AFTERMATH   Copyright © 1987 by Robert Lynn Aspnn and Lynn Abbey

Dramatis Personae copynght © 1987 by Face of Chaos, Inc

Introduction copynght © 1987 by Robert Lynn Aspnn

"Cade" copyright © 1987 by Mark C Perry

"Wake of the Riddler" copyright © 1987 by Paradise

"Inheritor" copynght © 1987 by David A Drake

"Mercy Worse Than None" copyright © 1987 by Brunner Fact and Fiction Limited

"Seeing is Believing (But Love is Blind)" copyright © 1987 by Face of Chaos, Inc

"Homecoming" copyright © 1987 by Andrew J Orfiilt

All rights reserved

"THIEVES' WORLD" and "SANCTUARY" are trademarks belonging to Robert Lynn
Aspnn and Lynn Abbey

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other
means, without permission For information, address the Berkley Publishing Group

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental

Endpaper maps by James R Odbert

Published by arrangement with
The Berkley Publishing Group
200 Madison Avenue
New York, New York 10016

Printed in the United States of America

Quality Printing and Binding by
R R Donnelley & Sons Company
1009 Stoan Street
Crawfordsville, IN 47933 USA

AFTERMATH

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae, Lynn Abbey ..................... 5

Introduction, Robert Lynn Asprin .................... 11

Cade, Mark C. Perry ............................ 14

Wake of the Riddler, Janet Morris .................... 49

Inheritor, David Drake ........................... 79

A Mercy Worse Than None, John Brunner .............. 131

Seeing Is Believing (But Love Is Blind),

Lynn Abbey ................................. 153

Homecoming, Andrew Ojfutt ....................... 177

AFTERMATH

Dramatis Personae

The Townspeople

AHDIOVIZUN; AHDIOMERVIZ; AHDIO—Proprietor ofSly's Place, a legend-
ary dive within the Maze.

AYE-GOPHLAN—Captain of the palace guard before the arrival of Prince
Kadakithis. Now he is one of three men charged with keeping the peace
in Sanctuary.

LALO THE LIMNER—Street artist gifted with magic he does not fully un-
derstand.

GILLA—His indomitable wife.

GANNER—Their middle son, slain during the False Plague riots of
the previous winter which signaled the end of severe civil unrest
in Sanctuary.

VANDA—Their daughter, employed as nursemaid to the Beysib at
the palace.

HAKIEM—Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire.
HORT—Son of a fisherman and now Hakiem's sometime apprentice.

6                   AFTERMATH

JUBAL—Prematurely aged former gladiator. Once he openly ran Sanc-
tuary's most visible criminal organization, the hawkmasks; now he
works behind the scenes.

MASHA ZIL-INEEL—Midwife whose involvement in the destruction of the
Purple Mage enabled her to move from the Maze to respectability up-
town.

MELILOT—Owner of a scriptorium where letters can be written or trans-
lated.

MRADHON vis—Nisibisi adventurer and sometime spy. He has betrayed
almost everyone and been betrayed in return, but he is a consummate

survivor.
MYRTIS—Madam of the Aphrodisia House.

SHAFRALAIN—Sanctuary nobleman who can trace his lineage and his
money back to the days ofllsig's glory.
ESARIA—His nubile daughter.

EXPIMILIA—His wife.
CUSHARLAIN—His cousin. A customs inspector and investigator.

SNAPPER JO—A friend who survived the destruction of magic in Sanctu-
ary. Now employed as a bartender in the Vulgar Unicorn.

ZIP—Bitter young terrorist. Leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation
of Sanctuary (PFLS). Now he and his remaining fighters have been
designated as officials responsible for peace in the city.

The S*danzo

ILLYRA—Half-blood S'danzo seeress with True Sight. Wounded by PFLS

in the False Plague Riots.

DUBRO—Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra.
ARTON—Their son, marked by the gods as part of the emerging
diety known as the Stormchildren. He was sent to the Bandaran

DRAMATIS PERSONAE                 7

Islands for his education and safety—and to remove him from

Sanctuary.

LILLIS—Their daughter, slain in the False Plague riots.
TREVYA—A newborn orphan girl placed in their care by Walegrin.

MOONFLOWER—S'danzo seeress of remarkable obesity who was slain by
Beysib guards who had mistakenly attacked her husband.

THE TERMAGANT—Oldest of the S'danzo women practicing her craft in
Sanctuary.

The Magicians

ENAS YORL—Quasi-immortal mage cursed with eternal life and a con-
stantly changing physical form.

ISCHADE—Necromancer and thief. Her curse is passed to her lovers who
die from it. Her rivalry with Roxane drew her into the murky realm of
Sanctuary's politics from which she has yet to extricate herself.

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

HAUGHT—One-time apprentice oflschade who betrayed her and is

now trapped with Roxane.

TASFALEN—The dissolute Rankan nobleman, one oflschade's lov-
ers, whose body has become Roxane's prison.

STRICK; TORAZELAN STRICK TIFIRAQA— White Mage who has made
Sanctuary his home. He will help anyone who comes to him, but there is
always a Price, sometimes trivial and sometimes not, for his aid.

AVENESTRA; AVNEH—Once a preteen prealcoholic barfly at Sly's

Place. Now Strick's very young receptionist with a sweet tooth.
FRAX—Former palace guardsman, now Strick's fiercely loyal

guard.

WINTSENAY; WINTS—A down-and-out young Ilsig whose life has
improved immeasurably since he began working for Strick.

AFTERMATH

Visitors in Sanctuary

JARVEENA—A woman, once Melilot's apprentice, who. with Enas Tori's
help, unveiled a plot to assassinate Prince Kadakithis shortly after his
arrival in Sanctuary. In the intervening years she has been employed as
Melilot's trading agent, and her many hideous scars have been slowly

fading.

SAMLOR HIL SAMT, Trader from the north. His sister died in Sanctuary
and his business sometimes brings him back to the city.

STAR—His seven-year-old niece. A single lock of white grows amid
her black hair. The Beysibs claim this is the mark of the favor of
their gods and the child does seem to have some strange abilities.

The Rankans Living in Sanctuary

CHENAYA; DAUGHTER OF THE SUN—^ beautiful and powerful young
woman who is fated never to lose a fight. She is the prince's cousin and is
working to raise an army of gladiators which will place him on the

imperial throne.

PRINCE KADAKITHIS—Charismatic but somewhat naive half-brother of
the assassinated emperor, Abakithis.

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

MOLIN TORCHHOLDER; TORCH—Archpriest of Sanctuary's wargod
(whichever deity that is at the moment). Architect for the rebuilt walls of
Sanctuary. Supreme bureaucratic administrator of the city.

RANKAN 3RD COMMANDO—Mercenary company founded by

Tempus Thales and noted for its brutal efficiency.
GAYLE—A member of that company.

STEPSONS; SACRED BANDERS—Members of a mercenary unit loyal to
Tempus. Their years in Sanctuary have been among the worst in their
history and they are eager to leave for anywhere else.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

CRITIAS; CRIT—Longtime mercenary in the company. An intelli-
gence gatherer and assistant to Tempus. Also the partner of
Straton, though that pairing has been in disarray for some time
now.

STRATON; STRAT; ACE—Partner of Critias. Injured by the PELS at
the start of the False Plague riots. He has been Ischade's lover
and though her curse has not killed him, most of his former
associates count him among Sanctuary's damned.

TEMPUS 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. He is
now one of three officers responsible for the peace in Sanctuary. He is
also Illyra's half-brother.

The Beysib

SHUPANSEA; SHU-SEA—Head of the Beysib exiles in Sanctuary; mortal
avatar of the Beysib mother goddess. Lover of Prince Kadakithis whom
she wishes to marry.

CHABOSTU; CHA-BOS—A daughter born before Shupansea was
driven into exile.

INTRODUCTION

Robert Lynn Asprin

Military units have never been noted for their punctuality, and the
Stepsons were no exception. Even though their departure was originally
planned for shortly after dawn, it was nearly noon before the first pair
actually swung aboard their horses and headed off amid waves and good-
natured catcalls from their comrades. This was not a regular army unit,
but a free company of mercenaries, so the formations and columns one
might expect in a troop relocation were nowhere in evidence. Rather, the
men set out on their journey in pairs or small groups as they were ready,
with no thought to waiting for the others. Indeed, it was doubtful they
would even all take the same route to their new posting. However disor-
ganized or leisurely their departure might be though, one thing was clear.
The Stepsons were leaving Sanctuary.

Relatively few townspeople had gathered to witness their passing, but
the first pair waved at them anyway as they set off. No one returned their
salutation.

Of the watchers, two men were notable if only from the diversity of the
pair. One was old, his hair more silver-white than gray, while the other
was a youth barely out of his teens. The younger was dressed in the
humble garb of the town's lower class, while the elder man's finery
marked him as one who moved in richer, perhaps even royal, circles,
That they were together, however, was never in question. Not simply
because they stood together and exchanged comments, though that
Would have been sufficient evidence for most. Even more apparent was
their manner. While they conversed freely, their eyes never met, but
instead remained focused on what was going on around them. Close

12

AFTERMATH

attention was paid to the departing pair of Stepsons as if attempting to
memorize their appearance and gear, then switched once more to the
preparation of the remaining mercenaries.

Were they not so open in their scrutiny, the two might be mistaken for
spies. As it was, they were ignored, for neither was unknown around the
city. The younger was Hort, a lowly storyteller; the older, Hakiem, once
a talespinner himself and mentor to Hort, was now adviser to the ruler of

the Beysib.

"Well, it actually looks like they're going."
"Of course," Hakiem replied without looking at his friend. "Did you

doubt it?"

"Yes, and so did you." Hort smiled. "But that didn't keep us from
being out here at dawn. We should have known that even if anything
happened, it wouldn't happen until later."

"True enough. Still, if we had slept in and they had decided to get
underway on time, we would have missed it completely."

The younger man snuck a sideways glance at Hakiem.

"I can see where that would affect me," he said, "but why should it
make any difference to you? Your storytelling days are behind you now."

"Call it habit," the old man grunted. "Besides, an adviser needs infor-
mation as much as a storyteller, and the best information is still that
which you gather yourself."

The men fell silent as another pair of Stepsons rode by

"Well, it actually looks like they're going," Hort repeated, almost to

himself.

Hakiem hawked and spat noisily in the dust.

"Good riddance!" he declared with sudden vehemence. "The sooner
they're clear of the town, the better it will be for all of us! There has been
nothing but chaos and death in the city since they arrived. Maybe now
things will return to normal!"

Hort struggled, but lost his brief bout with silence-

"As I recall, Hakiem, there was chaos and death in Sanctuary long
before the Stepsons put in their appearance. I don't see where they've
been any worse than Jubal's hawkmasks used to be ... or your pet fish-
eyed friends for that matter- It's wrong to try to blame the Stepsons for
all our problems . . . and dangerous to think things will return to nor-
mal when they've left. I don't think I even know what normal is any-
more."

Hakiem turned away, his eyes avoiding both Hort and the departing

Stepsons.

"You're right, of course," he admitted. "Though the Beysib have been
far gentler with our town than the Stepsons, who were supposed to be

INTRODUCTION                  13

guarding it. Water does not flow upstream, nor does time run backward.
Sanctuary will never be what it was. Hawkmasks, Stepsons, Beysib - . .
they've all had their impact on the town, and their presence will never be
completely removed. Even the new laborers who are here to work on the
walls will change our lives, though in what ways we have yet to find out.
All we can do is what we've always done: watch. Watch and hope."

"Speaking of the new laborers," Hort said with an almost forced casu-
ainess, "have you heard anything of people disappearing?"

"I assume you mean dropping out of sight without turning up dead
later," Hakiem retorted drily.

"That's right." The youth nodded. "Able-bodied men you'd think
would be able to take care of themselves. I've heard of three so far."

"It's news to me. Still, I'll keep my ears open."

A group of Stepsons walked their horses by, not even looking at the
assembled watchers.

Though he would never admit it openly, the withdrawal of the Step-
sons as well as the Rankan 3rd Commando from Sanctuary concerned
Hakiem much more than the disappearance of a few common laborers.
He wondered how much of what was happening in town Hort was aware
of and simply not commenting on and how much he was actually oblivi-
ous to.

There was a fight brewing. A contest of wills, if not swords, between
the town and the Rankan Empire. He did not for a moment believe that
it was coincidence that the Stepsons were being pulled out of town just
when the tax issue was reaching a head. The question was, would they be
back? If the empire tried to enforce its orders by force, would the Step-
sons be the whip for the empire or the shield for the town? Or would they
stay away, maintaining a mercenaries' neutrality, and not return until the
matter was resolved ... if they returned at all?

The old man studied faces, but could not find a clue to the future
written anywhere: neither a hint of the future in the faces of the merce-
naries, nor a glimmer of realization of the stakes that were being played
for in those of the townsfolk.

CADE

Mark C. Perry

In another time, in another place, he could have been something else.
He could have been a hero, or a general, a pnest, or a king But he was
born in Sanctuary and that made him a killer.

Cade stood on a low hill looking down on the city. Sanctuary. He
turned his head and spat Sanctuary, the capital of hell He had left the
city eleven years ago, after killing a man, his first Now he was back, to
kill again Somewhere in that cesspit his brother's body lay rotting, all his
bones cracked by some torturer It was that someone whom Cade was
going to kill

The wind shifted and the stench of the city assaulted him After the
long nde through the clean desert the smell was a physical force, full of
wet decay, the smell of man at his worst. Victim and hunter were all the
same in Sanctuary The evil of his birthplace was alive, active, infecting
everything that came into contact with it.

The sun was going down, dusk slowly covered the decrepitude of the
city's ancient buildings, but the shadows could not hide it all, even from
this distance. Cade was surprised to see a new wall going up around the
town but it hardly helped the view, for surely that wall was not so much
to keep enemies out as the inhabitants in. Even a madman would see
there was no gain to be had by conquering Sanctuary

Cade smiled to himself at the thought Attack Sanctuary—better to
fight for a beggar's bowl He turned to face west. A house or something
burned sullenly there, ignored by the inhabitants of Downwind, the worst
part of the whole place. Downwind .

And that, he told himself, is a place and a name you promised never to

CADE                     15

have anything to do with again But of course he knew promises meant
nothing m hell  . .

If Sanctuary could be called the place of his birth, it was Downwind
that had created him There he had lived between the age of six and
sixteen There he had learned about the world, the real world, the truth
behind all the lies that men blind themselves with He had learned about
fear, fear in his poor brother's eyes, who had always tried to protect his
younger sibling, even though it was Cade who was the real protector He
learned of despair, as the money became scarcer and the food rarer, and
their mother did anything, anything, so that she could keep her little
family together

He remembered her tears when she heard he'd joined the gang, she was
dead by the time he became their warlord His time with the Demons
taught him the most valuable lesson of Sanctuary He learned about
blood, and death

Cade was so talented then, talented in the harsh passion of the violent
The street brought out the blood in all its miserable inhabitants, but some
like Cade were born for blood and shed it and lost it with equal calm

He called it the waterfall, though he was eighteen before he ever saw a
real one. It was the moment when you either let go and hit until you fell
or you were pulled off and fear never entered into it at all That was the
mark of the talent, because some could do it when they were backed in a
comer, all could do it sometimes, but Cade would do it every time

He wondered if any of the Demons were still there probably not, they
were either dead, or they had gotten out and would never come back
What did it matter^ They were all punks anyway Still, some of them
might remember him.

He laughed thinking about it, but there was no humor m that sound
Wouldn't they be surprised to see him agam^ The local boy come back in
triumph He had made good by Sanctuary standards He was nch beyond
most men's imagination, and powerful, very powerful

He had turned his talent into a very profitable art The art of death.
For a fee he killed He was more than an assassin and less than d mur-
derer. For he did kill with passion, but never pleasure He killed in the
name of mankind to free his victims from lies

For Sanctuary had taught Cade the most valuable of all lessons, it had
taught him the truth In all its pain and agony, poverty and despair, was
written the LAW, in ironclad runes of blood

And the LAW was one simple word Hell . .

For the world was not a hell, he knew that, it was the hell, the only
true hell A man lived a life of pain, no matter who or what he was, the
punishment was daily When he died, he either went somewhere better,

16 AFTERMATH

or his spirit was annihilated for all time. It was simple really: the good,
they went to their just desserts; the evil could sink no further, so they

were destroyed.

All this ran through his thoughts as he stared down at the place he
hated most. He was little concerned. He believed he had only killed the
genuinely good or the genuinely evil, never those in-between. Now he
was going to kill his brother's murderer and he was worried. What if the
killer was neither good nor evil? What if he had not made the final choice
—could Cade kill him then? After all, he was no soldier like his unknown
father, butchering because someone told him to. He was very careful in
accepting contracts, very careful in his death-dealing that whomever he
brought the final moment to was either good or evil, either free or
doomed. What if ...

"Enough!" he cried out loud. Somewhere in the Maze TerreFs family
waited in fear, in fear for their lives and in agony over the dead man they
had loved so much. Cade would protect them. Terrel would have wanted
that, but Cade would do more; he would use them as he had always used
anyone he needed. Use them to find the murderer and for the first time in
his long career he would not kill cleanly or quickly. No matter who had
to die, or why, this time Cade would have vengeance!

He knelt down and cleared a space on the ground at his feet. He
withdrew a dagger and began to make marks in the dirt. Here a slash for
Tempus; there a curve for Ischade, others for Molin Torchholder, Jubal,
Chenaya, the Stepsons, the PFLS, the Rankan 3rd Commando, Enas
Yorl ... He had run out of room. Sanctuary had managed to become
the most dangerous place in the empire. It was truly hell's own capital.
And all its demon princes were fighting for its bitter rule.

His information was incomplete. He could barely believe Tempus
would stay here with the whole empire falling apart around him. And if
Tempus went ... he scratched out the marks for the Rankan 3rd Com-
mando, and the Stepsons. He shook his head; it helped, but not by much.

Then he scratched in a fish eye. Beysibs. Now what the hell were they?
Were they like other men? What happened when they died? Too, too
many questions.

If it had been just magic, or men ... but there were gods here now.
All sorts of godly manifestations had taken place here, though his people
had claimed that things had quieted down of late. Hardly a comforting
thought-
He gripped the handle of the dagger tightly. It was all too unclear, too
many random factors. Even Cade could not keep himself hidden from the
gods, frauds though they were. Still, part of him hoped the trail would
lead to one of these gods- He had only ever killed one obscure demigod.

CADE                             17

To cast down one of the great ones, those masters of the great lie, ah, now
that would nearly make Terrel's horrid death worthwhile.

There was no point in going in quietly; this town was a catastrophe just
waiting to happen. Why, any of these—he ground his foot into the dirt
erasing the names—could be his target. Or all of them. Many of them
would have the ability to find him; some would certainly know his name,
others would be intelligent enough to make the connection between him
and Terrel. No, he would simply advertise his presence and let the killers
come to him, or others approach him with information. He stood up.

"This is going to be messy," he said to the empty land around him. But
he would slip into the city later tonight and check in with his people
before he revealed himself.

"I'm coming home," he whispered.

Cade took another sip of the wine, his black eyes searching the face of
the man across from him at the oaken table. Targ was a good man. He
had never failed a mission, but he was dangerous. Cade would have to be
very careful how he used this one, very careful.

"So," Cade said, "I was right about Tempus and the others. Still, there
are quite a few with power remaining."

"The streets are safer than even a few months ago," Targ answered, his
thick hand digging in his beard. 'The coalition seems to be holding, at
least for now."

Just then the door to the house was opened. A young woman dressed
in a fine gown and a dark shawl walked in.

"I told you not to go out at night," Targ said, though his voice carried
no concern.

"I was just checking on Sarah," she answered, staring unabashedly at
Cade, who simply stared back. Targ waved a hand at Cade.

"Our employer," he said. Marissa stood by the door, a little unsure of
how to react.

"Sit," Cade said, watching as the woman seated herself, near Targ, but
not too near. So, Cade thought to himself, she fears him. I wonder how
much she knows. "Targ," he said aloud, "says you have done well. My
brother's wife trusts you."

"Yes." She nodded. "She and I have become friends, lord." Cade
smiled slightly at the title but he didn't correct her.

"She doesn't know that you work for me."

"No, lord, she waits for you, knowing that you will, ah, help."

"Understand one thing." Cade's voice was harsh. "I have come for
^enge, nothing more."

"I think Sarah understands, lord."

18

AFTERMATH

"And tell me how does it feel to be the Lady Marissa?"
"Better"—she smiled—"than it did to be the slave girl Donan." Cade
did not answer her smile. Disguised as an old merchant, he had bought
the girl's freedom. Then two months ago he had sent her here with Targ
to set up a base for him. It was no accident that the house next to this

was his sister-in-law Sarah's.

He tasted the wine while the other two waited for him to speak. Cade
nodded his head once. Good, they had done well, the girl in particular-
She hardly resembled the anemic creature he had freed so many months
ago. She had been a find, that one. Able to speak court Rankene, and

read and write: a rare find

And she was strong. He could sense that in people. After what this girl

had been through it was surprising she retained her sanity. Cade had seen
the scars that covered her back and thighs. He liked her; she was good
and if he didn't need her he would free her from life's black curse, but

first . . .

"Some here might still know me," he said. "Terrel did not hide the fact

that it was I who bought his house, and his shop." He stood up. "There-
fore I see no reason for further subterfuge on my part." He picked up his

sword belt and buckled it about his waist.

"Tomorrow," he addressed the two, "I will ride into town at dawn. I
will go straight to Terrel's home. Let those who might care know that I
am here. You two must remember: You do not know me, I do not know
you. Since Lady Marissa is a friend of Sarah's, and I will be staying at her
house, we will have plenty of opportunity to get to know one another."

He smiled and turned to go.

"Ah, one last thing, Targ." The mercenary just looked up. "Tomor-
row, go to the guild. Get a few guards for this house, especially a good
bowman. From now on I want both houses under constant surveillance."
"You expect someone to make a move?" Targ asked. Cade shrugged.
"If they do not, I will." And with that he was gone- Targ got up and
locked the door. He could see no trace of Cade in the night, and if he
couldn't, no one he knew could.
"Well, what do you think?" he said.
"I don't know. He's strange," Marissa answered, "scary."
Targ snorted. "He is a fanatic, a madman." Targ sat down and reached
for the wine. "And probably the most dangerous man I have ever met."
There was fear in Targ's gray eyes, and that made Marissa shiver. What-
ever could scare the strange mercenary was nothing she wanted to deal
with. What had that old merchant Rotten her involved in?

CADE                             19

Targ opened the trapdoor to the roof, climbing up the ladder with
silent agility. His sensitive nose welcomed the fresh air. The roof was flat,
and a thin three-foot wall surrounded it. Targ moved to the wall, peering
over at the house next door. The two-story building was cloaked in shad-
ows; no light showed from behind the thickly shuttered windows. Targ
stared at the dark shape for a long time, trying to spot any figures that
might be concealed in the shadows, but he could detect nothing.

His thick hands fondled the pommel of his sword. His eyes burned red
in the night. Even if Cade was hidden somewhere in those shadows, Targ
knew from long experience that he would be invisible. Cade. He swore
under his breath. Cade.

He knew Cade was uncomfortable with this job; it wasn't their usual
sort of job. This wasn't for money, or for the great war he always spoke
about; this was for Cade. Targ looked over the roofs of the town; some-
where out there a murderer, a torturer was hiding, but it wouldn't do any
good: Cade would find him and Targ refused to even try to imagine what
that madman's vengeance would be ...

No, this wasn't their usual sort of job at all.

Targ shifted nervously, sniffing at the wind. The air carried its own
messages, its own secrets, and the scents spoke to Targ, as they never
could to an ordinary man-

Sometimes Targ wondered if Cade was a man. What really went on in
his mind? Who could say? Only Cade, and he wasn't talking.

But together the two had shared much. If killing and blood could be
considered sharing. How many had the two killed? Ten? Twenty? A
hundred? Targ had quit counting long ago.

Cade hated this place, hated Sanctuary. Only his brother's death could
have brought him back. Targ knew Terrel had been the only person Cade
really cared about and now he was dead.

"Gods," Targ mouthed. He heard a cry. It sounded like a woman. The
lonely sound was lost in the wind. Was it fear in that sound, or madness?
In Sanctuary it was hard to tell the two apart. Perhaps he should go and
see, perhaps . . . but no. His illusions of being the great hero were long
gone, lost in that same night that had taken his ordinary mortality away.

He would help Cade as he always did. First because Cade only asked
him to help kill those who deserved it, the real bastards. And second
because Cade knew, knew of his curse and never showed fear, or disgust
... or much of anything.

How could he explain to Cade that he liked Sanctuary? There was
something here, something that soothed and calmed the curse. He had
only needed to kill twice since he came here. For two months he had
lived with the slave girl and successfully hidden the truth from her. And

>0                   AFTERMATH

both of the kills had been ones who deserved it ... Targ growled softly
In his throat, remembering the screams and the blood. Murderers and
rapists both, they had deserved it. They had.

He had heard there was a vampire here, Ischade. A vampire. In all the
years he had been fighting the great war, never had he met a real vam-
pire, or for that matter a real werewolf.

Cade watched the sun rise slowly, its light defining the harsh edge of
Sanctuary. He reached back and slowly braided his long hair. It was an
Ilsigi warbraid, something not seen in Sanctuary in a long time, some-
thing Cade had to do. He was returning, but he wouldn't do it quietly, or
simply. He was back and the braid was his way of making one thing
clear: No one and nothing would make him bow. He was not the same
boy who had run away so long ago; run with the blood of a merchant on
his hands, blood he had never meant to shed. But one thing was still the
same. He had left as a killer and he was returning as one.

He gently stroked his horse on the nose, smiling as it tried to take a nip
at his new braid, then lifted himself smoothly into the saddle and took a
moment to settle his weapons.

He was no warrior, not in the normal sense- He did not fight in great
battles, riding for honor and glory. He'd just as soon use a knife or a
garrote in the dark as swing a sword, but that didn't mean he wasn't a
dangerous swordsman. Indeed, only the best could match him in
bladework, and even fewer were as adept with no weapons at all.

He had always known he would come back, though until this moment
he had denied it. He had taken the gifts of Sanctuary and now he would
bring them back . . .

He kicked the horse, heading it toward the main gate that pierced the
half-finished wall. He sat straight in the saddle, comfortable with the gait
of the horse. His cloak was thrown back to reveal the rich armor beneath.
His sword alone was worth more money than most Sanctuarites could
ever hope to see in their lives.

He smiled- It appealed to him, coming back like this, flaunting his
wealth and his scars. The scars covered his hands, crisscrossed his fea-
tures. His face was smooth-shaven; his hard smile emphasized the strong
chin. The horse's steady pace brought him closer to the wall.

It loomed above him, beckoning him on, down the road into the ugly
maw of hell. The other passengers of the road made room for him to
pass. They knew trouble when they saw it. Maybe it was the tight mus-
cles they sensed moving beneath the armor, or the sharp weapons that he
carried. But maybe it was something else.

CADE                     21

He had come home, to Sanctuary. He is Cade, here to return the city's
gifts. He is Cade and he is riding into hell, with death his only follower.

Sarah walked about the main room in aimless circles. Her hand darted
out to touch a chest here, a wall hanging there. There was no thought
behind her motion; she tried not to think too much. She stopped, staring
at a blank wall, fighting the urge to just cry—no, not cry but shout,
scream, pound, and break things.

He's gone . . .

That was what it always led to, the thinking, that he was gone. Terrel,
her husband, her love, Terrel, he's gone . . . She always tried to stop it
there, but it continued, relentlessly, the memories still so fresh after al-
most half a year.

They had killed him right here in this room, while she slept. She heard
nothing, nothing- Waking up, he wasn't beside her and she was always up
first. Small annoyance, walking about, the children still asleep, going
downstairs. Gods, she'd almost walked right past it. Even with all the
blood.

His blood.

It had covered everything, the wall, the floor, even the ceiling and
there in the middle, his skin so pale. His naked body looking tiny in that
immensity of red horror. Spread out, bent at odd angles, the bones; the
embalmer said they had broken all his bones. All his bones. How could
they do that? There were so many bones. How could they break them all?

He's gone . . .

Those dark eyes, so kind, so full of pain. His gentle touch, warm
breath on her neck. He's gone and she didn't even know why they had
killed him.

"Gods, have mercy," but there were no tears to punctuate her plea.
They had dried up in the horror of the last months. If he had fallen, or
gotten sick, if he had even just died, but this . . . that pale body. Sarah
knew the memory would never leave her.

"He's gone," she said aloud, slumping down in a cool comer. Thank
the All-Mother for the Lady Marissa. She had taken the children to the
Bazaar with her. If they saw their mother like this . . . She shook her
head violently. If it would just go away for a while. The harsh visions
scarring her memory like blood staining the walls, drying slowly, cover-
uig everything, everywhere . . .

Sarah was startled by the loud thump thump of someone banging on
the door- She got up, adjusting her clothes. But it wouldn't be Marissa;

^ had just left. Carefully she opened the door.

The sun was bright that morning and it streamed through the door-

AFTERMATH

way, leaving her visitor in backlit shadow. He was tall, with broad shoul-
ders, his armor glinting. For a minute she thought it was the guard
captain Walegrin. He had actually been kind to her, almost gentle. Her
thoughts jumped. News, did they have news? Who did it . . . ? But no,
Walegrin was even larger than this man, taller, more muscular.

"Sarah," he said, and his voice was full of strange emotions. But there
was something about him. Something. He stepped farther out of the

shadows and she felt a sharp pain.

Terrel, she almost said. It was there in his face, though Terrel had
never had such scars. This man's skin was tanned, weathered, hard like

his armor and body.

"Cade," she whispered. He had come. He was here. For a moment he
seemed at a loss- He seemed to retreat into shadow, but there was the
memory of Terrel in that face.

"I wish to come in," Cade said.

"Oh, of course, please come in. I'm sorry, I was so startled, I mean,
please come in." He moved past her, his weapons and armor jingling

slightly.

"You should look to see who is at the door before you open it," he said.
"Yes, I should, I suppose, I mean. Do you want anything? To drink,

or . . ." Her voice trailed off, her confusion overwhelming her. He

turned to look at her.

She was attractive in a way. Her face was round, but thin. Her features
seemed somehow disjointed, as if a thin veil covered them. Her eyes
darted about, not meeting his gaze. But they were her best feature.
Brown in an ordinary way, now filled with knowledge and taut pain. She
was pretty, her bare shoulder showing in the disarrayed dress. She was
pretty. The thought surprised him. It was the sadness, always the sad-
ness- When he saw it in women he could never turn from it, never ignore
it; it always made them so pretty. He hoped his vengeance would cause

her no more . . . sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. They both knew what he meant.

"Wine?" she asked, letting the moment pass.

"Wine." He followed her into the dining area, seating himself at the
scarred wooden table. She handed him a goblet, the best she had. He
poured the wine; the sound of the goblet filling reverberated loudly in the
room. He put the decanter down, not looking at her, not touching the

drink.

"You said in your letter," his voice was husky, "you said that Terrel

was involved with the PFLS."

"I, Terrel . . ." She bowed her head. "I, yes. He ... helped."

"Money?"

CADE                     23

"A little. He didn't like the Rankans"—her voice got softer—"but he
wasn't really involved, not in a ... he didn't deserve . . ." but it was
too much and she could say no more.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Neither of us like Rankans. Mother al-
ways said they killed our father. He wore this."—he touched his war-
braid—"my father did."

"Cade." She dared to look up, but couldn't meet his steady gaze.
"Terrel, he—" She stopped. Could you talk of love to such a man?

Cade stood up. "I will get my things. You have a room for me?" She
just nodded. "Good. Sarah, we will talk later. I am here. I cannot take
away what has happened, but I am here. You need never fear." With that
he was gone. She sat there staring at the goblet. She should get up, show
him the room, the room she had prepared, prepared months ago, but he
would find it, know it was for him.

