant  for  the  display and
convenience of the snakes,  not the avatar. Three  sets of fangs sank  deep into
sensitive skin: the beynit did not approve of her anxiety. Venom enough for  the
deaths of  a dozen  men shot  into her.  She gasped  then relaxed as the languid
strength of Mother Bey enveloped her.

She raised her arms, lifting the cosa away from her body. The serpents  emerged,
baring their moist fangs and their vermilion mouths. It was her priest's turn to
tremble anxiously. The Beysib priest summoned Molin to the altar where,  without
ceremony or explanation, the ancient, bald man transferred the ritual  artifacts
from the old order to the new and ran from the room.

Molin held both with  evident discomfort and outright  fear. "What do I  do?" he
whispered hoarsely.

"Complete the ceremony," the voice he had last heard in Stonnbringer's  swirling
universe informed him from Shupan-sea's mouth. "Carefully."

Torchholder nodded. The vial contained blood from the Stormchildren, venom  from
the snake Niko had slain with  Askelon's weapons, and ichor from Roxane's  giant
serpent which had been combined and  distilled four times over with   I  powders
the Beysib priests knew but had no names for. The   ' scent of its vapors  could
kill a man; a drop of the fluid might poison an army. Molin intended to be  very
careful.

"The vial first," the avatar informed him. "Poured on the knife edge and offered
to each of our children."

Molin remained slack-jawed and motionless.

"The snakes," Shupansea's normal voice whispered, but the Rankan priest did  not
begin to move. "Hold your breath," she added after a long pause.

He had once said to Randal that he did whatever had to be done, be it moving the
Globe of Power or unstoppering the lethal glass teardrop. He held his breath and
tried not to notice the green-tinged fumes or the sizzling sound the liquid made
as it ate through the carpet and on into the granite beneath. The obsidian shook
when he extended it toward  the smallest of the  serpents-the one with its  leaf
nosed head resting on  the Beysa's right nipple.  He was prepared to  die in any
number of unpleasant ways.

The beynit's tongue flicked  a half-dozen or more  times before it consented  to
add a glistening drop of venom to the sulphurous ooze already congealing on  the
knife  edge-and it  was the  most decisive  of the  lot. His  lungs strained  to
bursting and  his vision  drifting amid  black motes  of unconsciousness,  Molin
faced the avatar again.

Shupansea held her hands out  palms upward. He looked  down and saw the  lattice
work of uncountable knife-scars there. During his youthful days with the  armies
he had killed more times than he  cared to remember, and killed women more  than
once as well, but he hesitated-for once unable to do what had to be done.

"Quickly!" Shupansea commanded.

But he did not move  and it fell to her  to grab the knife, letting  its noisome
edges sink deep. 0  Mother! she prayed as  her blood carried its  searing burden
toward her  heart. It  was too  soon. The  priests had  said wait  for the fifth
decoction; they had  abandoned their offices  rather than preside  at her death.
The serpents plunged their fangs into  her breasts many times over but  it would
not be enough. Not even the presence of Mother Bey within her would be enough to
change the malignancy  Roxane had created.  Clenching her fingers  together, the
Beysa heard the rough edge of the knife grind into bone but she felt nothing.

She fainted, although  the lifelong discipline  of Mother Bey's  avatar was such
that she did  not topple to  the ground. Still,  she was oblivious  to the agony
when the imperfect decoction reached her heart and stopped it.

She did not hear the collective gasp that rose from Beysib and Rankan alike when
her eyes rolled  white and the  three serpents stiffened  to rise two-thirds  of
their length above her shuddering breasts.

She did not feel Molin let go of the knife or see him ignore the hissing  beynit
to hold her upright when even discipline faded.

She did  not hear  Kadakithis's enraged  shout or  the slapping  of his  sandals
across the stone as he raced to take her from the priest's arms.

She experienced nothing at all until the prince's tears fell into her open  eyes
then she blinked and stared up at him.

"We've done  it," she  explained with  a faint  smile, letting  the now-harmless
knife fall from her scarred, but uncut, hands.

But barely.  Shupansea lacked  the strength  to gather  the drops  of blood  now
welling up on  her breast in  a second, pristine  vial; nor could  she take that
vial and place its contents on the lips of first Gyskouras, then Alton. Her eyes
were closed while everyone else prayed  that the changed blood would awaken  the
Stormchildren and they remained that way when  the two boys began to move and  a
chorus of thanks rose from the assembly.

"She needs  rest," the  prince told  the staring  women around  them. "Call  her
guards and have her carried back to her rooms."

"She is alone with  All-Mother," the eldest of  the women explained. "We  do not
interfere."

Kadakithis blinked with disbelief. "The goddess isn't going to carry her to bed,
is she?" he demanded of their glass-eyed silence. "Well, dammit, then-I'll carry
her."

He was a slight  young man compared to  any of the professional  soldiers in his
service, but he'd been trained in all the manly arts and lifted her weight  with
ease. The trailing cosa tangled in his legs, very nearly defeating him until  he
planted both feet on the gilt brocade and ripped the cloth from its frames.  The
beynit, their venom temporarily expended, slithered quickly out of his way.

"She is alone  with me," he  informed them all,  striding out of  the bedchamber
with the Beysa cradled in his arms.

Molin watched  as they  went through  the doorway-turning  left for the prince's
suite rather than right toward hers.  He suppressed a smile as the  snakes found
safe harbor with  the other Beysib  women, not all  of whom were  so comfortable
with a serpent spiraling under their garments as Shupansea had been.

Unimpressed by the ceremony surrounding  them, the Storm-children behaved as  if
just awakened from their daily nap. They had already pulled the velvet  hangings
from the altar. Arton twisted the cloth around his head in unconscious imitation
of  his S'danzo  mother's headgear  while Gyskouras  put all  his efforts   into
wrenching the golden tassels free from its comers.

The archpriest  turned to  his single  acolyte, Isambard,  who could scarcely be
expected to  control the  Stormchildren when  they became  either adventurous or
cantankerous-which they  were certain  to do.  "Isambard, go  downstairs to  the
hypocaust room  and remind  Jihan that  the children  need her  more than anyone
else." The young man bowed, backed away, then scampered from the room.

Molin then turned  his attention to  the Beysibs in  the room. The  musicians he
dismissed immediately, sending them on their way with only the most  perfunctory
of compliments. The women stared at him, defying him to give them orders as they
gathered up the  discarded cosa and  bore it reverently  from the chamber.  This
left him with  a double-handful of  priests, their foreheads  still bent to  the
ground, who had been left to him by Mother Bey's high priest.

Ignoring the holes and the sacrilege, he paced the length of the gold carpet and
back again. "I think  a feast is in  order: a private feast.  Something delicate
and  easily  shared:  shellfish,  perhaps, and  such  fruit  as  remains in  the
pantries. And  wine- watered,  I should  think. It  would not  do to  dull their
appetites." He paused, waiting to see which shiny head would move first.

"You'll see to this." He pointed his finger at the most curious of the lot; with
their bald skulls,  bulging eyes, billowing  tunics, and pantaloons,  the Beysib
men all looked alike to him. He seldom thought of them as individuals.

The Beysib  he had  addressed cleared  his throat  nervously and  the one at the
front of  their triangular  formation pushed  himself slowly  to his knees. "The
priests of All-Mother  Bey serve only  Her transcending aspects.  We... that is.
You, the Regum Bey, do not serve the Avatar," he explained.

Torchholder leaned forward to grip the other man's pectoral ornament.  Reversing
it with a quick snap, he used the golden chain as a simple garrotte. "The  Beysa
will be hungry. My  prince will be hungry,"  he said in the  soft, intense voice
his own people had come to fear.

"It has never been so," the  Beysib protested, his face darkening as  the Rankan
priest hauled him to his feet.

"There is a first  time for everything. This  could be the first  time you visit
the kitchens or it could be the first time you die...." Molin gave the  pectoral
another quarter turn.

It was true  that the Beysib  could show white  all around their  eyes even when
they were staring. The priest gasped and clung to Torchholder's wrist with  both
hands. "Yes, Lord Torch-holder."

The mosaic floor of the hypocaust  room was hidden under icy, ankle-deep  water.
Isambard removed his  one-and-only pair of  sandals and tied  them together over
his  shoulder before  stepping into  it. With  his lantern  held high  he  moved
cautiously, knowing there had been snakes down here once and not knowing if  the
cold water would stop them.

"Most Reverend Lady Jihan?" he inquired into the darkness, addressing her as  he
would have addressed Molin's long-absent wife.

Silence.

"Most Reverend Lady?" he repeated, sloshing a few steps further.

They were  all heaped  together on  the pallet  where they  had tied  the  demon
possessed mercenary, Nikodemos: Jihan,  Tem-pus, Randal, and possibly  Nikodemos
himself-Isambard couldn't be sure in this  light. They weren't dead, or not  all
of them anyway, because someone was snoring.

"Great Vashanka-Giver  of Victories;  Gatherer of  Souls- abide  with me on Your
battlefield."

Lantern rattling in his hand, the  acolyte moved forward. He cleared one  of the
great columns that continued upward all the way to the Hall of Justice. A  faint
light reflected  off the  water- a  faint blue  light such  as his lantern could
never cast. His heart seized with panic and his gut tumbling with fear, Isambard
turned around.

A column of ice loomed midway between  the bodies and the far wall. Within  it a
blue sphere  the size  and height  of his  head throbbed;  water cascaded to the
floor with each rising pulse. The light grew brighter, calling to him. He walked
toward it:  one step,  two steps,  three-and put  his foot  down squarely on the
sharpened clasp of  Tempus's discarded cloak.  The pain jolted  him backward and
backward and broke the spell.

He had left the room before he had time to scream.

Roxane had been  within the Globe  of Power longer  than was prudent  especially
since her bond with life was through Tasfalen-who was dead and already beginning
to ripen. With her reacquisition of a globe, the Nisi witch was powerful  beyond
comparison but even she could not do all the things which Sanctuary's  situation
required at once.  She had a  demon hounding her  now, as well  as all the other
enemies  she  had  accumulated  since  the  first  battles  were  fought   along
Wizardwall. The strain of uprooting her soul so many times was starting to show.
She was getting careless-being gone so  long, leaving a freshly claimed sack  of
bones like Tasfalen without ensuring that it was life-worthy.

Haught, who was  frequently foolish but  never careless, knelt  beside Straton's
unconscious body  on the  floor of  the Peres  house kitchen.  The interrogation
Haught had promised his new mistress/master was going worse than slowly. In  his
delirium,  the  Stepson  made no  distinctions  between  truth and  imagination;
wandering,  his mind  had given  Haught no  more than  tantalizing hints   about
Ischade or Tempus-plus a throbbing headache.

He comprehended smaller healings like the slash on Moria's foot; he could tamper
with the  magic of  his betters  as he  had when  he'd exerted  his control over
Stilcho  but  he lacked  the  complex magical  vocabulary  necessary to  contend
directly with the inertia of a dead or mortally wounded body. He had failed with
Tasfalen; the  Rankan noble's  body had  turned a  pasty shade  of blue  and its
stiffness, when Roxane returned, would  be far more serious than  muscle cramps.
But Tasfalen had been Haught's first attempt; he had already learned from  those
mistakes-and Straton was not dead.

The would-be witch studied Tasfalen's silver-white eyes. A touch from the  globe
and he'd have the  power to mend Strat's  body enough that the  Stepson would no
longer have  his retreat  into delirium  and imagination.  He'd unwind the man's
secrets like so much silk from  a cocoon and present his mistress/master  with a
portion of it.

Just a touch.

A piece of Haught swiped out toward  the Globe of Power like a child  dragging a
finger through the icing on a cake. He had enough to heal and a bit to hide  for
the future but he hesitated. The wards were wrong: weakened, eroded,  vanishing.
He reached a  little farther and  had a vision  of an equine  face surrounded by
ward-fire; consuming the ward-fire-

"Impudent slime! Ice water! Damn her! And you-"

The voice was Tasfalen's but the  inflection was all Nisi and malice.  The witch
swung a  clublike open  hand at  him, striking  with the  force of  a Wizardwall
avalanche. Haught heard his spine crack against the far wall and felt the  blood
streaming from his nose and mouth.

She does not love  you, a nameless voice  rose out of Haught's  memory. Remember
your/other: a wind-filled  husk of flayed  skin when the  Wizardwall masters had
finished with him. Haught shook the blood from his hand and healed as the  witch
ranted, cursed, and swallowed the globe.

Haught was against the cupboard where Shiey kept the knives. Silently he  called
one to  his sleeve  and held  it against  his forearm  when he  meekly rose  and
followed his mistress/master from the room.  He said nothing about the wards  or
his vision.