The dim light from the window glinted off the enamel overlay of the
goblet. He was . . . Terrel had never said much about Cade, not Cade
as a man. He was full of stories of their childhood, of the slow decline
into poverty, of the family holding itself together fiercely, as all around
them melted into the grayness of despair. Terrel had said that Cade was
the stronger. A fighter. Nothing could beat Cade.

But who was this man, this man with his weapons and armor clanking
about him, his ridiculous warbraid—who wore those anymore? She knew
so little of him. Terrel had said he was some sort of warrior, but rich. She
knew that. He had set Terrel up in business, bought this house. Money,
yes, but ... a shiver caught her by surprise.

His eyes, that's what it was. Not the scars of the sword, or even his
strange way of talking. It was his eyes. She could see them clearly, re-
flected in the odd light of the goblet, framed by the hard lined face, the
thick heavy brows, the impossibly black hair. His eyes. They were black,
black like Terrel's, but ...

She reached out and grabbed the goblet. His eyes, they were like weap-
ons, spearing her, attacking everything they focused on, jabbing about,
terrifying. She put the goblet down in front of her. It was bent, imprinted
by his fingers when he had crushed it, unknowing. But Sarah did not see
that. All she could see were those two black eyes.

Several days later Cade sat on a stone bench in the small courtyard
behind Terrel's house sharpening his sword. With one hand he steadied
the blade while with the other he held the whetstone, slowly smoothing
out the minor imperfections in the razor-sharp edge. The sunlight danced
across the blade, hurting Cade's eyes, but he ignored the discomfort. The

24

AFTERMATH

slow, grating scrape of the whetstone on the blade punctuated his

thoughts.

Things were a lot more complicated than they had appeared on the

surface.
Scrape.
Terrel must have been much more involved in the PFLS than Sarah

thought.
Scrape.
He had been killed, tortured because of this.

Scrape.
Somehow, Terrel had crossed someone in a major way.

Scrape.

Damn them all!

Cade threw the whetstone across the courtyard, against the far wall.

Damn. Why hadn't he come to me?

And that was what kept eating at him, demanding an answer. Why
hadn't Terrel asked Cade for help? He knew what his younger brother
was, what he did. Cade had always protected Terrel, but this time Terrel
had chosen to do it on his own. And he'd paid the price. Whom had he

crossed and how?

Cade ran over the information he'd uncovered so far- Terrel had stayed
late at his pottery shop, remaining after his workers had left. He had
done that for three months before his death. Why?

Then there were the shop accounts—confusing. During the worst pe-
riod of chaos in the history of a town always on the edge of collapse,
Terrel had shown a profit. By selling pottery? It made no sense.

Why did he stay late? What had he been doing? Cade reached into his
tunic, pulling out several receipts. There was something else that both-
ered him about them. All the buyers had come to pick up their pottery at
the shop, no deliveries. Fine. The orders had increased last fall. Terrel
naturally ordered more clay. Everything had been paid on time, all for
the proper price. Damn, it was here somewhere, he knew it; it had to be.
Why had he been staying so late?

Cade mulled over the receipts for another half hour, getting more
exasperated by the minute. He knew the answer was here, not on the
streets. Targ had covered Sanctuary up and down, Cade had followed in
the last five days retracing all the likely leads- All had led nowhere. Terrel
was liked, respected, not known by anyone who shouldn't know him. His
work was good. People were satisfied. None of it made any sense. Even
with Terrel giving money to the PFLS, he hadn't given enough to make a
real difference. Half the town had been contributing to one faction or
another at that time, although not always voluntarily. So why pick on

CADE                     25

Terrel? An example? Not likely; a bigger target would have served better.
Besides, the murder had hardly been public. No, something else . . .

Why had he been staying late? How had he been making a profit? How
much money could he have given? Money. Late. Money. Late.

That's it. Terrel had been working to make more money. No. Some-
thing else. If it was to increase profits, why had he let the workers leave?
Why not have them work with him? What had he been doing that he
didn't want the others to know about?

Cade rifled through the receipts again, singling out the purchases.

"You fool," he said aloud, but whether he meant himself by it, or
Terrel, even he didn't know. It was all right there. TerreFs orders for clay
had increased, but some of the clay was cheaper, much cheaper than that
he usually used. And Cade was sure that when he checked on it, he
would find the new clay totally inappropriate for making good pottery.
Something not made to last, something made to break easily, something
made for one purpose only: to conceal . . .

What was it, Terrel? he thought. What was it you were hiding for your
zealots? Weapons? Money? Drugs? All three? What went through your
head, brother, staying in that little shop, everyone gone/the light fading,
the wheel spinning, your deformed hands forming the cheap clay, changing
it. What was it you made—false bottoms, sides? Probably bottoms.

You little fool, did you think you were going to change things? Bring
about a new Sanctuary, a new world? Make things better? Depose the
Rankans you always despised so much? Ah, Terrel, don't you know, revo-
lutions always fail in hell.

Cade stood up, sheathing his sword. He had the scent now. All he and
Targ had to do was ask a few discreet questions, drop a few coins into
sweaty palms. This trail would lead them to the truth, to the reason
behind Terrel's horrid end. This would lead them to his brother's mur-
derer.

Cade smiled. He had them now.

Sarah sat on the same bench Cade had used earlier that day. She
watched the shadows sliding down the wall as the sun set and Sanctuary
began its nightly ritual of madness. It was time to go inside, bolt the
doors, lock the shutters. But why bother? That hadn't saved Terrel. In
Sanctuary death followed you wherever you tried to hide. If it weren't for
the children - . .

Toth was a good boy; he tried. He understood what had happened and
tried to help. Little Dru had no idea what was going on. She was always
asking where Da was, and no matter how many times Sarah had ex-
plained to her that her father wasn't coming back, she refused to under-

26 AFTERMATH

stand. And now, with Cade in the house, they were that much more
confused. He had turned their lives upside down. Sarah couldn't decide
whether she hated or feared Cade or if it was both.

He ordered everyone around like he owned them. Sarah still shook
with anger when she recalled catching him teaching the children to fight
with a knife.

Gods, they were still her babies.

Cade had accused her of coddling and smothering them. He had called
her a fool and said that fighting was the only way to stay alive in a
cesspool like Sanctuary.

But how could she explain it to him? Terrel was his brother—surely
Cade knew about his brother's crippled hands. How could Cade forget?
How could he continue to embrace violence? She and Terrel had con-
sciously rejected it, and rejected it for their children.

She wasn't stupid, though. She knew he continued to teach Toth when-
ever she wasn't around. The bastard.

Toth worshiped Cade. For him, his uncle was a great warrior from one
of the tales he'd once heard Hakiem tell in the Bazaar. But Sarah knew
better. She had an idea now what Terrel had meant when he'd said Cade
wasn't really a warrior. The man was a killer as sure as the sea is blue.

It was all so confusing. As much as Cade scared her, still he was kind
in his own way, but not as Terrel had been. It wasn't gentleness; he was
always grim. But he seemed so sad. Last night Dru had cried in her sleep
calling for her Da; and when Sarah had gone to check on her she found
Cade there soothing the child. He had held her, cooing soft words,
unintelligible, but they calmed the child. She fell asleep in Cade's scar-
ridden arms.

The door behind Sarah burst open and Toth ran into the courtyard.

*'Ma, Marissa's here," he gasped out. Sarah looked at him for a mo-
ment. He wasn't tall, but his shoulders were beginning to broaden out.
He had the Ilsigi hair and eyes of his father's family, but it was her nose
and chin that denned his features. The boy shook the hair away from his
eyes and beamed at his mother. She smiled back faintly. This last week he
actually seemed happier; Cade at least seemed good for the children, for
some strange reason.

"Tell her to come out here," Sarah answered.

"Out here? But it's dark. Cade says—"

"Never mind what Cade says," she interrupted. "Tell the Lady
Marissa to come out here."

He shrugged and did as he was told.

Marissa came out moments later, holding a lantern and a goblet of
wine. She handed Sarah the drink.

CADE                     27

"I thought you could use it," Marissa said in her soft voice. Sarah
smiled. Marissa was so thoughtful. At first Sarah had been put off by the
other's title and light, Rankan good looks. Now she wondered if she
could have made it this far without her friend.

"Thank you, Marissa. I think you're right." She took a sip of wine,
letting the liquid numb her mouth, enjoying the sensation of it sliding
down her throat.

"Cade's really getting to you, huh?" Marissa said with a raised eye-
brow.

"Oh, that man. I don't understand him." Sarah's voice dropped to a
whisper. "He frightens me."

Marissa laughed. "He frightens everyone," she answered, "even Targ."

"I can't believe that." Sarah considered the notion that anyone or
anything could frighten Marissa's strange mercenary and found it ludi-
crous. As ludicrous as, well, as thinking anything scared Cade.

*'0h, it's true," Marissa said. "Targ snorts and struts around every
time Cade walks into a room." She smiled though Sarah thought it
looked a little strained. "I swear his hair stands orTend." Sarah laughed
at that. Targ's excessive hairiness had been a running'joke between the
two for some time. The thought of all that red hair standing up straight
was amusing. "Just like a little porcupine," she said, and the two laughed
again.

"Marissa," Sarah said, her voice losing all trace of amusement, "why
have you hired more mercenaries?" Marissa was quiet. She hated this.
She liked Sarah and longed to tell her the truth, all of it. The lies between
the two of them kept them apart, but she owed people and she had
always paid her debts.

"Well, I'll tell you, Sarah," she said. "This town, it is so dangerous, I
just feel safer- Gods know I have the money to spare."

"How many did you hire?"

"Three, not counting Targ, of course." Marissa bit her lip. "I'll tell you
a secret." She looked around- "I've told them to keep an eye out on your
house, too. So that . . ." She left the rest unfinished. Sarah looked away,
but her hand patted her friend's knee briefly.

"Thank you, Marissa." She turned back. "But I don't think anyone is
going to bother us with Cade around." She took a large swallow of wine.
"You know why Cade is here, don't you." It was a statement, not a
question. Again Sarah was struck by Marissa's odd unease at her words.
Marissa was hiding something, but Sarah did not intend to pry, respect-
ing the other's private pain.

"Yes," Marissa said, "yes, he's here to find Terrel's, uh, murderer."

"He is going to kill whoever is responsible, Marissa."

28

AFTERMATH

"Well, Terrel was his brother."

"I know, but it all seems"—Sarah shrugged—"so dramatic."
Marissa laughed. "Oh, really, Sarah, that sounds so silly."
"No, I'm serious." Sarah turned to her friend. "Six months ago I was
the wife of a potter. I had"—she swept her arm in an arc behind her—"a
nice house, nice things, two wonderful children, and a man I loved
dearly," Marissa laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. "And now - . ."
Sarah shook her head. "Now I don't know.

"My husband has been murdered, tortured to death in that same
house, while my children and I slept. Why? I don't even know. Then this
man shows up. This strange man. My husband's brother, but the two are
not anything alike. My mysterious brother-in-law shows up. With his
words and his armor, his dark looks, and dark ways. Suddenly, suddenly
I find myself in the middle of a conspiracy, a piper's tale of murder and
revenge." Sarah drank deeply again from the wine cup. "I don't under-
stand anything anymore, Marissa, and I'm tired of being afraid."

Marissa had no answer for her. No words of comfort to offer. She
knew all too well what it was like to fear, what it was like to have the
world change overnight; to go from a warm, safe place to a world of
sudden threats and shadows. What could she say to this woman? What
comfort could she give, she who had no comfort in her own life?

"Sarah," she said aloud, "Sarah. I don't know what anyone can say or
do to help. But I'll tell you one thing." She almost flinched when Sarah
turned to face her with those dark, sad eyes. "I think there is more of
Terrel in Cade than you think. No matter what happens, he will do
everything he can to help you and I don't think it's only because his
brother would have wanted him to."

It was cold comfort, but in this new world it was often the only hope

Sarah was allowed.

It took two more days for Targ and Cade to put the rest of the pieces
together. That Terrel had been running something for the PFLS was
definite; what he had been running was another thing. Why was still a
mystery. But Cade now had the most important answer. The contact was
in Downwind. Downwind—the one place in Sanctuary Cade had
avoided, though in his heart he had known, from the beginning, that it

would be his destination.

But first he must talk to Sarah again. He wasn't looking forward to this
conversation. The woman was half terrified, half fascinated by him. He
was afraid he would have to reveal too much to her. There were things he
might have to say, show, things he could never take back. But he had to
find out what she knew. Accordingly, after dinner he ordered the chil-

CADE                            29

dren to bed. This earned him a dark look from the woman, but he ig-
nored it. He faced his brother's wife across a table still covered with the
remnants of the meal.

"Sarah, we must talk."

"Indeed we must." Her voice was firm. "You can't order my children
around like that. You have to—"

Cade interrupted. "No, Sarah, not now. We have to talk about Terrel."
She grew quiet at that. "Sarah, Terrel was involved much more deeply
with the PFLS than you thought."

"What do you mean?"

"He was running contraband for them."

"I know he gave them some money, but everybody was supporting one
group or another."

"He was doing more than contributing a few spare coins." Cade
sighed, his hand drumming against the table edge. "When Terrel stayed
late, he was making pots, special pots."

"Cade, that is what he did for a living."

"I know that." Cade leaned over the table. "But these pots were built
to hide things."

"What sort of things?"

"Who knows?" Cade shrugged. "Weapons, money, messages, even
drugs, whatever it was doesn't matter now. What matters is that he did it
for the PFLS. He was not just paying them; he was one of them."

"I don't believe it."

"Believe it." Cade leaned back, staring at her. "I've discovered a whole
underground organization, very well coordinated, slipping all sorts of
things through the different control zones of the town. Terrel was part of
it, and it's because of that he was killed."

"Why?"

"I'm still not entirely sure. Could have been a lot of reasons—one of
the other factions found out, one of his own people betrayed him, per-
haps even the PFLS themselves were the killers."

"But why? If he was helping them, why would they kill him?"

"Lots of reasons: a shipment got lost, an internal upheaval." His voice
was bitter. "Sarah, this town was a mess, insane. No one knew who was
in charge of what. The control areas changed daily, hourly. Somehow,
someone decided Terrel had broken a rule, and they made him pay."
Sarah's face was pale and her lips trembled, but she could think of noth-
ing to say.

"Well." he continued, "there are a few things we can infer." He waited
but she was still silent. "Okay, they didn't torture him for information."

"How do you know?"

30 AFTERMATH

"Because he was killed here, while you were sleeping. Yet you and the
children never woke. Why? Magic—possibly. A sleeping draught—less
likely. No one, anywhere, heard a sound the whole time Terrel was dying.
I think magic, a spell to contain any sound he or his torturers made." He
shook his head. "A lot of effort. Why not just kidnap him, take him
somewhere else, interrogate him there? But, no, they did it here, there-
fore it had to be for one of two reasons: to set an example, or to exact
revenge. Probably revenge."

"I don't understand."

"If he was killed as an example, well, there were other ways they could
have done it, less hazardous ways, and more obvious ones. Besides, as I
said, lots of people were doing what Terrel did. He wasn't a big enough
fish to go to such lengths for. No, it has to be vengeance." Cade ground
his teeth together, the skin of his face pulled tight, making his scars stand
out in high relief. "They broke every bone in his body, Sarah. Think
about it. That's not a normal torture, and as far as I can discover no one
else has been killed this way. He was killed that way because ... be-
cause someone knew."

"About what happened, his hands," she said.

Cade looked surprised. So Terrel had told her. "Yes." He said no more.

The two sat, lost in their memories. She recalled a warm night, a storm
coming in, her new husband sitting on the bed telling her the tale of his
deformity in a monotone. He, his mother, and Cade had come to Down-
wind; forced there because, with the death of their father there was no
money, and there was no family to help them. Terrel's mother found
what work she could, buying Terrel a slate, working hard to find the
chalk. It had made it all livable for him, given him a hope for another
way of life.

Then one day, four years after they had moved, a gang jumped him,
breaking the slate, the chalk, and the fingers that loved to draw; maiming
him for life, so he could never be the artist he dreamed about . . .

But Cade had other memories. "Sarah." She looked up at him, now
with a tear in her eye. "Terrel told you what happened. Do you know the
rest?"

"The rest?"

So, Cade thought, he never knew. Well, that's something, I guess. Cade
had never told anyone before, kept it to himself. Now he could not hold it
in, though he could see no purpose in his honesty.

His voice was harsh. "He came home that night, his lip cut where he'd
bitten it through, trying to hold back his cries. His hands—if he had
come home sooner, maybe we could have set them. I don't know. They
were ruined." He looked away from her. "He was in such pain.

CADE                     31

"Mother—" He sighed. "Mother tried to heal those hands. Every
night she held him, crying on the bent fingers, as if her tears could really
take the pain away." He could still see them. Lying on the cot, the ragged
cloth that divided their one-room shack tattered and frayed, not hiding
the scene from his young eyes. She had rocked Terrel to sleep every night.
He slept with her because of the nightmares, about the sound of the snap
of bones that just wouldn't go away.

"I had nothing, we had nothing to give him," Then Cade turned to
her, his eyes so fierce she looked away. "But then, I knew, I had one gift
. . . Sarah, I had vengeance." His voice shook as he relived that time.
He told her how he had found the rope in an alley full of mud and refuse,
how he had pulled the brick from one of the few real buildings in Down-
wind. How he tied the brick to the rope and then waited.

"For three nights I waited,"—he stood up, his muscles taut with the
memory—"until they went to sleep. Then I took my rope and brick, and
one by one I found those who had done it." His eyes were wild. "I found
them." He sighed. "I caught them and I smashed them with the brick."
His hand pounded the air. "I smashed them over and^over and over." He
took a deep breath, then stood still.

"I found them. I didn't kill them. I found them and afterwards they
never drew either." He sat down, not looking at her. "Terrel was thir-
teen. I was eleven . . ."

The room was quiet. Sarah stared at Cade, but he would not look at
her. She realized he was embarrassed. He had told her something that he
hadn't had to, at least not that way. He had showed her his secret. In it
she knew was the real Cade, the answer to all his riddles, but she could
not see it. All she could think of was Cade. He had only been about
Toth's age . . .

"Sarah—" Now his voice was soft, and he hadn't used that tone with
her before. "Whoever killed him knew; knew what had happened to him;

knew of his fears."

"He still had nightmares," she answered.

"I thought so. They knew, Sarah, and I don't know how. But I do
know the answer is in Downwind. And it's there I have to go . . ."

Cade stood at the end of the decrepit bridge. Across its rotting length
lay his goal—Downwind.

The smell from the slow-moving White Foal River was noxious, full of
refuse and dead things. Cade ignored it. After all, it should smell like
home to him.

He wore old riding leathers with a weather-stained cloak thrown over
them. He carried his sword openly, though several other weapons were

32 AFTERMATH

concealed about his body. He looked like a down-and-out mercenary,
between jobs, but one who knew his business well. Tough enough looking
that the dregs of Downwind would leave him alone, obscure enough not
to draw attention, except from those who noticed the warbraid and knew
what it meant.

The answer was here in Downwind. At first Cade thought he would
have to find Zip, the leader of PFLS, and now apparently one of the
military officers of Sanctuary. Cade didn't want to deal with the powers
of Sanctuary if he could help it. There were several he'd rather not have
to tangle with if possible. Take that madwoman Chenaya, building an
army of gladiators. He smiled at the thought. Gladiators! Gladiators
made poor soldiers, and were hardly equipped for the streets of Sanctu-
ary. Everybody was insane here . . .

It seemed Zip had made several mistakes, and the PFLS had fractured
into at least three recognizable factions. The hard-core stayed loyal to
their charismatic leader, but some of the less patriotic and more power-
minded had gone their own way. Cade followed the trail that led to
money, and in a town like Sanctuary there were three quick ways of
making money; prostitution, drugs, and slavery. The whorehouses were
well controlled here. They were an important part of Sanctuary's econ-
omy. And the slavery, well it seemed Jubal used to control that, probably
still did, but there were rumors on the streets of a new organization.

But whoever they were, they weren't in business yet when Terrel was
caught, so the answer was drugs. That's where the faint trail became as
clear as a paved road. Whatever Terrel had run first, he had ended up
running drugs, something Cade doubted his brother had been too pleased
about. That didn't fit into his image of a revolution. But the goals of the
revolution had been revised, and the new rules were made here, in Down-
wind.

The many gangs of Downwind had become more entrenched in the
last few years, less like youth gangs and more like organized crime fami-
lies. The largest, next to the beggar king's, was a gang called the Sharp
Side. A gang that ran a good portion of Downwind, a gang that con-
trolled Cade's old turf and it seemed, much more. A gang that had
originally been part of the PFLS, but had re-formed in the last months,
re-formed to take control of some of the contacts once run by Zip. A
gang that now ran a third of the drug trade in Sanctuary.

So. It had all been there, easy to read, once you saw the pattern. Now
Cade had to find the Sharp Side, and find out who had given the orders.
Why they'd given them. And then he'd make them pay.

Casually he strolled across the bridge, giving no outward sign of the
fast beating of his heart, his disgust and agony, his despair.

CADE                     33

Slowly he headed toward his old house, his inmost self creating an
ineffective shield against the world that passed before his eyes. Down-
wind was pain, for its inhabitants and for any with the eyes to see. All
about him, as he wound his way through the filth-strewn streets, the
nightmare was acted out. The adults were empty husks of aimless mo-
tion, the children dirty and mean. The toddlers plodded about, un-
watched, their distended stomachs seeming to lead them about in their
desperate search for anything remotely edible.

But that wasn't the worst. There were the carcasses of shacks, like
decomposing animals, in which the inhabitants played out their desperate
lives. The little girls, and boys, offering their bodies for a piece of bread.
And of course the blood. Everywhere apparent, drying on the walls,
spilling fresh from ragged wounds, and behind the eyes of every poor
bastard who walked the empty streets. Every one of them seemed to
carry an ugly scar, a reminder of some time when a blade met their flesh
... or a thrown rock ... or a fist.

He shuddered. Worse? What was worse? The term was meaningless.
The blood? The hunger? No, the disease ... the corruption in every-
one's veins. Scales and shingles covering thin limbs. Eyes oozing mucus,
coughs racking whole frames. Their slow descent toward uncaring death.

That was it, of course, the heart and soul of Downwind. Death. Com-
ing at them from so many angles, attacking them, and they had no
chance to defend themselves. Like his mother: the hard work she'd en-
dured, the food she'd denied herself so that her children could have one
more mouthful. What was it that finally killed her? Was it one of the
many diseases ravaging her? Was it the fear? No, she was past that in the
end. Past desperation. Past hope . . .

For her, as for so many, it had been the humiliation. The constant
unending shame of being trapped, of having failed. The self-hatred for all
those things she'd had to do just to survive. Cade still remembered the
first night she had sold herself to a man. How she had bathed afterward
in a decrepit washtub borrowed from a more fortunate neighbor. How he
had stumbled upon her naked. The water red with her blood as she
scrubbed and scrubbed, her skin floating like bits of dried leaves in the
soft pink water.

He sobbed once at that memory, but he didn't cry. He had only cried
twice in his lifetime. The first time when poor Terrel came home with his
broken fingers, the pieces of his slate clamped between two swollen and
useless hands. The second time . . .

His mother had been thirty-one when she died. She had looked much
Older. He could remember it so well. Her once thick black hair was gray
Sod thin, the skin wrinkled with grime caught in the folds, her eyes dull

34 AFTERMATH

and empty as they had never been in life. He remembered the hollow
thump as her hardened corpse was tumbled into the shallow pauper's
grave. He heard the sound all the time, every day—thump-thump-thump
—as he waded through hell, his hands red with the blood of those he set
free, to one fate or another.

It was agony to remember it all. His sensitive nose twitched at the
familiar hateful smells. The harsh odor of human waste warming in the
sun, the tang of sweat and urine, the thick reek of corruption. The sights,
the smells, even the sounds. They built up about him, surrounding him
like a vast sea of mud.

He moved through Downwind like a great black shark, swimming
through the slime and seaweed of an ocean floor. About him were the
remains of a thousand dark meals, bits of flesh and bone, floating in the
silt-filled waters. Occasionally he bumped into a half-eaten corpse. And
all around him were the unvoiced cries of the damned.

Finally he came to the end of his nightmare, to where it all began. He
stood before a broken wall, four feet high. It outlined the remains of a
building, the mud bricks cracked and decaying in the sun. This had been
his home, so long ago. The home he still dreamed about at night, in the
dark, alone. This pathetic shell was all that was left of the passion and
terror of his childhood.

He walked through what had once been the doorway, though there
had never been a door, just a ragged piece of blanket. Standing in the
middle of the room he was surprised to see how small it was. The house
had been a single room, a shack. But it had seemed larger somehow.

There had been no windows; the heat of the summer had been a living
thing, latching on to him, drawing his strength out in a shuddering gasp.
The winters were cold. He remembered choking from the smoke that
never seemed to find its way out of the hole cut in the canvas roof. What
monster conceived this? What had man ever done to earn such a pay-
ment? How could there be any being alive that enjoyed such perverse
cruelty! Was there no one he could make pay for this? Nothing, no one he
could attack? Must this sickening non-life be reenacted for eternity?

"Hey mister, you all right?" a voice intruded, calling him back. Cade
was surprised to find that his two hands were held high above his head,
making futile grasping motions in the air ... searching for a neck to
grasp? Or begging for relief from pain? He couldn't understand what his
actions meant. He didn't care, not anymore. He dropped his arms to his
sides and turned to face the speaker.

It was a boy, young, barely into his teens. He wore little more than a
stained loincloth. His ribs were sticking out, though he had large shoul-

CADE                     35

ders, and his legs were well-muscled. He also wore a wicked-looking
knife at his side.

"What do you want?" Cade asked. It came as another shock to realize
he had been wandering about for several hours, his mind caught in its
mad reverie, a dangerous thing to do in Sanctuary.

"I, I just wanted to know if you were all right," the boy answered.
Cade looked at him again. He was Ilsigi, dark, dark. His thin chest had
several scars, but he seemed in good health, if underfed. And he met
Cade's eyes.

"Kindness?" Cade asked. "Or are you looking for something, boy?"

"Neither, who knows. Just asked." The boy's voice turned hard.
"Sorry I bothered you, pud," and he moved away, not quite showing his
back to Cade.

"Wait!" Cade said. "Wait." He moved to catch up to the boy, but the
youth kept his distance. "Who are you?"

"What's it to you?" The boy crouched a bit, his body tense. Not wor-
ried yet, but definitely wary. Cade threw the boy a silver piece which the
lad caught deftly.

"I don't sel! myself, pud," he said.

"I don't want your body," Cade answered. He pointed at his head. "I
want information." The boy looked interested. He bit the coin with
stained teeth and then made it disappear.

"Some information costs more than others. What did you want to buy,
pud?"

"How much can I buy about the Sharp Side?"

"Shalpa's cloak," the boy swore, "you trying to get killed, friend?"

"You wear no colors, you're an independent," Cade said. "You must
have been smart to survive that way. You have to know things. I want to
know those things."

"Why?"

"Because they killed my brother." Cade knew he should have lied, but
he could always kill the boy later. The boy was dead meat anyway; an
independent wouldn't last very long around here.

"My name's Raif," the boy answered. He looked Cade up and down.
"Can you use that sword?" he asked skeptically. Cade reached down,
searched the floor for a moment, then pulled up a small piece of wood
four inches long, half an inch wide. He handed it to the boy.

"Hold it out." Raif did so, holding it in his right hand. Making no sign
of his intention Cade drew his blade right-handed and cut the wood in
half; simultaneously his left hand withdrew a hidden knife and threw it—
all at a blinding speed. The knife pinned the two-inch piece of wood to
the ground. Raif just stared at the other half in his hand. Cade smiled.

36

AFTERMATH

"I do all right."
"Shit." Raif shook his head. "I'll tell you what I know, if you pay me

another silver, then keep your mouth shut that I helped."

"Give me what I want, boy, and I'll put you under my protection." It
was a lie, of course, but the boy's look was so open, so full of hope, and
fear of that hope. Cade almost felt guilty about it.

"Follow me," Raif said. "I'll take you to a place we can talk." Cade
followed, shaking his head at the lad's foolishness. Someone was bound
to see the two of them together and Raif would pay for Cade's revenge.
The boy was truly desperate. Maybe he could use him. He shook his head
again. No, the boy was a dead man. Of course, it could be a trap, but not
likely. Cade silently padded after Raif. He kept his thoughts off his face: a
dead-eyed shark in the sea of hell.

Raif moved fast, avoiding all contact with anyone on the street. He led
Cade through a series of winding alleys and unused paths. Eventually he
stopped at a blackened wall at the end of a blind alley. Quickly he scam-
pered over the wall. Cade followed warily.

On the other side, Cade found himself in a walled space about ten feet
long and three wide. Raif went to his knees and dug through the garbage,
revealing a small passageway. The two worked through the rank-smelling
tunnel. Cade realized it was the remains of some sewer lines built in
better times. For about ten minutes they crawled through the mud, tak-
ing several turns along the way. Finally Raif called a halt. There was a

burst of light.

The light came from the sun. Cade was in a small brick-lined room.
Raif had removed one of the bricks to let in a shaft of sunlight. The place

smelled like a rotting corpse.

"This is my best hideout," Raif said. Cade smiled, acknowledging that
the boy meant this as a gesture of trust. He looked Raif over again. The
boy's face was lost in shadow but somehow those dark eyes gave the
impression of giving off light, a silver light.

"Why do you hate the Sharp Side?" Cade asked.
"What makes you think I hate those punks?" Raif answered, but he
couldn't hide his surprise at Cade's question.

"You want to help me, not just because you might get something out of
me. You want to hurt the Sharp Side." Cade squatted down; the boy
mimicked his movement slowly. "Besides, you're not stupid. People
would have seen us together. If I hurt the Sharp Side they'll know I
talked to you. They'll get to you." Again Cade surprised himself. Why
was he being so honest? Raif was quiet for a moment, digesting Cade's

words.

"You, do you know Downwind?" Raif asked, playing with his knife.

CADE                     37

"I grew up here."

Raif nodded his head. "You have the look." The boy shifted uncom-
fortably. "You can tell, the ones who don't know, but those who've been
here, lived here, it marks you. Can't ever hide it." Cade just waited.

"Born here," Raif grunted, looking past Cade's shoulder. "Father's a
drunk, mother's a drunk. They sold my sister to a caravan last year.
Father hits mother, raped my sister. Mom will do anything for another
drink. Sometimes works at Mama Becho's. But my brother . . ." Raif
said no more.

Cade understood. His family, destroyed by Downwind. He was an
independent in more ways than one. He wasn't beat yet. And . . ."

"What of your brother?"

"Old Ilsigi family." Raif's voice was quiet and small. The place, his
"best" hideout, was cool, but Cade could smell the sweat on the boy.
"That's why I talked to you." A pale hand waved in the strange light of
the room. 'The warbraid, I know it. I remember what it means. Not
many left who do."

"Your brother."

"PFLS. Thought, well, we're an old family." The boy shrugged. "He
beat up my father real bad when they sold my sister. He and I left. He
didn't make anything fighting, but we were fed. I ran errands. We worked
Downwind, but my brother was due for a promotion." The light reflected
off the boy's knife as he shifted to make himself more comfortable.

"The Sharp Side broke off when the Rankan god-warrior pressured
Zip. Things split. My brother stayed loyal. Sharp Side slit his throat." He
leaned back on the wall behind him and waited.

Cade could think of nothing to say. How old was this boy? Fourteen?
Fifteen? They aged fast in Downwind; Cade knew that well enough. His
whole story told in quick, short sentences. No explanation, no anger, no
nothing. Just a story. The same story as always. The tale of the damned.

"What was your brother's name?"

"No name. They're all dead." And Cade knew that the boy included
all his family in his statement. Cade sat unmoving. Behind him he heard
the slow drip of water, the sound loud and monotonous. Time. It was
time. Melting this pathetic refuge away. Until the boy was left standing
in the sunlight. Alone. Sacrificed to the madness men thought of as life.