Stilcho crept back up the stairway to the dark landing where Moria waited.

"It's now or never," he told the quiet woman, grateful he could not see her face
when he found her wrist and led her back down the stairs.

There were two stairways leading to the kitchen of the Peres house: one came  up
from  the  larder  and pantries  in  the  basement, the  other  ascended  to the
servant's quarters under the eaves.  Both had been occupied. Stilcho  opened the
door to face the  malevolent leer of the  household's cook, Shiey. He  knew that
face-the last face his missing eye had seen-and it turned his bowels to ice. His
resolve and his courage vanished; Moria's hand fell from his trembling fingers.

"We're taking Straton to the stables," Moria said in a soft but firm whisper  as
she stepped out  of Stilcho's shadow.  She had her  own fears of  these servants
whom the beggar-king Moruth had provided  for the house and she had  learned how
to hide those fears long ago. "You  and you," she pointed to the burliest  pair,
"take his feet." She looked up to Stilcho.

Giving the one-handed cook a lingering glower, the one-eyed man took position at
the Stepson's shoulders.

"We'll get him  into the lofts,  if we can.  And we'll wait  for the help that's
going to be coming-from everywhere."

"An' if'n it don't?" Shiey demanded.

"We bum the stables around us."

They grumbled but they  had been listening as  well; none disagreed. Moria  held
the outer door for the men while Shiey gave her cupboards a final inspection.

"Took my  best cleaver,  didn't he?"  She prowled  quickly through  the cutlery,
slipping her favorite implements through  the leather loops of her  belt. "Here,
lady." She spun around  and flipped a serrated  poultry knife the length  of the
room. Moria felt the hardwood hilt smack into her palm before she'd  consciously
decided to catch the  knife rather than dodge  it. "Ain't nothin' can't  be hurt
wi' a good knife," Shiey informed her with a grin.

                                    *  *  *

Walegrin  shoved the  trencher to  one side.  Whatever the  barracks' cooks  had
thrown into  the dinner  pot smelled  as bad  as the  smoke he  had breathed all
afternoon, and tasted  worse. He had  men still out  in the streets-more  than a
dozen good men, not including Thrusher,  who had yet to return from  his special
private assignment.  Maybe the  palace had  good reason  for wanting plague sign
splashed over every other  color of graffiti out  there; he hoped they  did. The
populace was reacting with predictable panic.

He'd kept his  men busy fighting  but now the  sun was down.  A Rankan oar-barge
flying Vashanka's long-absent standard had tied up at the wharf, its  passengers
and  cargo under  imaginary quarantine.  No one  had yet  seen a   disease-slain
corpse; rumors  were getting  wilder  and  darker with  each retelling.   So far
Walegrin didn't believe any of them, but  some of the men were showing doubt  at
the  edges and the night had just begun.

Before he could decide on a course  of action, the door to his quarters  slammed
open admitting one of the veterans who'd been with him for years.

"Thrush's at the West Gate with Cythen. They've got a body between 'em an'  they
say they won't give it over."

"Bloody hells," the commander exclaimed, crumpling his cloak in one fist. "Watch
the pot, Zump. I'll be back."

He went down the stairs at a run. He'd believed in Kama; believed in the mugs of
ale she'd downed with Strat  and him a scant week  ago. He'd believed she hadn't
put an  arrow in  Straton and  believed she  was smart   and wary enough to keep
herself alive after it'd happened.

The  temporary palace  morgue was  just beyond  the public  gallows. It   glowed
faintly in the late twilight. With  plague sign up the gravesmen were  taking no
chances and had laid a fair  carpet of quicklime beneath their feet.  Thrush was
arguing loudly with his escort as Walegrin approached.

"As you were," he commanded, positioning himself carefully between the gravesmen
and the shrouded corpse. "What's the problem?"

"It's gotta  stay here,"  the chief  digger said,  pointing to  the dark  object
behind Walegrin's feet.

Thrusher  sucked on  his teeth.  "But, Commander,  he's one  of ours:  Malm.  He
deserves the rites inside-beside the men he served with for the last time."

Malm had died two  years back and had  never stood high in  Thrush's estimation.
Walegrin peered into the darkness. His friend's face was unreadable. Still, he'd
known Thrusher for thirteen years: if the little man wouldn't leave Kama's  body
with the gravedigger's there had to be a good reason.

"We tend our own," he told the gravesmen.

"The plague, sir. Orders: your orders."

It was easy for the straw-blond commander to lose his temper. "My man hasn't got
the plague, damn you. He's got a big, bloody hole where his stomach used to  be!
Take him to the barracks, Thrush-now!"

Thrush  and  Cythen  needed no  urging  to  heave the  sagging  burden  to their
shoulders  and double-time  it across  the parade-ground  while Walegrin  dueled
silently with the gravediggers.

"Got to tell 'em," the gravesman  said, looking away as he cocked  a thumbtoward
the Hall of  Justice dome. "Orders're  orders. Even them's  that make 'em  can't
break 'em."

Walegrin ran a hand through the ragged hair that had escaped the bronze  circlet
on his brow. "Take the message  to Molin Torchholder, personally then. Tell  him
Vashanka's rites -want performing in the barracks-plague or no plague."

The least of  the diggers headed  for the hall.  Walegrin waited a  moment, then
turned back toward the barracks, quite pleased with himself. Until the gravesman
threatened him, he hadn't been certain how he was going to get a message to  his
mentor without drawing the wrong kind of attention.

"Upstairs-Cythen's  room,"  Zump said  as  soon as  he'd  crossed the  barracks'
threshold. Every one of the half-dozen men in the room was watching him. But  at
least they  weren't thinking  about plague  or imperial  barges. Walegrin forced
himself to walk slowly as he climbed the half-flight of stairs to where  Cythen,
the only woman billeted with the regular garrison, slept.

Thrush and Cythen stood guard outside the open door.

"How is she?" Walegrin asked as they slid the bolt open.

"I'm fine," Kama  assured him herself,  swinging long, leather-clad  legs off of
Cythen's bed.

A dark smear  covered most of  the right side  of her face  but it seemed mostly
soot. She wasn't moving like she'd taken too much punishment.

"I guess I owe you my life," she said uncomfortably.

"I didn't think you'd kill Strat. You'd had too many opportunities before-better
opportunities. And you wouldn't care if he was shacked up with the witch."

She scowled. "You're right on the first, anyway."

"Piffles,  Chief," Thrusher  interjected from  the open  doorway. "Two  of  them
guarding the cellar we found her in."

Kama stood in front  of Walegrin, looking through  and beyond him. She  had that
way about her-even  dressed in scratched  and rag-tied leather  she had elegance
and, however unconsciously,  the powerful demeanor  of her father.  The garrison
commander never had the upper hand with her.

"Personal?" he stammered.

"Personal? Personal? Gods, no. They saw me with Strat and you. They thought  I'd
sold out-nothing personal about that," she snapped.

Then why lock her up  and put an arrow in  Strat? And why Strat and  not him?-he
was every bit as easy  to find. It was personal,  all right, as personal as  the
sharp-faced PFLS leader could make it.

"You've got worse problems," Walegrin told her.

Finally she turned away, watching the lamp-flame as if it were the center of the
universe. "Yeah, so they tell me. He used one of Jubal's arrows, didn't he?  All
hell broke loose, didn't it?"

Walegrin couldn't suppress a bitter laugh. "Not quite. Came close. Seems someone
came out  of the  witch's house  an' dragged  .Strat back  in. Stepsons  thought
they'd go  in to  rescue him.  Found the  place'd been  warded: Nisi warded-like
you'd remember, I guess. Old Critias lit back for the palace and found out  that
Roxane'd broken out  of wherever she'd  been hiding and  went there 'cause  some
slave-apprentice of Ischade's'd  stolen a Globe  of Power and  stashed it there.
So, no, hell didn't quite break out-it's sort of holed up there in the old Peres
place."

Kama ran her hands  through her hair. Her  shoulders sagged and when  she turned
around again she looked straight  at Walegrin. "There's more, isn't  there." She
didn't make it a question.

"Yeah. There's a boat down at  the wharf with Vashanka's arrows flying  from its
mast. They  say it's  Brachis at  the least  and maybe  our new Emperor as well.
Can't be sure because we've told them the town's under plague sign: no one  from
Sanctuary's been on board; no one's gotten off either. Whatever it is, it's  got
the whole damn palace fired up. They mean to have the town quiet if they have to
kill  every known  troublemaker before  sunrise-and your  name's at  the top  of
everyone's list. Word was that you didn't even have to be brought in alive."

"Crit?" she asked. "Tempus?"

Walegrin nodded after both names. "Kama, the only Stepson who might not want you
dead is  inside the  witch's house  with bigger  problems than  you've got.  The
nabobs were in trouble anyway; Strat's arrow didn't make their problems but  the
way it's comin' down you'd think you stole the globe and let Roxane out."

"So what am I  supposed to do? Hide  the rest of my  life? Climb to the  highest
rooftop and leap to my ignominious death? Maybe I'll just go back to Zip and the
rest. I can take care of that myself, at least." She began pacing, though  there
was barely enough space between the bed  and the wall for her to take  two steps
before turning. "I could get on that boat. Reach Theron, if he's there-"

The garrison regulars exchanged glances.  Under no circumstances was anyone  who
knew what had been going on in Sanctuary going anywhere near that wharf  without
an arm-long scroll of permissions. Walegrin took a step forward, blocking Kama's
path.

"I've sent word to Molin Torchholder. I told you about him. If there's anyone in
the palace who'll understand the truth of this. it's him."

Kama stared in disbelief. "Molin's coming here?"

"To perform your  funerary rites. The  diggers went to  get him. He'll  come. He
might not  be too  popular with  you Wiz-ardwall  veterans but  he takes care of
Sanctuary. You can trust him-I told you that," Walegrin assured her,  misreading
the shadows that fell across Kama's face.

"How long?"

"I've sent word. He'll come as soon as he can. The Interiors," by whom he  meant
the few Rankan soldiers still on  detail within the palace, "say there  was some
sort of big Beysib gathering around sunset-some sort of ritual. I don't know  if
he was involved or not.  If he's got to eat  with them he may not  get here till
midnight."

Kama strode to  the little window  overlooking the stables  and a corner  of the
parade ground. She popped the shutters and leaned out into the night air.

"I'd just as soon you kept the windows closed and stayed out of sight," Walegrin
requested, unable to give her a direct order.

An inaudible sigh ran the length of  her back. She pulled the boards closed  and
stared expectantly at him. "I'm your prisoner, then?"

"Damn, woman-it's for your own good. No one's going to think of looking for  you
here-but I can't keep them out if they  get a notion to look. If you've got  any
close friends you think you'd be safer with you just tell me about them and I'll
see that you spend the night there."

Kama had pushed as hard and far as she dared-more from habit than grand  design.
"Is there any food left below?" she asked in a more civil voice, "or water?"

"Fish stew with fat-back; some wine. I'll send some up."

"And water, please-I'd like  to wash before my  funeral rites." She flashed  the
smile that made men forget she was deadly.

Torchholder, still garbed in the regalia  he had worn when the Beysa  had healed
the Stormchildren, came  to the garrison  barracks flanked by  the gravediggers.
The diggers demanded to view the body but Molin, once he saw Walegrin's anxiety,
dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

"Not  before  the  rites,"  he  snarled  contemptously.  "Until  the  spirit  is
sanctified and released, the impure may not view the remains."

"Ain't no 'Shankan funeral I've ever  heard of," the second of the  gravediggers
complained to his superior.

"The  man  was an  initiate  into Vashanka's  Brotherhood.  Would you  risk  the
Stormgod's wrath?"

The gravediggers, like everyone else  in Sanctuary, suspected that the  Stormgod
was impotent or vanquished but none of the trio was about to say so to a  palace
nobleman  whose  power in  the  simple matters  of  life and  death  was not  in
question. They agreed  to return to  their posts and  await the delivery  of the
body. Molin watched the door close  behind them, then pulled Walegrin back  into
the shadows.

"What in seven hells is going on here?"

"There's a bit of a problem,"  the younger man explained, drawing the  priest up
the stairs. "Someone you should talk to."

"Who've you got-?" Molin demanded as Walegrin knocked once, then shoved the door
open.

Kama had put her time  and the water to good  use. The soot and grime  were gone
from her  leathers and  her face;  her hair  framed her  face in a smooth, ebony
curtain. Walegrin saw something he did not immediately understand pass  silently
between them.

"Kama," Torchholder said softly, refusing for the moment to cross the threshold.
Throughout the afternoon and into the  evening he had forced any thought  of her
from his mind; had, in effect, abandoned her to fate. He believed she would  not
have expected, or  appreciated, anything else  and saw by  her face that  he had
believed  correctly-but correctness  did nothing  to alleviate  the backlash  of
self-imposed guilt which swept up around him.

"Shall I leave?" Walegrin asked, piecing the situation together finally.

Molin started; weighed a dozen responses and their probable consequences in  his
mind, and said:  "No, stay here,"  before anyone could  guess he had  considered
some other course of action. "Kama, why are you here, of all places?" he  asked,
closing the door behind him.

With Walegrin's help, she explained her situation. How the PFLS leader. Zip, had
misinterpreted her encounter with Stra-ton and Walegrin and how that mistake had
started  the downward  spiral of  events which  culminated with  not merely  the
attempt  on  the  Stepson's  life  but the  sabotage  of  all  he  had tried  to
accomplish.

Molin,  though  he listened  attentively,  took a  few  moments to  congratulate
himself. Had he dismissed Walegrin, he  would have helped Kama because he  loved
her-and, in time,  she would have  rejected him for  it. Now, he  could help her
because he had heard  and believed her story  before witnesses. She might  still
reject  him-she would  always prefer  action to  intrigue, he  suspected-but  it
wouldn't be through the weakness called love.

"You have  two choices,  Kama," he  explained when  both she  and Walegrin  were
silent. "No one would be surprised if you had died today. I could easily see  to
it that everyone believed that you had. You could take a horse from the  stables
and no one  would ever think  to come looking  for you." He  paused. "Or you can
clear your name."

"I want my name," she replied without hesitation. "I'll appeal to the  Emperor's
justice...." It  was her  turn to  pause and  calculate options.  "Brachis-" She
looked around the  room and remembered  the Stormchildren, the  witches, and the
ir-remedial absence of Vashanka. "I'll get the truth out of Zip," she concluded.

Molin shook his head  and turned to Walegrin.  "Would you believe anything  that
young man told you?"

Walegrin shook his head.

"No, Kama,  maybe if  Strat's still  alive in  there and  he says it wasn't you,
you'd be believed, but no one else's word will count for enough. You'll do  best
coming in to face your accusers."

"Under your protection?"

"Under Tempus's protection."

Walegrin broke into the conversation: "He's  one of the ones who've ordered  her
dead!"

"He ordered her  captured-the rest is  the enthusiasm of  his subordinates. He's
got caught in another skirmish with the demon-and Roxane:-for Niko's soul. Jihan
barely pulled  him out  and she  is, until  the next  sea storm  at any rate, as
mortal as you or I. Tempus is in no mood for death right now."

"You're wrong if you think he'd go lightly with me," Kama warned in a low voice.
"He acknowledges my existence-  nothing more than that.  It would be easier  for
him if I did die."

It cost her to admit that to  anyone, stranger or lover. Molin knew better  than
to deny it. "I'm not interested in  making things easier for that man," he  said
in his own low, measured  voice. "He will not dare  to judge you himself, so  he
will be scrupulously honest in seeing that justice is done by someone else."

Kama tossed her hair behind her shoulders. "Let's go to him now."

"Tomorrow," Molin averred. "He has other obligations tonight."

Prince Kadakithis took  the tray from  the Beysib priest.  He was gracious,  but
firm: no one besides  himself was attending Shupansea.  It was her wish;  it was
his wish; and it was time everyone got used to the idea that he gave orders too.
The bald priest had seen too much upheaval in one day to argue successfully.  He
bowed, gave his blessing, and backed out of the antechamber. The prince set  the
careful arrangement of chilled morsels beside the bed and returned his attention
to the Beysa.

Streaks  of  opalescent   powder  shot  across   the  bleached  white   imperial
bedlinen. Brushing aside  a  blue-green swirl,  Kadak-ithis  resumed his  vigil,
waiting for  her eyes  to open  and more  than half-expecting  that he'd  made a
terrible mistake. He smoothed  her hair  across the  pillows; smiled;  dared  to
kiss her  breasts lightly as  he'd never dared  to do  at any of  the few  other
times they'd  stolen  moments alone together   and jerked upright   when he felt
something move against the back of his neck.

The Beysa ran orchid-colored fingertips down his forearm. "We are alone,  aren't
we?" she inquired.

"Quite," he agreed. "They've sent food up for us. Are you hungry?"

He reached for  the dinner-tray and  found himself restrained.  Shupansea raised
herself up and began dealing with the clasps on his tunic.

"Kith-us, I have two half-grown children and you have had a wife and  concubines
since  you  were fourteen.  I  surrendered my  virginity  in a  ritual  that was
witnessed by at least forty priests and relations-tell me the first time  wasn't
just as bad for you."

The prince blushed crimson.

"Very well, then.  We're pawns. The  cheapest whore has  more freedom than  I've
had. But everything's in flux now. Even Mother Bey is affected. She says not  to
be alone tonight; I don't think she can absorb your stormgod into herself as She
has done with all our heroes and man-gods. I could choose to be with a priest or
one of the  Burek but I've chosen to be with you."

She stripped the  loose tunic back  from the prince's  shoulders and pulled  him
toward her. He resisted, fumbling with the accursed buckles on his sandals, then
committed himself to the changes she promised.

It was night at  last, with the darker  emotions of the mortal  spirit obscuring
the heavens as surely as the smoke and the eternal fog. Ischade extinguished her
candles and gathered her dark robes around her. She had planned and  deliberated
as she had seldom  done, choosing decision over  reaction despite its risks  and
unfamiliarity.

She sealed the White Foal house with  a delicate touch; if she failed, the  dawn
would find nothing more than  rotting boards rising from the  overgrown marshes.
The black roses opened  as she passed them,  giving her their arcane  beauty for
what might be the last time. With a caress she savored their death-sweet perfume
and sent them back where she had found them.

Across the bridge, deep within the  better part of town, the bay  horse consumed
the last of the  ward-fire, leaving the Peres  house naked to whatever  moved in
the darkness. Ischade clung to the shadows with more than her usual caution; she
was  not  immune  to mortal  forms  of  death and  there  were  others migrating
instinctively to the  house now that  its defenses had  vanished. Crouched in  a
doorway, she lit a single candle  and studied the wisps of magic  rising through
the ruins of Roxane's wards.

At her  unspoken command  the front  door faded  from its  hinges. Ischade crept
through, bristling  with alertness  and prepared  to utilize  every trick in her
carefully prepared arsenal. There was nothing  to challenge or greet her as  she
glided along the hallway, vanishing amid her numerous possessions.

She found  the trail  Straton's blood  had made  and followed  it through to the
kitchen. Stilcho's  heroism had  borne fruit;  but Straton's  safety was not her
only goal.  Haught was  here; the  Nisi witch  was here  and she would not leave
until she had consigned both to hell and beyond.

Continuing her search, Ischade swept from room to room to the waist-thick  beams
of the cluttered attic where her search had to end. Haught crouched outside  the
sphere, enraptured by the nether-world dazzle of the globe, his eyes as wide and
glazed as  any Beysib's.  Shiey's cleaver  lay in  a twisted  lump at  his feet.
Tasfalen sang with a dead man's  voice, dragging one leg stiffly as  he shambled
around the perimeter of the globe's light.

Tasfalen?

Ischade did not immediately comprehend the changes which had overtaken  Tasfalen
Lancothis. Had Haught somehow kept  the globe? Had she simply  imagined Roxane's
taint on the corroded wards? Surely Tasfalen's flawed resurrection had been  her
one-time apprentice's  work; Roxane's  efforts were  brutal but  never so crude.
Concealed by shadow  and the skein  of magic she  had spun, the  necromant dared
briefly to listen to the globe's song until she could piece the truth together.

She noted,  even as  Haught had  noted, the  carelessness which  marked the Nisi
witch's  failure to  protect her  mortal shell  and recognized  the same  mystic
illness from which she  herself had only just  recovered. For a fleeting  moment
Ischade felt  a sense  of pity  that one  so powerful  should be conquered by an
accumulation of  minute errors.  Then she  set about  weaving a  gossamer web to
ground  the  globe's  radiant  energy  in  her  focal  possessions  as  fast  as
Roxane/Tasfalen could create it.

The faster  the globe  whirled, the  stronger Ischade's  binding threads became,
until  the  whole  house  rattled  and dust  fell  in  flakes  from  the ancient
roofbeams-and  still the  Nisi witch  sang her  curses into  the artifact.   The
necromancer played out the last strand and stood up in the wash of blue light.

Tasfalen's dead eye  gave no indication  of recognition; Rox-ane  was too deeply
enmeshed in her spell-casting to spare the energy for simple words. A shriek  of
rage emanated  from the  globe itself  as the  Nisi witch  launched her attack-a
shriek that shattered abruptly as the power surged into Ischade's handiwork  and
made the  web brilliantly  visible. Curls  of smoke  twisted up  from the weaker
foci,  but the  web held.  Ischade began  to laugh,  savoring her  counterpart's
growing terror.

Roxane flailed  helplessly with  Tasfalen's rigor-stricken  arms, struggling  to
free herself from the power gnawing at her soul.

"The wards!"  Roxane's disembodied  voice howled  above the  globe's whine.  "No
wards! He comes for me!"

The  Globe  of Power  spun  faster, first  swallowing  the witch's  voice,  then
swallowing her body  within its cobalt  sphere. Gouts of  fire sprang up  in the
joists and floorboards where Ischade's web had touched them. Ischade covered her
hair with her cloak  as she inched away  from the conflagration swirling  around
the globe. The Nisi witch was trapped, along with her accursed artifact; it  was
time to see that  Straton was safely away  from the house and  its outbuildings.
Straton-she put  his face  in the  forefront of  her mind  and looked toward the
comer where the stairs had been.

An orange nimbus  surrounded the image  Ischade formed of  her lover. A  demonic
nimbus, she realized too late-after she had turned to face the throbbing  cobalt
sphere again. No wards,  Roxane had screamed: no  wards to keep Niko's  demon at
bay. It had one soul but it could claim many. Her foot scuffed against the rough
planks, but Ischade moved forward as it beckoned.

"Straton."

Haught kept himself small and low against the roofbeams. Insignificant-as he had
always  been  as  a dancer  or  a  slave; beneath  the  notice  of witches  and,
certainly,  of demons.  He saw  the thing   which had  been  Roxane  flickering
between an  awful emptiness  and the   dozen or more bodies the witch  had taken
during   her  life.  He  saw  Ischade  think   to  escape-and  fail,  and  lurch
inescapably forward. But mostly he saw the globe hanging  midway between Ischade
and the demon: motionless and, for the moment, ignored.

Still keeping himself invisible in the demon's perception, he drew himself  into
a compact crouch. There was  no need for the globe  to be destroyed by this,  he
thought while  massaging the  finger which  bore Ischade's  ring. One leap would
take him across the sphere  and down the stairs. He  was a dancer still, in  his
body; the leap was no great feat for him.

He caught the skull-sized artifact on  the tips of his fingers. The  momentum of
his leap brought  the searing object  hard against his  breast as he  forced the
center of a very small universe to shift from one existence through an  infinity
of others.  It clung  to him;  passed through  him; absorbed  him; shattered and
expelled him utterly.

Ischade was hurled against the rafters by the force of the globe's  destruction.
Wrapped in the fullness of her  fire-magic she barely reached the stairway  when
the roof itself was swallowed in the flames. Her robes were in flames before she
reached the streets.

A tower of  fire soared from  the open roof  of the Peres  house to the  heavens
themselves.  The  demon,  trapped  in  fire,  warred  with  Stormbringer,  whose
thundercloud form was illuminated by  each lightning-bolt He threw. A  crowd was
gathering, a crowd  which saw her  try to squeeze  the flames from  her hair and
robes and  called after  her when  she raced  down the  streets with  fire still
licking after her.

Molin Torchholder had been one of the first to climb to the palace rooftops  for
a clearer view of the flame  pillar. Bracing himself against the gritty  wind he
looked past the light to the dark cloud beyond.

"Stormbringer?"

He nearly fell from  the roof as a  hand closed tightly over  his shoulder. "Not
tonight," Tempus said with a laugh.

There were others  appearing at the  myriad stairways, making  their way to  the
railing circling the Hall  of Justice: Jihan and  Randal, leaning on each  other
for strength, with Niko close behind; Isambard, dragged forward by the exuberant
Storm-children; the functionaries, retainers, and day-servants all barefoot  and
in their nightclothes. The  palace was no different  than the rest of  Sanctuary
this  night-every  rooftop,  courtyard,  and  clearing  had  its  collection  of
awestruck mortals.

Brilliant light streamed into the  prince's bedroom. He awoke, sighing  with the
knowledge  that  the  best must  also  seem  the shortest,  and  meant  to leave
Shupansea undisturbed. His heart sank when he realized he was alone in the  bed;
it did not rise when  he saw her transfixed by  the column of light in  the open
window.