"Have you killed?" he asked.

"No."

**Have you raped?"

"No."

"Have you tortured?"

No answer. So there were things here, deeds here. Cruelty. If he killed

38 AFTERMATH

the boy would he free him? Or consign him to annihilation? Cade
watched him for a moment. A choice must be made. It was so hard with
the young. Kill them in their innocence and they are freed. Or are they?
Is innocence ignorance? Mustn't they be given the chance to decide, to
choose their path and therefore their destiny? Cade felt sorry for the boy,
but then again he felt sorry for all men.

But this one had no chance. And he was so much like . . . but leave
that thought. Still, one day Cade would die. Who would take up the war
then? Who would defy the lords of hell when Cade finally felt and went
to the emptiness? For of course Cade knew that there would be no better
world for him. Madness can be a fine thing. Cade knew he was evil.

Still, he could give the boy the chance.

"Raif," his voice soft, "this is hell, do you understand?"

The boy just stared.

"In hell, all choices are hard." He took a deep breath. "We will sit
here, you and I, in your best hideout. We will sit here and you will tell me
of the Sharp Side. Then we shall leave together. And together we shall
kill them all."

"All?"

"All. We might kill those we shouldn't, but we must kill them all, or
they will retaliate, against you, against me. The burden is mine. I ex-
ceeded my allowed debt long ago. You shall have a chance." And then he
laughed. Laughed truly. For Cade would do it. He would free this boy of
Sanctuary's chains, let him roam and fight hell on his own terms. Give
him a chance to be a hero as poor Targ was always dreaming of. Yes, that
was it. He would do this as so long ago at the same age he dreamed of
someone saving him. And Cade laughed harder. The sound reverberated
in the dank tunnels, but somehow it was a comforting sound. It had
power, and passion. But it was a gentle sound.

"Now"—Cade's laughter ended abruptly—"tell me of our enemies,
young warrior."

It took nearly a week to set up. Raif acted as intermediary. They
accepted that- Targ acted as the buyer, Raif his connection. Cade wan-
dered about, following aimless leads to throw off any interested parties.
The final act was almost ready to begin. He had the long-sought answers.

The why? Simple. The Sharp Side took over many of the operations of
the PFLS, including Terrel's. It had taken Terrel a while to figure it out.
When he did he had tried to warn Zip. The Sharp Side had caught him.

Who? Well, one of them was known as "The Beast," an interrogator
for the PFLS, now for the Sharp Side. A mysterious man, little was
known about him. But it was rumored he was so unmanageable Zip was

CADE

39

glad to see him gone. A man who enjoyed his work. A psychopath. He
was the one who wouid have broken Terrel's bones.

Then there was Amuuth. The brain. The one who ran the gang, gave
the orders. Born in Downwind, barely thirty, Amuuth had worked his
way up through the ranks. Cruel, hard, uncompromising, and known to
be arbitrary in his decisions. This man was the most feared man in
Downwind. And his hands were broken.

Cade couldn't be sure. but it made sense. This man knew of Terrel's
fear, because he was one of the original causes. He hadn't made an exam-
ple of Terrel. His position was too unstable for him to go public. No, he
didn't make sure Terrel died of his worst fear for political reasons. He did
it for his own pleasure. For fun . . .

There were seven other hard-core members, good fighters all. Twenty
auxiliaries rounded out the gang, but only three of these were so loyal
that Cade would have to kill them. Twelve. Twelve lives for Terrel's. It
wouldn't even begin to balance the scales.

Cade, Raif, and Targ sat at the table in Marissa's House. The guards
were on the roof. Marissa was with Sarah. The sun had set. One hour and
it would be over. Terrel's death would be avenged-

"Are you sure the whole gang will be at the meet?" Cade asked.

"They always do it that way," Raif answered. "All nine of the insiders
at a buy." The boy's voice was happy, and who could blame him? Cer-
tainly not Cade. This had been the best week of Raif's short life. Money
to have good quarters in Downwind (and to buy his first woman, though
he hid that from Cade), all the food he could eat, sword practice with
Targ in the hot sun. Gods, his own sword. Though he didn't wear it.
Cade and Targ had made it clear he would not be allowed to wear the
sword until he knew how to use it. It was all like a dream to Raif, and
even all this talk of murder and revenge made no dent in his new world.

Targ watched the youngster, keeping back a frown. Raif was a good
boy, and damned smart. But he hero-worshiped Cade, like Toth did.
Targ couldn't understand it. Children never feared Cade, always reacted
well to him. They missed the madness there, and the years of killing. But
then again, whatever Targ thought of Cade, he knew one thing Cade
didn't know about himself: for all his self-aggrandizing introspection,
Cade had never and would never kill a child.

"I still think I should go with you," Targ said aloud, though he did not
look at Cade.

"No." The only light in the room came from the single lantern lying
between them. Cade stared at the large shadow Targ cast on the wall

40 AFTERMATH

behind him, like a giant leaning over to listen to their conversation. "You
must get the other three. All must die tonight."

"They're expecting me to be there. The deal is with me. If they see you,
they'll know what's up."

"They won't see me"—Cade's voice was firm—"not until I want them
to."

"There's nine," Targ insisted, but Cade only answered with a shrug.
Targ could think of nothing else to say. Cade insisted on taking on the
gang alone. The mercenary didn't like it. But there it was. Cade would do
what he wanted, and he explained himself to no one.

"Why not take me?" Raif piped up. Targ just reached for the wine. He
knew what Cade's reaction to that would be. "You've seen how good I
am with the knife," he insisted. "They expect me to be there, too." His
voice trailed off at Cade's dark look.

"Raif, killing a man is not so easy."

"They killed my brother, too, damn them. I want my revenge."

Cade's hand banged on the table. "You're talking like a fool. Do you
think this is one of your daydreams? Riding up on a white horse, saving
the city to the cheers of men and women alike? Revenge is bitter, boy,
and far removed from justice."

"But—" Raif started again, but this time he shut up when he saw the
flash in Cade's eyes.

"You've had your revenge, boy. Your information, your help has set
this thing up. Now leave it to us to finish it." He turned to Targ, but the
mercenary just nodded. Cade could handle himself, and Targ's prey,
well, they were as good as dead. Targ could live with this. Cade never
asked him to do something his conscience would forbid. Targ's honor
would not suffer from this.

Unconsciously, he bared his teeth, the sharp edges of his canines al-
ready beginning to show. Too bad it couldn't be a cleaner fight. But he
hadn't succumbed to his particular curse in so long, and this night—well,
these bastards deserved it.

Cade stood up. He wore leather armor stained black, a bow in one
hand, various other weapons strapped on tightly. Targ pushed his chair
back and faced the other. He wore only an old faded kilt, his sword
strapped to his back. The two clasped arms.

"I'll take the others out," Targ said. "None will escape." Cade gave
him a hard smile.

"Good hunting," he said softly. Targ's face twisted for a moment at
Cade's choice of words, but the bloodlust was on him and he was eager to
go. Neither said anything to Raif as Cade opened the door and they

CADE                            41

moved into the night. Raif stared at the open doorway for several min-
utes. Then he, too, got up and walked into the night's embrace.

Cade moved through the shadows to the waterfront district, taking
care that no one followed him. The meeting was set up in a large ware-
house there. The streets were quiet tonight. The moon was waning and a
light cloud cover shielded the starlight- It was a perfect night for death.

There were four of the Sharp Side on outside guard duty, one on the
roof, two in front, and one in the back. They were well hidden, but they
moved about a lot. Sloppy. They were getting arrogant in their success. It
was only a matter of time until someone took them out.

The one on the roof was first and easiest. An arrow through the eye
killed him instantly. No one heard the body fall. Cade moved to the roof,
looking down on the dark silhouettes of the two guards in front. Another
bolt, through the neck, and one was down. The second heard something.
He didn't move. Smart.

Cade silently climbed down the side of the building until he was ten
feet above his prey. He leaped. The guard was fast,^but caught by sur-
prise. Even as he reached for his weapon. Cade drew a "knife across his
throat. Cade stared down at the crumpled body, watching the blood
pump from the neck, staining the ground liquid black. He shook his
head; a waste of talent. This man had once been very good.

The guard in back was careless. Cade dropped a rope from the roof,
caught the man around the throat, and lifted him up. His neck broke in
the first five feet. Cade anchored him to the building. The body dangled
ten feet off the ground. Cade was making an example.

He moved to the inside, through a trap door. The warehouse was full
of boxes and crates, which surprised Cade. Since when did Sanctuary do
enough business to fill a warehouse? There were things in town he did not
know and could not understand. Silently he reconnoitered the building.

There were five left. Two with bows watched the remaining three.
Amuuth, the Beast, and another waited at a table in the middle of the
warehouse, a small lamp on the table giving the only light in the building.
It took Cade ten minutes to kill both the bowmen; the others were not
alerted.

Cade lay on top of several crates, next to the body of the second
bowman. From this vantage point he studied the remaining targets.

Amuuth sat at the table, facing the front entrance. His clothes were
Sue though dirty. His two gnarled hands ceaselessly played with the long
^Uace he wore. His black hair was worn short, in Rankan fashion; his
ward was well trimmed. Cade could not see his eyes.

To the left of his leader stood the last of the regular gang members. He

42

AFTERMATH

was a large man, big-boned and heavily muscled. He wore an expensive
chainmail corset and carried a two-handed sword. From his hiding place
Cade could see the blue eyes reflect the light of the lamp. No Ilsigi this
one. Hired help, and by all appearances well worth whatever his pay was.

The last of the three stood to the right ofAmuuth. Cade was surprised
at how small the feared Beast was. A little man, all huddled in his stained
cloak. The torturer's face was hidden by a cowl; a knife glinted in his pale
hands. The Beast ignored the others, his attention on something else. As
Cade watched, the torturer began to hum to himself and slowly rock
from side to side. Amuuth gave his servant a dirty look, but said nothing.

It was time to move. Cade rolled away from the ledge. From a leather
sheath on his side he pulled out three thin black cylinders. Deftly he put
the three together, forming one tube six feet long. He placed the object on
his right. Reaching into a pouch at his belt he withdrew a three-inch
needle. He twisted a bit of fleece about one end of the needle, then laid it

beside the tube.

He rolled onto his back and slowly drew his sword, making sure those
below him could see no gleam off the blade. Then he checked his bow,
placing it and the sword on his right. Once again he moved to the edge of

the crates.

He was about eight feet above the men, fifteen feet away. An easy shot.
He held the tube to his lips, carefully balancing it. No one noticed the
long tube sticking over the edge of a crate. Cade took the fleece side of
the needle in his mouth, took a deep breath, and spat the needle through

the tube.

The noise he made was covered by Amuuth's reaction. He swatted at
his neck, tried to rise, went rigid, and fell over, chair and all. The Beast
just stared. The guard turned quickly to his employer then spun to face
the sound of the blowgun landing behind him.

The mercenary turned at just the right time for Cade's shot to catch
him full in the neck, severing the jugular vein. Cade had time to feel a
quick stab of remorse at this. It was no way to kill a warrior. Even as he
thought it, he was leaping down off the crates, his sword now in hand.

The Beast hopped from one foot to the other, apparently at a loss as to
what to do. Amuuth lay huddled, unmoving; the guard was dead. What
was he supposed to do? He looked at the grinning Cade, tall in the
lamplight, his sword held steady and pointing at the Sharp Side's tor-
turer.

"Uh," he said, "uh, guards!" He shouted, "Guards! Attack! Murder!
Guards!" Cade let him go on for a while, smiling the whole time, the

CADE                       43

"The guards are all dead," he said finally. The Beast stood to his full
height, swinging his thin shoulders back. Cade could still not see his face.

"So," the torturer said, "so. All gone, ah, well." He did a little dance,
then moved closer. "All dead. Well, dead." On the second "dead," he
moved quickly and a knife appeared out of his long sleeves and spun
toward Cade. But Cade was ready and knocked the weapon out of the air
with his sword. The Beast just stood there, his other knife still dancing in
his hands.

"Uh, so," he said. "Who are you?" he shouted.

"I am Cade."

"So."

"Terrel was my brother."

"Uh, so."

"Terrel was the man you tortured, the man whose bones you broke.
All of them." The other was silent for a moment, digesting the informa-
tion. Then he laughed, a high-pitched squeal.

"Oh, yes. Lovely bit of work, that." The madman's head moved to a
song only he heard. "Yes, oh yes. Too bad, though. Only for fun, you
realize. There was no information to get or anything/Still, nice bit of
work. Spell was a nice touch, I thought." The Beast smiled, showing
crooked and browning teeth. "He screamed and screamed, but the sound
didn't carry don't you know. Magic." He snapped his fingers. "Yes, well,
you know—"

But Cade could hear no more. With a roar he leaped at the torturer.
The other's knife tried to parry his blade, but it was shoved aside by the
power behind Cade's swing. The sword crashed into the Beast's head,
cutting deep into the skull, splitting it nearly in two. The Beast crashed to
the ground, dead.

Cade moved closer to see the face. It was hard to distinguish among
tfie purplish-red remains. The face was split to the nose. Cade made out
watery brown eyes, quickly filming over, and the face of an old man. He
looked like someone's grandfather, the silver-white hair now dyed with
red streaks. Cade spat on the corpse. This looked like no beast. Hell was
a funny place.

Cade heard the noise behind him, though few others would have. He
spun in a crouch, his sword held before him, a throwing dagger already
in the palm of the other hand. Who? All nine were taken care of. Slowly,
a slight form moved out of the shadows and Cade relaxed-

"I told you to stay away, Raif."

**I thought you might need some help," the boy answered, looking
•round. He grinned at Cade, though his face was pale. "I guess you
<Hdn't."

44

AFTERMATH

"This is no place for you."
Raif bit his lip, darting glimpses at the bodies around him. He slowly

sheathed his knife.

"You said you would teach me to be a warrior," he said. He gestured

at the dead mercenary. "I've seen death before. Cade."

Cade's eyes went dark. He grabbed the boy and pushed him to the
ground by the corpse of the Beast. Grabbing the old man's collar, he

pulled the corpse up to face the boy.

"This is death," he said, ignoring the still warm fluids sliding down his
wrist. "Look at it, boy, see it for what it is." Raif tried to pull away but
Cade held him firm. The smell of the blood was covered by the horrid
stench of the corpse. The bladder and bowels had emptied at death, and
their horrid mixture slowly leaked toward Raif's sandaled feet. The split
face smiled at him, its dull eyes seeming to search him out.

"No," Raif gasped, pulling away. He got two steps before he vomited.
Cade held the boy while Raif emptied his stomach.

"The life of a warrior is the path of death," Cade whispered in Raif's
ear. "This is the truth of it, boy: old men's brains spilling at your feet."
He turned Raif to face the dead mercenary. Cade pointed. "That's where
it ends, boy. An arrow in the dark in a dirty warehouse, in a town all
decent people have long ago forgotten about. What is so noble, boy, what
is so grand about being a warrior?"

"But you're a warrior."

"No, boy, I am no warrior, because I choose not to be. I kill those who
need it, or those who deserve it. I kill those I choose, not those others tell
me to. People pay me to kill, Raif. Pay me to do what I was born to do.
But don't you realize that I know that I lost my soul because of it?"

Raif said nothing, his voice lost in sobs he tried to hold in. Cade
clasped the boy to him for a moment, then let go.

"I will teach you to fight, to protect yourself, nothing more. You
needn't see this ever again. I will give you the chance to be free of hell
forever." This was the moment: kill the boy now and he would be free.
He would find that warm safe world that Cade's mother now danced in.
Free him. Free him, his mind chanted.

But Cade could not. It wasn't the risk of being wrong about Raif; he
knew the boy was good. It was something else. A chance. Give the boy a
chance to lead a life Cade could never have had. The life Targ dreamed
of, but his curse kept him from. It was a hard thing to live in hell and

dream of heroes.

"Ah, the gentle sounds of lovers' passion," a voice said. Raif leaped
and drew his blade but Cade showed no alarm. He walked over to
Amuuth and bent down on one knee.

CADE                             45

"So," he said, "starting to come out of it?" He rifled through the
other's clothes.

Amuuth glared up at him.

"What did you do to me?"

"Thomneft," Cade answered. "Paralyzes you for about ten minutes."
Cade withdrew a knife from the other's clothes. The blade was double-
edged and sharp. The handle was abnormally thick, allowing the gang
leader to wield the weapon with his crippled fingers. Cade picked up the
chair and lifted Amuuth onto it. He moved across the table to stand by
Raif.

"You'll come out of it in a moment."

"Why didn't you just kill me?" Amuuth hissed. His face showed no
fear. With the black eyes and hawk nose, he looked fierce. Cade could see
why this one was the leader.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"About your brother?" came the quick answer. Cade just lifted an
eyebrow. "Oh, I know of you. Cade. The local boy made good. I was
warned you were dangerous. I misjudged you. I didnH think you'd make
the connection between—"

"Between you and Terrel," Cade finished.

"Precisely." Amuuth shifted his shoulders; feeling was beginning to
come back, but it was painful. He would not show that. He had lived
with the pain in his hands all these years.

"So you've come to avenge your brother?"

"Why did you break his bones?" Cade replied.

"I thought I would finish the job I started so many years ago."
Amuuth kept watching the other's eyes; the boy was no threat. Surely
some of his own people must still be about. They would hear. He held
onto that hope; he knew it was his only chance.

•That's why I didn't kill you."

"What?"

"I wanted to finish the job I started so long ago."

Amuuth gasped. He could not help it. Cade couldn't mean—

"It was me, Amuuth. Sixteen years ago I hunted you and the other
three, with my brick and rope." Cade shrugged. "I don't know which one
you were. When I caught you, I guess I should have killed you."

"You," Amuuth shouted, "you did this!" He held out his hands, trying
to stand up, but his legs wouldn't move yet.

Cade smiled. "The legs take longer."

Amuuth said nothing. He knew there would be no help, no rescue. He
^as dead. He looked up at Cade, his eyes burning with hate. This is the
®an. The shadow he still woke up screaming from. The shadow from

46

AFTERMATH

that night. Unseen, unheard. The whistling noise, the agony in his side, in
his head, his legs, and finally his fingers. He wondered that he, himself,
had not made the connection between his pain and Terrel's.

"I'm glad then," he hissed, "I'm glad I made him pay."

"No, Amuuth, you did not make him pay. You tortured him out of
spite, because even with his ruined hands he made it out. Made a life.
That's why you did it, for petty reasons. For envy. I have known evil in
many faces, Amuuth, but I have never seen it so pathetic."

Amuuth sputtered, his mind refusing to give him words to match his
outrage. This one, gods, all along. He could have had him long ago, had
his revenge. But now . - .

Cade moved around the table toward him, like a great black cat, and
he was the mouse. There was nothing definable in Cade's eyes or face.
Amuuth had no idea how he would finally die.

"Finish the job," Cade whispered, moving closer, taking his time.
Amuuth shuddered. He was frozen, could not move, and it wasn't the
drug that was holding him now. His broken left hand reached for the
right. For the snake ring. Hitting a latch, long fangs extending. Could he
get Cade with his own poison? Not likely ... he could kill himself,
before the pain started. Or ...

Amuuth looked over at Raif. The boy stared at Cade, his face blood-
less, his eyes wide. Amuuth remembered Raif's brother—he had feared
that one. He had tried to entice Raif into the gang, hoping he could mold
him as the older boy could not be molded. The boy could be dangerous.
Amuuth was struck by a memory. Cade had run a gang for a while: the
Demons. They had been terrible, violent, dangerous. They only ran a
block and a half but they owned it. And Raif looked, looks, so much like
the young gang leader Cade had once been.

Amuuth understood. Cade saw himself in the boy. Wanted to help.
Change it. Vengeance can be sweet-

Amuuth tugged the ring off and looked at Raif.

"I'm dead, boy," he said. "You might as well have this ring." He threw
it to Raif before Cade could react.

"No!" Cade shouted and lunged, but he was too late. Raif caught the
ring, dropping it immediately when he felt a double sting in one of his
fingers.

"What?" he said, but even as he lifted the hand to look, he stumbled,
the air thick, too thick to breathe. The floor rose up to meet him. He
panicked. He could not breathe. He was surrounded by stone, encased in
it.

Cade reached him in time to stop the fall. But he could feel Raif's flesh

CADE                      47

already puffing up, the limbs getting rigid. He spun to face Amuuth, his
eyes pinning the gang leader to his chair.

"The antidote!" he yelled.

"None." Amuuth's voice was harsh. "None. A gift from the finger of a
dead fish-eye." Cade said nothing, not taking his eyes off his enemy. His
hand reached down to touch the boy. He was already dead. All hope dies
in hell's capital, in Sanctuary.

Cade was still for a moment, then slowly he tipped his head back until
he stared at the ceiling.

"Mother!" he cried. He was on his feet, his sword cutting the air before
he knew what was happening. The sword sliced through Amuuth's neck,
the head spinning away. It was so fast that the blood geysered up from
between his shoulders.

Cade leaped at the body, chopping and cutting, screaming all the
while. His yell was incoherent, but any who heard that sound would
never forget the madness in it. Eventually he quit chopping the body, but
only when it was no longer recognizably human. For a moment longer
Cade stared down. His sword dropped from the red hand.

He collapsed next to Raif, holding the boy's head in his lap, but he
could think of nothing. There was nothing to say, nothing to do. He sat,
gently rocking the corpse in the warehouse full of corpses, the rats in the
shadows the only witnesses to his agony. Rocking back and forth, the
vast emptiness around him still seemed to echo with his cries.

Targ went to Sarah's house; he knew Marissa would still be there. The
blood was off him. He had swum in the bay to get rid of its sight and
scent. But it was bad. The curse had raged through his veins, alive with
its deadly passions. Now it was all through, all done. If only the second
one hadn't begged so much, if only he hadn't cried . . .

Inside the house Sarah and Marissa sat in the main room as if waiting.
He guessed that Marissa must have told her friend that this was the night
of Cade's vengeance. It didn't matter. He sat next to them, thankful for
their silence, their lack of questions.

Cade came in an hour later. They were all shaken from their private
thoughts by the sound of his fist on the door. Sarah went to the door and
looked through the grate, her face turning white at what she saw on the
other side. She unbarred the door to let her brother-in-iaw enter.

The smell of the corpse wafted in with the wind. Targ growled at the
scent but he said nothing. Sarah stood to one side of the door. The other
two sat facing it silently. Facing Cade.

He stood there, holding Raif's body. Behind him the gray night
Writhed, outlining his powerful form, along with his pitiful burden. The

48                  AFTERMATH

light was not bright, but it was bright enough to show his bloodstained
clothes. Bright enough to show the one tear winding its way through the

scars and drying blood on his face.
Cade had only cried twice before in his life. This, he swore, was the last

time he would, ever . . .
"I'm home."

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER

Janet Moms

Tempus was gone from Sanctuary, taking his Stepsons and the Rankan
3rd Commando with him, leaving only outcasts and dross behind.

In the wake of the Riddler's passing, the town seemed more changed
than it should have been because one man (called variously Tempus, the
Riddler, the Black, and more scatalogical apellations) had gathered his
private army of less than a hundred and departed. Sanctuary seemed
emptied, drained, frightened, and confused.

It cowered like a snow rabbit run to barren ground and surrounded by
wolves. It shivered and sniffed the breeze, as if undecided as to which
way to run. It hunkered in desperate paralysis, seeming to dream of
better days while the cold spring wind blew wet promises of life inland
from the sea and the wolves skulked closer, red tongues lolling in slaver-
ing jaws.

Among fetid streets on this spring evening in question, militias are
keeping order, stamping round comers with deliberate tread. Whores
whisper rather than croon in their doorways. Drunks slither along white-
washed walls, afraid to stagger boldly in gutters where beggars lurk with
ready blades. And the wind comes in off the uneasy ocean with a chuckle
on its breath; Tempus, his Stepsons, and the 3rd Commando have left the
town to its fate, ridden off in disgust to new adventures capable of resolu-
tion, wars winnable, and glory attainable. Sanctuary is not only doomed.
but shunned by its last best hope, the Riddler and his fighters.

The wind thinks nothing of whipping the town vacant, of chilling its
nobles to the bone, of locking the neutered sorcerers in the Mageguild

50

AFTERMATH

and the impotent soldiers in their barracks. The wind is Sanctuary's own,

wind of chaos, gale of gloom.

Spring has never felt so ominous in the Maze as it does this season,

where the first rough gusts blow more detritus than rotting rinds and
discarded rags through the streets. The sea wind rattles against the plate
armor of the Rankan army regulars, clustered in fours as they police
what can't be policed. It flaps the dark cloaks of Jubal the ex-slaver's
beggars, his private force of cold enforcers who sell protection now at
stalls and bars where Stepsons used to trade. It keens toward uptown and
beats on the barred windows of the Mageguild where necromancers fear
the unleashing of their dead now that magic has lost its power, more even
than they fear the wrath of whores whose youth-and-beauty spells have

worn away.

And the wind sneaks uptown, where what is left in Sanctuary that is

noble tries to carry on, have its parties amidst the rubble left by warring
factions of the various militias, by witches and warlocks, vampires and

zombies, ghosts and demons, worshipers and gods.

This wind is of the sort you may remember, coming out of a gray wet
sky which makes an end to boundaries and hides horizons. Sounds seem
to come from nowhere, go nowhere. There is no distance and no proxim-
ity, no future and no past. There is no warmth, even from the one beside
you. When you reach out to take a hand for comfort, that hand is
clammy as the grave. And the stirring of life these gusts portend is only
legend, on such a day, as if the wind itself is here to reconnoiter the very
earth and then decide if the world deserves another spring.

Or not.

Down by the docks, alone, Critias ponders that question. Do the beg-
gar armies deserve the warm sun on their face? Do the vampire's undead,
over in Shambles Cross, need the kiss of sunlight? Can there be a bright
morning for the mages, barricaded inside their fortress where dusk al-
ways reigns? Will Zip and his nightcrawlers among the Peoples Front for
the Liberation of Sanctuary tip the balance for or against the seasons'
change? And does it matter if spring ever comes to this blighted thieves'

world again?
For Tempus has gone, turned his back on everything and everyone. No

more eloquent an omen could be taken from a dozen slaughtered lambs
with jaundiced livers or the birth of twins joined at the lips.

Gone and left . . . what? Left Crit, is what—Crit, in putative charge
of the ungovernable, so that Crit's partner, Straton, had turned and
walked away without a word. Gone somewhere was Strat, and not to the
departed armies, either. No, Strat hadn't gone upcountry with the Rid-
dier, west to meet Niko and then embark on a secret sortie for Theron,

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER

51

emperor of Ranke. Strat, Crit was sure, had gone another way: down to
embrace the darkness that was his lover, Ischade the vampire who held
sway in Shambles Cross, down to the White Foal River where corpses
floated till they waked. Down into hell and this time it wasn't Crit's fault,
but Tempus's, who usually had more concern for the faring of his men.

But there'd been no reasoning with Tempus, who'd pulled the Stepsons
out en masse, and the 3rd Commando with them, leaving the town to its
own devices.

Leaving Crit to take responsibility for fair and all. For unfair and all.
So there was a new pecking order in beleaguered Sanctuary, and one
which was fair only to the extent that it insulted and imperiled everyone,
while satisfying no one.

Put it down, Crit told himself, to the foul humor that caused Tempus
to be called "the Black." Crit had the rest of the year to meet Theron's
decree of a unified, pacified Sanctuary. If he couldn't manage it, Theron
had promised to send the Rankan army here in force, a soldier in every
hut and a fist in every face.

Not that Crit cared about the town per se. No, he didn't. But he cared
about his reputation, about not failing, about always doing what he was
charged to do.

Even though for the first time in his life he'd truly argued, threatened
to quit, to mutiny, to bolt, when Tempus had charged him with imposing
order where order had never been, Critias couldn't turn away from a job
unfinished. No matter what it cost.

In short order it had cost him his only friends here: Straton, his right-
side partner and Sacred Band brother; Kama, the Riddler's daughter,
abandoned in Sanctuary along with those others who had most dis-
pleased her father; Marc, the weaponsmith who'd been his liaison with
townies such as Zip; and Zip himself, the PFLS leader and third-shift
commander, who now looked on Crit as the enemy because Crit was at
the top of Sanctuary's reporting chain.

Where he'd never craved to be, and where Strat had struggled so hard
to land.

Shaking his head, Crit started as moisture that had condensed on his
unkempt hair spattered his brow and cheeks. In nondescript dockside
garb, he was waiting for a contact. Doing what he knew how to do
because Crit was a shadow mover, not an empire shaker. Tempus had left
him with a shattered infrastructure he needed to fuse, somehow, into a
working whole. Or lose. Fail. Crit knew how to do everything required of
a soldier but that—he didn't know how to fail. He'd never learned. Was
constitutionally incapable of learning, Strat used to say.

I   Crit missed Strat like food and water. He missed Kama less, but still

tain

52

AFTERMATH

loved her. And still hated the gutterslime she'd taken up with: Molin
Torchholder, the politicized priest of a pantheon unnatural to this Ilsig

soil.

All the Rankan conquerors of this Ilsigi town of Sanctuary, and the

Beysib invaders who had come after and made an uneasy alliance by
marriage with the Rankan governor, Prince Kadakithis, mistook the
townspeople here for the sort that were governable. And now Crit was
responsible to see that at least the appearance of governance was instilled
and maintained here, where the balance between gods and magic had
suddenly crumbled and all that was left to do was rule Sanctuary by force

of arms.

As commander-in-chief of the policing forces, he was responsible to

the prince/governor Kadakithis, who was answerable to Theron and
might lose more than his palace if the emperor's demands weren't met;

responsible to Kadakithis's Beysib consort, Shupansea, who wasn't even
human, but some sort of fish-woman from across a forbidden sea; respon-
sible to Kama because she was the Riddler's daughter and, by all the
gods that loved the armies, Crit's woman more than Molin's.

Kama had conceived a child with Crit and they'd lost it on a battle-
field. Since then, she'd found whatever man she could to sleep with
who'd be most hurtful to Crit when he found out. Which he always did,
because she was her father's daughter and thought that women's ways
were for lesser creatures, the way her father thought that men's limits

applied only to his enemies.
Crit wanted more than anything to find Strat and simply leave, go up

to Ranke and plead his case to Theron, get a new commission from the
emperor. He was wasted here. Only Tempus knew what he'd done to

deserve it.

But here he was, with the rest of the unloved, unvalued, and unwanted

—with Strat; with Kama; with Randal, a warrior-mage who was the
lesser half of a broken Sacred Band pair; with Gayle, the only 3rd Com-
mando Tempus had told to tarry.

And with those they'd hoped to leave behind: Ischade, the vampire;

Janni the Stepson's half-reconstituted ghost; Snapper Jo, the fiend who
had tended bar at the Vulgar Unicorn; and, uptown somewhere among
the hellish ruins of last winter's incomprehensible war of magic, whatever
was left of Haught, the Nisibisi mageling, and of Roxane, the Nisibisi

witch.
Strat had said—the only thing he had said about the matter—that

Tempus had flat run out of nerve, turned tail and fled, leaving Crit hold-
ing the bag. The very bag that Strat wanted so badly in his grip, Crit had

thought but hadn't said.

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER               53

Waiting alone, with no backup (because with Strat gone to Ischade
there wasn't a single man he'd trust at his back), down on the slippery
dockside hoping his contact would show soon, Crit had had too much
time to brood.

He knew it; he knew himself. For the kind of subterranean work he
was trained to do, self-knowledge was a prerequisite. If it weren't, his
distress over Strat and the horrid triangle of the two of them and the
vampire might well have killed him before this. Might kill him yet, if he
became too distracted by it.