Dragging a silken blanket behind him, he came slowly to join her.

"She has kept her promises," Shupansea explained, taking a comer of the  blanket
around her  shoulder and  pressing close  against him.  "Stormbringer fights the
demon."

It did not seem like gods and  demons at first glance. It seemed like  a single,
great cloud spewing lightning at  a flame of impossible size  and brightness-but
such a vision was, in itself, so improbable that the Beysa's explanation was  as
acceptable as any other. Certainly the  lightning struck only the flame and  the
flame directed spirals of its substance  at the cloud. The stormcloud, with  its
percussive  thunder, deflected  the fire  away from  itself to  the ocean   and,
occasionally, the city.

"He has it  trapped," the Beysa  said, indicating the  precision with which  the
Stormgod's bolts prevented the demon-fire from shifting its location. "They will
fight until the demon accepts annihilation."

The  prince was  unable to  look away  from the  awesome spectacle.  Armed  with
Shupansea's explanations he could see the flame shrinking each time it  launched
a missile against the  lightning. He stayed Shupansea's  hand when she tried  to
close the shutters.

"The end is inevitable," she assured him, holding him tightly.

A fine powder  blew through the  window. The Beysa  protected herself but  tears
flowed freely from Kadakithis's eyes.

"I want to see if there's a beginning as well."

"The beginning is here," she reminded him, closing the .shutters and leading him
back to the bed.

PILLAR OF FIRE

Janet Morris

Death  was  riding the  feral  wind that  blew  in off  Sanctuary's  harbor-even
Tempus's Tr6s horse could smell it on the sooty breeze as horse and rider picked
their way down Wideway to the wharf and the emperor's barge made fast there.

The Tr6s danced and snorted, its  hooves sending up sparks from ancient  cobbles
that seemed, in the  dusky air, to have  lives of their own.  The sparks whirled
round the Tros's legs like insects  swarming; they darted hither and thither  on
smoky gusts drawn seaward  from the pillar of  fire blazing between the  heavens
and the Peres  house uptown;  they skittered  along Tempus's  clothing like dust
motes from hell, stinging when they touched his bare arms and legs; they lighted
upon  the  Tros's distended  nostrils  and that  horse,  wiser than  many  human
inhabitants of this accursed thieves' world, blew bellowing breaths to keep from
inhaling whatever dust it was that glowed like fire and burned like hot  needles
when it landed on the stallion's dappled hide.

The hellish dust  was the least  of Tempus's troubles  on this morning  that had
lost its light, as if the sun had  slunk away to hide from the battle under  way
beneath  the sky.  Oh, the  sun had  risen, brazen  and bold,  illuminating  the
flaming pillar raging  up to heaven  and the storm  clouds with their  lightning
ranged round it. But it  had been eaten by the  stormclouds and the soot of  the
fire and the lightning spewing up from the grounds around the uptown Peres house
and down from the  furious heavens of the  gods, who smote at  witches' work and
cheeky demons with equal force.

And it was this absence of the morning, this vanquishing of natural light,  that
bothered  Tempus  (accustomed  to  analyzing omens  and  all  too  familiar with
godsign) as he rode down to greet  Theron, the man he'd helped bring to  Ranke's
teetering throne, and  Brachis, High Priest  of Vashanka, while  around the town
civil war and infamy reigned, unabated.

If the  chaos around  him (which  he'd once  been sent  here to  banish) weren't
enough of an indictment  of his performance, then  the skittishness of the  Tr6s
horse made it certain:  he was failing ignominiously  to bring order-even for  a
day-to Sanctuary.

And though  some men  would not  have taken  the responsibility  and clasped the
fault for  all Sanctuary's  catalogue of  evils to  his bosom,  Tempus would and
almost  gladly did-the  state of  town and  loved ones  fulfilled his  own  dire
prophecy.

Only the  Tr6s horse's  distress truly  touched him  now: animals  were pure and
honest, not dour and divisive  like the race of men.  It might not be his  fault
that Straton lay, somewhere, in the clutches of the revolution (Crit was  sure),
dead or held for ransom; it might not be because of Tempus, called the  Riddler,
that Niko was  the perennial pawn  of demons and  foul witches; it  might not be
directly attributable  to him  that his  daughter, Kama,  was now  sought as  an
assassin  and revolutionary  by his  own Stepsons  and the  palace guard,   thus
creating  a  rift between  her  unit, the  Rankan  3rd Commando,  and  the other
militias in the town that no amount  of diplomacy would ever bridge if she  were
executed; it might  not be on  his account that  Randal, once a  Stepson and the
single "white" magician Tempus had ever trusted, was a burned-out husk, or  that
Niko stared sightlessly at the  pillar of flame uptown  in which Janni, his  one
time partner and a  Stepson who'd sworn Tempus  a solemn oath of  fealty, burned
eternally, or that Jihan had  been stripped of her Froth  Daughter's attributes,
humbled to the lowly estate of womankind, or that Tempus's own son,  Gys-kouras,
looked at him with  fear and loathing (even  trying to shield his  half-brother,
Alton, from Tempus whenever the children saw him come).

But it probably was-he was the root and cause of all this slaughter: it was  his
curse, habitual (as Molin Torchholder, a Nisi-blooded slime in Rankan  clothing,
maintained) or invoked by jealous gods or hostile magic. He didn't know or  care
which force now drove him: he'd lost  interest in which was right and which  was
wrong.

Like the  day around  him, black  and white  and good  and evil  had lost  their
character, merging like the  sullen dusky noon in  an unsavory amalgam to  match
his mood.

But it  bothered him  that the  Tr6s was  nervous, sweating,  and distressed. He
reined it down a side street, hoping to avoid the greater gusts of dust. For  he
knew that dust as he knew the voices of the gods who plagued him: each  particle
was a remnant of pulverized globes  of Nisi power, magical talismans reduced  to
pinprick size and myriad in number.

If Sanctuary needed anything less than a dusty cloak of Nisi magic wafting where
it willed, he couldn't think what it might be.

And then  he realized  what lay  ahead, down  a shadowed  alleyway, and drew his
sword: a  little honest  swordplay might  cheer him  up, and  ahead, where  PFLS
rebels in rags  and sweat-bands fought  Rankan regulars in  the street, he  knew
he'd. find it.

Though he was overqualified for street brawls-a man who couldn't die and had  to
heal,  whose  horse  shared  his  more-than-human  speed  and   more-than-mortal
constitution-numbers made the odds more honest: four Rankan soldiers, against  a
mob of thirty, were trying to shield  some woman with a child from whatever  the
mob had in mind.

He heard shouts over the Tros's hoofbeats as it lifted into a lope and trumpeted
its war cry as it sped gladly toward the fray.

"Give her up, the slut-it's all her doing!" cried one hoarse voice from the mob.

"That's right!" a shrill woman's voice seconded the rebel demand: "S'danzo slut!
She bore the accursed Stormchild's  playmate! S'danzo wickedness has taken  away
the sun and turned the gods' ire upon us!"

And a third voice, streetwise and dark, a man's voice Tempus thought he ought to
recognize, put  in: "Come  on, Walegrin,  give her  up and  you go  free-you and
yours. We're only killing witches and their children today!"

"Screw yourself. Zip," one of the Rankans called back. "You'll have to take  her
from us. And we'll have a  couple lives in exchange-yours for certain.  That's a
promise."

Tempus had only an instant to realize that Walegrin, the garrison commander, was
one of the Rankans under  siege, and to add up  all he'd heard and realize  that
the blond soldier's sister-of-recoro, Illyra,  must be the woman whose  life was
the subject of a traditional Sanctuary streetcorner debate.

Then the Tr6s was sighted by the rebels at the rear of the crowd, which began to
part but not disperse.

Missiles pelted him, some barbed, some  jagged, some meant for rolling bread  or
holding wine-and some designed for war.

He ducked  an arrow  hurtling toward  him from  a crossbow,  his senses  so much
faster that he could see the helically-fletched blue feathers on its tail as  it
sped toward his heart.

The Tros was hit between the eyes with a tomato: it had seen the missile coming,
but never flinched or ducked, its ears pricked like a sighting mechanism aligned
upon the crowd: it was a warhorse, after all.

But Tempus found this affront unacceptable, and took exception to the  brashness
of the crowd. Reaching up with his  left hand while still holding his reins,  he
plucked the arrow  from the air  when it was  inches from his  heart and, as  he
seldom did, flaunted his supernatural  attributes before the crowd, holding  the
arrow high  and breaking  it between  his fingers  like a  piece of  straw as he
bellowed in his most commanding voice: "Zip and all you rebels, disperse or face
my personal wrath-  a retribution  that  will haunt you  till you die,  and then
some: you'll leave my fury to your descendants as a bequest."

And Zip's voice called back from a  gloom in which all white faces looked  alike
and darker  Wriggly skins  faded to  invisibility: "Come  get me,  Riddler. Your
daughter did!"

He set  about just  that, but  not before  the crowd  surged inward as one body,
pinning the four Rankans and the girl they thought to shield against the wall.

He kneed the Tros in among confusion,  took blows, and swung back and down  with
his sharkskin-hiked sword, inured to  the death he dealt, his  conscience salved
before the fact by giving warning, so that his blood-lust now reigned  unimpeded
and rebels fell, like wheat before a scythe, under his blade, a sword the god of
war had sanctified in countless bodies just like these, across more battlefields
than Tempus cared to count.

But when, finally, the crowd broke to  run and none clawed at his saddle  or bit
at his ankle  or tried to  blind the Tros  horse with their  sharpened sticks or
hamstring it with their bread knives, he realized he'd been too late to save the
day.

Oh, Walegrin, bloody and with a face pummeled beyond recognition so that  Tempus
could only recognize him by his braided blond locks and the tears streaming from
his  blackened sockets  unheeded, would  live to  fight another  day: he'd  been
innermost, protecting  Illyra-the S'danzo  seeress who  should have  forseen all
this-with his own big  body. But of the  other three soldiers, one's  gullet was
split the way a fisherman cleans his catch, one's neck was hanging by a  thread,
and  the third  was hacked  apart, limb  from limb,  his trunk  still  twitching
weakly.

It was not  the soldiers, however,  who drew Tempus's  attention, but the  woman
they'd tried  to shield,  who in  turn had  been protecting  her child.  Illyra,
S'danzo skirts heavy with  blood, cradled a young  girl's body in her  arms, and
wept so silently that it was Walegrin's grief, not her own, that let Tempus know
that the child was surely dead.

"Lillis," Walegrin sobbed, manliness forgotten because an innocent, his kin, was
slain; "Lillis, dear gods, no... she's alive, 'Lyra, alive, I tell you."

But all the desperate wishes in the world would not make it so, and the  S'danzo
woman, whose eyes were wise and whose face was tired beyond her years and  whose
own belly  bled profusely  where the  axe that  had hewn  her daughter  had gone
through child and into mother, met Tempus's eyes before she turned to the  field
commander who could no longer command so much as his grief.

"Tempus, isn't it? And  your marvelous horse?" Illyra's  voice had the sough  of
the seawind in it  and her eyes were  bleak and full of  the witch-dust settling
all about. "Shall I foretell your future, lord of blood, or would you rather not
read the writing on the wall?"

"No, my  lady," he  said before  he looked  above her  head and beyond, to where
graffiti scribed in blood defaced the mud-brick. "Tell me no tales of power:  If
doom could be avoided, you'd have a live child in your arms."

And  he  reined  the Tros  around,  setting  off again  toward  Wideway  and the
dockside, forcing his thoughts to collect and focus on the audience with  Theron
soon to  come, and  away from  the writing  on the  wall behind  the woman: "The
plague is in our souls, not in our destiny. Ilsig rules. Kill the witches and me
priests or perish!"

It sounded like a good  idea to him, but he  couldn't throw in his lot  with the
rebels: he'd made a truce with magic  for the sake of his soldiers; he'd  made a
truce with gods for the sake of his soul.

And perishing wasn't  an option for  Tempus. Sometimes he  wondered if he  might
manage it by getting  himself eaten by fishes  or chopped into tiny  pieces, but
the chances were good that his parts would reassemble or-worse-that each  morsel
of him would reconstitute an entire being.

It  was  bad enough  existing  in one  discrete  form; he  couldn't  bear to  be
replicated countless times. So he  smothered the rebellious impulse to  throw in
his lot with the rebels and see if it was true that any army he joined could not
lose its battles.

He was  bound by  oath to  Theron, to  the necromant  Ischade in solemn pact, to
Stormbringer  in  another, and  to  Enlil, patron  god  of the  armies  now that
Vashanka was metamorphosing  into something else  within the body  of Gyskouras,
their common  son. And  he'd spent  an interval  with the  Mother Goddess of the
fishfaces  in which  he'd learned  that Mother  Bey had  lusts as  great as  any
northern deity.