He had a job to do. Lots of jobs. He'd made sure of that. He couldn't
afford too much time for reflection. This task before him wasn't going to
be simple, but he needed to occupy his mind with something besides the
conundrum of his partner. Tonight, it was finding and restoring Tasfalen,
whose entire noble family was missing and had been missing far too long.
Torchholder wanted the popinjay found. Or wanted Crit killed in the
finding, so that there'd be no rival of consequence for Kama's affections
by the time Molin did whatever he was planning about his current wife.

Crit wasn't mistaking Molin Torchholder: in the priest's mind, this
was a suicide mission he'd forced on Crit, knowing Crit wouldn't dele-
gate this sort of task to what men he had available. Zip's half-tame militia
wasn't good for much but swaggering and street fights on their night
shift; Walegrin's barracks of day-soldiers soldiered well enough, but knew
nothing of covert means; and Crit wouldn't ask at the Mageguild—even
with the Stepsons' mage, Randal, there, the price of magical aid in Sanc-
tuary was always too high.

So that left only Jubal's thugs, one of whom Crit awaited. Jubal's
faceless horde of enforcers would spit out one with a face tonight, and
that one would lead Crit to Tasfalen.

Once Crit had verified the continued existence of the noble (or lack of
ft—a corpse would do), he could get Torchholder off his back. And see
Kama. For Crit was about ready to force an end to that particular prob-
lem: either bring Kama back with him from the palace, to take up her
rightful place in what was left of the Stepsons' barracks, or use her affair
with Molin to blackmail the priest.

He wasn't sure which he liked better, but he liked both alternatives
dough to bare his teeth in a humorless smile as he waited.

, And waited. And waited. He stood. He sat. He paced. He leaned. He
heard his horse nickering, then pawing the cobbles. He checked its tack,
Stroked its nose. Strat's bay horse would have evoked the nicker he'd
heard, but Crit didn't see the bay horse anywhere.

Just as well; the bay made him nervous. Made everybody nervous who

54 AFTERMATH

didn't like reincarnated horses with spots on their withers through which
a man could glimpse hell itself if the light was right.

Because of the nicker, Crit realized he didn't want to see Strat right
now. Not until he'd solved the problem of Kama and Torchholder. Not
now, when the gray sky and the gray buildings and the gray dockside
melded with the gray horse Tempus had left him, to take the sting out of
deserting him.

The gray was a prize, one of the best from the Stepsons' stock farm up
at Wizardwall. Worth more than a block of the Maze, contents included.
Worth more than the whole town, to some men's way of thinking.

But Crit would have given it to Strat gladly if Strat would only re-
nounce the ghost-horse and the vampire woman who'd conjured it for
him . - .

"Psst," said a voice from behind him and Crit refused to flinch, or
jump, or betray the heart-stopping urgency within him that counseled a
dive for cover, a drawn sword.
He turned slowly and said, "You're late, hawkmask."
"We aren't hawkmasks any longer," said an oddly accented voice from
under a shadowing hooded cloak. "And I never was. We're just free-
lancing, we are. Just workin' for pay. You like meres, bein' you was one."
A languorous, professional lilt in a northern-accented voice that never-
theless had a deadly, nervous edge to it.

Crit squinted into the gloom but the only thing he saw better for his
trouble was the rigging of a small fishing boat bobbing behind the
stranger, much farther down the quayside than the cloaked man.

Was it a masking spell, or a trick of the light that veiled this face in
gloom? The fellow was out of reach, but just barely. And familiar, but so
was half of Sanctuary. Someone he'd rousted long ago, Crit's mind said,
and started spinning through the years, seeking to match a face to the
voice he recognized.

Crit asked, to hear the voice again, "What do you want, honest work?
There isn't any, not here. Prefer my service to Jubal's? Is that what
you're getting at?"

"Yours? You've got a service, now? That's how come the black man
sent me to help you out?"

The hooded man's ^'s were sibilantly northern and the tension underly-
ing his words was full of satisfaction.

Somebody they'd done something to once, for sure. Somebody the
Sacred Band hadn't treated with softest gloves. Somebody who was en-
joying this more than he ought, because he feared Crit and his kind more
than he'd admit.
"Got a name, friend?" Crit said easily, shifting enough that he could

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER               55

slide his hand onto his belt and his fingers toward his knife's hilt without
being either too obvious or too surreptitious. It wasn't a threat so much
as a punctuation mark.

The contact saw, and tossed his head. "Vis. Ring a bell. Commander?"

Commander. Crit still couldn't get used to it, not in Sanctuary, not in
this context, not with all its current connotations. Did Tempus still hold
Crit's affair with Kama against him so venomously that he'd sentence
him to years of hard labor here with violent death at the end of it?

For Crit remembered this "Vis" now, and what he recalled didn't put
him at ease. Mradhon Vis, a northerner- Thief, malefactor, one-time part-
ner-in-crime of the Nisibisi mageling, Haught. And gods knew of whom
or what else. They'd beaten information out of Vis more than once, when
the Stepsons were fighting the Nisibisi witch here. Strat, the Stepsons'
chief interrogator, had. Crit had been in command of the intelligence unit
then. They'd brought this fool up to the Shambles safe house, drawn the
iron shutters, and taught him the sort of respect that turns to hatred if
left untended.

There were dozens, perhaps scores, of Vises he and Strat had made in
Sanctuary. If Crit lived long enough, one of them was going to try to kill
him. Perhaps this one. Perhaps tonight.

"Vis," he repeated, his voice low. "Right, I remember. Well, let's go,
Vis. Let's see what you've got."

"My pleasure. Commander," said the mercenary, and chuckled nas-
tily. "If you'll follow me into those shadows there, the worst is yet to
come."

"I'm telling you," whispered Kama intently to Straton over her beer,
"Zip's moving the altar stones uptown to the Street of Temples—moving
them and what they housed."

Finished, she sat back, eyeing the other patrons of the Vulgar Unicorn
surreptitiously. No one had heard, she was certain. She'd been careful of
her volume, as well as the drunken slur in her voice. No one human, that
is. The fiend who was tending bar late tonight had great gray ears and
eyes that looked every which way. His warty countenance was averted,
but that meant nothing. In the bronze mirror behind the bar he could be
watching them . . .

"So what?" Strat growled, truculent, one arm absently rubbing his
damaged shoulder. Perhaps once the best man with weapons among the
Stepsons, Strat was doubly wounded now: Ischade either couldn't, or
Wouldn't, heal his shoulder and there were no Stepsons here for him to be
Mnong.

"So, we've got to stop it," she said. Her heart ached for Strat, and for

AFTERMATH

iem all, left here where nothing of consequence remained in the wake of
er father's leave-taking. She and Strat had something in common now—
amething more than Crit. They had to shore up the sagging bulwark of
ommand because Tempus might be testing them. None of the others
salized it, but Kama did. If her father rode into town of a morning,
sady to welcome them back to the fold if only they'd put the town to
ights, Kama didn't want to be found wanting.

But the big Stepson was too drunk, or too deeply hurt, to understand
/hat she meant. "Stop it? Why? So Zip's found some sort of pet demon
r minor deity—some Ilsig spirit to worship. What difference does it
nake? The gods fare no better here than magic—or fighters."

Strat believed only in the magic of Ischade, Kama knew. He'd seen too
nuch, too many dead reborn, too many undead abroad in the streets at
light. Strat had seen his doom and embraced it: he was as much the
'ampire's creature as any of her slaves.

"C'mon, Straton," she insisted blearily, tugging on the Stepson's
leeve. "Come with me. I'll show you."

"You and your lovers," Strat grumbled over the screech of his stool's
egs on sawdusted board, "What the frog you wanna do about it if you
ind him lickin' his demon's feet?"

"Ssh." Kama warned, and put her small hand to the flat of Strat's
>ack, pushing him toward the door like a wife who'd made a nightly trip
o the Unicorn to bring her drunken husband home to bed. Snapper Jo
aluted her with his raffish inhuman grin, dipping his bristly chin in a
;esture of respect.

Great. Homage from a fiend, friends in high places, estranged from her

•eal friends because of that: because of Molin, who had another wife, Crit
ind Gayle and Randal avoided her like the plague. Only Straton, in
limilar circumstances, of all the men she'd campaigned with in the Wiz-
ird Wars, acknowledged her. And Zip . . .

As Strat had jibed, Zip was another of her lovers. Men used their
nuscle and their sex for intimidation, and no one thought ill of them for
t. Kama was a different sort of operator, but used what she had to.
Whatever worked to do the job. It stung her to the quick the way the

•nen she'd fought beside treated her now, simply because she'd let the

-ligh priest wield his influence to help her.
If her father had had a dozen lovers, or a hundred victims of his holy

-aping member, no Sanctuarite would have snickered or presumed to
:riticize. Maybe she should strip her next bed partner at knifepoint,
prove herself her father's daughter to one and all. Maybe then Crit would
»top looking past her when they met . . .
Strat stumbled in the doorway, belched, and staggered down the stairs

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER               57

to the street. The bay horse whickered, its ears pricked. Kama shivered.
The damned thing was dead as a doornail, just didn't know it. Strat
didn't seem to know it either: he fumbled in his pouch, came up with a
chunk of sugarbeet, and held it out on an open palm.

The ghost-horse's velvet lips delicately snatched the treat, and it
snorted in pleasure.

Well, maybe not quite as dead as a doornail. But unnatural as hell.
Unnatural as Sanctuary, a place Kama was determined to leave com-
pletely out of the history she was writing of her father's exploits. Sanctu-
ary deserved no chronicler, as it deserved nothing more than the oblitera-
tion it was so obviously seeking.

The town had its own genius, Kama was sure, an Ilsig spirit that had
finally had its fill of interlopers and was nudging the place itself toward
oblivion's precipice. She wanted only to be quit of it before Sanctuary
was razed to the ground by Rankans, gutted and left to rot by Beysibs, or
torn stone from off of stone by internal strife.

A historian, Kama knew all the signs of a town dying. Sanctuary
didn't lack a one: its gods were impotent; its magic had lost its power; its
populace was polarized by generations of hatred; its children wanted only
to destroy.

"What, Strat?" she said, startled by words undeciphered but still ring-
ing in her ears. She looked up. The big Stepson was already mounted,
reins in his right hand, his left arm carefully resting on one thigh.

"I said, finding Zip should be easy—it's his shift, the dead of night.
You want him, let's go up to the command guardpost."

She shook her head- "Told you, he's moving those damned stones. And
the porking whatever that lives in 'em, tonight. Heard it from a reliable
source." The guardpost was safe for Strat, this time of night—Crit had
the day shift; Strat's erstwhile partner spent his evenings in an old Sham-
bles Cross safe house the Stepsons used to run.

"So where?" Strat's voice was suddenly uneasy.

"Down to the river, soldier. If you can handle it—the White Foal's
banks, I mean, so close to Ischade's."

"Pork what I can handle, woman," said Strat, the booze getting to his
tongue. "I've picked that snipe up by his collar more than he's picked up
your skirts. You wanted help, you've got it. You change your mind, that's
fine, too. But we can't just sit here."

She got her horse, her neck hot though the night was chill with the
bone-deep cold of a recalcitrant spring. Her fingers were numb on her
slick reins and the roan she rode bucked and danced under her. The
wrong horse for this job, too skittish, too green. But the Stepsons had
taken their string, leaving only what wasn't held in common. Except, of

58 AFTERMATH

course, for the single Tros-bred that should have been hers, but had gone
to Critias because Tempos wasn't above that sort of insult.

It wasn't fair, but her father had never been. Didn't want a daughter,
didn't care however much Kama tried to make him. A woman wasn't
consequential, not to him. And her affair with Torchholder had made
things worse, not better.

Was Tempus trying to tell her, by giving Crit the horse and forcing Crit
to stay on along with her here, that if she went back with Crit, he'd
forgive them both? Was Crit being singled out as an acceptable choice?
Or did Tempus just not give a frog's fart?

The latter, most likely. She was going to try to do the same. Try not to
care. Try to understand and overcome the trial that was Sanctuary, the
punishment of being stationed here. But because she was stationed here,
assigned like any of his men to onerous duty, she hadn't had the heart to
refuse to tarry. That would have been playing on her blood relationship,
asking special favors, admitting that she, a woman, couldn't handle hard
duty like the men.

Help the garrison commander and the hierarchy restore some order
here, that's your job. You're a good intelligence collector. Collect, her fa-
ther had said to her, but nothing more. Nothing personal, nothing be-
yond what was said in that meeting where the rear guard was singled out.

And Crit had stared boldly at her across the table in the safe house,
knowing already whom Tempus was intending to name as commander-
in-chief of Sanctuary's disparate armed forces. Knowing she'd have to
come to him, be under his command.

It stank. She kicked her roan and slapped its poll and, under diverse
and punitive instruction, it settled down. Jogging beside the half-drunken
Straton toward the river, she wished she was anywhere else, doing any-
thing else. Trying to keep Zip from making this sort of mistake wasn't
her job, but Crit's.

Straton knew that, too, but hadn't voiced it. Crit was head of the
combined militias, including the fifty grunts that made up Walegrin's
regular army barracks, but Zip, like Aye-Gophlan, was an undercom-
mander, responsible for the second and third shifts each day.

Only Crit, or someone from the palace hierarchy, could tell Zip to
leave the riverside altar be and make it stick.

But Kama would die before she went to Crit and asked him to solve a
problem she couldn't. Bringing Strat into it made the message she was
sending the more clear: We who love you won't be treated this way.
You've snubbed us both for your precious command, now live with it.
But don't expect us to bow and scrape.

Strat had wanted Sanctuary's commission, should have had it. Crit

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER               59

couldn't have wanted it less, so he got it. And that kept the vampire with
her hidden agenda out of things, but at a personal cost only Tempus
could have decreed. Only Tempus, who had no conscience, could split a
Sacred Band pair like he'd split the love-match that had once been Kama
and Critias.

Suddenly, she found her eyes blurry. She swiped impatiently at them
with the back of her forearm. She couldn't afford emotion now; it
clouded her judgment. Her anticipation of men was generally good. Of
Critias, it was woefully inadequate.

Of Strat, her forewarning was little better. Or maybe it was just the
fact that Strat was drunk and his horse a numinous creature that caused
them to take a shortcut over the White Foal Bridge and down a road
leading past Ischade's Foalside home.

Zip was transported, in an altered state where every night noise was
new and hostile, down by the White Foal's edge where he could barely
see the eerie lights from Ischade's house up the bank. He had a wheelbar-
row and, at the bank's crest, a wagon. He had three of his militia guard-
ing the wagon, but he'd permitted none to come down here. Not to the
shrine.

No one should touch the piled stones but him, the thing he served had
told him. As it had told him to bring it blood, and worse, it had decreed
the time and manner of its uptown move. It wanted to live on the Street
of Temples, with the gods. Zip had found it a place, an alley behind the
Rankan Storm God's temple, and there it swore it would be content to
stay.

And he'd found it a new sacrifice, a special gift that one of his girls had
brought him. The girl wanted a job on the Street of Lanterns and deliver-
ance from Ratfall. In exchange for what she'd found on the Downwind
beach, Zip was happy to oblige. The red-eyed thing that lived inside the
stones would tike its new gift, Zip was sure.

He hunkered down beside the knee-high pile and said, "Look here,
Lord, I've got a present for you, when we're moved. But now I've got to
start on the stones, by myself if you won't let my boys help."

He waited for a reply, but only a glimpse of a burning red eye and a
sound like shifting weight came to him in response.

What was it he served here? Most times, it didn't speak. He was
prompted without words to do this or that. He'd get a feeling of a pres-
ence, and the things he brought it—pieces of human flesh, skins of warm
blood, precious baubles—would disappear. Was it inimical only to
Rankans, or to everyone? He wanted it to be his friend. He wanted it to

>0                   AFTERMATH

?e the Ilsigs* friend, guardian of the revolution, since he was bound to

iave one.
He wanted it to show itself, magnificent and powerful, and help bring

jown Zip's enemies. So far, all it had done was take the sacrifices, give
him bad dreams, and let him know it wanted to move uptown.

So did they all. So did all of Zip's Ratfall movers, everyone trapped in
the Maze and policed to wits* end. So did the twelve-year-old mothers
and one-legged fathers of Zip's revolution, which he'd never wanted. He
might have disavowed the struggle if Tempus hadn't tagged him. But

Tempus had.

Zip didn't understand why the Rankan powers wanted Zip's help, or
the PFLS on its side. The Rankans wouldn't believe that there really
wasn 't a PFLS when he tried to explain that a score of gang members
with lamb's blood and paintbrushes didn't make a political movement.

But since his thieves and mendicants would receive the protection of
what police Crit had in Sanctuary if they took the night shift, and Zip
took responsibility, his entry into the power structure and polite . . .

society . . . had just happened.

It wasn't being co-opted by the enemy that bothered him the most.
What bothered him the most was that his bad boys and girls were doing
exactly what they'd done before—extort, blackmail, roust and rough-
house, bum and plunder—and doing it now with the protection and for

the benefit of the state.

It didn't make any sense, until it made all the sense in the world. And
when Zip realized what Tempus had done to him, it had been too late.
Zip was already part of the establishment, a hated enforcer, a dog with a
Rankan collar, and his militia no better than any of the cannon fodder in
Walegrin's demoralized army. They hadn't triumphed over the opposi-
tion, they had become it.

They weren't the revolution, they were the sustaining force behind the

injustice that had created them.

When he'd said that—shouted it, actually—to Crit in fury, the cynical
Stepson had flashed white teeth and said, "The more things change, pud,
the more they stay the same. What's your problem? Not having fun now
that you're legal? It's all your type knows how to do, and this way you
won't end up handiess or headless because of it. You're talent, and we're
the talent scouts. Thank your slime gods you've been discovered and put
to work before you ended up greasing some slaver's wagon wheels."

That was another thing that bothered Zip: Critias seemed to know
more about Zip's affairs than anybody could. "Slime gods" was an obvi-
ous reference to the altar. And as for the slavers . . . Zip had sold more
than one soul down that river of sighs, to finance the revolution. But then

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER

61

it had been a matter of conscience. Now it was a godsdamned state
business, for pork's sake.

Gayle, the 3rd commando liaison man, had told him not to mind it,
just make his list of expendables. He hated himself these days, as much as
he hated Kama, the twit who had gotten him mixed up in all this, and
her damned 3rd Commando ethos that excused the foulest misdeeds as
exigencies. "Whatever works" might work for the Riddler's daughter and
her lot of death dealers, but it didn't work for Zip.

Especially when, if he wasn't careful, he was going to become just like
them. So here he had this altar, this god or whatever it was, this eater of
sacrifices that never exactly said it could expiate his sins, wipe him clean,
but surely must mean it. It was the thing in the altar with its red eyes that
was making him believe there was some method to all his madness. It
had a plan. It wanted Zip to infiltrate the Rankans and the Beysibs, to
leam how to command and the weaknesses of their joint enemies. It was
a living thing in there—or at least a real thing, which other gods weren't,
as far as Zip could tell. It had wants and needs.

It wanted flesh and it needed blood and it wanted to move uptown and
it needed Zip to be the militia commander to serve it.'He had to serve
something. He couldn't justify what he and his little band of rebels were
doing otherwise. He had to have a Cause and the red eyes in the altar, the
slurping sound of fresh blood being drunk and the godlike belches after-
wards, these were his Cause.

And only the river god knew what it wanted of Zip, but it did want
him. Nobody had ever wanted him before. Then came, all at once, Kama
and the Riddler and the river god and . . . No, Kama had come before
the god, but that didn't matter.

It mattered that he got the stones uptown. With a quill he marked each
stone as he lifted it from the pile into his wheelbarrow. When the barrow
was full, he could almost see into the heart of the altar.

But then he had to wheel the barrow up the slope, no easy task, and
when he'd done that and given the stones to his boys to load on their ass-
drawn wagon, someone came out of the gloom and hailed him.

"Yo," he called back, while motioning his boys to cover the stones in
the wagon. "Who comes?"

One horse, out of the gloom; a single rider. He walked toward it, hand
on his beltknife, his neck aprickle, back stiff.

Finally the rider answered, "Zip, it's me."

"Frog," Zip cursed under his breath. "Kama, stay there. The footing's
tricky. I'll come up." He turned his head and said to his rebels, "Get
down there, load the rest of the stones, take 'em where I told you. Careful
to mark them and put them back just like they were. I'll catch up."

AFTERMATH

But he knew he wouldn't. And he knew the god was going to be angry,
augh he didn't know what form the god's wrath might take.
But then he thought he did: Kama was beautiful, sliding off her horse
the diffuse light of a hidden moon. She always hit him that way, no
atter how he told himself he didn't need the kind of trouble she repre-

nted.

And she was trouble, in doeskin boots and leggings, smelling like new-
own hay with trail dust in her hair. And all about her person, as clear
her velvet thighs and firm breasts as in her face or her sweet breath,
ere the indications of her class: her speech, her bearing, the gulf that
as between them and never could be bridged, no matter how he tried.
And he tried then again, wordlessly and desperately, as if laying her on
;r back in the mud was somehow going to do it. But it didn't. It never

,d, never would.

She laughed softly and accommodated him until urgency overtook her,
>o, but it was always the high-born girl with the velvet skin who was
umming, who found him exciting for all the wrong reasons, who played
'ith him casually when touching her was probably worth his life if Crit

r Molin found them.

So when she said, as she quivered, her mouth to his ear, "Strat's here
^ith me, somewhere back there. Don't panic, just be quick," all his
assion threatened to ebb, then exploded when her nails ran down his

ack.
"Damn you," he said, rolling over and off her, the best rejection he

ould manage and far too late.

"Stand in line for that," she chuckled, her fingers reaching for him,
railing along him, tapping him intrusively with unspeakable truths. "It's

>een too long since we've done this."

He was staring up at the clouds which hid the moon like a translucent
ity wall. "Not long enough by half. Not when you're sleeping in with
>riests and commanders-in-chief. I'm a lowly watch officer, remember?
'm gettin' over you. Got something of my own now."

Like he hadn't, before. He bit his lip and almost looked away from her.
3ut he couldn't. It was her damned body that did this to them both,
•very time. Riddler's daughter, enemy of the blood, twice his experience
ind probably twice his brains. What did he think he was doing?

Then he thought he knew what she was doing: "Zip," she said in a
ieductive tone he wished he'd heard long minutes earlier, "don't move
:hat pile of stones. You don't know what you're disturbing. None of us

to."
He sat bolt upright. "Now I get it. You ask nice, and Strat's along to

ask nasty if I don't agree, right? Well, it's none of your business, Rankan

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER             63

whore." He jerked to his feet, fumbling with his pants. He couldn't see
his fingers clearly and blinked fiercely, trying to lace himself together.
"Don't come around me no more, hear? Not on your father's business or
because one of your boyfriends thinks I need it. I don't. And I never will,
not this way."

She was up, too, calling his name. He couldn't run from her, not from
a woman where some of his boys might see. He remembered the time
she'd nursed him back from the grave's edge, and the way she'd started
all this, kissing him when he was too weak to do the sensible thing and
bolt.

She liked 'em helpless, hurt, battle-scarred and war-weary, he knew.
He couldn't figure what Molin had, but power was a legendary aphrodis-
iac. And like her father, she spread it around.

He couldn't handle her. He kept wanting to treat her like a Ratfall girl
—claim her, claim exclusivity with her. He had a comical vision of him-
self sitting at some strategy table with her, all silked and leathered and
shiny brass-plated in Ranke where her kind moved jade pieces represent-
ing armies on marble mapboards. And jammed his hands in his pockets,
walking hurriedly away.

"Zip," she called, catching up, reaching out, and he couldn't seem to
jerk his elbow away. "We need you. /need you. And you owe me this—"

He stopped. He should have known it would come to that- "Right,
we're all working together now and anyway, one time you saved my ass
so I'm yours to command? No chance, lady. These're Ilsig matters, and
you ain't one. Understand, or do I have to say it in Rankene?"

"I understand that you found some sort of talisman on the beach and
that if you give it to that . . . thing . . . you've been feeding human
flesh to, you might not be able to finish what you start. If you've got to
move the stones, I'll make a deal with you."

He crossed his arms and looked down at her. At least he had that
advantage: he was taller. He said; "Go on, let's hear it."

"I won't tell anyone about the altar, or what's in it, as long as no
perceptible trouble comes from it, if you'll give me the talisman you were
going to give to it."

"How do you find this crap out?" he blurted. "Is it Randal, your pet
mage? You been following me? What?"

She just looked up at him, her eyes full of a surety and power that her
little, female body shouldn't have been able to contain, let alone radiate.
It was Tempus's blood in her, some more-than-human attribute, he was
certain.

He said then, "No. I'm not doing anything like that. Why should I?"
and turned to go back down the hill.

^                  AFTERMATH

And Straton was there, on that freakish bay horse everybody knew
?out, come from nowhere, out of nothing, leaning on his saddlehom,
.eaning his thumbnail with a glittering blade. There, right between Zip
nd the path down to the riverbank.

"Going somewhere, pud?" said Strat.

"Strat," said Kama, "I can handle this."

"I was just leaving," Zip replied.

"No you can't," said Strat to both of them. Then: "Zip, what she
/ants, you give her. What she ordered, you do. Or deal with me. Kama,
nere's something more important than piffles going on out there. Finish
/ith your boy toy and let's get going."

Kama winced but held out her hand steadily and said to Zip, "Either
ive me the talisman, or Strat and I are going down there and crush five
T six of those stones. Do you want to risk that, and what will follow if

he three of us have a falling-out?"

Zip looked from the big fighter to the slight woman and saw a shared
mrpose there; an implacable, uncaring deadliness common among those
ure that their Cause was worth serving. He had to leam to match their
pirit. Until then, he'd never win against them.

He reached into his beltpouch and handed her the object a girl had
bund in the seawrack. It hardly glittered. It wasn't even gold, just
ironze. "Here, take it. And take out your lust somewhere else, from now
)n. I don't want to mess with you no more."

He heard Strat's raw titter as he stalked away, and it scratched blood
'rom his soul- He wondered if the thing in the altar would consider the
extenuating circumstances under which he'd lost its gift.

And what would happen if it did not.

Ischade's Foalside home was dimly lit, numinous. When they got
there, Kama recognized Crit's gray horse and squeezed her eyes shut. No
wonder Strat had come running to get her: Crit at Ischade's was naphtha
too close to a torch.

"Gods, Strat, we both still love him, you know?"

"I figure," Strat agreed in an odd tone. "But he doesn't love us. Get
him out of there, Kama. If I go in, it's just more trouble. She isn't going
to take kindly to him sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong."

Kama was already off her horse, handing Strat its reins. "I know. You
stay here, there's no use of you two getting into a brawl over this." Poised
to sprint for the door, she turned back: "Strat, we have to get used to
things the way my father left them. It hurts all of us. Crit didn't want this
command. Not this way."

"That and a soldat will still get you laid at Myrtis's."

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER             65

Bitterness unanswerable. Kama sprinted for the door she'd always
shunned, behind which was something she didn't want anything to do
with: Ischade.

Through the gate, up the steps, and stop, hearing your own breathing,
wondering what you'll do if she's hurt him, ensorcelled him, gotten her
claws into him like Strat, and Janni, and Stilcho and the rest . , .

Knocking with your heart pounding louder, suddenly aware of more
than one male in there behind that forbidding door, and hoping those
other voices aren't undead voices. You've only seen the undeads at a
distance, and even the memory raises gooseflesh . . . "Ah, Madame Is-
chade, I'm here for Crit." Blurted like a fool in a voice higher than
you've heard yourself use since school days.

Inky eyes deeper than any uncursed well, a pale face whose features
are somehow indiscernible, and a hand cold as anything Kama could
remember touching.

"Good," nodded the creature in her cowl. Behind her were colors,
rioting jewel tones, but Ischade was all white and black. Black. "Come
in." Black eyes, so deep you could sleep in them.  -

Don't fall into any trap. Don't look at her too long. "Crit?" On tiptoes.
"Crit?" The swathed shape moves away. "C/7Y?"

There he is, with two men she recognized: Vis, and a beggar with a
stutter, a creature called Mor-am. Wrong company, wrong place, wrong
something going down here.

Kama shivered and feit throwing stars she'd gotten from Niko nestled
in her belt. Could you kill anything here? Would it stay dead? Could she
take out the beggar, the mere, and Ischade if Crit needed that much help?

She could try, couldn't do less. But then Crit came slowly to the door,
his gait telegraphing annoyance, but nothing worse. "Good evening," he
said and Kama couldn't figure where the vampire had disappeared to.
"What brings you here, Kama?"

He somehow shouldered her outside and then the door was closed, his
hands on her shoulders, tight and hard, digging. "Fool," Crit whispered,
"don't mix in this. I've got enough troubles." His lips hardly moved
when he spoke; the hollows under his cheeks were too deep; his whole
bearing was wrong and she was terrified.

"Crit, gods, whatever it is, you can't do it alone. Strat's with me, we're
here to—"

"Strat? With you? He bunks here, Kama. Sleeps here. Does whatever
he does here. For her. Not us. Go away. I'm finding someone for
Torchholder. Special orders."

She tried to shake off his grip. It wouldn't shake. She said defiantly,
"Whatever you're doing, I'm doing. Special orders."

66

AFTERMATH

He couldn't verify that, not without going to Randal. And Randal
might lie for Kama, might say Tempus had sent a message.

The touch of him made her ache and she suddenly wondered whether
if, for just one night, every lover in Sanctuary could be in the right bed,

things might straighten out.
Critias's usually handsome Syrese face had none of its gentility tonight;

it was a fright mask, just shields for eyes and a slash where his mouth
should be- He tucked in his chin, bowed his head to stare into her face,
then shook his head infinitesimally: "You want in, fine. We're going up-
town to the ruined blocks, see if we can't find Tasfalen in one of the
houses left standing there. That's where she says to look. Me, the two
backstreeters she owns, and you. But no Strat."

"Crit, he—"

"Can't be trusted. Too much her creature. Tell him to back off, out of
sight till I leave. Tell him if he wants to talk to me, get rid of the horse as
a sign of good faith. Or of returning sanity. I don't need a ghost horse, or
a ghost rider, which is what he's becoming. Go on. Tell him. Then meet

me at the gate."
He gave her a little push and she wished he felt so strongly about her,

even if those feelings were as hard and fierce as what he felt for Strat.

Like a page in court, she ran back to Strat's horse and said, '"He says
he's going uptown to find Tasfalen for Torchholder. Doesn't want you
involved. We'll talk to you iater. You stay with Ischade. If this goes
wrong, we need someone on the outside who knows where we went and
what happened. And we may need Ischade's—your help."

"He didn't say that."

*'No, he didn't. I'm going with him, and I'm saying it."

"I'll come—"
"He did say that, Strat. He wants you here, just in case . . ." It

sounded like what it was, a whitewash.

Strat's horse backed a few steps and from there she heard Straton say,
"Go on, then. Ischade's warned him off, told him something. I'll find out
what. You need help, you'll get it." His voice was thick.

She was glad she couldn't see his face. She ran blindly to her horse,
grabbed a handful of mane, vaulted to its back, and urged the skittish
roan toward the iron gate where weird flowers bloomed. In her belt, the
talisman she'd taken from Zip seemed hot against her leathers, hot

enough to make her sweat.

It was the proximity to Ischade's wards, she told herself- Nothing to
fret over. She had plenty to worry about without adding the talisman into
the bargain.

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER               67

Crit crossed one leg over his saddle's pommel and lit a smoke, staring
at the building across the street. No sign on its steps or to either side of
the rubble they'd passed getting here, of the whirlwinds and firestorm of
destruction that had ravaged Tasfalen's ancestral home.

This building was intact, its shutters drawn. The vampire had been
certain of where to look, but uncertain that looking was wise.

"She said," Crit told Kama, "that Tasfalen's in there, with Haught.
You remember Haught."

"I remember," Kama said through clenched teeth.

Mor-am and Vis were off to one side, ordered to accompany them by
Ischade, who evidently was in charge of more than her Foalside cottage.
Damn Tempus, for putting Crit between sorcerous rocks and political
hard places. Vis had brought him to Mor-am, who'd grinned and brought
him to Ischade with more satisfaction than Crit liked.