So he alone, acquainted  with so many of  the players intimately and  capable of
standing up to more-than-human actors,  was competent to negotiate a  settlement
among   the  heavens   through  supernal   avatars  and   earthly  rulers,   the
representatives of their respective gods.

This task was complicated, not helped, by Kadakithis's impending marriage to the
Beysib ruler, as it was obstructed,  not advanced, by Theron's arrival here  and
now, when  all was  far from  well and  men had  brought their  hells to life by
meddling with powers they did not understand.

So he didn't care, he decided, what happened here, beyond his personal goals: to
protect the souls of his Stepsons  and those who loved him, to  reward constancy
where it  had been  demonstrated (even  by mages  and necromants),  to clear his
conscience so far  as possible before  he trekked back  north, where the  horses
still grazed in Hidden Valley and the Successors on Wizardwall would welcome him
back to what had become the closest thing to home he could remember.

But to do that, he must see Niko on the mend and on his way back to Bandara;  he
must do what Abarsis had counseled, and more.

He must get rid of that thrice-cursed pillar of fire burning with renewed fervor
uptown, and spewing fireballs and  attracting lightning and spitting bolts  into
the sea, before a storm blew up from the disturbance.

For if a storm came riding the wake of all this chaos, then Jihan's powers would
be restored, and Tempus would be sad dled with the Froth Daughter for eternity.

Now he had  a chance to  slip away without  her and let  her father, the  mighty
Stormbringer, keep His word: find Jihan some other lover.

So he was hurrying, as he reined the Tros toward dockside where the Rankan  lion
blazon flapped in a sea-wind too strong not to be promising wild weather.

And  the  Tros,  scenting the  sea  and  his mood,  snorted  happily,  as if  in
agreement: the Tros would as soon be quit of Jihan, who curried him to within an
inch of his life daily, as would he.

And  if a  storm would  bring the  dust to  ground, and  all the  magic of  Nisi
antiquity with it,  then that was  not his problem-  not if he  played his cards
right.

For once, Crit was grateful for the witchy weather that plagued Sanctuary  worse
than all the factions fighting here.

"Getting Strat" was  not going to  be the easiest  thing he'd ever  done, but he
wasn't arguing that the job was his to do: Ace was his partner; their souls were
too bound up  to chance letting  Strat  die with  any strings on  him, no matter
which witch was holding the end of them.

And Strat wasn't going to die in flames, not in some burning house that wouldn't
burn down but only burned on and on like no natural fire.

Not that common sense  was saying otherwise: crouched  at the heat's end,  where
waves of burning air  licked his face despite  the water he was  palming over it
intermittently. As he stared  at the flaming funnel  waiting for a plan  to come
clear, Crit  reflected that  his Sacred  Band oath  made no  distinction between
natural and  unnatural peril.  He hadn't  swom to  stand by  Strat, shoulder  to
shoulder, until  death separated  them if  it must,  only in  cases where it was
convenient, or magic wasn't involved, or Strat was behaving as a rightman ought,
or the problem  didn't involve an  urban war zone  and the possibility  of being
roasted alive.

The oath was binding, under any circumstances.

Watching the fiery tornado, like nothing  he'd ever seen but the waterspouts  of
wizard weather or the cyclone that had fought in the last battle on  Wizardwall,
he was  trying to  determine whether  it had  a pattern  to its  burning and its
wriggling, whether the lightning spewing from the cloud above was dependable  as
to target or random,  and in general just  how the hell he  was going to get  in
there.

Because Strat was in there. Everything pointed to it; Randal was sure of it;  no
ransom demands had come forth from the PFLS. His orders were to fetch Strat  and
Kama.

Kama could wait until all the hells froze over and Sanctuary sank into the  sea,
for  all he  cared. He'd  had an  affair with  Tempus's daughter,  true: he  was
willing to pay for his indiscretion, not complaining. But Strat was his  partner
Strat came first.

If they'd  had arguments,  then that  was normal-they'd  have them again... over
women especially. It went with pairbond, and he'd beat Strat silly if he had to,
to win his point. As soon as he had the porking bastard back where he could pull
rank, they'd settle things.

But you couldn't settle anything with  a dead man, unless he became  undead like
the freakish  bay horse  who was  partially present,  trotting around  the Peres
house  on  ghostly hooves,  its  coat looking  as  if it  reflected  the flaming
whirlwind  around  which  it  circled-or  was  a  part  of  it.  The  horse  was
insubstantial, sort of. But if he could catch it, maybe he could ride it up  the
back stairs.

Strat had ridden it. And the horse and Crit were both here for the same  reason:
Strat.

He decided to follow  the horse on its  rounds and forsook the  cover of jumbled
stone, remnants of the Peres's garden wall, behind which he'd been crouching.

The heat  waves emanating  from that  spinning horror  of flame  struck him with
awesome force; he could feel his eyelashes singe and his lips start to  blister.
Head down,  following echoing  hoofbeats as  much as  the flickering glimpses he
could get of this "horse," he edged along in its wake.

If the  house would  just bum  down, like  any normal  fire did  once a fire had
consumed its fuel, things would be so simple: he could begin mourning.

He'd thought of  just considering the  whole unsightly and  unnatural mess as  a
funeral pyre, calling  for reinforcements, and  making the Peres  estate Strat's
bier. They'd  say the  rites, play  some funeral  games, he'd  put everything he
owned up as prize or sacrifice.

But he couldn't  do that, not  until he knew  for certain that  Strat really was
dead, and wholly dead: not likely to be resurrected by Ischade.

For that was what he feared the most: that the necromant wouldn't be content  to
let Ace stay dead, that she'd pine for her lover and eventually call him up from
ashes, make him an undead like poor Janni, who was somewhere in the cone of  the
fire-Crit couldn't imagine  how or why,  but he could  see, if he  squinted, the
dead Stepson,  fully formed  and unconsumed,  doing something  that looked  like
bathing under  a waterfall,  but doing  it in  a heat  that would  melt bone  in
seconds.

Crit had learned, fighting  magic and sometimes fighting  it with magic, not  to
ask questions if he didn't  want to hear the answers.  So he left the matter  of
Janni to those who ought to tend it: to Ischade, who'd raised his shade after  a
proper Sacred Band funeral; to Abarsis, who'd come down from heaven and escorted
Janni's spirit on high, and done it where the whole Band could see it. If  there
was an argument about propriety here, it was between the necromant and the ghost
of the Slaughter Priest:  it wasn't a matter  for a decidedly unmagical  fighter
like himself. If Janni hadn't once  been Niko's partner and a Sacred  Bander, it
wouldn't have been the business of any Stepson what Ischade had done. As  things
stood, all you could do, if you were so inclined, was pray for Janni's soul.

But "it bothered Crit  intensely because the  same thing could  happen to  Strat
Ischade could make it happen.

He wondered idly, trailing the ghost-horse on its rounds about the Peres estate,
how  you went  about killing  a necromant.  If Strat  didn't come  through  this
intact, he was going to find  out. Maybe Randal would know-if Randal  ever again
was capable of doing more than swallowing  when you put a spoon of gruel  in his
mouth.

There had been a few minutes, he'd been told, when it \  seemed that Randal  and
Niko had come through their battle with Roxane and the demon in good shape.

But physical flesh-even mageflesh and Bandaran adept's flesh-could take only  so
much. The  two were  alive; they'd  live; whether  they'd ever  be as hale or as
smart as they once were, only time would tell.

Rounding a burned-out  wall, the heat  lessened perceptibly and  Crit could stop
squinting and raise his head.

The ghost-horse was still right in front of him. In fact, when Crit stopped,  it
stopped.

When he  took a  linen rag  and wetted  it from  the waterskin dangling from his
belt, the specter craned its  neck to look back at  him, ears pricked, as if  to
ask what he was doing.

What he was doing was anybody's guess, but he didn't try to tell the ghost-horse
that. The bay was still bay: it had a black mane and tail (although when the hot
wind ruffled them they streamed out like charred cinders, not horsehair); it had
a red-gold haircoat (now  flame red and flickery  as the patterns from  the fire
chased each  other along  its flanks);  it had  black stockings (which resembled
burnt timbers). But it was more substantial than it had been around front, where
the fire was brighter.

Then it  pawed the  ground and  whickered, still  fixing him  with a  fire-light
centered gaze from liquid horse eyes.

The come-hither look and the forefoot pawing the ground were unmistakable to any
horseman: the bay wanted Crit to hurry  up, climb aboard: it wanted to go  for a
ride.

"Oh no, horse," he said out loud to it. "I came by myself- no reinforcements, no
backup. I did that because nobody  else ought to risk his life-or  sacrifice it,
if  that's what's  going to  happen here...  because this  is a  matter  between
pairbonded partners."

The horse  snorted disapprovingly,  as if  to remind  Crit that  it knew  he was
trying to cover his own fear. Then it slowly turned around, so that its rump was
no longer facing him, and ambled toward him.

The big, liquid, obling-centered eyes said:  Strut is mine, too; horses and  men
are partners; mount up and let's stop playing games. He's waiting.

"Strat, damn  you to  hell," Crit  whispered, shaking  his head  to clear  it of
horse-thoughts and horse-needs  and horse-loyalties. This  wasn't even a  living
horse, just a ghost, something Ischade had conjured from a dead animal.

But the thing kept coming, head high, feet carefully placed to avoid stepping on
its dangling bridle reins.

Bridle reins? Had they been there before? He didn't think so.

The horse, now an arm's-length away, stopped still. It whickered softly and  the
whicker  said, /  love him  too. The  forefoot, pawing  the ground  impatiently,
added. We don't have much time. And then the horse, in the manner of high-school
horses like Tempus's Tros, bent one foreleg at the knee, curling it and lowering
his forequarters, the other front leg outstretched, while it arched its neck  in
a bow  meant to  enable a  wounded man  or a  high-bom lady  to mount up without
difficulty.

"Crap, all right," Crit said through clenched teeth and strode resolutely toward
the bowing  ghost-horse, trying  hard not  to think  too much  about what he was
doing, or whether he might be imagining the whole thing-maybe a piece of  timber
had fallen on him, a  piece of masonry collapsed so  fast he hadn't had time  to
realize it, and  he was dead  too, dead but  denied a peaceful  rest, trapped in
some netherworld with the ghost-horse, on which he'd wander forever, seeking his
lost rightside partner.

But no:  The sky  was full  of lightning,  there were  shouts and mutters on the
breeze from  somewhere near  by where  factions fought.  There was  a plague  in
Sanctuary, all right, but not some  spurious one that turned your lips  blue and
made your armpits sore: it was a plague of human failing, of confusion, of greed
and desire and endless power plays.

It  wasn't,  he  admitted  as  he  mounted  the  bay  (which  felt  surprisingly
substantial, for a ghost-horse), the magic or the gods which made Sanctuary such
a foul pit, but human excess; magic was no more to blame than sword or spear  or
rock.  There  were enough   rocks  on the  earth  to eradicate  the  race; magic
couldn't do a better job, only a  more colorful one. But  rock or spear  or wand
or  Nisi  globe didn't   murder on  their own,  nor enslave-the  weapon  must be
wielded; the   true culprit  was human   greed and  human will.  And the killing
never stopped- in the name of magic or  the  name of god or  the name of   honor
or nationalism  or progress or  liberation, it was just killing.

And because it had always been so,  and would always be so, Critias had  come to
the profession of  arms himself: the  only protection he  could see was  to be a
perpetrator, not a victim.

That  was why  Strat had  made him  so angry  when he'd  become entangled   with
Ischade: Strat had become a victim, and Crit had a horror of helplessness.  Even
if Strat were just a lovesick fool,  Crit still thought he'd been right when  he
had shot past  his friend that  night on the  balcony-if it had  served to bring
Straton to his senses, then Crit  wouldn't be here, pulling himself up  into the
sometimes-saddle of Strat's  sort-of-corporeal bay,  riding into  he-didn't-know
what for abstracts of honor and duty that weren't going to keep him alive if the
steaming stable toward which the  bay was ineluctably heading crashed  down upon
his head.

The stables weren't exactly  ablaze, but they had  corn magazines and straw  and
hay in them and sparks smoldered on the roof.

Crit reached forward to catch up the bay's reins, but the beast had had a  mouth
like iron in life and it was no better in afterlife.

He sawed on the reins to no avail, then quit trying in time to duck as the horse
trotted determinedly through  the open stable  doors and headed  for wide stairs
which must lead to the stable's loft.

Crit shifted his weight, thinking to throw one leg over the saddle and check out
the stable loft on foot, when the horse started climbing.