And the vampire had been civil. Both of them had kept Strat's name
out of the conversation. "Our mutual friend" was what they called
Straton, and because of that friend, Ischade was willing to tell Crit where
to look.

And to warn him: "There is more, Critias, in that home than just two
men in a house. Do not go inside, but merely open the doors—if you
can."

This was said for Strat's sake, Crit knew, not his own. He unclenched a
fist with difficulty and found he'd dug his nails into his palm, that his
fingers were stiff from the clench. "She said," he told Kama, "you'd have
the right key for this lock."

"Excuse me?" The woman on the roan kneed her mount closer.

"You heard me. Got anything on you that might do the trick?"

"You're sure she didn't mean that metaphorically?"

And Crit knew what Kama was alluding to: Tempus and an inhuman
sprite had coupled before a magically locked door uptown, and things
had happened.

"I don't care what she meant, we're not trying anything like that.
What have you got that might work?"

"Keys," said Kama with maddening common sense. "Lots of keys. To
my place, the guardhouse, the Shambles safe house, Molin's—"

"Spare me the list. Let's try some." He swung first one leg and then the
other over his gray's withers, reaching for his crossbow as soon as his feet
hit the ground. A bolt might smash the lock, even if it were a stout one.

They drop-tied the horses without a word, a sign both of them were
thinking this might not be survivable. Crit cast a look at Kama, wonder-
ing how she'd managed to insinuate herself into this so fast, so deftly.
And admitting he was glad to have someone there. He was a Sacred

)8

AFTERMATH

Bander, trained to depend on a partner. He wouldn't have tried this
alone, and Vis wasn't the sort of man you could trust your right side to.

Not that Kama was any sort of man at all.

Having crossed the street, Crit looked back once because he'd heard
Vis's voice—not words, just a tone. And saw a wave of farewell so elo-
quently hostile and so gloating that he almost shot the mere there and

then.

But Kama read his mind and touched his arm. "They're Ischade's.

They'll wait. They'll run back with word if we don't come out. We need

that.'*

"Crap," Crit said.

"Agreed," Kama said with a ghost of her father's smile.

Then they climbed the steps and Crit put his back against the stone,
crossbow ready, attempting to cover every avenue of attack while Kama
tried key after key and cursed like a Nisibisi freeman.

Finally she said, "No luck. Nothing works." And slumped against the

doorjamb.
They looked at each other too long, and Crit had to look away. It was

in that silence that they heard something move inside, behind the stout

wood of the door.

Then they looked at each other again,
"Want to knock?" Kama said lightly.
"I don't think so," Crit replied in the same tone. "We could start

digging at the wood with—"

"Wait," said Kama, simultaneously digging in her belt. "This, maybe."

She held out a piece of bronze about half the length of her hand and

shaped like a knobbed bar or rod.

"Never fit," he said critically, still holding his crossbow at the ready,
still glancing from shadow to shadow down the quiet street. Still watch-
ing Vis and Mor-am as best he could.

"Might not have to. It washed up on the beach. I heard about it from
some of my ... people. Turned a gold coin to lead, and copper to clay,

in the finder's purse."

"So?"

"So, let's see if it'll do something to that metal."

"We're here." Crit shrugged, trying to ignore the implications. Kama
wasn't the finder. Kama had appropriated this thing from someone, for
her own purposes- And she'd heard about it through some informer of
whom Crit was totally ignorant. Nothing was going to work right in
Sanctuary unless they all started pulling together. But what he wanted to
do to Kama right then wouldn't facilitate anything of the sort.

She shrugged, too, added a sour twist of her thin lips, and bent to the

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER                69

door. He didn't dare look away to watch, but he heard her tap bronze
against bronze. And curse. And tap again, and chortle.

"So?" he said when she stood up and carefully put the talisman back in
her belt.

"So, do we want to be polite, now that the lock's no problem?"

He took one hand away from the crossbow and, balancing it on his hip,
felt for the lock. It was gooey. He brought his fingers to his lips and
smelled White Foal mud, rank with rot. He swore and asked her to
explain herself.

"I heard," she said, "it might be something like this. That's all."

"Great." He spat over his shoulder. "Next time you 'hear' of some-
thing like this, you come to me with it."

"I did."

"Beforehand," he said, just as there was a scuffling sound and then a
dragging noise behind the door and he and Kama jumped back in unison.

The door opened like a casket's top. And there, behind it, stood some-
thing very much like Tasfalen, the popinjay noble who'd been missing so
long. "Yessss," said the noble in an entirely horrible voice, a voice that
seemed not to have been used for a thousand years.

And behind this shape, Crit could see another: Haught.

And over those two images, he saw superimposed the glowing counte-
nance of Ischade, a slight crease between her eyes, and Ischade was
shaking her head, her lips forming a word.

And that word was "Run." In his inner ear, he heard it again; Run, if
you value your soul.

"Come on, Kama. Sorry to disturb you, Tasfalen," said Crit as he
backed down the stairs, Kama's arm in a deathgrip and still holding the
loaded crossbow one-handed. "We just needed to verify your where-
abouts. Stop by the palace when you can—Molin Torchholder wants to
see you."

By the time he'd finished saying alt of that, he'd dragged Kama half-
way to the street and she was whispering urgently, "What's the matter
with you? Lost your mind? Your nerve?'*

"Finished, that's all. We're finished here. I have no reason to arrest
that man. I only had to find him." His voice was shaking and Kama
heard it.

He didn't look at her as they made for their horses. He couldn't stand
to see scorn in her eyes. But he saw it in the eyes of Ischade's two waiting
minions, and it burned like hellfire.

"What's the matter, Stepson, Tempus take your balls upcountry?" Vis
shouted from a safe distance as Crit mounted up.

70

AFTERMATH

He got off one quarrel, but his aim was half-hearted. It smashed harm-
lessly against the brick beside Vis's head.

And then there was Kama to deal with, slouched in her saddle, frown-
ing.

He said, "We have to report this to Torchholder. I need you. Let's go."

She reined her horse after his, either unwilling to dispute his statement

or unable.
One way or the other, he'd let the matter of the talisman go if she'd

just give him a chance. How he was going to keep Kama with him
tonight, Crit couldn't fathom, but he was going to give it a try.
Torchholder would have to make do with a written report. It was just too
damned cold in Sanctuary to sleep alone tonight.

The sky was beginning to lighten, turning regal above the temple tops.
Zip's black sweatband was sopping though the waning night was as chill
on the Street of Temples as it had been at the White Foal's edge.

He straightened up from the piled stones in the alleyway, hand to the
small of his back. He was alone now. He'd sent his boys scurrying with a
flurry of invective when he'd realized what they'd done.

Or what he'd let them do. They'd touched the stones, because of Kama
and Strat. Worse, they'd mismarked the ones they'd touched.

Zip had spent the rest of the night trying to sort out the mess. And all
he had to show for his labors was an empty pile of stones that wouldn't
sit exactly right, wouldn't form the beehive shape they'd had down at the

riverbank.

One more time, he put the stones he was sure of—the top three—in
place. And one more time they fell inward, toppled others, and ended in
a jumble in the alley beside the Storm God of Ranke's temple.

And again, as the stones rolled and at last came to rest, the ground
beneath Zip's feet seemed to tremble. This time, he hardly noticed the
earth's tremors over his own.

The rivergod wasn't pleased, he could feel it. Maybe it was gone, or
just wouldn't come here because he'd botched it, but Zip had an awful
feeling that the red-eyed thing was more than a little miffed about the
disarrayed condition of its home. Worse, he wasn't sure any more
whether this site was good enough, being not quite on the Street of Tem-
ples, but somewhat off the thoroughfare.

If only his boys had marked the stones. If only Kama and Strat hadn't
interfered. If only the day would stay its coming a little while longer. Zip
had been in tight spots before. Given time and calm, he could sort the

matter out.
There were thirty-three stones in all. Some of them had Zip's careful

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER                71

marks. It couldn't be impossible to figure out which stones must com-
prise the bottom row.

But it was. He couldn't do it. He'd tried four times. And now the dawn
was threatening to break. First the sky would regain its blueness, eating
up the stars. Then royal purple would creep along the temples' walls,
then gouts of red and orange flame to eat the darkness. And when the
celadon and rose of true dawn came, with them would come the priests
and acolytes, padding toward their morning duties.

Zip would be discovered where Ilsigs feared to tread, in the reaches of
a Rankan temple. And then the rivergod would have its revenge.

He knew it was that. He was shaking all over, anguished and weak.
Too weak to run, too tired to hide. It was as if all his spirit had leeched
away with the darkness, as if his soul was as dismantled as the home of
stone he couldn't rebuild.

He squatted down beside the tumbled blocks of half-dressed limestone,
nearly in tears. He wanted to make amends, he hadn't meant to let the
unclean hands of his rebels desecrate the rivergod's temple. He'd tried to
do the right thing ...

And, in extremis like so many men before him over thousands of years,
Zip began to pray: Lord, he asked wordlessly, eyes closed, hands upon
the stone he'd marked himself, the capstone of this puzzle he couldn't
solve, 0 Lord, forgive thy servant. Evildoing has befallen me. In my fool-
ishness, I have sinned against thee. Forgive thy servant and help me to
make things right. Help thy servant to make thy temple and I will bring
the blood of a virgin under twelve, the eyes of an ox, the penis of a Rankan
noble—whatever thy desire is, just make it known to me and f will do that
thing. But help me not fail in the making of thy temple, and give me a sign
that this place is acceptable to thee. Before I get my ass hauled off to jail in
the bargain, he added, still silent, eyes yet closed.

For he'd heard a sound that stiffened him as if he were turned to stone
as unyielding as the blocks over which he labored: the click of a horse's
hoof against a pebble, the scrape of an iron shoe on cobble.

Holding his breath, he heard more: the swish of a long tail, the creak of
leather, the jingle of harness. Frog, I'm porked for good and all.

Obviously, he told himself, this was the god's wrath come upon him.
He was going to open his eyes, turn around, and there would be some
palace hotshot, some regular army mover, some Beysib lady fighter, wait-
ing to take him off to the Hall of Justice for screwing around on the
grounds of the Storm God's temple. Not even his commission as watch
officer could save him now. Not from the penalty for desecrating holy
ground when that ground was holy to Rankans.

He opened his eyes and looked straight ahead, at the jumble of altar

72

AFTERMATH

stones. Well, he'd tried. He wondered what was going to happen to the
altar stones, to the god's home, and to the god himself. Would it magi-
cally get itself and its stones back to the river where it was safe?
And if it couldn't, what would then befall poor Zip, who'd managed to

pork up a god's life as well as his own?

He bit his tip and then, decided, turned from the waist to face his fate.
There, behind him, was a single horseman. The horse loomed in the
gloom, its great dark chest seeming to stare at Zip with a panther's eyes,
a panther's gaping, toothsome jaws.

Zip blinked, and realized that what faced him was no creature half cat,
half horse, but a warhorse wearing a pantherskin shabraque. And the
panther who had given its skin to blanket this horse had been large, with
glowing eyes, and so magnificent that its head had been not merely
skinned, but stuffed so that glassy eyes stared at Zip as angrily as living

eyes might have.

The horse was the color of White Foal clay, its mane and tail and
stockings black. Its bridle and reins were of woven stuff like swampgrass,
and from it wafted a marshy odor. It pawed the ground, neck arched,
and only then was Zip's attention drawn to the rider, who was dis-
mounting.

Zip never remembered scrambling to his feet, only the swing of the
rider from his saddle, the cloak as dark as the predawn sky, and the
feathered helm that inclined toward him as the rider said, "What have we

here?"

"Uh, I'm just trying to put this back like it ought to be." Zip waved
vaguely behind him, toward the altar stones tumbled there, trying to
protect the unassembled shrine with his body.

The rider's helmet turned slowly. His visor was down. He was armored
in browns; bronze or hardened leather or some combination, Zip couldn't
tell. But armored in the way of well-to-do professionals: arms free and
bare but for wrist braces, cuirass and loinguard, greaves below his knees,
and all of it fitted custom to his body. Slung at his hip was a cavalryman's
sword and equipment belt. Behind, on the saddle, Zip could see two
shields, long and short, and a bow and quiver, but in the rider's hand was

only a spear.

Coming toward him without another word, the man used the spear as
a staff, digging the ground with its butt. And then, when this faceless
apparition was nearly upon him and Zip was beginning to wonder if there
were really eyes behind the frightful visor, he finally spoke again: "I see

your problem."
And he walked right by Zip, whose nose was wrinkled at the salty

smell of marsh emanating from him, and on toward the pile of stones.

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER               73

"No, don't! Please! Nobody's supposed to touch—" Zip lunged un-
thinkingly toward the armored man and the horse behind him screamed
and reared, hooves flailing.

Zip threw up his arms and dived to the dirt as the horse stalked up-
right toward him.

At the same time, the armored man turned slowly, from the waist, and
held up his spear. The horse came down on all fours and bowed its head,
snorting.

Zip scrambled to his feet. "Look, like I said, nobody's supposed to
touch—"

The armored man's head swiveled toward him and the voice from
behind the visor said, "This one first." His spear pointed to a certain
stone, then jabbed toward it commandingly when Zip only stared. "This
one. Now."

Zip found his hands on the stone. And then on another, the one that
the spear touched next. And another, and another. Zip labored there,
under the direction of that spear, until the sky was red and gold and he
held the final stone in both his hands, chest heaving.

Poised over the pile, afraid that attempting to place the last stone
would tumble all the others. Zip blurted breathlessly, "You're sure?"

The helmeted head nodded once, up and down, and the spear jabbed
forward commandingly.

Zip placed the stone atop all the other stones and a spark seemed to
jump from the rocks. It bit his hand, crawled up his wrist. It hurt like
fire.

He staggered back, squinting at the stones suddenly too bright, as if
they'd ignited. He shielded his eyes from the glare. A trick of the dawn
light, he told himself when he opened his eyes again and the pile was still
there, neither burning nor singed, not even smudged, but squat and
sturdy.

Squat! Sturdy! A rough beehive of stones, solid as the temple wall in
whose shadow it rested. Success! Relief flooded Zip. Before he knew it, he
was on his knees at the low opening, peering inward, trying to see if the
rivergod was there.

And he saw something, red and glowing, restless in its appointed dark.
And reached out to touch the stones, which were cool and real and snug
in place.

He pushed on one. It didn't shift. He pushed on two. They didn't
budge. He chuckled and then he grinned. He put his cheek to the cool
stone, knowing now that the spark that had seemed to bite him was just
some phosphorescent insect and the rest had been illusion, a moment of
Waking dream.

74

AFTERMATH

Because the god was not angry at him—it had come to abide in the

temple he had built it!

He gave a wordless shout and then remembered the armored man. He
got up from the altar, hand already outstretched to thank the stranger,
but there was no one there. No man in fighter's garb. No horse in
pantherskin shabraque with panther feet dangling from its back.

Nothing but increasing daylight in an alley where no Ilsig dared be
caught, not even Zip, the third shift watch officer of Sanctuary.

"Gotta go, but I'll be back. Lord," he muttered, giving the shrine a
final pat before he fled. "I'll be back."

Kama's roan had bolted during the night, found some way to slip its
harness and make away. "She does it all the time," Kama said to Crit,
who was sure someone had gotten into the barn and stolen the mare.
"There's no door that beast can't open, no knot she can't chew through.
She'll be out at the Stepsons' barracks, mark my words."

And that stopped all conjecture about the horse, and Kama's attempt
to lighten Crit's mood. It wasn't the Stepsons' barracks any longer, not
with so few Stepsons left. Nobody stayed there now. It was too lonely.
The place was used for storage of gear and extra horses, but Crit stayed
here, at the Shambles safe house; Strat stayed . . . where Strat stayed.
Randal, who could have claimed the right, was sleeping in the
Mageguild, and Kama herself preferred any number of beds with men in
them to a solitary one full of unhappy memories.

"I'll go out and check," she said lamely. "You've got to go to work,

anyway. See you toni— later?"

"Tonight's fine with me," said Crit gently, and then with more fire in
him: "If you want to join me over at Ischade's—I can't let this thing with
Strat go on like this. I've got to get him out of there."

"Why?" Strat had been there for them, in his way. When they'd come
back to the guardpost to write their report he'd been waiting, full of
Ischade's warnings and a more honest concern. But Crit couldn't un-
bend, wouldn't let Strat have an opening so that amends could be made.

"She says," Strat had offered, using the unadorned pronoun, as they
always did, to represent Ischade; "that there's more trouble coming out
of that house than you or youi's can handle. Leave it to us, all right?"

Crit hadn't said a word to that at first, just stared at Strat in that way
he had that made you want to sink into the earth right there and then.
And after too long a pause, he'd said what Kama hoped he wouldn't:

"Us, is it? You and her, you mean? Or some of your soulless zombies

under mutual command?"
Strat had been braced for it, by then. Kama wanted to crawl under the

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER

75

table, pretend she didn't understand what was happening and suggest
they all go to breakfast—anything but sit there, a mute witness to the
rending of a Sacred Band oath.

Strat had said only, "Crit, I signed off" on your paperwork, what more
do you want? You can't handle this. We won't tell anyone if you don't.
Tasfalen's . . . our business. So's Haught. Keep your people away from
them, that's all I'm saying." And with that, Strat had left.

There was a time Kama would have taken Crit to her bosom on this
son of rebound and felt like she'd won something. But the comfort he
needed wasn't hers, and all the acrobatics he'd put both of them through

so that he could finally fall into an exhausted sleep didn't help what was
ailing Critias.

Or didn't help enough. Still, she said, "Wait for me tonight," and left
him, thinking that, if things were going from bad to worse with Strat,
Crit might really need her help. He needed someone's. And Kama knew
that, no matter what trouble it caused with Molin or anybody else, what-
ever Crit needed, she had to try to give him,

Love tends to be like that, even in Sanctuary.

Alone in his office, Critias pretended to work on the duty roster until
his eyes started to sting. Then he gave it up, having made little progress,
and began to put his papers away, thinking that he'd go down to Caravan
Square and see if he could find Kama another horse.

But as he was leaving, Gayle came in, muttering that there was "some
porker outside you'd better take a look at, sir—personal like."

"I'm not in the mood," Crit snapped, then said: "Sorry, Gayle, it's not
you. It's that damned Zip. Anybody report anything odd last night?"

It was Zip's shift, so as to whatever had happened about the stone
shrine, Crit didn't expect anything like an honest report from the watch
officer. Wouldn't have, even if Zip could write more than his name.

"That's what I'm sayin'. Commander: you'd better come have a look
at this guy, came in last night to the meres* hostel, claiming all sorts of
privilege.-Now he's lookin' for Tempus." Gayle shrugged and grimaced,
anticipating Crit's next question. "Didn't tell him anything, either way."

"'Just where 'outside' is this fellow?"

"Down at the Storm God's temple, like he owned it. Nice horse, nice
gear, lots of loose change."

"Right. I'm on my way." They all knew the type—they were the type,
before Tempus had welded them into something more usable by Empire.

Gayle was still hovering and Crit understood why: "Somebody's got to
watch the shop, friend."

76

AFTERMATH

Gayle screwed up his face. "Forking waste, all this porked-up paper
work's somethin' any porkin' fool can do."

"Not when it's mine, it isn't. Molin comes by, keep him here, tell him
we're making copies and need his signature on something—anything. Try
to find out what he's up to on this Tasfalen matter. And let him know
that, far as we're concerned, it's closed: we found the man in question,
he's not accused of anything, there's nothing more we can do."

Gayle was nodding intently, trying to memorize all of that, as Crit left.

His gray horse was still where Crit had tethered it, Enlil be praised. If
that one disappeared, then it was going to become police business, and
fast. But it hadn't. He rubbed its nose and it whickered softly as he
mounted up and headed off into the early morning sunlight.

The worst thing about this new duty was getting used to sleeping at
night, working in the daytime. For Crit's money, sunlight was something
you left to the cattle. In Sanctuary, like most other venues he'd worked,
what was worth doing got done at night.

But command made its demands, and when he got to the Storm God's
temple he wished he'd commanded his mage, Randal, to come to the
Street of Temples with him.

The horse that was tied in front of the temple screamed money and
power from every trapping and the pantherskin shabraque it wore was of
a style and quality Crit had never seen before.

"Where's the owner of this horse?" he demanded of the temple acolyte
who'd obviously been paid to watch over it and was doing that from a
distance: the shabraque wasn't the only part of this beast with teeth.

"In back, Commander, down that alley." The acolyte rolled its
eunuch's eyes heavenward as if to say. Don't ask me why these warriors

do what they do.

Crit looked at the tethered warhorse, whose saddle had hung on it both
a large and small shield, and other implements of close and regimented
fighting, and blew out a long, slow breath.

Crit's dues to the mercenary's guild were still paid up. He rode, rather
than walked, down the alley on the southwest side of the Storm God's
temple until he came to a man eating a skewer of lamb and drinking from
a wineskin, leaning up against the temple wall near a pile of stones.

"Life to you," Crit said cautiously, keeping rein contact with his
horse's mouth with one hand and his other on the crossbow he could
shoot without disengaging from its saddle hook.

"And the rest, as follows," said the other man whose helmet, on the
pile of stones, was of an ancient style from far to the west. "I'm looking

for Tempus."

"You've found his first officer." Old habits died hard. "I'm holding the

WAKE OF THE RIDDLER             77

bag here till he returns." Everything about this fighter screamed trouble;

the fact that he was looking for the Riddler didn't mitigate that: whoever
Tempus wanted for his sortie, he'd already contacted.

"You'll do, then."

"Thanks. Do for what?"

"I'm offering my services- Tempus needs a little help here, I was told."
The man was Crit's height but somewhat heavier, in his middle years,
scarred enough by war and wind and sun to prove him mortal. His head
was broad and strong and resembled, more than anything else, a human
version of the helmet he'd set on the piled stones. The red-brown eyes in
that face held Crit's implacably, and the Stepson had the unmistakable
impression that he was being judged.

"He's not here, I said."

"But the problems are, and you're short-handed, so they say up at the
guild hostel."

"Who sent you?" Bluntly put. If this fighter was a mere, as he said, the
guild records could tell him something about the man he was looking at
—if Crit needed to know any more.

A quirked smile that showed no teeth. "Your need, for certain—and
the Riddler's. The Storm God, if you like."

Crit hated this sort of innuendo- The man he was looking at was of a
fighting class not usually under his command, and if the newcomer was
staying in Sanctuary, some accommodation between them would have to
be made. The last thing he needed was a man like this working against
him. And if he was what he seemed—an acquaintance of Tempus—then
he might represent a light at the end of Crit's personal tunnel.

The man leaning against the wall merely chewed on his stick of lamb
chunks and eyed Crit and the gray horse until Critias knew he must
dismount or create an enemy,

When he'd done that, the newcomer threw away his stick of lamb and
came toward him. When he reached the pile of stones, he put one foot up
on it and retrieved his helmet. "I'm known as Shepherd," he said, and
held out his hand.

"I bet you are," Crit replied, taking it. Between them was the pile of
stones and, somehow, Crit didn't want to touch it. He remembered what
Kama had said about Zip and the stones, but it didn't seem anywhere
Bear as important as the man before him. "Well, Shepherd, I'm not using
niy war name here, so it's just Critias." He disengaged his hand and
unconsciously wiped it against his hip.

Behind Crit, his horse snorted. Duly prompted, the Stepson said,
"We've got plenty of work for the right sort of man, but what kind

78

AFTERMATH

depends on how long you're staying. And what sort of references you can
produce. More, I hope, than just evidence of the Storm God's favor."

"More than gods' favor, yes," said Shepherd, tapping his foot on the
pile of stones. "Gods: can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em." He shook his
head in mock disgust, to make it clear that the remark was a joke, but it
seemed strange to Crit, as strange as this Shepherd come to Sanctuary in

the wake of the Riddler.

INHERITOR

David Drake

"You need a dagger, caravan master," said the stranger to Samlor hi)
Samt as he began to bring a weapon slowly out from under his cloak.

The man hadn't spoken loudly, but there were key words which rang
in the air of the Vulgar Unicorn. Weapon words were almost as sure a
way to get attention in this bar as the mention of money. Conversation
stopped or dropped into a lower key; eyes shifted over beer mugs and
dice cups.

Samlor was already in the state of tension which gripped any sane man
when he walked into this bar in the heart of Sanctuary's Maze district.
More than the word "dagger" shocked him now, so that his right hand
slipped to the brass pommel and hilt—of nondescript hardwood, plain
and serviceable like the man who carried it—of the long fighting knife in
his belt sheath.

At the same time, Samlor's left arm swept behind him to locate and
hold his seven-year-old niece Star. She was with him in this place because
there was no place in the world safer for her than beside her mother's
brother . . . which was almost another way of saying that there was no
safety at all in this life.

Almost, because for forty-three years, Samlor hil Samt had managed to
do what he thought he had to do, be damned to the price he paid or the
cost to whatever stood between him and duty.

The stranger shouldn't have called him "caravan master." That's what
he was, what he had been ever since he had determined to lift his family
from poverty, despite the scorn all his kin heaped on him for dishonoring
Ordonian nobility by going into trade. But no one in Sanctuary should

80

AFTERMATH

have recognized Samlor; and if they did, he and Star were in trouble
much deeper than the general miasma of danger permeating this place.
There were people in Sanctuary who actively wished Samlor dead.
That was unusual; not because he'd lived a life free from deadly enemies,
but because fate or the Cirdonian caravan master himself had carried off

most of those direct threats already.

When he bedded his camels at night on the trail, Samlor walked the
circuit of the laager prodding crevices and holes with a cornel-wood staff
flexible enough to reach an arm's length down a circuitous burrow.

If there were a hiss or an angry jarring of fangs on the staff, he either
blocked the hole or, as the mood struck him, teased the snake into the
open to be finished with a whip-swift flick of the staff. That was the only
way to prevent beasts and men from being bitten when they rolled in
their sleep onto vipers sheltering against mammalian warmth.

The caravan routes were a hard school, but applying the lessons he
learned there to human enemies had kept Samlor alive longer than would

otherwise have been the case.

Sanctuary, though, was a problem better avoided than solved—and
insoluble besides. Samlor had no intention of seeing and smelling the
foulness of this place ever again, until the messenger arrived with the

letter from Samlane.
It could have been a forgery, though the Cirdonian script on the strip

of bark-pulp paper was illegible until it had been wound onto a message
staff of the precise length and diameter of the ones Samlor's family had
adopted when they were ennobled seventeen generations before. But the
hand was right; the message had the right aura of terse presumption that
Samlor would do his sister's will in this matter . . .

And the paper was browned enough with age, despite having been
locked in a banker's strong room, that the document might well have
been written before Samlane died with her brother's knife through her
belly and through the thing she carried in her womb.

Samlor couldn't imagine what inheritance could be worth the risk of
bringing Star back to Sanctuary, but his sister had been foolishly destruc-
tive only of herself. If the legacy which would come to Star at age seven
were that important, then it was Samlor's duty as the child's uncle to see

that she received it.

It was his duty as the father as well, but that was something he thought

about only when he awakened in the bleak darkness.
So he was in Sanctuary again, where no one was safe; and a man he

didn't know had just identified him.

Star put a hand on her uncle's elbow, to reassure him with her pres-
ence and the fact she understood the tension.

INHERITOR                      81

The trio of punks by the door glanced sidelong with greasy eyes. They
were street toughs, too young to have an identity beyond the gang mem-
bership they proclaimed with matching yellow bandannas and high boots
that made sense only for horsemen. They were dangerous, the gods knew,
the way a troop of baboons was dangerous. Like baboons, they stank,
yammered, and let vicious hostility to outsiders serve in situations where
humans would have found intelligence to be useful.

Four soldiers, out of uniform but obvious from the way their hair was
cut short to fit beneath a helmet, sat at a table near the bar with a pimp
and a woman. The pimp gave Samlor and the situation an appraising
look. The woman eyed the caravan master blearily, because he happened
to be standing where her eyes were more or less focused.

And the soldiers, after momentary alertness to the possibility of a
brawl, resumed their negotiations regarding a price for the woman to go
down on all four of them in the alley outside.

There were a dozen other people in the tavern, besides the slope-shoul-
dered tapster and the barmaid—the only other woman present—who slid
between tables, too tired to slap at the hands that groped her and too
jaded to care. The drinkers, solitary or in pairs, were nondescript though
clothed within a fair range of wealth and national origin. They could be
identified as criminals only because they chose to gather here.

"I don't need a dagger," said Samlor, releasing Star to free his left
hand as his right lifted the wedge of his own belt knife a few inches up in
its sheath. "I have my own."

There was nothing fancy about Samlor's weapon. The blade was a foot
long with two straight edges. The metal had no ornamentation beyond
the unsharpened relief cuts which would permit the user to short-grip the
weapon with an index finger over the crosshilt. It was forged of a good
grade of steel—though, again, nothing exceptional.

Recently, a few blades of Enlibar steel had appeared. These were
forged from iron alloyed with a blue-green ore of copper which had been
cursed by earth spirits, kobolds. The ore could be smelted only by magi-
cal means, and it was said to give an exceptional toughness to sword
blades.

Samlor had been interested in the reports, but he'd survived as long as
he had by sticking to what he was sure would work. He left the experi-
ments with kobold steel to others.

"You'll want this anyway," said the stranger, lifting his dagger by its
crosshilt so that the pommel was toward Samlor.

Not a threat, only a man with something to sell, thought the Cirdonian
•s he sidled away from the stranger to get to the bar. Harmless, almost
certainly—but Samlor moved to his left, guiding Star ahead of him so

82

AFTERMATH

INHERITOR

83

that his body was between her and the weapon that the other man in-
sisted on displaying. The fellow had sized up Samlor as he entered the
Vulgar Unicorn, guessing his occupation from his appearance. A con
man's trick, perhaps, but not an assassin's.

There was no reason to take chances.

"When are we going to sleep, uncle?" asked Star with a thin whine on
the last syllables which meant she was really getting tired. That was
understandable, but it meant she was likely to balk when she needed to
obey- She might even call him "Uncle Samlor" despite having been
warned that Samlor's real name would make both of them targets.

Star was an unusual child, but she was a child nonetheless.

"Two mugs of blue John," said the Cirdonian, loudly enough for the
tapster halfway down the bar to hear him. They already had the attention
of the fellow, an athlete gone to fat but still powerful. He was balding,
and his scars showed that he had been doing this work or work equally

rough for many years.

If something had cost him his left thumb during that time—he was still

the one walking around to tell the tale, wasn't he?

'7 want—" Star piped up-

"And two beers to wash it down," Samlor said loudly, cutting her off.
As his left hand reached down for his belt purse, he let it linger for a
moment where Star's hood covered the whorl of white hair that was the
source of her name. She quieted for the moment, though the touch was

gentle.
Star's mother had immersed herself in arts that had ultimately killed

her—or had led her to need to die. Her child had terrifying powers when
necessity and circumstances combined to bring them out.

But Samlor hil Samt had no need of magic to frighten anyone who
knew him as well as the child did. He would not cuff her across the room;

not here, not ever. His rage was as real as the rock glowing white in the
bowels of a volcano. The Cirdonian's anger bubbled beneath -a crust of
control that split only when he chose that it should, and he would never
release its destruction on his kin, blood of his blood ... his seed.

Star was old enough to recognize the fury, and wise enough to avoid it
even when she was fatigued. She patted her protector's hip.

The coin Samlor held between the middle and index finger of his left
hand was physically small but minted from gold. It was an indication to
the sharp-eyed tapster that his customer wanted more than drink, and a
promise that he would pay well for the additional service. The man
behind the bar nodded as he scooped clabbered milk from a stoneware

jug under the bar.

There was no drink more refreshing than blue John to a dusty traveler,

tired and hungry but too dry to bolt solid food. It was a caravaner's drink
—and Samlor was a caravaner, obvious to anyone, even before he or-
dered. He shouldn't have been surprised at the way a stranger had ad-
dressed him.

Samlor wore a cloak, pinned up now to half-length as he would wear it
for riding. When he slept or stood in a chili breeze, it could cover him
head to toe. The fleece from which it was tightly woven had a natural
blue-black color, but it had never been washed or dyed. Lanolin remain-
ing in the wool made the garment almost waterproof.

The tunic he wore beneath the cloak was wool also, but dyed a neutral
russet color. Starting out before dawn on the caravan road, Samlor would
wear as many as three similar tunics over this one, stripping them off and
binding them to his saddle as the sun brightened dazzlingly on the high
passes.

The bottom layer against his skin was of silk, the only luxury Samlor
allowed himself or even desired while he was on the road.

He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man even without the added
bulk of his cloak, but his wrists would have been thick on a man of half
again his size. The skin of his hands and face was roughened by a thou-
sand storms whipping sand or ice crystals across the plains, and it was
darkened to an angry red that mimicked the tan his Cirdonian genes did
not have the pigment to support.

When Samlor smiled, as he did occasionally, the expression flitted
across his face with the diffidence of a visitor sure he's knocking at the
wrong address. When he barked orders, whether to men or beasts, his
features stayed neutral and nothing but assurance rang in his chill, crisp
tones.

When Samlor hil Samt was angry enough to kill, he spoke in soft,
bantering tones. The muscles stretched across his cheekbones and pulled
themselves into a visage very different from his normal appearance; a
visage not altogether human.

He rarely became that angry; and he was not angry now, only cautious
and in need of information before he could lead Star and her legacy out
of this damnable city.

The clabbered milk was served in masars, wooden cups darkened by
the sweaty palms of hundreds of previous users. As the tapster paused,
midway between reaching for the coin now or drawing the beer first,
Samlor said, "I'm trying to find a man in this town, and I'm hoping that
you might be able to help me. Business, but not . . . serious business."

That was true, though neither the tapster nor any other man in this
dive was likely to believe it.

Not that they'd care, either, so long as they'd been paid in honest coin.

84

AFTERMATH

"A regular?" asked the balding man softly as his hand did, after all,
cover the gold which Samlor was not yet willing to release.

"I doubt it," said the Cirdonian with a false, fleeting smile. "His
name's Setios. A businessman, perhaps, a banker, as like as not. Or just
possibly, he might be, you know , . , someone who deals with magic. I
was told he keeps a demon imprisoned in a crystal bottle."

You could never tell how mention of sorcery or a wizard was going to
strike people. Some very tough men would blanch and draw away—or
try to slit your throat so that they wouldn't have to listen to more.

The tapster only smiled and said, "Somebody may know him. I'll ask
around." He turned. The coin disappeared into a pocket of his apron.

"Uncle, I don't like—'

"And the beers, friend," Samlor called in a slightly louder voice.
There was little for a child to drink in a place like this. Star didn't have
decades of caravan life behind her, the days when anything wet was
better than the smile of a goddess- The beer was a better bet than what-
ever passed for wine, and either would be safer than the water.
"This is a very special knife," said a voice at Samlor's shoulder.
The Cirdonian turned, face flat. He was almost willing to disbelieve the
senses that told him that the stranger was pursuing his attempt to sell a
dagger. In this place, a tavern where unwanted persistence generally led

to somebody being killed.

"Get away from me," Samlor said in a clear, clipped voice, "or I'll put

you through a window."

He nodded toward the wall facing the street, where wicker lattices

screened the large openings to either side of the door. The sides of the
room were ventilated by high, horizontal slits that opened onto alleys
even more fetid than the interior of the tavern.

Samlor meant exactly what he said, though it would cause trouble that

he'd really rather avoid.

Star wasn't the only one whom fatigue had left with a hair trigger.
The man wasn't a threatening figure, only an irritating one. He was
shorter than Samlor by an inch or two and fine-boned to an almost
feminine degree. He wore a white linen kilt with a scarlet hem, cinched
up on a slant by a belt of gorgeous gold brocade. His thigh-length cape
was of a thick, soft, blue fabric, but his torso was bare beneath that
garment. The skin was coppery brown, and his chest, though hairless,

was flat-muscled and clearly male.

The stranger blinked above his smile and backed a half step. Samlor
caught the beers that the tapster glided to him across the surface of the

bar,

"Here, Star," said the Cirdonian, handing one of the containers down

INHERITOR                      85

to his charge. "It's what there is, so don't complain. We'll do better
another time, all right?"

The beer was in leathern jacks, and the tar used to seal the leather
became a major component of the liquid's flavor. It was an acquired taste
—and not one Samlor, much less his niece, had ever bothered to acquire.
At that, the smoky flavor of the tar might be less unpleasant than the way
the brew here would taste without it.

The tapster had crooked a finger toward a dun-colored man at a comer
table. Samlor would not have noticed the summons had he not been sure
it was coming, but the two men began to talk in low voices at the far end
of the bar.

The tavern was lighted by a lantern behind the bar and a trio of lamps
hanging from a hoop in the center of the room. The terra-cotta lamps
had been molded for good luck into the shape of penises.

There was no sign that the clientele of this place was particularly
fortunate, and the gods knew they were not well lighted. The cheap lamp
oil gave off as much smoke as flame, so that the tavern drifted in a haze
as bitter as the faces of its denizens.

"Really, Master Samlor," said the stranger, "you must look at this
dagger."

The Cirdonian's name made time freeze for him, though no one else in
the Vulgar Unicorn appeared to take undue notice. The flat of the
weapon was toward Samlor. The slim man held the hilt between thumb
and forefinger and balanced the lower edge of the blade near the tip of his
other forefinger—not even a razor will cut with no more force than
gravity driving it.

Samlor's own belt knife was clear of its sheath, drawn by reflex without
need for his conscious mind to reach to the danger. But the stranger was
smiling and immobile, and the dagger he held . . .

The dagger was very interesting at that.

Its pommel was faceted with the ruddy luster of copper. The butt itself
was flat and narrow, angling wider for a finger's breadth toward the hilt
and narrowing again in a smooth concave arc. The effect was that of a
coffin, narrow for the corpse's head and wider for his shoulders until it
tapered toward his feet again.

The hilt was unusual and perhaps not attractive, but the true wonder
of the weapon was its blade.

Steel becomes more brittle as it becomes harder. The greatest mystery
of the swordsmith's art is the tempering that permits blades to strike
without shattering while remaining hard enough to cleave armor or an
Opponent's weapon.

A way around the problem is to weld a billet of soft iron to a billet of

86

AFTERMATH

steel hardened with the highest possible carbon content. The fused bar
can then be hammered flat and folded back on itself, the process repeated
until iron and steel are intermingled in thousands of layers thinner than

the edge of a razor.

Done correctly, the result is a blade whose hardness is sandwiched
within malleable layers that absorb shock and give the whole resilience;

but the operation requires the flats to be cleaned before each refolding,
lest oxide scale weaken the core and cause it to split on impact like a
wand of whalebone. Few smiths had the skill and patience to forge such
blades; few purchasers had the wealth to pay for so much expert labor.

But this stranger seemed to think Samlor fell into the latter category—
as the caravan master indeed did, if he wanted a thing badly enough-

The blade was beautiful. It was double-edged and a foot long, with the
sharpened surfaces describing flat curves instead of being straight tapers
like those of the knife in Samlor's hand. The blade sloped toward either
edge from the deep keel in the center which gave it stiffness—and all
along the flat, the surface danced and shimmered with the polished, acid-
etched whorls of the dissimilar metals which comprised it.

Because of their multiple hammered refoldings, the join lines between
layers of iron and steel were as complex as the sutures of a human skull.
After the bar had been forged and ground into a blade, the smith pol-
ished it and dipped it into strong acid which he quickly flushed away.

The steel resisted the biting fluid, but some of the softer iron was eaten
by even the brief touch. The iron became a shadow of incredible delicacy
against which the ripples of bright steel stood out like sunlight on moun-
tain rapids. Even without its functional purpose, the watermarked blade
would have commanded a high price for its appearance.

Samlor's eyes stung. He blinked, because in the wavering lamplight the

spidery lines of iron against steel looked like writing.

The stranger smiled more broadly.

"Unc—" began Star with a tug on the caravan master's left sleeve.

The iron shadows in the heart of the blade read "He will attack" in
Cirdonian script. A moment before they had been only swirls of metal.

The stranger's hand slid fully onto the hilt he had been pinching to
display. He twisted it in a slashing stroke toward Samlor's eyes.

Samlor didn't believe the words written on steel. He didn't even believe
he had seen them. But part of his nervous system—"mind" would be too
formal a term for reflex at so primitive a level—reacted to the strangeness

with explosive activity.
The Cirdonian's left hand shot out and crushed the stranger's fingers

against the grip of his weapon, easily turning the stroke into a harmless
upward sweep- The metal that Samlor touched—the copper buttcap and

INHERITOR

87

the tang to which scales of dark wood were pinned to complete the hilt—
were cooler than air temperature despite having been carried beneath the
stranger's cape.

Samlor's right hand slammed his own dagger up and through the
stranger's ribcage till the crosshilt stopped at the breastbone. The cara-
van master could have disarmed his opponent without putting a foot of
steel through his chest, but reflex didn't know that and instinct didn't
care.

The stranger—the dead man, now, with steel from his diaphragm to
the back of his throat—lifted at the short, powerful blow. His head
snapped back—his mouth was still smiling—and hammered the hoop
which suspended the lamps. They sloshed and went out as the heavy oil
doused their wicks.

"Star, keep behind—" Samlor ordered as the light dimmed and his
right hand jerked down to clear his weapon from the torso in which he
had just imbedded it. The stranger flopped forward loosely, but the blade
remained stuck.

Somebody's hurled beer mug smashed the lantern behind the bar. The
Vulgar Unicorn was as dark as the bowels of hell.

Samlor ducked and hunched back against the bar while he tugged at
his knife hilt with enough strength to have forced a camel to its knees.

There was a grunt and an oak-topped table crashed over. Somebody
screamed as if he were being opened from groin to gullet—as may have
been the case. Darkness in a place like this was both an opportunity and a
source of panic. Either could lead to slaughter.

Samlor's dagger wouldn't come free. He hadn't felt it grate bone as it
went in, and it didn't feel now as if the top were caught on ribs or the
stranger's vertebrae. The blade didn't flex at all, the way it should have
done if it were held at one point. It was more as if Samlor had thrust the
steel into fresh concrete and were coming back a day later in a vain
attempt to withdraw it.

One advantage to winning a knife fight is that you have the choice of
your opponent's weapon if something's happened to yours. The Cirdoni-
an's left hand snatched the hilt from the unresisting fingers of the man he
had just killed, while his right arm swept behind him to gather up his
niece.

A thrown weapon plucked his sleeve much the way the child had done
a moment before. The point was too blunt to stick in the bar panel
against which it crashed like a crossbow bolt.

Star wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere within the sweep of Samlor's
arm, and there was no response when he desperately called the child's
name.

88

AFTERMATH

Steel hit steel across the room with a clang and a shower of angry
orange sparks. Someone outside the tavern called a warning, but there
was already a murderous scuffle blocking the only door to the street.

That left the door to the alley on the opposite side of the tavern; stairs
to the upper floor—which Samlor couldn't locate in the dark and which
were probably worth his life to attempt anyway; and a third option which
was faster and safer than the other two, though it was neither fast nor

safe on any sane scale.

Samlor gripped the body of his victim beneath both armpits and

rushed forward, using the corpse as a shield and a battering ram.

His niece might still be inside the Vulgar Unicorn, but he couldn't find
her in the darkness if she didn't—or couldn't—answer his call. Star was a
level-headed girl who might have screamed but wouldn't have panicked

to silence when Samlor shouted for her.

He was much more concerned that she had bolted for the door the
instant the lights went out, and that she was now in the arms of someone
with a good idea of the price a virgin of her age would fetch in this

hellhole-
Somebody brushed Samlor from the side—backed into him—and

caromed off, wailing in terror. Samlor did not cut with his new dagger at
the contact because Star could still be within reach of his blade . . .
He was willing to be stabbed himself to avoid making that sort of

mistake.

Samlor stumbled on an outstretched limb which gave but did not
twitch beneath his boot. Then the corpse hit the screen to the right of the
door and the Cirdonian used all the strength of his back and shoulders to

smash the wickerwork out into the street.

The screen was dry with age, and many of the individuals withies were
already splitting away from the tiny trenails that pinned them to the
frame. The wicker still retained a springy strength greater than that of
thin board shutters, and Samlor felt a hint of infuriating backthrust

against his push.
The frame snapped away from the sash, letting the corpse carry the

collapsing wickerwork ahead of it into the street.

There was enough haze to hide the stars and silver moon, but the sky
glow was enough to fill the window sash after the lattice had been torn
away. Samlor dived over the sill, keeping his body as low as possible. He
could have boosted himself with his empty right hand so that he landed
feet first instead of slamming the street with his shoulder . . .

But if he had done that, the knife that flicked through the air above his
rolling body would instead have punched between his shoulder blades.

INHERITOR

89

Some brawlers, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, don't need a reason to kill;

only a target.

"Star!" the caravan master bellowed as he hit, the shock of impact
turning the word into more of a gasp than he had expected. His cloak
and shoulder muscles had to break the fall, because his left hand, the
downside hand, held the long knife that could be the margin of survival
in the next instants.

The door of the tavern beside Samlor was blocked by two men, the
larger holding the smaller and stabbing with mindless repetition. The
only sound the victim made now was the squelch of his flesh parting
before the steel.

A watchman had stepped from a door down the street. The lantern he
raised did not illuminate figures, but its light wavered from metal in the
hands of half a dozen men scurrying toward the altercation.

Samlor had heard that there were local militias raised from every few
blocks of the Old City. They differed from street gangs in their expressed
determination to keep order and protect their enclaves—but that didn't
mean it would be healthy for an outsider to fall into their hands after
starting a brawl on their turf. Militiamen rarely saw the need for a trial
; when there was already a rope or a sword handy.

;„   The squad marching toward the noise from the other direction was
.^ paid to enforce the law, but the priorities of the men comprising the unit
J? tended to be more personal- They were regular army, and the quicker
H 'they silenced the trouble, the quicker they could get the fuck back to the
H patrol station where they didn't have to worry about showers of bricks
€ and roofing tiles.

I One of the soldiers carried a lantern on a pole. The glazing was pro-
| tected by wire mesh, and similar metal curtains depended stiffly from the
I'brims of the squad's dented helmets. They carried pole arms, halberds,
"|and short pikes, and they shuffled forward with such noisy deliberation
jthat it was obvious they hoped the problem would go away without any
""Wed for them to deal with it.

Samlor was wilting enough to do that. The problem was how.
Star wasn't in the street and wasn't answering him. He'd find her if he
ad to wash Sanctuary away in the blood of its denizens, but first he had
3 get clear of this mess into which Fate seemed to have dropped him
tirough no fault of his own.

Why had that clumsy, suicidal stranger attacked him? Why had the
silow even accosted him?
But first, survival.

Samlor switched the dagger to his right, master hand, and dodged into
*° alley nearest him.

90 AFTERMATH

The passageway was scarcely the width of his shoulders, but a door—
strapped and studded with metal—gave onto it from the building on the
other side. The Cirdonian slapped the panel as he dodged past it. Had it
opened, he would have dived in and dealt with those inside in whatever
fashion seemed advisable.

But he didn't expect that; and, as he expected, the door was as solid as
the stone to either side of it,

The alley jogged, though Samlor didn't recall an angle from inside the
Vulgar Unicorn's taproom. He slid past the facet of masonry, into an
instant of pitch darkness before someone within the tavern reignited a
lamp.

There were two slit windows serving this side of the taproom. The
grating still covered one, but the light silhouetted the crisp rectangle of
the other from which the wickerwork had been torn since the caravan
master last saw it inside-
Even so, the opening was too narrow to pass an adult.

Samlor's mouth opened to call, but the child in the midst of four men
was already screaming, "Uncle Samlor\"

There were three of them between him and Star, packed into the pas-
sageway so that the child's dust-whitened garments were only a shimmer
past their legs. They were the punks from the table by the door. Beyond
them was a fourth man, tall and hooded, closing Star's escape route.

Light in the passageway was only the ghost filtering through the tavern
windows and reflected from the filth-blackened wall opposite, but it was
enough for Samlor's business. He drew the push dagger from its sheath
under the back of his collar and held it so that its narrow point jutted out
between the fourth and middle fingers of his left hand.

Before the caravan master could lunge into action, the hooded man
stepped past the cringing Star and held his staff vertically to confront the
trio of toughs. Either the hood was flapping loose or something tiny
capered on the fellow's shoulder.

"What are you doing with this child?" he demanded in a clear voice.
"Begone!"

"Hey," said the nearest thug, doubtful enough to step back and jostle a
companion.

The staff glowed pale blue, a hazy color which seemed to hang in the
air as the object trembled. The face beneath the hood was set with deter-
mination which controlled but did not eliminate the underlying fear. The
staff shook because the man holding it was terrified.

Reasonably enough.

Samlor paused. If the toughs did turn away in fear of what confronted

INHERITOR                     91

them, he didn't want to be launched into an attack intended for their
backs.

He didn't know what was going on. Sometimes you had to act anyway
—but just now, Star was out of immediate danger, so there was no point
in going off half-cocked.

Something—a man, there was no damned doubt about it, but he was
only a hand span tall—stood on the right shoulder of the man with the
glowing staff. The little fellow hopped up and down, then piped, "Do not
be afraid to do that in which you are right!"

A thug swore and swung his weapon at the staff.

Instead of blades or ordinary clubs, this trio of street toughs carried
weighted chains which Samlor had mistaken in the tavern for items of
armor or adornment when they were coiled through an epaulette loop on
each youth's shoulder. Each chain was about a yard long, made up of fine
links which slipped over one another like drops of water. They were
polished glass-smooth and then plated for looks—silver for two of the
thugs, gold for the third who now swung his weapon in a glittering arc.

Both ends of the chain were weighted by lead knobs the size of large
walnuts, armed with steel spikes. The knobs were heavy enough to stun
or kill but still so light that they could be directed handily and with
blinding speed. A skilled man in the right situation could pulp an oppos-
ing knife artist, and he could do so with the sort of flashy display which
on the street counted for more than success.

It was the wrong weapon for an alleyway which even at its widest
point was straighter than the span of the chain fully extended, but the
hooded man seemed to have no idea of how to defend himself. The
weighted end of the chain wrapped itself tight against the staff—it
clacked like wood, despite the glow which suggested it was of some eerie
material—and the tough jerked it toward him.

The hopping manikin disappeared with a high-pitched shriek of terror.
The hooded man staggered forward, managing to keep a hold on his staff
only by lurching toward the punk whose weapon had snatched it. The
blue glow was snuffed out as if the gold-plated chain had strangled the
life from the wood.

The hooded man was a magician, had to be with his staff and capering
manikin. Samlor—and probably the street toughs as well, though psy-
chotic pride ruled the actions of their leader—expected magical retribu-
tion for the attack. A thunderbolt might shatter them, or icy needles
from nowhere might lace their bodies into bloody sieves.

Nothing happened except that the leading thug gripped his opponent
by the throat and shouted, "Finish 'im, dungbrains!" to his fellows as the
victim struggled to free his chain-wrapped staff.

92 AFTERMATH

The caravan master waded in to do the job that magic wouldn't take
care of after all.

One of the three youths hung a half step behind his fellows. Samlor
punched the base of his skull left-handed. The steel cap concealed be-
neath the bright bandanna rapped the knuckle of the Cirdonian's index
finger, but the bodkin point of Samlor's push dagger plunged in to its full
length.

The youth turned and cried out, pulling clear of the two-inch blade
that left a trickle of gore crawling toward the collar of his studded vest.
He'd been spinning his chain between the thumb and index finger of his
right hand, waiting for an opening to slap the weight into the hooded
man. One of the balls gouged Samlor's thigh, but that was accident
rather than deliberate counterattack.

The youth dropped his weapon and stumbled off down the alleyway,
kicked in passing by the man still struggling for his staff- Star flattened
herself against the wall to let him go. Her eyes and the white swirl in her
hair were pools of reflected light as she stared at her uncle.

Samlor cut at the neck of the next thug with the watermarked dagger
while drops of blood still winked in the air as they flew from the neck of
his first target. The hilt of the unfamiliar weapon was slimmer in his hand
than the knife he'd left in the corpse, but the blade's relative point-
heaviness gave heft to the slashing blow. The youth got his left arm up in
time to block the edge with his forearm while his leader sprayed curses
and tried to clear his chain from the staff which now held it rather than
the reverse.

There wasn't enough hilt for Samlor's hands. The shock threatened to
jar the knife away from him as the blade sank deep into the leading
armbone and cracked it through as the Cirdonian twisted. The youth
squealed in hopeless panic, but luck or practice spun one end of his
weighted chain in a loop around the weapon that had crippled him.

Samlor punched the tough in the chest lefMianded, then jerked down
on the butt of his coffin-hiked dagger. The youth's leather vest was sewn
with flat metal washers; the narrow point in Samlor's left hand scratched
across the face of one before it sank deep enough into unprotected flesh to
prick a lung.

Whether or not the metal in the dagger blade had spelled Samlor a
warning, it served well enough for a fighting knife. At the Cirdonian's
swift tug, the edges sawed through the silvered chain and freed them-
selves. The severed knob spun to the muck on the alley's cobblestones
with its bit of attached chain twitching like a lizard's tail.

The thug lost his footing and fell backward. He should have tangled
himself with his leader, but the youth with the gilded chain danced clear.

INHERITOR                       93

On his toes, buttocks flattening against the tavern wall as his fellow
sprawled beneath him, he whirled a spiked knob at Samlor in a down-
ward arc that split the difference between vertical and horizontal.

The stranger's hood had flopped back and his cape was twisted so that
its broach closure was at his left shoulder instead of his throat. When the
street tough dropped him to deal with Samlor, the man raised a hand and
began to stutter words in a language the caravan master did not know.
As the spike chain spun at Samlor's skull in a curve as dangerous as a
sword stroke, the stranger stopped talking and prodded the youth be-
tween the shoulders with his staff-

Samlor dodged back to avoid the spikes, forgetting the bulge in the
wall behind that rocked him to a halt. The knob sparked across the stone
and tore the Cirdonian's left ear as the youth tried to recover from the
push that sent him off balance.

He didn't get the chance,

The youth wore a necklace strung with the protective charms of at
least a dozen faiths, and the front of his vest was strengthened with gilt
and silvered studs. None of that helped him when Samlor stabbed up-
ward from the groin level. While the punk thrashed like a gigged frog on
the twelve-inch blade, the caravan master punched him repeatedly with
the push dagger, aiming at the base of the jaw just below the bandanna
and the steel cap it covered.

The youth collapsed. His eyes were open and his lungs were still work-
ing well enough to form bubbles in the blood that drooled from the
comer of his mouth. A mixture of body fluids and digestive products
followed the blade of the long knife as Samlor withdrew it. Their foetor
was briefly noticeable even in this alley.

He was probably fourteen years old or so. He looked younger, but bad
diet pinched and stunted the faces of those bom here into permanent
childhood,

"Now the others," chirped a little voice. "Do not kill a snake and leave
its tail!"

The caravan master was on his knees. He did not recall closing his
eyes, but he opened them now. The man with the staff was on his feet
again and straightening his disordered cape. The manikin was back on
his shoulder, strutting proudly with hands on hips.

"You," said Samlor very distinctly. "Shit it in or you'll join 'em."

The little figure yelped and disappeared again.

Samlor, Star, and the stranger were alone with the dying youth. The
other two toughs had disappeared down the alley, and no one else seemed
to have entered the passage behind the caravan master. There were voices

94                   AFTERMATH

from within the taproom, deep and hectoring, but Samlor didn't care
enough to try to understand the words.

His niece, shivering also, minced over to him without looking down
and put her arms around Samlor's shoulder. "I'm sorry you hurt your
ear, uncle," she said in a voice that trembled with the child's attempts to
control it. "I shouldn't have—"

She hugged him harder. "But I thought I could climb up from the
bench when it was dark and I didn 't know where you were—" Her words
tumbled out like flotsam in the current of the sobs wracking her little
body.

"—and the, those men came and I couldn't do anything!"

"You did fine, darling," the Cirdonian muttered. He encircled the child
with his left arm, careful that the point of his push dagger was turned
outward. He couldn't put it away until he cleaned it, the way his right
hand was wiping the watered steel of the longer knife on the pantaloons
of the boy whose breathing had ceased in a pair of great shudders. "But
you've gotta listen to me, or really bad things could happen."

The blade of the long dagger showed a nick midway up one edge, but it
had come through the struggle at least as well as any other knife was
likely to have done. Samlor tried to sheathe it and found the new blade
was a trifle too broad near the tip to fit the scabbard meant for the knife it
replaced.

He slid it beneath his belt instead; wiped the push dagger; and rose
with that miniature weapon in his right hand while his left arm guided
Star behind him again.

"Who would you be, my friend?" Samlor asked the man who was
fingering his staff now that his cape was rearranged.

"My name is Khamwas," the fellow said in a cultured voice that tried
to be calm. The peak of his hood must have added several inches to his
height, because he was clearly shorter than the caravan master as well as
much more slightly built. "I'm a stranger here in your city."

The manikin silently reappeared on Khamwas's shoulder. The tiny
features were unreadable in the dim light, but the figure's pose was appre-
hensive.

"Did you have a friend in that tavern?" asked the caravan master
softly. When his right thumb turned to indicate the wall of the Vulgar
Unicorn, the point of the push dagger winked knowingly toward
Khamwas's eyes. There was an ethnic if not familial resemblance be-
tween this man and the one who had died in the Vulgar Unicorn.

"I don't know anyone in this city," Khamwas said with cautious dig-
nity. "I'm a scholar from a far country, and I've come to ask a favor here
from a man named Setios."

INHERITOR                      95

"Uncle, that's—" blurted Star, catching herself before Samlor's free
hand could waggle a warning.

"A bird who flies to the nest of another," chirped the manikin senten-
tiously, "will lose a feather."

"What in hell is that?" asked the caravan master deliberately, pointing
at the manikin with his right index finger. The bodkin-bladed push dag-
ger paralleled the gesturing finger as if by chance.

The manikin eeped and cowered. Khamwas reached across to his right
shoulder with his cupped right hand, as if to shield and stroke the little
creature simultaneously.

"He does no harm, sir," the self-styled scholar replied calmly. "I—
when I was younger, you understand—prayed to certain powers for wis-
dom. They sent me this little fellow instead. His name is Tjainufi."

The manikin stared balefully at Khamwas, but his own arm reached
out to pat the hand protecting him. "A fool who wants to go with a wise
man," he said, "is a goose who wants to go with the slaughter knife."

Samlor blinked. He was confused, but that probably didn't matter, not
compared to a dozen other things. "You know my name, then?" he said,
harshly again, sure that Khamwas had to have some connection with the
stranger in the tavern. A sorcerer who knew your name had the first knot
in a rope of power to bind you . . .

"Sir, I know no one in your city," Khamwas repeated, drawing himself
up and planting the staff firmly before him with his hands linked on it. "I
have a daughter the age of your niece, so I—tried, I should say, to
intervene when she seemed to be in difficulties."

He paused. For an instant his staff flowed again. The grain of the wood
made ripples in the phosphorescence, and a haze of light wrapped
Khamwas's hands like a real fog.

Star reached past her uncle and touched the staff.

The glow flicked out as Khamwas started, but a tinge of blue clung to
the child's fingers as she withdrew them. Samlor did not swear, because
words had power—especially at times like these. His left hand caressed
his niece's hair, offering human contact when he could not be sure what
help, if any, the child required.

If Khamwas's toying had done any harm, he would be fed his liver on
the point of a knife.

Star giggled while both men watched her with fear born of uncertainty.
She opened her fingers slowly and the glow between their tips grew and
paled like the sheen of an expanding soap bubble. Then it popped as if it
had never been.

Khamwas let out his breath abruptly. "Sir," he said to the caravan
master, "I didn't realize. Forgive me for intruding in your affairs."

96 AFTERMATH

Tjainufi, who had disappeared when Star lifted light from the staff,
now waggled an arm at Khamwas and said, "Do not say, *I am learned.'
Set yourself to become wise."

Khamwas would have stepped by and continued up the alley, but
Samlor restrained him with a gesture that would have become contact if
the scholar had not halted, "You saved Star from a bad time before I got
here," he said. "And likely you saved me, besides distracting the little
bastards. My name's Samlor hil Samt." He sheathed the little dagger
behind his collar. "You and I need to talk."

"All right. Master Samlor," agreed the other man, though the way his
lips pursed showed that the suggestion was not one he would have made
himself. He gestured up the passageway, the direction from which the
Cirdonian had come, and added, 'There are more suitable places to
discuss matters than here, I'm certain."

"No," said Samlor flatly, "there's not."

It wasn't worth his time to explain that the direction in which
Khamwas was headed would be a no-go area for at least the next hour.
The passageway was narrow enough to be defended by one man, and
both flanks were protected by masonry that would require siege equip-
ment to breach. If their luck were really out, they could be attacked from
both directions simultaneously, but that risk was better than being
trapped in a cul-de-sac with no bolthole.

Given the nature of Sanctuary, this was probably the safest place
within a league in any direction.

"What do you know about Setios?" the caravan master demanded, no
more threatening than was implicit in the fact that he had already dem-
onstrated his willingness and ability to kill,

Star was squatting, her skirts lifted and wrapped around her thighs to
keep the hem from lying in the muck. A tiny glow spun within the globe
of her hands as she cooed. Its color was more nearly yellow than the blue
which had washed Khamwas's staff.

The glow was reflected faintly by the eyes of the dead youth.

Khamwas's face worked in something between a grimace and a moue
of embarrassment as he watched the child. "Ah," he said to Samlor.
"That is, ah—are you . . . ?"

The caravan master shook his head, glad to find that the question
amused him rather than arousing any of the other possible emotions.
"On a good day," he said, "I might be able to recite a spell without
stumbling over the syllables—if somebody wrote 'em out for me really
careful." That was an exaggeration, though not a great one.

"My sister, though," he added, embarrassed himself for reasons the
other man should not be able to fathom, "that was more her line."

INHERITOR                      97

To the extent that anything besides sex was Samlane's line.

"I see," said Khamwas, and he continued to glance down at the child
even as he returned to the earlier question. "I don't know Setios at all,"
he explained, "but I know—I've been told by, well—"

He shrugged. Samlor nodded grimly; but if this fellow called himself
scholar rather than wizard, he at least recognized that the latter was a
term of reproach to decent men.

"Serve your god, that he may guard you," said Tjainufi, stroking his
master's—could Khamwas be called that?—right ear.

"He has," Khamwas went on after the awkward pause, "a stele from
my own land, from Napata—"

"Of course," Samlor interrupted, placing the stranger at last. "The
Land of the River."

"The river," Khamwas agreed with a nod of approval, "and of the
desert. And in the desert, many monuments of former times"—he paused
again, gave a gentle smile—"greater times for my people, some would
say, though I myself am content."

"You want to ... retrieve," said Samlor, avoiding the question of
means, "a monument that this Setios has. Is he a magician?"

"I don't know," said Khamwas with another shrug. "And I don't need
the stele, only a chance to look at it. And, ah, Samlor—?"

The caravan master nodded curtly to indicate that he would not take
offense at what he assumed would be a tense question.

"I will pay him well for the look," the Napatan said. "It's of no value
to him—not for the purpose I intend it—without other information. It
will give me the location of a particular tomb, which is significant to me
for other reasons."

The light in Star's hands was growing brighter, throwing the men's
shadows onto the wall of the alley. Khamwas's face looked demonically
inhuman because it was illuminated from below.

Samlor touched his niece's head. "Not so much, dearest," he mur-
mured. "We don't want anybody noticing us here if we can help it."