"Vashanka's  balls," the  task force  leader swore,  flattening himself  to  the
horse's neck as  it climbed a  flight never meant  for anything of  its size and
boards creaked and groaned. "Horse, you'd better be right."

It was: at the stair's head was a landing, and as the bay's bulk appeared there,
a woman stifled a scream.

It was hard to accustom his eyes to  the dark; the climb up the stairs had  been
too fast-everything was still milky green to Crit's fire-dazzled vision.

But Crit heard voices and slipped from the bay's back, his sword in hand.

Together, man  and ghost-horse  ventured into  the dimness;  horse's head snaked
low, man's sword paralleling its questing muzzle.

"Dear gods, what's that smell?" Crit muttered to himself.

And someone answered: "Strat. Or me, Critias. Which smell do you mean?"

And the voice of Stilcho was familiar  to Critias, who had once thought him  the
best of his kind of Stepson. Blinking, Crit strained to see the ruined visage of
the undead soldier. Stilcho was one  of Ischade's minions. He should have  known
the witch would still have her talons in Strat, one way or the other.

He  was going  to swing  his sword  up, cut  the one-eyed,  ghoulish head   from
Stilcho's torso  and hope  decapitation would  provide the  poor soul  what rest
Ischade had denied-not be cause he  expected his poor quotidian blade to  do the
job against magic, but because he was a soldier and he could only do what he was
trained to do,  when his vision  cleared enough to  see that Stilcho's  face was
neither so ruined nor so hostile as it ought to be.

And a  hand touched  his right  shoulder, squeezed,  and rested  there-Stilcho's
hand, warm and with the  pulse of mortal blood in  it so strong Crit fancied  he
could feel it coursing.

"That's right," said Stilcho softly through  a mouth hardly scarred, "I'm  alive
again. Don't ask-"

Crit's question, "How?"  hung in the  air until Stilcho  volunteered, "It's just
too complicated. Stepson. Ask about Strat, that's what you're here for... or  at
least that's what he's here for."  Stilcho jerked a thumb toward the  bay horse,
head low, snuffling, taking slow, careful steps toward a shadow that might be  a
prostrate man with a woman crouched by his side.

"That's right, Stilcho-Strat. That's all I  want. Not you or your witch  woman."
It was Ischade there,  hulking over Strat- it  must be. Ischade's ghost-man  and
ghost-horse, and the nec-romant herself, ringing Strat round with magic.

Crit considered seriously for the first  time the possibility that he was  going
to die here. He didn't believe for a moment that Stilcho was "alive" in the  way
that Crit-or Strat, please gods-was alive.

He said  to Stilcho,  "That's him,  then? He's  alive, if  he can't  control his
bowels. I'll just take him and be-"

A voice from the shadowed loft said,  "Shit, Stilcho, he'll kill me," as a  hand
which was also  Strat's reached up  feebly to stroke  the ghost-horse's questing
muzzle and the horse started to bow down again, not realizing that Strat was too
badly wounded to mount, no matter how easy the ghost-horse tried to make it.

Crit found that he was blinking back tears. Unreasonably, he wanted to sit  down
crosslegged where he was, let things take their course-even if it meant  burning
to death in this damned loft with a partner too sick to be moved but well enough
to remember that Crit had shot at him.

Crit said, "I wouldn't-couldn't. I busted  my butt getting here, Strat," but  it
came out hoarse  and low and  he said it  to the straw  scattered on the  loft's
floor at his feet.

The woman was trying to help Straton, who didn't realize he couldn't get on that
horse by himself.

Crit sheathed his sword and  put his hands in the  air, then walked over to  the
place where the ghost-horse nuzzled its master encouragingly.

Strat, half-prone, was staring  at him. The big  fighter's hand was clutched  to
his chest or belly-Crit couldn't tell from all the blood in the way.

"Strat... Ace, for pity's sake, let me help you," Crit said, bending down on one
knee, empty hands outstretched.

The ghost-horse neighed  impatiently and butted  Straton's shoulder. Behind  the
pair, the woman stood-the woman named  Moria from the Peres estate, but  dressed
in street rags so that he hardly recognized her.

Stilcho said, "Strat, maybe you'd better... it's not going to be safe here  much
longer. They can take care of you better than we-"

"Stilcho," Moria hissed, "come away. It's for them to talk out."

"Talk?" Strat laughed and the laugh choked him, so that he gurgled and wiped his
mouth with a hand that came away bloody. "We just did."

The wounded fighter reached with his  bloody hand to take one of  Crit's. "Well,
Crit, you going to watch, or you going to give me some help?"

"Strat..." Crit embraced his partner,  oblivious of might-be enemies about  him,
searching for harm, testing strength, mouthing harsh words that covered too much
emotion; "You stupid  bastard, when I  get you fixed  up I'm going  to beat some
sense into you."

And Strat  said, "You  do that,"  just about  the time  the bay  horse trumpeted
joyously  as he  felt Strat's  weight on  his back  and Crit  began the  arduous
process of leading the mounted, wounded man out of the stable's attic to  safety
at least of the sort a Sacred Band partner could provide.

Fire raged inside Ischade, now that she had quenched it in her clothing and  her
hair. It might have been her wrath  that caused the houses across the alleys  on
either side of her to flame up as she passed-uptown alleys she'd traveled before
and now again on her way to Tasfalen's velvet stronghold.

An ache and a fury was in Ischade and perhaps it spread around her. But  perhaps
it was  just the  pillar of  flame and  the young  fires it  set, so that better
uptown streets (where Sanctuary's troubles  never spread and rebels never  sped)
were a smoking labyrinth like some upscale version of the Maze.

Rebels  skulked here  now, and  peasants, looting:  Wrigglies, arms  laden  with
pilfered, sooty treasure, jostled her, saw whom they bumped, and slunk away.

She saw rape and nearly stopped  to feed-these mortal murderers wasted the  best
part of  their victims,  let the  manna go,  let the  essence, precious soul and
energy,  escape. Ischade  was weakened  by the  struggle in  Peres's,  somewhat.
Somewhat. But not too much.

She moved on, through a day mercifully veiled in clouds and soot and a storm now
rising off the sea. She wondered, as the sky blackened with thunderheads boiling
up, if the storm was natural  or summoned-then thought it didn't matter:  it was
convenient, either way.

She saw an enclosed Beysib wagon,  overturned by brigands. Bald heads of  Beysib
males  littered  the  environs  like playballs  from  some  devil's  game, their
accustomed torsos near but not attached. She  saw what fate was dealt a pair  of
Beysib women. and wondered what the  rebels thought to gain. If they  kept their
war to downtown,  they might win  it. Up here,  they asked for  retribution that
would last for generations.

Amid  pathetic cries,  she stopped  awhile, and  closed her  eyes-trusting to  a
cloaking spell to hide her. When she moved on, she was emboldened, strengthened,
but sick at heart:  for her to be  reduced to scavenging was  demeaning. But war
did what it willed.

Thunder wracked the  streets and she  looked upward, grateful  for the lowering,
stormy  dark but  wary: she'd  finish what  she started,  unless the   stormgods
intervened. She owed Tempus something. And she owed Haught a different thing.

She had her word to make good. She had her interests to secure. She had work  to
do before retiring to the White Foal's edge.

It was not painless  for Ischade, this sneaking  to Tasfalen's in the  daylight.
Janni, one others, was  still trapped in the  cone of flame, where  Stormbringer
and demons argued, where Rox-ane had been and now was not.

What would Tempus,  who wanted the  souls of his  soldiers freed of  strings and
tortures, make of Janni's plight? Hardly an honorable rest, in his terms. But  a
piece of bravery, in hers, the like of which she'd never seen.

All  for  Niko,  or for  something  more  abstract? she  wondered  as  she found
Tasfalen's gate and then his steps and her thoughts turned to Haught and  Roxane
and what  lay ahead,  as she  dealt with  locks of  natural and other kinds, and
doors likewise doubled, and, as the  last portal opened to her will,  a raindrop
struck her cheek, and then another, and thunder rolled.

The storm would  ground the dust  and douse the  fires and she  knew it was  too
great a luck  for Sanctuary, the  most luckless town  she'd ever seen.  She knew
also that, inside the flaming pillar back  at the Peres's, evil was held at  bay
by one whose name could not be spoken but could be approximated:  Stonn-bringer,
the Weather-Gods' father-Stormbringer, whose daughter Jihan was close at hand.

And then  there was  no time  to put  it all  together: there  was a ring on the
finger of Haught which she could see with her inner eye.

This she stroked and  called home to her.  Its spell, still strong,  would bring
the scheming apprentice-if he was not already here.

In the ground hall full of shadows  she paused. The door behind her closed  at a
gust's whim. The slam it made was daunting.

Her hackles rose-she hadn't thought of the ring Haught had until she'd  entered.
Was it her will, or only her perception, that saw him here?

Why had she  come here? Suddenly,  she wasn't sure.  She shook her  head, on the
ground floor landing, and touched her  brow with her palm. She owed  Tempus none
of this-not so  much. Tasfalen was  dead, a minion  to be summoned  to the river
house. Why, then, had she risked the streets and come up here?

Why? She couldn't fathom it.

And then she did, when Haught's silken voice oozed down the stairs from a shadow
at their head.

"Ah, Mistress, how kind of you to visit sickbeds with so much at stake."

She reached out  for the ring  he wore, but  the apprentice was  reaching on his
own: grown desperate, he was full of pain, and wanted to make her a gift of it.

Suddenly  (more because  she underestimated  what lay  behind him  and what  hid
within him than because  of Haught himself) she  was dizzy, spinning in  another
place, a place of blood and murky  water-of ice and great gates whose bars  were
rent as if a giant shape had bent them out of its way.

Niko's rest-place! How had she come here?... not by Haught's strength.

And a laugh tinkled-a laugh with razor edges that cut her soul: Roxane.

Yes, Roxane-but  something less  and something  more hobbled  through that gate,
misshapen and huge, and shrunk until Tasfalen's beauty masked it.

And then the  thing... for it  was part highborn,  mortal lord, part  witch, and
part Haught... held out  its hand to take  her arm as if  to escort her to  some
formal fete.

She met its eyes and gripped her own ribs with both her hands: to touch it might
imprison her here. This was where Janni had lost the last shreds of self-concern
that made him act predictably in the interest of what life he still led.

The eyes that bored into hers were  gold and slitted; deep behind them glowed  a
purple fire she knew wasn't right.

She forced her leaden limbs to work  and backed a step, watching first her  feet
and then  scanning the  horizons, winding  wards that  worked in Sanctuary which
were much weaker here.

Niko's star-shaped  meadow, once  ever-green and  pastoral, the  very essence of
spirit peace, was frostbitten, brown, and gray and riddled with ice like arrows.
Where trees had spread  rustling leaves, their boughs  now held shards of  flesh
and writhing things resembling tiny men who cried like kittens being drowned.

And the stream which was his life's ebb and flow ran with swirls of red and blue
and pink and gold: blood shed and to be shed; magic winding it round and chasing
it; Niko's faith and the love of gods bringing up behind.

Tasfalen  was cajoling:  "Come, my  love. My  beauteous one.  We'll feast."   He
flicked a glance to  the trees hung with  anguished, living things. "The  boughs
are ripe for picking, the fruit is sweet."

And she knew the only salvation here, for her, was in the stream.

She didn't know the consequence if she should do what her wisdom told her:  take
a drink.

Before she could lose  her nerve or be  mesmerized, she whirled about  and flung
herself knee deep in running water.

And bent. And drank.

And saw Niko,  when she raised  her dripping lips,  sitting on the  stream's far
side, his face  calm, unravaged. His  quick, canny smile  came and went  and she
noticed he wore his panoply: the enameled cuirass, sword and dirk forged by  the
en-telechy of dreams.

"It's a dream, then?" she said, feeling the icy water with its four distinct and
different tastes  run down  her chin  and hearing  a lumbering  behind her  much
louder, and a rasping breath much deeper, than Tasfalen's form could make.

"Don't  turn around,"  Niko advised  as if  he were  training a  student in  the
martial arts; "don't look at it; don't listen. This is my rest-place, after  all
not theirs."

"And me? It's not mine, fighter. Nor are you."

"And  they are.  I know."  There was  no abhorrence  in the  Bandaran  fighter's
glance,  just infinite  patience. And  as Ischade  looked, his  visage  changed,
contorting through a  metamorphosis that seemed  to include all  the tortures of
his recent past- eyes rolled up, cheeks split over bone, lips purpled and  torn,
teeth cracked and crumbled, bruises filled with blood.

Then the entire process  reversed itself, and a  handsome man still in  the last
bloom of youth regarded Ischade once more.