"But—" Star began shrilly. She looked up and met her uncle's eyes.
The light shrank to the size of a large pearl, too dim to show anything
but itself.

"She didn't know how to do that before," said Samlor, as much an
explanation to himself as one directed toward the other man. "She picks
things up."

"I see," said Khamwas, and maybe he did. "Well."

He shook himself, to settle his cape and to settle himself in his resolve.
"Well, Master Samtor," the Napatan continued, "I must be on." He
nodded past Samlor toward the head of the alley.

98 AFTERMATH

"Not that way," said the caravan master wryly, though he did not
move again to block the other man.

"Yes, it is," Khamwas replied with a touch of astringence. He stiffened
to his full height. The manikin on his shoulder mimicked the posture,
perhaps in irony. 'The direction of Setios's house is precisely"—he ex-
tended his arm at an angle toward Samlor; hesitated with his eyes turned
inward; and corrected the line a little further to the right—"this way.
And this passage is the nearest route to the way I need to follow."

"Do not do a thing you have not first considered carefully," Tjainufi
suddenly warned.

The caravan master began to chuckle. He clapped a hand in a friendly
fashion on Khamwas's left shoulder. "Nearest route to having your head
stuck on a pole, I'd judge," he said. The Napatan felt as fine-boned as he
looked, but there was a decent layer of muscle between the skeleton and
the soft fabric of his cape.

"Look," Samlor continued, "d'ye mean to tell me you don't know
where in the city Setios lives, you're just walking through the place in the
straightest line your . . . friends, I suppose, tell you is the way to Se-
tios? Are these the same friends who gave you wisdom?" The caravan
master nodded toward Tjainufi.

"I think that's my affair. Master Samlor," said Khamwas. He strode
forward, gripping his staff vertically before him. His knuckles were white.

The manikin said, " 'What he does insults me,' says the fool when a
wise man instructs him."

Khamwas halted. Samlor looked at the little figure with a frown of
new surmise. There was no bad advice—only advice that was wrong for a
given set of circumstances. And, just possibly, Tjainufi's advice was more
appropriate than the Cirdonian had guessed.

"All I meant, friend," Samlor said, touching and then removing his
hand from the other man's shoulder, "was that maybe there aren't any
good districts in Sanctuary—but your straight line's sure as death taking
you through the middle of the worst of what there is."

Star had stood up when Khamwas started to walk away. The light
which now clung to her left palm had put out tendrils and was fluctuat-
ing through a series of pastels paler than the colors of a noontime rain-
bow. Impulsively, she hugged the Napatan's leg and said, "Isn't it pretty?
Oh, thank you!"

"It's only a—little thing," Khamwas explained apologetically to the
child's uncle. "It—I don't know how she learned it from seeing what I
did."

Samlor noticed that the staff glowed only when Khamwas could con-
centrate on it, but that the phosphorescence in Star's hand continued its

INHERITOR                      99

complex evolutions of shape and color even while his niece was hugging
and smiling brightly at the other man.

The light glinted on the bare blade of his new dagger, harder in reflec-
tion than the source hanging in the air seemed.

The caravan master blinked, touched his tunic over the silver medal-
lion of the goddess Heqt on his breast, and only then slid the weapon
back from its temporary resting place in his belt. The twisting phospho-
rescence gave the markings a false hint of motion; but they were only
swirls of metal, not the script he thought he had again seen.

Khamwas watched with controlled apprehension. Deciding that it was
better to go on with his proposal than to wonder why Samlor was staring
at the knife whose guard still bore dark stains, the Napatan said. "Master
Samlor, you understand this city as I do not. And you're clearly able to
deal with, ah, with violence, should any be offered. Could I prevail on
you to accompany me to the house of Setios? I'll pay you well."

"Do not walk the road without a stick in your hand," Tjainufi said
approvingly.

"We need to find Setios, Uncle Samlor," said the child in a voice rising
toward shrill. She released Khamwas and instead tugged insistently on
the elbow of her uncle's right sleeve. "Please can we? He's nice."

Cold steel cannot flow, twist, parse out words, thought the caravan
master. The nick in the edge was bright and real: this was no thing of
enchantment, only a dagger with an awkward hilt and a very good blade.

Star pulled at Samlor's arm with most of her weight. He did not look
down at her, nor did his hand drop. That arm had dragged a donkey
back up to the trail from which it had stumbled into a gulley a hundred
feet deep.

"Please," said the child.

"Friend Samlor?" said the Napatan doubtfully. The knife was only
that, a knife, so far as he could see.

Go with him, spelled the rippling steel at which Samlor stared.

The words faded as the glow in Star's hand shrank to a point and
disappeared.

"I was ready." said the caravan master slowly, "to find a guide in
there."

He did not gesture toward the tavern. He was speaking to himself, not
to the pair of living humans with him in the alleyway. They stared at
Samlor, his niece, and the stranger, as they would have stared at a pet
lion who suddenly began to act oddly.

"So I guess," Samlor continued, "we'll find Setios together. After all"
—he tapped the blade of the coflin-hilted dagger with a fingernail; the
metal gave off a musical ping—"we're all four agreed, aren't we?"

100 AFTERMATH

Star leaned toward her uncle and hugged his powerful thigh, but she
would not meet his eyes again or look at the knife in his hand. Khamwas
nodded cautiously.

"We'll circle out of the Maze, then," said Samlor matter-of-factly.
"Come on."

The way down the alley meant stepping over the body of the youth he
had just killed.

This was Sanctuary. It wouldn't be the last corpse they saw.

The body sprawled just inside the alley would have passed for a corpse
if you didn't listen carefully—or didn't recognize the ragged susurrus of a
man breathing while his face lay against slimy cobblestones.

"Mind this," said Samlor, touching first Star, then Khamwas, so that
they would notice his gesture toward the obstacle. Human eyes could
adapt to scant illumination, but at this end of the alley the dying man's
breath was all that made it possible to locate him.

The manikin on Khamwas's shoulder must have been able to sense the
situation, because he said, "There is no one who does not die." Tjainufi's
voice was as high as a bird's; but, also like a bird's, it had considerable
volume behind it.

The Napatan "scholar" reached toward his shoulder with his free
hand, a gesture mingled of affection and warning. "Tjainufi," he mut-
tered, "not now - . ."

Samlor doubted that Khamwas had any more control over the mani-
kin than a camel driver did over a pet mouse which lived in a fold of his
cloak. Or, for that matter, than Samlor himself had over his niece, who
was bright enough to understand any instructions he gave her—but
whose response was as likely to be willful as that of any other seven-year-
old.

Now, for instance, a ball of phosphorescence bloomed in the cup of the
child's hand, lighting her way past the dying man despite the caravan
master's warning that illumination—magical or otherwise—would be
more risk to them than benefit, at least until they got out of the Maze.

Star put a foot down daintily, just short of the victim's outflung arm,
then skipped by in a motion that by its incongruity made the scene all the
more horrible. The ball of light she had formed drifted behind her for a
moment. Its core shrank and brightened—from will-o'-the-wisp to firefly
intensity—while the whirling periphery formed tendrils like the whorl of
silver-white hair on Star's head.

The child turned back, saw the set expression on Samlor's face, and
jerked away as if he had slapped her physically. The spin of light blanked
as if it had never been.

INHERITOR

101

"Is he ... ?" asked Khamwas as he stepped over his mind's image of
where the body lay. "One of those we ... met a moment ago?"

"The gang who came after us with chains, sure," said the caravan
master as he followed with a long stride. The passageway was wide
enough for him to spread his arms without quite touching the walls to
either side; in the Maze, that made it a street. It held only the normal
sounds of feral animals going about their business and, from behind shut-
ters, bestial humans. "They're all dead, the two who ran off as sure as the
one who didn't. Turn left here."

"The House of Setios is more to the—"

"Turn fucking left," Samlor whispered in a voice like stones rubbing.

"Do not be a hindrance, lest you be cursed," said Tjainufi on the
Napatan's shoulder. The manikin bowed toward Samlor, but the caravan
master was too angry to approve of anything.

Mostly he was angry at himself, because he'd killed often enough dur-
ing his life to know that he really didn't like killing. Especially not kids,
even punk kids who'd have caved his skull in with weighted chains and
raped Star until they sold her to a brothel for the" price of a skin of
wine ...

Sanctuary might be incrementally better off without that particular
trio; but Samlor hil Samt wasn't Justice, wasn't responsible to his god for
the cleansing of this hellhole.

They got out of the Maze with no problem worse than a pair of thugs
—who fled in terror as Khamwas's staff sent a manlike phantasm of light
staggering down the street toward them. Broader pavements made walk-
ing easier, and many housefronts were lighted by lanterns in barred
niches.

The lanterns weren't an act of charity toward travelers. They were
intended to drive lurking footpads into somebody else's doorway.

Khamwas paused, then directed them up one arm of a five-way inter-
section, past a patrol station. The gate to the internal courtyard was
lighted by flaring sconces, and there was a squad on guard outside. An
officer took a step into the street as if to halt the trio, but he changed his
mind after a pause.

They were in the neighborhood of the palace now, a better section of
the city. The residents here stole large sums with parchment and whis-
pered words instead of cutting wayfarers' throats for a few coins.

And the residents expected protection from their lesser brethren in
crime. The troops here would check a pair of men, detain them if they
had no satisfactory account of their business; kill them if any resistance
were offered.

102 AFTERMATH

But two men carrying a young child were unlikely burglars- Most
probably, they were part of the service industry catering to Sanctuary's
wealthy and powerful . . . and the rich did not care to have their night-
time sports delayed by uniformed officiousness. Samlor had no need for
the bribe—or the knife—he had ready.

"We're getting close, I think," Khamwas remarked. He lifted his head
as if to sniff the air which even here would have been improved by a
cloudburst to ram effluvium from the street down into the harbor.

Samlor grimaced and looked around him. He wanted to know how
Khamwas found his directions ... but he didn't want to ask; and any-
way, he wouldn't understand if the scholar/magician took the time to
explain.

Worse, Star likely would understand.

"I wonder what Setios is keeping for her," the caravan master whis-
pered, so softly that the child could not hear even though Samlor's lips
brushed her fine hair as he spoke.

"Is it going to rain?" Star asked sleepily from the cradle of Samlor's
arm.

The caravan master glanced at the sky. There were stars, but a scud of
high clouds blocked and cleared streaks across them at rapid intervals.
There was an edge in the air which might well be harbinger of a storm
poised to sweep from the hills to the west of town and wash the air at
least briefly clean.

"Perhaps, dearest," the Cirdonian said. "But we'll be all right."

They'd be under cover, he hoped; or, better yet, back in a bolted cham-
ber of the caravansary on the White Foal River before the storm broke.

Khamwas began to mutter something with his fingers interlaced on the
top of his staff. Star shook herself into supple alertness and hopped off
her uncle's supporting arm. She did not touch the Napatan, but she
watched his face closely as he mouthed words in a language the caravan
master did not recognize.

Left to his own devices—unwilling to consider what his niece was
teaching herself now, and barely unwilling to order her to turn away—
Samlor surveyed the houses in their immediate neighborhood.

It was an old section of the city, but wealthy and fashionable enough
that there had been considerable rebuilding to modify the original Ilsigi
character. Directly across from Samlor's vantage place, the front of a
house had been demolished and was being replaced by a two-story por-
tico with columns of colored marble. A lamp burned brightly on a shack
amid the construction rubble, and a watchman's eyes peered toward the
trio from its unglazed window.

The other houses were quiet, though all save the one against which

INHERITOR                    103

Samlor's party sheltered guarded their facades with lamplight. At this
hour, business was most likely to be carried on through back entrances or
trap doors to tunnels that were older than the Ilsigs . . . and possibly
older than humanity.

It might be a bad time to meet Setios; but again, it might not. He'd
been an associate of Star's mother, which meant at the least that he was
used to strange hours and unusual demands.

He'd see them now, provide the child with her legacy—if it were here.
If it were portable. If Setios were willing to meet the terms of an agree-
ment made with a woman now long dead.

Samlor swore, damning his sister Samlane to a hell beneath all the
hells; and knowing as he recited the words under his breath that any
afterlife in which Samlane found herself was certain to be worse than her
brother could imagine.

"This is the house," said Khamwas with a note of wonder in his voice.
He and the child turned to look at the facade of the building against
which the caravan master leaned while he surveyed the rest of the neigh-
borhood.

"Looks pretty quiet," said Samlor. The words were less an understate-
ment than a conversational placeholder while the Cirdonian considered
what might be a real problem.

The building didn't look quiet. It looked abandoned.

It was a blank-faced structure. Its second floor was corbeled out a foot
or so but there was no real front overhang to match those of the houses
to either side. The stone ashlars had been worn smooth by decades or
more of sidewalk traffic brushing against them; the mortar binding them
could have used tuck pointing, but that was more a matter of aesthetics
than structural necessity.

The only ground-floor window facing the street was a narrow slit be-
side the iron-bound door. There was a grate-protected niche for a lantern
on the other side of the door alcove; the stones were blackened by carbon
from the flame, but the lamp within was cold and dark. It had not been
lighted this night, and perhaps not for weeks past.

There was no sign of life through the slit intended to give a guard
inside a look at whoever was calling.

"Perhaps I'm wrong," said Khamwas uncertainly. "This should be the
house of Setios, but I—I can't be sure I'm right."

He made as if to bend over his staff again, then straightened and said
decisively, "No, I'm sure it must be the house—but perhaps he doesn't
live here anymore." The Napatan stepped to the street-level door and
raised his staff to rap on the panel.

"Ah . . ." said Samlor.

104 AFTERMATH

The caravan master held the long dagger he had taken from the man
he killed in the Vulgar Unicorn. The weapon belonged in his hand when
they prowled through the Maze, but it wasn't normal practice to knock
on a stranger's door with steel bare in your hand.

On the other hand, this was Sanctuary; and anyway, the new knife
didn't fit in the sheath of the one Samlor had left in the corpse.

"Go ahead," he said to Khamwas. The Napatan was poised, watching
the caravan master and waiting for a suggestion to replace his own intent.

Khamwas nodded, Star mirroring his motion as if hypnotized by tired-
ness. He rapped twice on the door panel. The sound of wood on wood
was sharp and soulless.

"Won't be anybody there," said Samlor. His own eyes were drawn to
the watermarked blade of the knife. His knife, now; the owner wasn't
going to claim it with a foot of steel through his chest. The whorls of
blended metals, iron black against polished steel, were only memories in
the distant lamplight. There was no way Samlor could see them now,
even if they began to spell words as he had watched them do—in defiance
of reason—twice before.

The caravan master shook himself out of the clouded reverie into
which fatigue was easing him. He needed rest as badly as his niece did,
and it looked as though there was no way he was going to clear up his
business tonight anyway.

"Look," he said, irritated because Khamwas still faced the door as if
there were a chance it would open. "There's nobody here, and—"

Metal clanked as the bar closing the door from inside was withdrawn
from its staples. The door leaf opened inward, squealing on bronze pivots
set into the lintel and transom instead of hanging from strap hinges.

"No one will see you," said the voice of the figure standing in the
doorway. Whatever else the doorkeeper might be, it was not human.

The creature was shorter than Star. Fur clothed its body and long tail
in ashen luster, but the frame beneath was skeletally thin. Its features had
the pointed sharpness of a fox's muzzle, and there was no intelligence
whatever in its beady eyes.

"Wait," said Samlor hil Samt as the doorkeeper began to close the
portal again. He set his boot against the iron-strapped lower edge of the
door. "Your master holds a trust f-for my niece Star."

"No one will see you," the creature repeated. Behind it was another set
of door leaves, reinforced like the first, combining to form a closet-sized
anteroom which could probably be flooded with anything from boiling
water to molten lead.

If there were anyone alive in the house to do so. The doorkeeper spoke
in a thin, breathy voice, but its chest did not rise and fall.

INHERITOR                     105

•'It isn't real," Khamwas was saying in a universe in which Samlor was
not focused in terrified determination on the unhuman—unalive—door-
keeper of this house. "It's a simulacrum like the—"

"No one will see you," the doorkeeper repeated without emphasis. It
swung the panel shut, thrusting Samlor violently backward even though
he tried to brace himself by stiffening his supporting leg behind him.

"I will have Star's legacy!" the caravan master shouted as he hurled
himself back against the door, slamming into it with the meat of his left
shoulder.

The panel thumped but did not rebound. The bar crashed into place.

"I will!" Samlor cried again, "Depend on it!"

His voice echoed, but there was no sound at all from within the house.

"It wasn't really present," said Khamwas, touching the other man's
shoulder to calm him.

"It's there enough for me," said Samlor grimly, massaging his bruised
shoulder with the faceted knife hilt. "Might've tried t' stop a landslide for
all I could do to keep it from slamming the door."

At a venture, he poked his dagger blade through the slit beside the
door, in and out quickly like a snake licking the air. Nothing touched the
metal, nor was there any other response.

"He who shakes the stone," said—warned?—Tjainufi, "will have it fall
on his foot."

"I mean," said Khamwas hastily to deflect possible wrath from his
manikin, "that it's no more than a part of the door. A trick only, without
volition or consciousness. It's carrying out the last order it was given, the
way a bolt lies in its groove when the master releases it. No one may be
present."

"If we go in there," said Star distinctly, pointing at the door, "we'll be
. . . krrk." The child cocked her head up as if her neck had been wrung.
"Like chickens," she added as she relaxed, grinning.

Samlor's breath wheezed out. He had thought . . .

"Well, Star," said the Napatan scholar, "I might be able to keep the
wraith from moving for a time, long enough for us to get past the - . .
zone of which it's a part. I might. But I think we'd best not go in by this
door until Setios permits us to pass."

The two of them smiled knowingly at one another.

Samlor restrained his impulse to do something pointlessly violent. He
looked at the blade of his knife instead of glaring at his companions and
began in a very reasonable tone, "In that case, we'd best get some sleep
and—"

"Actually," said Khamwas, not so much interrupting as speaking
without being aware that Samlor was in the middle of a statement, "nei-

106 AFTERMATH

ther of us have business with Setios himself, only with items in his posses-
sion. I wonder . . ."

"/ want my gift now," said Star, her face set in the slanting lines of
temper. Either she tossed her head slightly, or the whorl of white strands
in her curly black hair moved on its own.

Go IN NOW read the iron letters on the blade at which Samlor stared in
anger. There was too little light for the markings to be visible, but he saw
them nonetheless.

"Heqt take you all to the waters beneath the earth!" shouted the Cir-
donian in fury. He slashed the air with his dagger as if to wipe away the
message crawling there in the metal. "I'm not a burglar, and coming to
this damned city doesn't make me one."

"When you are hungry, eat what you despise," said the manikin on
Khamwas's shoulder. "When you are full, despise it."

"Anyway," said Star, "ifs going to rain. Uncle Samlor." She looked
smug at the unanswerable truth other latest argument.The caravan mas-
ter began to laugh.

Khamwas blinked, as frightened by the apparent humor as he had been
by the anger that preceded it. Emotional outbursts by a man as danger-
ous as the caravan master were like creakings from the dike holding back
flood waters.

"Well," the Napatan said cautiously, "I suppose the situation may
change for the better by daylight. Though of course neither of us were
considering theft. I want to look at a slab of engraved stone, and you
simply wish to retrieve your niece's legacy from its caretaker—who
seems to be absent."

"We don't know what it is." said Star. "My gift."

"Ah," said Khamwas, speaking to the girl but with an eye cocked
toward her uncle. "That shouldn't be an insurmountable problem. If
we're inside"—he nodded toward the door—"and the object is there also,
I should be able to locate it for you."

"Will you show me how?" Star begged, clasping her hands together in
a mixture of pleading and premature delight.

"Ah . . ." repeated the Napatan scholar. "1 think that depends on
what your uncle says, my dear."

"Her uncle says that we're not inside yet," Samlor stated without
particular emphasis. "And he'll see about getting there."

Without speaking further to his companions, the Cirdonian walked to
the comer of the building.

INHERITOR                     107

Setios's house was two feet away from the building beside it. There
were no ground-floor windows in the sidewall either, but the second story
was ventilated by barred openings.

Samlor stepped through the gap, too narrow to be called an alley
anywhere but in the Maze. He ignored his companions, though they
followed him gingerly in lieu of any other directions.

The vertical bars of the window above him were thumbthick and set
with scarcely more room than that between them. Star might have been
able to reach through one of the spaces, but the caravan master was quite
certain that his own big hands would not fit.

"Are there going to be things like that door-monkey waiting by the
windows?" Samlor asked the other man quietly. He nodded upward to
indicate the opening he had studied.

Khamwas shrugged in darkness relieved only by the strip of clouded
sky above them. "I would expect human servants if anything," he said.
"They're . . . more trustworthy, in many ways. And from what I've
gathered, Setios is a collector the way I'm a scholar. Neither of us, you
understand, are magicians of real power."

He paused and tucked his lip under his front teeth in doubt, then
added, "The way your niece here appears to be, Master Samlor."

"Yeah," said the caravan master without emotion. His left hand tou-
sled Star's hair gently, but he did not look down at the child. "And he
collected a demon in a bottle, among other things."

Samlor grimaced, then went on, "Let's get out t' the street again. You
wait, and I'll go talk to the fellow across the way there."

"Ah, Samlor . . . ?" Khamwas said.

"Just wait here," the Cirdonian repeated. "I'm going across the street
to talk with the watchman there." He nodded toward the guard shack on
the construction site opposite.

"Yes, of course," Khamwas said with enough disinterest to hint at
irritation. "But what I wanted to say was—Setios, you see, may not be
avoiding you. There's been a recent upheaval in the structure of, you see,
magic. He may have become frightened and fled from that."

The Napatan grinned. "He'll have left behind the stele I want to read,
surely. Probably his whole collection, if that fear is why he left. And, as
for this child's legacy"—he touched Star's cheek affectionately—"if we
don't find it here, I'll help you locate it. Because you've helped me. And
because I am honored to help someone as talented as your niece."

"The plans of gods are one thing," said the manikin on his shoulder.
"The thoughts of men are another."

"Yeah, well," said the caravan master, then strode across the street
with a swaggering assurance which immediately set him apart in a city

108 AFTERMATH

where lone men habitually slunk. The watchman edged back from his
window so that his eyes no longer reflected light.

It took five pieces of Rankan gold and ten minutes cajoling the nervous
watchman at the construction site before Samlor returned to his compan-
ions with the house jack he had borrowed.

"Khamwas," he said gruffly, "come help me with the window."

Star was curled in the comer of the door alcove, dozing with the
Napatan's cape for a pillow. Khamwas stood in front of her, watching
the street as well as the caravan master. He was very slim without the
bulk of the outer garment, and his bare chest was no garb for this night.

"I, ah," he said, looking down at the child. "I thought it would be
good if she got some rest, so - - - She's very like my own daughter, you
know."

"Wish I had more talent for what she needs," said the caravan master
quietly, staring at the child also. "Wish I knew what she needs, what any
kid needs. But you do what you can."

He grimaced again. "Bring 'er along, will you? I need you at the side to
hand me this jack when I'm ready for it"—he fluffed his cloak open to
display the tool—"and I don't want her in plain sight on the street, even
though it means getting her up again."

The sky had closed in above the passage between the two buildings. It
was as dark as a narrow cave, and for the time being the air was as
motionless as that of a cavern miles below the ground. Samlor found his
location by subconscious memory of the six cautious paces which had
brought him beneath the window when he could see it.

Samlor climbed to the window by bracing his hands and feet against
the closely adjacent buildings. That wasn't hard, but he almost fell when
he bent to take the jack which Khamwas raised to him. He was tired, and
it was affecting him.

Already.

The window grate might have withstood a battering ram. The screw
jack, butted against the stone sash, exerted its pressure sideways across
the bars and their frame. The grating crumbled as the Cirdonian inexora-
bly levered the jack through it, ignoring what the effort was doing to his
fatigued muscles.

With the last of his strength, Samlor lurched through the opening he
had just torn and sprawled onto the floor of the room beyond.

"Praised be Heqt in whom the world lives," murmured Samlor as his
senses returned him to the world beyond his own effort and necessities.
The marble floor beneath him was cold and slick with water. The glazed

INHERITOR

109

windows had not been closed the last time it rained; and that, from idle
chatter overheard at the caravansary, had been more than a week ago.

Khamwas called from the alley, his words blurred but the worry in
them clear.

"It's all right," the caravan master said, then realized that he wasn't
sure he could understand the croaked words himself. He gripped the
window ledge, fragments of the grate chiming around his knees.

"It's all right," he repeated, leaning back through the opening by
which he had entered. "Just a minute and I'll find"—his hand brushed a
tapestry beside the window—"yeah, just a second and I'll have some-
thing for you t' climb by."

He ripped the hangings down and dangled them from the window for
his companions. Samlor no longer cared what damage they did to this
place—so long as they got out of it soon.

The window was scarcely visible as a rectangle, and the still air smelled
of storm.

There was a discussion below. Star came up the tapestry, flailing her
legs angrily behind her. There was a pout in her voice as she demanded,
"What is this old place? I don't like it."

Maybe she felt something about the house—and maybe she was an
overtired sever-year-old and therefore cranky.

There wasn't time to worry about it. The caravan master gripped the
child beneath the shoulders with his left arm and lifted her into the room.
Star yelped as her head brushed the transom, but she should've had sense
enough to duck.

"My staff. Master Samlor," said Khamwas.

The Cirdonian leaned forward and caught the vague motion that
proved to be the end of an ordinary wooden staff when his fingers en-
closed it. Behind him, the room lighted vaguely with pastel blue.

Star shouldn't have done it without asking; but they needed light, and
a child wasn't a responsible adult. Samlor slid the staff behind him with
his left hand while supporting the tapestry with his right hand and his
full weight to pin the end to the floor.

The Napatan scholar mounted gracefully and used Samlor's arm like
the bar of a trapeze to swing himself over the lintel. Only then did the
caravan master turn to see where they were and what his niece was
doing.

Star had set swimming through the air a trio of miniature octopuses
made of light. A blue one drifted beneath the ceiling frescoed with scenes
of anthropomorphic deities; a yellow one prowled beneath the legs of a
writing table sumptuous with mother-of-pearl inlays.

110

AFTERMATH

The third miniature octopus was of an indigo so pale that it barely
showed up against the carven door against which it bobbed feebly.
"Where's . . ." Samlor said as he looked narrowly at Khamwas. "You

know, your little friend?"

Tjainufi reappeared on the Napatan's right shoulder. The manikin
moved with the silent suddenness of an image in an angled mirror, now
here and now not, as the tilt changes. "The warp does not stray far from
the woof," he said in cheerful satisfaction,

"Khamwas," the Cirdonian added as he looked around them, "if you
can locate what we're after, then get to it. I really don't want t' spend any

longer here than I need to."

"Look, uncle," Star squealed as she pranced over to the writing desk.

"Mommy's box!"

Samlor's speed and reflexes were in proper form after his exertions, but
his judgment was off. He attempted to spring for the desk before Star got
there, and his boots skidded out from under him on the wet marble.
Because he'd swept the long dagger from his belt as part of the same
unthinking maneuver, he had only his left palm to break his fall. The
shock made the back of his hand tingle and the palm bum.

Khamwas had retrieved his staff. He stopped muttering to it when the
Cirdonian slapped the floor hard enough to make the loose bars roll and
jingle among themselves. "Are you . . . ?" he began, offering a hand to

the sprawling bigger man.

"See, Uncle Samlor?" said the child, returning to the caravan master
with an ivory box in her hands. "It's got mommy's mark on it."

"No, go on with your business," said Samlor calmly to the Napatan.
He felt the prickly warmth of embarrassment painting his skin, but he
wouldn't have survived this long if he lashed out in anger every time he'd
made a public fool of himself. "Find the stele you're after, and then we'll
see what Star's got here."

He took the box from the child as quickly as he could without letting it
slip from his numbed fingers. Even if it were just what it seemed—a
casket of Samlane's big enough to hold a pair of armlets—it could be
extremely dangerous.

Much of what Samlor's sister had owned, and had known, fell into that
category, one way or another.

Khamwas's face showed the concern which any sane man would feel
under the circumstances, but he resumed his meditation on—or prayers

to—his staff.

Star's palm-sized creatures of light continued their slow patrol of the
room. The caravan master seemed to have broken into a large study.
There was a couch to one side of the door and on the other the writing

INHERITOR                     111

desk with matching chair. The chair lay on its back, as if its last occupant
had jumped up hastily.

"Open it, uncle'" Star demanded.

Khamwas still murmured over his staff, so the caravan master got up
with caution born of experience and walked over to the writing desk. A
triple-wicked oil lamp hung from a crane attached to the desk top. It
promised real illumination when Samlor lit it with the brass fire-piston in
his wallet.

"There's no oil, Uncle Samlor," said Star with the satisfaction of a
child who knows more than an adult. She cupped her hand again and
turned it up with a saffron glow in the palm. The creatures of light still
drifting about the room dimmed by comparison. "See?"

The bowl of the lamp was empty except for a sheen in its center, oil
beyond the touch of the wicks. Only one of the three wicks had been
lighted at the lamp's last use. When the flame had consumed all the oil, it
reduced the twist of cotton to ash. The other wicks were sharply divided
into black and white, ready to function if the fuel supply were renewed.

Setios had really left in a hurry.

"Fine, hold the light were it is, darling," Samlor said to his niece as
calmly as if he were asking her to pass the bread at table. The casket
wasn't anything which the Cirdonian remembered from his youth, but
the family crest—the rampant wyvern of the House of Kodrix—was
enameled on the lid. Beneath it was carved in Cirdonian script the motto

AN EAGLE DOES NOT SNATCH FLIES.

Samlor's parents had never forgiven him for running high-risk, high-
profit caravans like a commoner instead of vegetating in noble poverty.
But they'd lived well—drunk well, at least—on the flies he snatched for
them, and the money Samlor provided had bought his sister a marriage
with a Rankan noble.

Which couldn't save Samlane from herself, but was the best effort
possible for a brother who didn't claim to be a god.

The lid did not rise under gentle pressure from his left thumb. There
was no visible catch or keyhole, but the little object had to be a box—it
didn't weigh enough for a block of solid ivory. Samlor put his dagger
down on the desk to free his right hand . . .

And read the superscription on the piece of parchment there, a letter
barely begun:

"To Master Samlor hi! Sami
If you are well. it is good. I also am well.
I enclose w

112

AFTERMATH

The script was Cirdonian, and the final letter trailed off in a sweep of
ink across the parchment. Following the curve of that motion, Samlor
saw a delicate silver pen on the marble floor a few feet to the side of the

desk.

Samlor set down the ivory box, and he very deliberately kept the

weapon in his hand. From the look of matters, Setios might have been
better off if he'd been holding a blade and not a pen a week or so earlier.
Instinctively, the caravan master's left arm encircled Star, locating the
child while he turned and said, "Khamwas. This is important. I think
I've been doing Setios an injustice, thinking he'd ducked out to avoid

me."
The other man was so still that not even his chest moved with the

process of breathing. The absolute stillness was camouflaged for a mo-
ment by the fact that the octopuses threw slow, vague shadows as they
circled the room- The manikin on Khamwas's shoulder was executing
some sort of awkward dance with his legs stiff and his arm akimbo.
"Khamwas!" the caravan master repeated sharply. "I think we need to

get outta here now."
Tjainufi said, "Do not say, 'I will undertake the matter,' if you will

not."

Almost simultaneously, the Napatan shook himself like a diver surfac-
ing after a deep plunge and opened his eyes. He stood, wobbling a little
and using the staff for support. His face broadened with a smile of bright

relief.

"Samlor," he said, obviously ignorant of anything that had happened

around him since he dropped into a trance. "I've found it—or at least we

need to go down."

"We need to—" began the caravan master angrily. Tjainufi was watch-
ing him. The manikin's features were too small to have readable expres-
sion in this light, but the creature must think that . . .