"You're very beautiful, you  know-in your soul," Niko  said. "It shows here.  In
spite of everything."

Behind her, the  Tasfalen-thing was shambling  closer; she could  hear it splash
into the stream. She almost whirled to fight it; her fingers spread into a shape
suitable for throwing coun-terspells.

Niko shook his head chidingly: "Trust me. This is my place. As for your  welcome
here-when I needed help, you came here, where risk is greater than mortals know,
and tried to aid me. I haven't forgotten."

"Are you dead?" she asked flatly, though it was impolite.

His smooth brow furrowed. "No, I'm sure not. I'm reclaiming what's mine ... with
a little help." Behind the fighter, the semblance of the pillar of fire came  to
be.

He knew  it was  there without  looking. He  said, "See,  you must  trust. We're
giving Janni his proper funeral, you and I. At last. And you, who kept him  from
worse and soothed his conscience, ought'to be here."

"And... that?" Ischade  meant what was  behind her. All  her hackles risen,  she
found her mouth dry and eyes aching-if she had a mouth here, or eyes. It  seemed
she did.

"We'll put them back where they belong-not here. They're yours to deal with,  in
the World."

He must have seen her frown, for he leaned forward on one straight and  scarless
arm that might never have been shattered when a demon raged inside him:  "Roxane
is ... special. Different. Less. I'm free of all but my own feelings. For that I
don't apologize. Like you, I  deal in more than one  reality. But 1 ask you  for
mercy on her behalf..."

"Mercy!" Incredulous, Ischade nearly burst out laughing. The thing that was part
Haught, part Tasfalen (who was dead and had housed Roxane once and now again, if
Ischade  understood the  rules by  which Niko's  magic games  were played),  was
shuffling close behind  now, intent on  biting off her  head or munching  on her
soul. It had been one with a demon; it had merged with devils; it had taken fire
out of the hands of arch-mages such as Randal and used it even against her.  All
of this, Ischade was  sure, was Roxane's twisted  evil come to ground.  And Niko
wanted mercy for  the witch that  had made his  life a living  hell and wouldn't
offer him so much mercy as clean death would bring.

"That's right-mercy. I'm not like  you, but we've helped each  other. Tolerance,
balance-good and evil: each resides within the other, part and parcel."

Ischade, who'd seen too much evil, shook  her head. "You must be dead, or  still
possessed."

"Look." Niko's diction slipped into mercenary argot. "It's all the same-no  good
without evil, no  balance... no maat.  If we lose  one, we lose  the other. It's
just life, that's all. And as for death-we get what we expect."

"And you  expect what?"  Now she  realized that  Niko himself  was not naive, or
helpless, or entirely benign. "From me, I mean?"

"Mercy, I already  told you." The  firewell behind him  began to shimmer  and to
dance, swinging its hips like a temple girl. "To your kind; for the record.  For
the balance of the thing. Janni we will take now."

"We?" It  was one  of the  hardest things  Ischade had  ever done  to engage  in
philosophical discussion with Nikodemos  while, behind, the shambling  thing had
come so close she  could feel its fetid  breath upon her neck,  and fancied that
breath moist and felt,  she thought, a strand  of drool land in  her hair. Don't
look at it; don't  turn around-it's Niko's rest-place  and his rules, not  mine,
apply.

"We," Niko said as if it were  a simple lesson any child should understand.  And
then she did: behind him, a ghost appeared.

She knew ghosts when she  saw them: this one was  a spirit of supernal power,  a
fabled strength, a glossy being of such beauty that tears came to Ischade's eyes
when it sat down beside Niko, ruffling his hair with a fawn-colored hand.

"I am Abarsis," it smiled in  introduction, and she saw the wizard  blood there,
ancient lineage, and love so strong it made her heart hurt: she'd given up  such
options as this ghost had thrived on, long ago.

"We need Janni's  soul in heaven;  it's earned its  peace. Give it  that, and we
will restore you  totally-all you were,  all you had...  including this northern
pair of witches ... this amalgam behind you of all their hate-if, as Niko  asks,
you show them mercy, then the gods will be well pleased."

"And if not?" This was no place for Ischade-she had no truck with gods or ghosts
of dead  priests. Damn  Tempus, who  muddled all  the sides  and made ridiculous
demands.

"That's done long since," said  the ghost, unabashedly reading her  mind. "We're
here for Janni only, and to give a gift for your safekeeping him until we  could
take him home. Now name it, Ischade of Downwind. Choose well."

She wanted only to get  out of there, to be  whole and well and fighting  on her
own terms, dealing with her own kind. And before she could say that, or think of
something better, Abarsis, one  arm around Niko, raised  his other hand to  her,
saying: "It  is done.  Go with  strength and  purpose. Life  to you, Sister, and
everlasting glory."

And the rest-place went out like a  light. The icy stream of colored water,  the
pillar of fire which aped reality, the snuffling horror at her back which  she'd
never truly glimpsed but only felt-and the two fighters, one spirit, one man  of
balance: all were gone as if they'd never been.

She was standing on  the dry floor of  Tasfalen's house and Haught  was taunting
her to come up the stairs.

Mercy, Niko had asked of her. She  wondered if she knew, still, what it  was and
how to show it to creatures like these.

"Ischade... Mistress, aren't you curious?"  Haught was rubbing the ring  and she
could feel the feedback of magic twisted, a deadly loop fashioned by a brash and
foolish child.

Temptation made her shift  from foot to foot.  She was stronger, she  could feel
it: Niko and his  guardian spirit had given  her that. She could  end them, here
and now-Haught and whatever animated  Tasfalen. For, though she hadn't  seen him
yet, she  knew he  must be  here: the  rest-place revelation  was like  a map, a
schematic, a design which fit over human ones. So he was here, reborn,  animated
by some power. And Niko had wanted mercy for Roxane....

Two and two fit together with a snap.

Ischade whirled on her heel and fled out the door. For a moment it resisted, but
her strength prevailed.

Haught, behind her, came running down the stairs with a shout.

But she was faster: she wrenched  the door open, slipped through, and  bolted it
with magic from the farther side.

Then, stepping back, Ischade considered  mercy in all its meanings:  if Tasfalen
and Roxane were with Haught, in any stage of being whatsoever, mercy could  only
take one form.

And  with  strength loaned  her  from the  rest-place  of a  mystery  she didn't
understand and under the benediction of the high priest of a god in whom she had
no faith, Ischade  began to weave  a spell so  strong and fast  she had no doubt
about it holding.

All about Tasfalen's house she wove the ward-a special one, one that would  keep
the house sealed and keep those  within locked up until they learned  what mercy
meant.

When it  was over,  she realized  she had  worked her  spells in  the midst of a
downpour which had soaked her to the skin.

Picking up her heavy robes, she  headed homeward. Perhaps she should have  found
the Riddler and told him what she'd done. But there were Crit and Strat to think
of, and she didn't want to think  of Strat-who was with Tempus by now,  alive or
dead.

She wanted to  think only of  herself for now.  She wanted things  to be just as
they always  had been  before. And  she wanted  to think  about mercy, a quality
quite strained and strange, but strengthening, in its way.

In Tasfalen's house,  what had  been Roxane  lay abed  in Tasfalen's  body, half
conscious, rent in memory and power, a mere fragment knowing only that it wanted
to survive.

"Duuu,"  it  mumbled,  and tried  again  to  move the  lips  of  a corpse  twice
resurrected. "Dusss." And: "Dusssst. Haughttt... dussst."

The ex-slave was  rattling windows barred  by magic, cursing  horrid spells that
couldn't get outside, but bounced around  the comers of the house and  back upon
him like ricochets, so that each one was more trouble than it was worth.

Eventually his panic ebbed and he  stalked over to the bedside, looking  down at
the fish-white pallor of the man who'd brought him here.

Snatched him from somewhere-from elsewhere ... perchance from oblivion.  Someone
else might have been grateful, but Haught was too wise, too angry: he knew  that
all witches took their price.

He'd thought to win;  he'd lost. He was  captive now, captive in  a mansion with
fine stuffs  around him,  true. But  he was  caged like  an animal by his former
mistress. And he was here only because of Tasfalen.

Nothing else could have done it. So  he crouched down, thinking of ways to  kill
the already-dead, ways to get the Roxane out of Tasfalen, where it was  bodiless
and weak.

But then he began to listen, to try to understand what the thing on the bed  was
saying: "Duuussss, duuussss, duuussss..."

"Dust?" he guessed. "Do you mean dust?"

The eyes of the  revivified corpse blinked open,  startling him so that  he fell
back and caught himself on his hands.

"Duuussss," the blue lips said, "on tonnnn."

"Dust. On your... tongue?" Of course. That was it. The dust. It wanted the dust.

Not ordinary dust, Haught realized: the hot dust, the bright dust, the fragments
of the Nisi Globes of Power. And  the corpse was right: the dust was  their only
hope-his as well as... hers.

For the first time, Haught thought about what it meant, being caged with Roxane,
the Nisibisi witch-in-man's-body-or what was left of her. If she perished, those
who held her soul would come for her. And Haught might be embroiled.  Entangled.
Taken. Swallowed. Absorbed like interest payments.

His skin hompilated: there was enough intelligence in that body to have seen the
answer before he did.

What else was there, he was in no  hurry to find out. And he had a  long, trying
task ahead of him: the dust in question must be collected, mote by mote.

It was going to be arduous: the  place was full of dust, most of  it nonmagical.
It might take days, or weeks, or years, to gather enough-especially when he  had
no idea how much was enough.

And when he had it, what would he do with it? Give it to the invalid  ex-corpse?
Or find a  way to make  use of it  himself? He didn't  know, but he  knew he had
plenty of time to decide. And, since he had nothing better to do, he thought, he
might as well start collecting what dust he could, mote by mote by mote....

The storm pelted Sanctuary with all the fury of affronted gods. Rain sheeted  so
hard that it punctured skin windows in the Maze; it ran so thick and wild in the
gutters that the tunnels filled up  and sewers overflowed in the better  streets
while, in  the palace,  servitors ran  with buckets  and barrels  to place under
leaks that were veritable waterfalls.

On the dockside, everything  was awash in tide  and downpour, which gave  Tempus
the perfect opportunity to suggest that Theron, Emperor of Ranke, Brachis,  High
Priest, and  all the  functionaries forget  protocol and  begin their procession
now, to higher ground and drier quarters.

By the time the Rankan entourage reached the palace gates, Molin Torchholder had
already arrived, Kama in tow.

In the palace temple's quiet, he was giving grateful thanks for the storm  which
had come to quench  the fires (that, unattended  by gods, threatened to  bum the
whole town down) while, at the  casement, Kama stared out over smoking  rooftops
toward uptown, where the pillar of fire spat and wriggled.

She had sidled into the alcove, away from priestly ritual, and she couldn't have
said whether it was the cold storm  winds with their blinding sheets of rain  so
fierce that she could see it bounce knee-high when it struck the palace roof, or
the demonic twistings of the fiery  cone which resisted quenching that made  her
hair stand on end.

She was more conscious of Molin than she should have been. Perhaps that was  the
reason for the superstitious  chill she felt: she  was about to be  indicted for
attempted assassination and  what-have-you, and she  was worried about  what the
priest really felt in his heart-about how she looked and whether he believed her
and what he thought  of her... about whether  anyone of her lineage  ought to be
thinking infatuated thoughts about anyone of his.

It wouldn't work; he was a worse choice for her than Critias. But, like Critias,
it was impossible to convince Molin of that.

It was nothing he'd said-it was everything he did, the way their bodies  reacted
when their flesh touched. And it frightened Kama beyond measure: she'd need  all
her wits now  just to stay  alive. Her father  would take Crit's  word over hers
without hesitation;  oath-bond and  honor outweighted  any claim  she had on the
Riddler.

If she'd been born a manchild, it might have been otherwise. But things were  as
they were, and Torchholder was her only hope.

He'd  said so.  He knew  it for  a fact.  She didn't  like feeling  weak,  being
perceived as vulnerable.  And yet, she  admitted, she'd spread  her legs on  the
god's altar for  the man now  coming up behind  her, who slid  his arm round her
shivering shoulders and kissed her ear.

"It's  wonderful, the  timely workings  of the  gods," he  said in  an  intimate
undertone.  "And  it's a  good  omen-our good  omen.  You must...  Kama,  you're
shaking."

"I'm cold, wet, and bedraggled," she  protested as he turned her gently  to face
him. Then she added: "While you were communing with the Stormgod, my father  and
Theron's party came through the palace  gates. My time is at hand,  Molin. Don't
hold out false hope to me, or gods' gifts. The gods of the armies won't overlook
the fact that I'm a woman-they never have."

"Thanks to all the  Weather Gods that you  are," said the priest  feelingly and,
after  peering into  her eyes  for an  uncomfortably long  instant, pulled   her
against him. "I'll take care of you, as  I have taken care of this town and  its
gods and even Kadakithis. Put your faith in me."

Had anyone  else said  that to  her, she  would have  laughed. But from Molin it
sounded believable. Or she wanted so to  believe it that she didn't care how  it
sounded.

They were standing thus, arms locked about one another, when a commotion of feet
and then a discreet "Hrrmph" sounded.

Both turned, but it was Kama  who whooped a short bark of  disbelieving laughter
before she  thought to  choke it  off: Before  them were  Jihan and  Randal, the
Tysian Hazard, arms around each other.

Or, more exactly, Jihan's arms  were around Randal's slight and  battered frame.
She was holding the mage easily, so that his feet hardly touched the floor.  His
glazed eyes roamed  a little but  he was conscious-his  quizzical, all-suffering
looking confirmed it.

Jihan's eyes  were full  of red  flames and  Kama heard  Molin exclaim under his
breath, "The storm-of course, it's brought her powers back."

"Powers?"  Kama whispered  through unmoving  lips. "Were  they gone?  Back  from
where?" and  Molin answered,  just as  low, "Never  mind. I'll  tell you  later,
beloved."

Then he said, in his most  ringing priestly voice, "Jihan, my lady,  what brings
you to the Stormgod's sanctuary? Are the children well? Is something amiss  with
Niko?"

"Priest," Jihan stamped her  foot, "isn't it obvious?  Randal and I are  in love
and we wish to be married by the tenets of your... faith... god, whatever. Now!"

Randal hiccoughed in surprise  and his eyes widened.  Kama would have been  more
concerned with  the exhausted  little wizard  if she  wasn't still  reeling from
shock: Beloved, Molin had called her.

Randal raised a feeble hand to  his brow and Kama wondered whether  the casualty
was capable of standing under his own power, let alone making any decision about
marriage.

So she said, "Randal? Seh, Witchy-Ears, are you awake? My father isn't going  to
like you marrying his girl ranger, not  considering the use he tends to make  of
her. I'd-"

Jihan's free hand outstretched, pointing, and Kama's flesh began to chill.

Molin stepped  in front  of Kama.  "Jihan, Kama  meant no  slight. She's in dire
straits herself. With our  help. Froth Daughter, you  shall be able to  wed your
chosen mage before..." He craned his neck  to peer out the window, where no  sun
could  be  seen,  just  the  demonic  pillar  of  fire  and  the  lightning   of
Stormbringer. "... before sundown, if that's  your desire, and I will wed  mine.
If you aid me, my gratitude and that of my tutelary god will be inscribed in the
heavens forever and-"

"You're  marrying a  mage?" Jihan's  winglike brows  knitted, but  her  pointing
finger, with its deadly cold, wavered, and her hand came to rest on her own hip.

"Not a mage.  Kama, here. I  can divest myself  of Rosanda easily  enough: she's
abandoned me. But  I'll need your  help in securing  Tempus's permission... he's
your guardian as well as Kama's."

"Guardian?" Both women  snapped in unison  as two feminine  spines stiffened and
two wily women considered alternatives.

"Someone," Torchholder intoned  through the objections  of the two  women, "must
set the seal  on the betrothal  pacts," thinking that  he'd found a  way to free
Tempus from Jinan and, for that boon  alone, Tempus owed him any favor he  cared
to ask.

And for  Kama's hand,  Kama's freedom,  and Kama's  honor, he'd  be glad to call
their debt even.  But for Kama's  willing love he  needed more. Standing  behind
her, his  arms circling  her in  the proper  pose of  the protective husband, he
whispered: "Trust me  in this;  accept a  formal betrothal.  I am  sacerdote  of
Mother Bey, Vashanka,   and Stonnbringer.  It  will  take a   month to  untangle
the  necessary rituals. It will take longer-if you desire."

The tension along her spine eased. She let her breath out with a careful sigh.

Once more, Molin Torchholder  gave fervid thanks to  the Stormgod, who had  seen
fit to visit rain upon this paltry  thieves' world in all His bounty, to  quench
the fires of chaos, and even to restore Jihan's powers.

Over Kama's head, as he  looked out the window, it  seemed to him that even  the
demonic pillar of fire  was shrinking under the  onslaught of the god's  blessed
rain.

Tempus  was still  trying to  explain to  Theron, who'd  come down  here to  the
empire's nether-parts because of that black, ominous rain falling in the capital
of Ranke, Abarsis's visit, and because it  was the tendency of omens to make  or
break a regent's rule,  that the plague had  been specious (a handy  way to keep
Brachis  under wraps)  and the  storm merely  natural; that  the fires  and the
looting were  simply consequences  of the  demonic pillar  of flame,   which had
much to  do with  Nikodemos and  nothing at  all to  do  with Theron's  arrival;
and  that  "No  one  will  construe it  otherwise,  my  friend,  unless  we show
weakness," when they came upon Molin Torchholder in Ka-dakithis's palace hall.

"My lord and emperor,"  Molin purred, and bowed,  and Tempus stifled an  urge to
let  Theron know  that Sanctuary's  architect/priest was  a Nisi  wizardling  in
disguise, a pretender and defiler, and a loudmouthed meddler to boot.

Theron,  who didn't  quite remember  Molin but  recognized the  ornate robes  of
office, said sharply, "Priest, what's  wrong with your acolytes that  this place
is accursed by  weather, witch, and  demon? If you  can't restore order  to your
little backwater of the heavens, I'll  replace you with someone who can.  You've
till New Year's day to set things right here-and no argument." Theron's  leonine
visage reddened: he'd found someone to blame for at least part of what was wrong
here.

Only Tempus noticed the humor dancing  in the shadows round the emperor's  mouth
as the Lion of Ranke  bawled: "See Brachis, this is  his mess as well, and  tell
him my decree: either Sanctuary is made pleasing in the sight of gods and  their
chosen representative-me-or you'll both be out looking for new jobs come  year's
end."

Molin Torchholder  was too  smart to  wince or  bridle. He  stood stolidly, eyes
fixed on  Theron's hairy  left ear  until he  was certain  that the  emperor was
finished.

Then he responded, "Very good, my lord emperor. I'll see to it. But while I have
your ear-and Tempus's-some news: Last night  Prince/Governor Kadakithis  pledged
his  troth to  the  Beysib queen, Shupansea... an  alliance is ours now  for the
asking."

"Really?" Theron's  manner mellowed;  he rubbed  his hands.  "That's the sort of
omen worth retelling."

Tempus found his  dagger in his  fingers; he cleaned  dirt from its  chased hilt
absently, waiting for Molin's other shoe to drop.

And drop  it did:  "Moreover, if  I have  leave to  continue, sire? Many thanks.
Then: The esteemed Froth  Daughter, spawn of Stonnbringer  who is father of  all
the Weather Gods, will marry our own archmage, the Hazard Randal. This alliance,
too, is fortuitous for-"

"What?"  Tempus   could  scarcely   believe  his   ears-or  his   good  fortune.
Stonnbringer, at least, kept His word.

Molin continued, not  deigning to notice  the Riddler's outburst:  "-for us all.
And to make a threesome of  favorable omens, I myself propose to  marry-with all
suitable ceremony and with Tempus's  permission, of course-the lady Kama  of the
Third Commando, daughter of the Riddler. Thus the armies and the priesthood will
be wed as well, and internal strife ended..."

"You're going to what? You're mad. Crit  says she tried to mur-" Tempus bit  off
words of accusation, thinking matters through as quickly as he fought in battle.
Torchholder was canny; the move was one sure to bring him power, consolidate his
position, put him beyond Tempus's  retribution and above reproach. But  it would
also save Tempus's  daughter from a  lengthy inquisition: even  Crit would admit
that, since  Strat was  alive and  would recover,  Kama was  more useful to them
alive than dead, if she shared Torchholder's bed.

And Crit had sent word to him that there was some evidence that PFLS members had
used the blue-fletched  arrows: the task  force leader had  warned against hasty
action, using all his operator's wiles to posit misdirection, to give Tempus  an
honorable way out of accusing his own daughter of an attempt at murder.

"So you'll make an honest woman of  my ... daughter. Just don't expect a  dowry,
congratulations, or  any leniency  on my  part if  you later  wish you hadn't: a
divorce will get you killed. So will unfaithfulness, or perfidy of any sort." It
was  the least  he could  do for  his daughter.  And, said  before the  emperor,
Tempus's  conditions bound  like law.  It was  a good  thing that  a priest   of
Vashanka could have more than one wife, though Tempus wouldn't have wanted to be
Molin when that one's first wife heard this news.

Torchholder blanched,  but smiled  and said,  "I'm off  to tell  her, then.  And
you'll take care of the other matter... the little misunderstanding she had with
certain troops of yours?"

"That goes without  saying," Tempus growled  while Theron looked  back and forth
between the two, uncomprehending.

When Molin had hurried away in a swish of robes, Theron elbowed Tempus and said,
light eyes sparkling, "Don't  suppose you'd tell an  old warhorse what all  that
was about?"

"Petty squabbles,  unimportant. Now  tell me  about this  expedition you want to
mount-the  one to  the uncharted  east, beyond  the sea.  It interests  me;  I'm
restless. My men need some mortal enemies to fight-this going up against  magics
and the gods  tends to dull  an army's spirit.  They want a  battle they can win
upon their own."

And Theron  was glad  to do  that. They  worked it  out, on  the way down to see
Nikodemos and the fabled Stormchildren  in their nursery: Tempus would  take his
forces-Stepsons and 3rd  Commando and whomever  else he chose  from the empire's
legions, and  strike east.  He'd ship  the horses  such cavalry  must have,  and
weapons and provisions;  he'd bring back  intelligence and rare  goods, if there
were any; he'd set  up embassies for trade  and size up weak  principalities for
conquest. And he'd do  it without any help  from witch or god-taking  just Jihan
(and Randal) and his fighters.

The two old friends shook hands as they came down a flight of stairs and  headed
for the nursery, with Theron sighing  wistfully, "I only wish that I  could join
you, Riddler. This kinging is even less than it's cracked up to be. But it makes
me feel less trapped, setting you free, even for a few months...."

Tempus pushed the door inward and Theron fell silent.

The Rankan emperor remembered  Nikodemos from the battle  for the throne at  the
Festival of Man. He'd been with Tempus once when the Riddler had had to bail his
Stepson out of a Rankan jail.

The ashen-haired youth sitting with a babe on either knee looked tired, wan, and
somehow much too gentle to be the same much-lauded fighter. But when Niko raised
his head and wished them life and glory, it was clearly the youngster whose fate
was dogged by a Nisibisi witch.

Tempus left Theron's side and strode to where Niko sat.

As he did, Gyskouras buried his young head in Niko's chiton and began to weep at
the sight  of his  natural father,  and Alton,  understanding more than children
should, shook his  dark-haired head and  told his blond  companion: "'Kouras, be
brave. Don't cry."

"Let him. They're clear tears, and  that's a blessing," Niko said softly  to the
children, then looked up at Tempus and beyond, to Theron: "You'll excuse me  for
not rising, lords.  They're tired. They're  undisciplined. They've had  too many
adventures for boys so young."

"So have you,  we've heard. Stealth,"  Theron said kindly,  remembering all that
went on upcountry to  win him the throne  from Abakithis, and how  much Niko had
sacrificed to that end.

"You're still taking them to Bandara, Niko?" Tempus asked offhandedly.

"If you still agree. Commander. If you'll give me leave."

Tempus almost said that Abarsis had usurped command from him in the matter,  but
he was too pleased  with the outcome of  his talk with Theron.  "Leave you have,
and leave  to meet  us in  three months  back in  the capital-we're  mounting an
expedition and I'll want you along."

Something changed in Niko's face, as if a tension had been drained. "You do? You
will?" Niko let the children slide off his lap and got slowly, carefully, to his
feet. The signs  of all he'd  been through then  showed clearly: bruised  bones,
favored muscles, a stiffness time would have to heal. "I'm glad.. .1 mean... you
might have  thought me  too much  trouble-all I  bring with  me, wherever...  my
witch-curse and my ghosts and all."

"You're the best I've  got, Niko." said Tempus  levelly. "And the only  man I've
called partner in a century. Some things can't be changed."

And although Theron might not have understood the last bit, Niko did, and  moved
painfully to embrace him,  stepped back, bowed as  best he could to  Theron, and
then, with a  blush of humility,  mumbled that he'd  best begin preparations  to
take the boys and make away.

Tempus took Theron out of there, then, and on the way back upstairs they chanced
to glimpse the skyline out the palace window, where a hair-thin column of  fire,
a weakened pillar of flame, blew far right, then left, and then winked out.