"Look," Samlor resumed, speaking to—at—Tjainufi, "I don't mean I
want to get out because we found what / wanted, I mean—"

"Oh!" said Star. There was a mild implosion, air rushing to fill a small

void. "There's nothing inside."

She'd opened the box, Samlor saw as he turned. His emotions had gone
flat—they'd only be in the way just now—and his senses gave him frozen
images of his surroundings in greater detail than he would be able to
imagine when he wasn't geared to kill or run.

A narrow plate on the front of the ivory box slid sideways to expose a
spring catch. When the child pressed that—the scale of the mechanism
was so small that Samlor would have had to work it with a knifepoint—
the lid popped up.

INHERITOR                    113

To display the inner surfaces of the ivory as highly polished as the
exterior; and nothing whatever within.

Star was looking up at him with a pout of disappointment. She held the
box in both hands and the ball of light, detached from her palm, was
shrinking in on itself and dimming as its color slipped down through the
spectrum.

For an instant—for a timeless period, because the vision was unreal
and therefore nothing his eyes could have taken in—Samlor saw blue-
white light through a gap in the cosmos where the whorl of white hair on
Star's head should have been. It was like looking into the heart of the
thunderbolt . . .

And it wasn't there, in the room or his daughter's face—for Star was
that, damn Samlane as she surely was damned—or even as an afterimage
on Samlor's retinas when he blinked. So it hadn't really been there, and
the caravan master was back in the world where he had promised to help
Khamwas find a stele in exchange for help locating Star's legacy.

Which it appeared they had yet to do, but he'd fulfill his obligations to
the Napatan. He shouldn't have needed a reminder from Tjainufi of that.

"Friend Khamwas," Samlor said, "we'll go downstairs if you want
that. But"—his left index finger made an arc from the parchment toward
the fallen silver pen—"something took Setios away real sudden, and I
wouldn't bet it's not still here."

Khamwas caught his lower lip between his front teeth. He was wearing
his cape again, but the caravan master remembered how frail the
Napatan had looked without it.

"The man who looks in front of him does not stumble and fall," said
the manikin with his usual preternatural clarity of voice.

"Samlor," said the Napatan, "I appreciate what you say ... but
what I seek is here, and I've made a very long—"

"Sure," the caravan master interrupted. "I just mean we be careful, all
right?

"And you, child," Samlor added in a voice as soft as a cat's claws
extending. He knelt so that Star could meet his eyes without looking up.
"You don't touch anything, do anything. Do you understand? Because if
the only way to keep you safe is to tie you up and carry you like a sack of
flour—that's what I'll do."

Star nodded, her face scrunched up on the verge of tears. The drifting
glows dwindled noticeably.

"Everything's going to be fine, dearest," the caravan master said, giv-
ing the child an affectionate pat as he rose.

It bothered him to have to scare his niece in order to get her to obey—
while she remembered—but she scared him every time she did something

114 AFTERMATH

innocently dangerous, like opening the ivory box. Better she be fright-
ened than that she swing from his arm, trussed like a hog.

Because Samlor didn't threaten in bluff.

Khamwas said something under his breath. His staff clothed itself in
the bluish phosphorescence it held when the caravan master first met him
in an alley. With the staff's unshod ferule, the Napatan prodded the study
door, lifting the bronze latch. When nothing further happened, he pulled
the door open with his free hand and preceded Samlor and Star into the

hall beyond.

Samlor touched the latch as he stepped past it. Not a particularly
sturdy piece—typical for an inside door, when the occupant is more
concerned with privacy than protection. But it had been locked, which
meant somebody had paused in the hallway to do so with a key after he
closed the door.

Otherwise, it would have to have been locked from the inside by some-
body who wasn't there any more.

In the old Ilsigi fashion, a balustraded hallway encircled a reception
room which pierced the second floor. There was a solid roof overhead
rather than the skylight which would have graced a Rankan dwelling of
similar quality.

The stairwell to the ground floor was in the corner to the left of the
study door. Khamwas's staff, pale enough to be a revenant floating at its
own direction, swirled in that direction.

"The, ah," Samlor said, trying to look in all directions and unable to
see anything more than a few inches beyond the phosphorescent staff.
"The doorkeeper. It's not ... ?"

"We wouldn't meet it even if we opened the front door ourselves from
within," said Khamwas as he stepped briskly down the helical staircase.
"It isn't, you see, a thing. It's a set of circumstances which have to fit as
precisely as the wards of a lock.

"Though it wouldn't," he added a few steps later, "be a good idea for
anyone to force the door from the outside. Even if they were a much
greater scholar than I. Ah, Setios collected some . . . artifacts . . .
that he might more wisely have left behind."

The reception room was chilly. Samlor thought it might have some-
thing to do with the glass-smooth ornamental pond in the middle of the
room. He tested the water with his boot toe and found it, as expected, no
more than an inch deep. It would be fed by rainwater piped from the roof
gutters. Barely visible in the shadow beneath the coaming were the flat
slots from which overflow drained in turn into a cistern.

Except for the pond, the big room was antiseptically bare. The walls
between top and bottom moldings were painted in vertical pastel waves

INHERITOR

115

reminiscent of a kelp forest, and the floor was a geometric pattern in
varicolored marble.

"Well, which way now?" the caravan master demanded brusquely, his
eyes on the doorway to the rear half of the house. Star was shivering
despite wrapping her cloak tighter with both hands, and Samlor didn't
like the feel of the room a bit either.

"Down still," said Khamwas in puzzlement. He rapped the ferule of
his staff on the floor, a sharp sound that contained no information useful
—at least—to the caravan master. Perhaps it just seemed like the right
thing to do.

"There'll be a cistern below," said Samlor, gesturing with a dripping
boot toe toward the pond. "The access hatch'd be in the kitchen, most
likely. Not in this room."

He started for a door, ill at ease and angry at himself for that feeling of
undirected fear. Part of his mind yammered that the Napatan was a fool
who again mistook a direction for a pathway . . . and Samlor had to
avoid that, avoid picking excuses to snarl at those closest to him in order
to conceal fears he was embarrassed to admit.

Star poked a hand between the edges other cloak. She did not look up;

but when her finger cocked, a bright spark swam rapidly from it and
began coasting the lower wall moldings.

"D-dearest," said the caravan master, glancing at the withdrawn, mis-
erable-looking face of his niece, then back to the light source. Star said
nothing.

The droplet of light was white and intense by contrast with the vague
glows that both—he had to admit the fact—magicians had created earlier
in the evening. It might even have looked bright beside a candle, but
Samlor had difficulty remembering anything as normal as candlelight
while he stood in this chill, stone room.

Pulse and pause; pulse and pause; pulse . . . He'd thought that the
creature of light was a minnow, or perhaps no more than a daub of
illumination, a cold flame that did not counterfeit life.

But it surely did. A squid rather than a fish, too small to see but
identifiable from the way it jetted forward with rhythmic contractions of
its mantle.

The marble floor was so highly polished that it mirrored the creature's
passage with nearly perfect fidelity, catching even the wispy shadows
between the tightly clasped tentacles of light trailing behind. The colors
and patterning of the stone segments created the illusion that the reflec-
tion really swam through water.

"Star," the caravan master demanded in a restrained voice. "Why are
you—"

116 AFTERMATH

The reflection blurred into a soft ball of light on a slab of black marble,
though the tiny creature jetted above it in crystalline purity. The squid
pulsed forward and hung momentarily over a wedge of travertine whose
dark bands seemed to enfold the sharp outline.

Then source and reflection disappeared as abruptly as they had spurted
from the child's gesture.

"What?" said Star, shivering fiercely. She scrunched her eyes shut so
that her uncle thought she was about to cry. "What happened?"

Samlor patted her, blinking both at the sudden return of darkness and
his realization of what he had just seen. Star might not know what she
had done or why, but the caravan master did.

"Khamwas, come over here, will you?" he said, amused at the elation
he heard in his voice as he strode to the sidewall where the thing of light
had disappeared. "You know, I'd about decided we were going t' have t*
give up or come back with a real wrecking crew."

"A hundred men are slain through one moment of discouragement,"
said the manikin on Khamwas's shoulder.

"In this town," the caravan master responded sourly, "you can be slain
for less reason 'n that."

"I, ah," said the Napatan scholar. "What would you like me to do?"

"Star, come closer, sweetest," Samlor cajoled when he realized his
niece had not followed him. Something was wrong with her, or else she
was reacting strongly to the malaise of this house—which affected even
the relatively insensitive caravan master.

She obeyed his voice with the halting nervousness of a frequently
whipped dog. Her hands were hidden again within her cloak.

Samlor put his arm around her shoulders, all he could do until they'd
left this accursed place, and said to the other man, "Can you make it
lighter down here? By the wall?"

Khamwas squatted and held his staff parallel with the edge molding.
The phosphorescence was scarcely any light at all to eyes which had
adapted to the spark from Star's finger, but it was sufficient to distinguish
the square of black marble from the pieces of travertine to either side of it
in the intaglio flooring.

Samlor could not discern a difference in the polish of the black marble
from that of the rest, but the way it blurred the light which the others
had mirrored proved what would have been uncertain under any other
conditions.

He tried the stone with the tip of his right little finger; the rest of the
hand continued to grip the hilt of his long knife. The block didn't give to
light pressure, neither downward nor on either of its horizontal axes, but
it didn't seem to be as solid as stone cemented to a firm base ought to be.

INHERITOR                      117

"Is there something the matter with the floor, here?" asked Khamwas,
resting easily on his haunches.

Samlor would rather that the Napatan keep an eye out behind them,
but perhaps he couldn't do that and also hold the staff where it was
useful. The glow was better than nothing.

Besides, he doubted that any danger they faced would be as simple as a
man creeping upon them from the darkness.

"This block doesn't have the same sheen as the others," explained
Samlor as he stood up slowly. "It's not on any path, particularly, so
maybe it's been sliding or, well, something different to the rest."

He stepped gingerly on the block, which was only slightly longer in
either dimension than his foot. By shifting his weight from toes to heel
and then to the edge of his boot, the caravan master hoped he could
induce the marble to pivot on a hidden pin. He was poised to jump clear
at the first sign of movement,

There was none.

Well, then ... if he pressed the block toward the wall—

Samlor's hobnails skidded, then bit into the marble epough to grip as
he increased the weight on them. The black stone slipped under the
molding with the silent grace of mercury flowing.

There was a sigh from behind them. The two men jerked around and
saw that the ornamental pond was lifting onto one end. The water, which
had dampened Samlor's boot a moment before, did not spill though it
hung on edge in the air.

There was a ladder leading down into the opening the pond had cov-
ered.

"Collector, you called him," said the caravan master grimly as he
watched the reflection in the vertical sheet of water.

"A good trick," responded Khamwas, nettled at the hinted contrast of
his knowledge against that of the missing Setios.

The Napatan stood and began muttering in earnest concentration to
his staff. Samlor assumed the incantation must have some direct connec-
tion with their task and their safety.

When the phosphorescent staff floated out of Khamwas's hands, dip-
ping but not quite falling to the ground, the Cirdonian realized that it
was merely a trick—a demonstration to prove that Khamwas was no less
of a magician than the owner of the house,

It was the sort of boyish silliness that got people killed when things
were as tense as they were just now.

Apparently Tjainufi thought the same thing, because he turned and
said acidly into the scholar's ear, "There is a running to which sitting is
preferable."

118 AFTERMATH

Star's hands wavered briefly from the folds of her cloak; Samlor could
not be sure whether or not the child mumbled something as well. Flecks
of light shot from her fingers. They grew as they shimmered around the
room, gaining definition as they lost intensity—jellyfish of pastel light,
and one mauve sea urchin, picking its glowing, transparent way spine by
spine across a "bottom" two feet above the marble floor.

The staff clattered and lost its phosphorescence as it fell. Samlor
snatched it before it came to rest on the stone. He handed it back to his
male companion. "Let's take a look, shall we?" he said, nodding to the
ladder. "Guess I'll go first."

"No, I think I should lead," said Khamwas. "I—"

He met the caravan master's eyes. "Master Samlor, I apologize. It'll be
safer for me to go first, and I'll spend my efforts on making it safe."

The multicolored jellyfish made the reception room look as if it were
illuminated through stained glass. The sea urchin trundled its way for-
ward to the opening in the middle of the floor, then continued downward
at the same staccato pace as if the plane on which its spines rested lay in a
universe in which sideways was up.

That might be the case.

The two men walked to the opening and looked down while Star
hugged herself in silence.

The room beneath the floor was a cube or something near it, ten feet in
each dimension. Mauve light filled the volume surprisingly well, though
the simulated urchin did not itself seem bright enough to do so. The floor
shone with a sullen lambency.

The furnishings were simple. A metal reading stand, high enough for
use by a standing man and empty now, waited near the center of the
room.

To its right stood an elaborate bronze firebox on four clawed legs, a
censer rather than a heating device. The flat sides of the box were covered
by columns of incised swirls, more likely a script unknown to the caravan
master than mere decoration. The top was smooth except for a trio of
depressions—an inch, three inches, and six inches in diameter. Aromatics
could be placed there to be released by the heat of charcoal burning in
the firebox beneath.

At each corner of the top was a decorative casting. They were minia-
ture beasts of the sort which in larger scale could have modeled the
censer's terrible clawed legs. The creatures had catlike heads, the bodies
of toads with triangular plates rising along the spine for protection, and
the forelegs of birds of prey. Serpent tails curled up behind them, sug-
gesting the creatures were intended as handles for the censer; but anyone

INHERITOR

119

who attempted to put them to that purpose would have his hands pierced
by the hair-thin spikes with which the tails ended.

There was no other furniture in the room, but a pentacle several feet in
diameter was painted or inlaid on the concrete floor to the reading
stand's left. It was empty. The floor and white-stuccoed walls were other-
wise unmarked.

Khamwas's lips pursed.

"Go ahead," said Samlor with a shrug. "Maybe your stone's on the
ceiling where we can't see it."

"Yes," said the Napatan, though there was doubt rather than hope in
his tone.

Khamwas thrust his staff as far into the mauve light as it would go
while his hand on the tip remained above floor level.

Nothing happened, but Samlor was not foo! enough to think it had
been a pointless exercise. His companion was doing what he had prom-
ised, concentrating his talents—better, his knowledge—on the task at
hand.

Still holding the staff out in his direction of travel, Khamwas backed
awkwardly down the ladder. The ferule banged accidentally on the cen-
ser as he turned. It made Khamwas jump back but did not concern
Samlor, who saw what was about to happen.

But the crash and shattering glass from upstairs spun the caravan
master, his teeth bared and his left hand groping for the throwing knife in
his boot sheath.

"The wind," murmured Star, the first words she had spoken since the
three of them left the study upstairs. She wasn't looking at her uncle or at
anything in particular.

But she was right. A door banged shut, muting a further tinkle of
glass. One of the window sashes had not been secured properly. A gust
had slammed it fiercely enough to shatter the glass.

"Are you all right?"called Khamwas.

The question impressed Samlor, for it sounded sincere—and in similar
circumstances, he himself would have been worried more about his own
situation than that of his companions.

"We're going to get drenched when we leave here," the caravan master
said. "Leaving'll still feel good. Any luck yourself?"

The Napatan grimaced. "The room's empty," he said. "The brazier's
as clean as if it was never used. I'm not sure it's here at all."

"Do not ask advice of a god and then ignore what he says," snapped
Tjainufi, who was rubbing his tiny face on his shoulder like a bird preen-
ing.

"Step back," said Samlor. "I'm coming down."

120 AFTERMATH

He turned to his niece and said, "Star, dearest7 Honey? Will you be all
right for a minute9"

She nodded, though nothing in her face suggested that she was listen-
ing

The quicker they found what Khamwas needed, the quicker they—
Samlor—could sort out his niece's problem He jumped into the cubical
room without touching the ladder

Samlor landed in perfect balance, feet spread and his left hand ex-
tended slightly farther than the right so that leverage matched the weight
of his long dagger Despite Samlor's care, his hobnails skidded and might
have let him fall if Khamwas hadn't clutched the Ordonun's shoulder
The floor was dusted with sparkly stuff, almost as slick as a coat of oil

Jumping might not have been the brightest notion, but the caravan
master hadn't liked the idea of doing exactly what an intruder was ex-
pected to do

The concealed room had an underwater ambiance which wasn't
wholly an effect of the glowing sea urchin trundling across an invisible
bottom at waist height The mauve light had ripples in it, but neither the
furniture nor the two men cast distinct shadows on the walls.

"What does your"—Samlor said, making a left-handed gesture to indi-
cate either Khamwas's staff or nothing at all—"your fnend say about
what you're looking for9"

"That I've found it," Khamwas replied, turning his head to view sur-
roundings which were no less void on this perusal than on earlier ones.

Samlor stamped his foot. Sparkling dust quivered, but the concrete was
as solid as the bedrock on which it was probably laid.
Then he kicked the nearest wall

Stucco blasted away from the hobnails as they raked four short, paral-
lel paths and squealed on the stone beneath.

"Well, I think we know where t' look," said the Cirdonian in satisfac-
tion.

The stucco his boot had scraped was covering two distinct blocks of
stone—a slab of polished red granite, and another of marble shadowed
with faint streaks of gray. Both stones were inscribed, though on the
softer marble the markings had been weathered and were further defaced
by Samlor's boot

He brushed at the stucco with his left hand, flaking away a patch his
kick had loosened The writing on the granite slab was Rankan but of a
form so old that the doubled consonants and vanant orthography made
all but a few words unintelligible to the caravan master

"Why, this is wonderful, my friend," said the Napatan with a smile
brighter than the mauve glow as he bent over the cleared patch

INHERITOR                     121

Tjainufi beamed and added, "There is no good deed save a good deed
done for one who has need of it."

"We're not outta the woods yet," said Samlor with a dour glance at the
walls around them If they had to clear all the stucco—or even half, if
their luck were average—which it probably wouldn't be—it was going to
take a lot longer than the caravan master wanted to spend in this place

"No, that's all right," explained the Napatan with the uneasy hint of
mindreadmg which he had displayed before. "I'll use a spell of release
and the covering will come away at once He must use the ancient writ-
ings because they focus the power with which the years have imbued
them."

Maybe that was what Setios used to do with them, Samlor thought as
his companion knelt before his upright staff again, but he'd bet Setios
hadn't much use for them or anything else in the world just now.

Khamwas was whispering to himself and his gods Samlor looked at
him, looked at the dagger—saw that the watered steel blade was only
that, only metal, probably all it ever was, except in his mind.

"Star?" he called toward the rectangular opening. "You all right,
sweetest9"

He could barely hear the reply, "All right . .   ," but a couple of the
pastel jellyfish were drifting over him in placid unconcern. She'd be fine,
Star would.

If any of them were, she'd be fine.

Samlor squatted and squeezed up dust from the floor on the tip of his
left index finger It was colorless (save for the mauve light it reflected)
and much too finely ground for him to be able to tell the shape of the
individual crystals

A caravan master has plenty of opportunity to examine decorative
stones, jewels and bits of glass cut and stained to look like Jewels in the
dim light of a bazaar The dust could be anything, powdered diamond
even, but most likely quartz, spread in a smooth layer across all the flat
surfaces in the room . . .

Except for streaks—shadows, almost—stretching from the reading
stand and the legs of the bronze censer. The dust seemed to have been
sprayed violently from the direction of the pentacle in which Khamwas
was almost standing

"K—" Samlor began in sudden surmise.

The Napatan had been whispering, but now his voice rose in a cre-
scendo Khamwas's eyes lifted also, they were wide open but obviously
not fixed on anything in the room.

Stucco shattered away on all sides, raining over Khamwas and the
caravan master who reached for the ladder with his left hand and swung

122

AFTERMATH

his blade at anything which might have slipped behind him as he

crouched.

Nothing had. The choking flood of sand and lime dust filling the air as

the walls cleared themselves made Samlor pause where the attack he
feared would only have driven him to swifter motion.

The slow tumble of the mauve light source continued, though the
mineral-laden air absorbed the illumination. A ball a few feet in diameter
glowed in place of the urchin's sharply limned spines and carapace. As
dust settled out, the glow spread and paled while the features of the
source at its heart slowly regained definition.

"Khamwas," said the caravan master. His eyes were slitted and a fold
of his cloak covered his mouth and nose, a response made reflexive by
years of dry storms whipping across his caravan routes. "Where did
Setios keep his demon in a crystal bottle?"

"The gods preserve me from such knowledge, friend!" said the
Napatan as his eyes swept the upper levels of the walls which could
already be viewed with sufficient clarity. He filtered the air through his
cape; a desert-dweller himself, Khamwas must have more experience
with dust storms than Samlor did. "Believe me, Setios was mad to keep
such a thing by him—and you and I would be even madder to carry it off

ourselves."

"That's not what I mean," the caravan master said. He raised his voice
so that it could be heard through the muffling cloth—and because he was
at a desperate loss to know what he should do next. He would have
climbed out of this place at once, except for his fear of what might follow
him to where Star stood shivering.

No wonder the child had been terrified into a near coma. She must

have known . . .

"•Here it is!" cried Khamwas, brushing the reading stand as he swept

closer to a wall. "Here it is!" he repeated, then sneezed.

The walls of the sunken room were formed entirely of inscribed stones,
but the pieces had little commonality beyond that. Some were squared
columns, set with one face flush and the other three hidden even now that

the stucco had fallen away.

A few bore symbols which were not writing at all. One of them was a
small block of peridotite. polished smooth before a single diagonal was
cut across its coarse crystals. The block had marked the victim's place in
a temple ofDyareela. Samlor could not imagine anyone removing it from
its original location—or being willing to have it close to him thereafter.

The Napatan was brushing his left palm across the face of a slab of
gray granite, cleaning it of dust that had settled there after the spell of
release. The stele was about three feet high and half that across. Figures

INHERITOR                     123

—presumably gods—filled the upper portion, and there were about
twenty vertical lines of script beneath them.

"—to the blessings of Harsaphes," Khamwas said, his index finger
pausing midway down one of the later columns. "Harsaphes. not Somptu
as I'd always assumed, and the ruins of the temple of Har—"

"Khamwas, listen to me!" Samlor shouted. He gripped the scholar
with his left hand, though that meant dropping his cloak while there was
still dust in the air. "You say something happened to magic a little bit
ago. Would that have broken the crystal that held Setios's demon?"

"The townsman," said the manikin who was not in the least affected
by the choking atmosphere, "is not the one who is eaten by the croco-
dile."

And men who leave magic alone, translated Samlor as he whirled
toward glimpsed motion, aren't destroyed by its creatures.

A hand was emerging from a slab of limestone on the far wall. It was
tenuous enough that the settling dust coexisted with the limb, which was
so thin that it would have been skeletal were it not for the gleam of a
scaly integument.

The three fingers each bore a claw an inch long and sharp as shattered
glass.

"Get up the ladder!" Samlor shouted as he leaped for the apparition
behind the watered steel blade of his dagger. The hilt was adequate for
his big hand when he slashed with it, though it was shaped wrong and
would have been uncomfortably short had he chosen to thrust . . .
Which would have done as much good; as much, and no more.
The clawed hand twisted to grip the blade while an arm as wire-thin as
the hand continued to extend from the wall. Steel parted the limb like
smoke, and the claws slipped through the whisking dagger as if it in turn
had no substance.

Another hand was reaching through the stone beside the first. The blur
above and between them was growing into a narrow reptilian face.

"Get out!" the caravan master shouted again when a glance toward the
ladder showed him that Khamwas stood where he had. He had crossed
the top of his staff with his left forearm.

"No, run!" Khamwas replied. He had been chanting under his breath,
and his face spasmed with the effort of breaking back into normal speech.
"I released it again, but I can hold it for long enough."

The demon's head and torso had emerged from the wall. One leg was
striding forward in slow motion. The creature was half again as tall as
Samlor, and it was thinner than anything could be and live.

One hand shot out and snatched the sea urchin which shattered be-
neath the claws into a cascade of mauve sparks. As the demon's arm

24                   AFTERMATH

vithdrew, the sparks formed again into their original shape. The creature
)f light continued to pick its way through the air.
Samlor was quite sure that if the claws closed on his niece, their effect

vould be permanent.
"Run. Star!" he shouted, afraid to turn from the demon. It continued

:o pull itself from the stone.

Khamwas hadn't moved, though his mouth resumed its unheard
chanting. Maybe Samlor could jump for the ladder himself since the fool
Napatan refused to do so. Slam the lid back over this hellish room—if the
lid would close without a search for another mechanism. Run out the
front door with Star in his arms, praying that he could work the bolts
swiftly enough . . . praying that the doorkeeper would ignore them as
they left, the way Khamwas had said it would . . .

Samlor stepped forward and swung at the demon again. He wasn't
going to abandon Khamwas to the creature unless there were no other

choice.
He chopped for a wrist. Instead of slipping through like light in mist,

the caravan master's steel clanged as numbingly as if he had slashed an
anvil. The demon seized the blade and began to chitter in high-pitched

laughter,

All of the demon but its right leg had pulled free of the wall. That leg
was still smokily insubstantial, but the claws of the left foot cut triple
furrows in the concrete as they strained to drag the creature wholly out
of the stone. The left hand—forepaw—was reaching for Samlor's face

while the right gripped his knife.

Samlor's mouth had dropped open as he breathed through it, oblivious
of the dust that would have made him cough another time. He jerked
straight down on the dagger hilt, ducking from the swipe that started
slowly as a boulder rolling, then completed its arc at blinding speed.

The blade screeched clear. If a man had held it, his fingers would have
been on the floor or dangling from twists of skin.

The demon's paw was uninjured, and its claws had streaked the flat of
the blade against which they were set.

Samlor caught the throat-clasp of his cloak. He could throw the gar-
ment like a net over the creature and—

—and watch the claws shred it as the demon, steel strong and more
than iron hard, leaped free to dispose of the men before it. The creature's
eyes had no pupils and glowed orange, a color which owed nothing to the
urchin which still tumbled innocently around the room.

"Khamwas!" the caravan master shouted, because the demon was al-
ready in the air and perhaps Khamwas could get up the ladder while the

INHERITOR                     125

Cirdonian occupied the creature with the process of being slaugh-
tered . . .

The demon halted in midair, its left foot above the concrete and its
right leg, spindly and terrible as that of a giant spider, lifting to deliver a
kick that would disembowel Samlor. Dust settled and the urchin of light
rolled jerkily forward, one spine at a time, but the creature hung frozen
like an idol of ravening destruction.

Its eyes were as bright as tunnels to hell.

Samlor started another cut at the demon. Light reflecting from the
triple scratch on his blade reminded him how useless that would be. so he
turned instead to Khamwas.

Who had not moved since last Samlor had leisure to glance at him.

Khamwas hunched slightly forward, his left forearm crossing the top
of his staff and his eyes fixed on the demon with a reptile's intensity.
Tjainufi still perched on his shoulder.

The Napatan's lips had been moving soundlessly, but now he said in a
cracked whisper, "Go on ... quickly."

The demon was not quite frozen. The movements the creature began
before Khamwas's spell took effect were still going on. The leg that
stretched toward Samlor at a glacial pace quickened noticeably when the
Napatan spoke, and the demon's mouth gaped slowly to display arrays of
interlocked teeth like needles in the upper and lower jaws.

"But how can you—" the caravan master began as he slipped a step
back, beyond the present arc of the claws. The demon bent at its girl-slim
waist as it leaped, because otherwise its flat skull would have banged the
ten-foot ceiling.

"Samlor," said the Napatan scholar, "get out! I brought you here!"

The demon had trembled back to near stasis for a moment. Now it
lurched far enough forward in its unsupported motion that it was clear
one hand was reaching for Khamwas's head even as the kick extended
toward the Cirdonian.

"There is none who abandons his traveling companion whom the gods
do not call to account for it," said Tjainufi.

"Fuck your gods," said Samlor, who was already sliding the knife back
under his belt to free his hands. He encircled the Napatan's waist, under-
neath the cape for a firmer grip, with his left arm.

"No—" said Khamwas desperately.

"Do yowjob," Samlor snarled back as he lifted the smaller man. The
air swirled with the demon's renewed movement, but the claws now
behind the caravan master did not rend him as he stepped with regal
determination to the ladder.

Focusing on the creature from the stone was for Khamwas. Samlor hil

126

AFTERMATH

Samt had the responsibility of getting them both back up the ladder while
his companion did that job, eyes, arm, and staff locked into their duty

Khamwas's body was muscular, but weight wasn't the problem. Carry-
ing him upright while Samlor's right hand needed to grip the ladder for
balance was brutal punishment, and it reminded him of how badly he
had strained himself getting into this damned house

One foot above the other, each step a deliberate one because a jolt at
the wrong time might break Khamwas's concentration irrevocably No
way to tell what was happening behind him, nothing to do about it if
things weren't well One foot and then the other.

A gust of wind shocked Samlor as his head lifted above the floor of the
reception hall Fabric, a curtain or a counterpane, had been snatched
from a room on the upper floor and was flapping from the railing

Star was calm as molten glass as she watched her uncle struggle up the
ladder with the other man clamped to his side At his first wild glance,
Samlor thought the whorl of white hair on the child's temple was one of
the creatures of light which pulsed through the reception hall It was so

bright

He couldn't bend over to balance with his palm on the floor as he
neared the top of the ladder, so the caravan master mounted the last
three rungs at a quickened pace Toppling backward would mean the
floor killed them if the demon didn't, but if Samlor sprawled on his face
the result would be no better He'd seen the creature start to move, it
would be on them in an instant ifKhamwas were flung out of his concen-
tration

Samlor stepped from the top rung to the marble floor, sucking in his
lips as he strove to move as smoothly as a duck gliding on water He set
the Napatan down, conscious of the man's weight only after he was free
of it, and with the same motion strode for the wall and the latch mecha-
nism

Khamwas's voice was audible again, breaking with strain as he
chanted over and over again a dozen or so words Sweat from the
Napatan's face had splashed Samlor's left forearm as he climbed

The caravan master's boot skidded when he tried to slide back the
piece the marble which was half withdrawn beneath the molding Instead
of trying again with his hobnails, Samlor knelt and scrabbled at the black
stone with both sweaty palms It moved into position with the same
greasy certainty with which it had opened

The pond of mirror-smooth water slipped down to cover the demon
soundlessly

Samlor skidded as he ran from the sidewall to the front door Hobnails
weren't the footgear for these polished stones . .  and this house wasn't

INHERITOR                   127

a place for humans Not now, and probably not before Setios's pet got
loose

There was no inside door latch

"You didn't let them out, Master Khamwas," said Star, patting the
hand of the scholar who had knelt and was sobbing with exhaustion
'They're playing with us "

"Come on," Samlor shouted There was certainly a way to open the
inner and outer doors from here, but he didn't have time to fool with it.
"We're leaving the way we came'"

"There's six of them. Uncle Samlor," said Star. "They're playing with
us"

Something emerged from the pilaster beside the stairs to the second
floor It was a clawed hand like that of the demon below Instead of
streaming like smoke from the stone, it broke free as a chick emerges
from an egg Rock shattered away from the groping limb, and a section
of the wall started to lift

Khamwas rose to his feet His face was blank and his body swayed
with fatigue He crossed his arm over the staff again and began a whis-
pered chant

The wall from which the demon crashed, already formed, was load-
bearing Tortured roof beams squealed as plaster in chunks of up to a
hundred pounds broke away A big piece hit the center of the pond and
blasted water out across the reception hall

Samlor caught his niece with one arm and Khamwas with the other
He flung them, all three together, to the floor against the nearer sidewall
A block of stone, notched for the butt of a crossbeam, tumbled from the
roof to the rail of the second-floor walkway, then caromed to the floor in
a shower of dust and chips.

"We'll get out through the back'" said the caravan master who
doubted that they would. The wall beside where they hunched under
cover of the walkway was crumbling as gray claws harder than the stone
emerged from it

Across the reception room, the other sidewall was disintegrating m a
shower of bits and blocks They hid but did not disguise the cause of the
destruction One of the demons was clasping a dismembered human leg
Samlor figured he knew where Setios and his servants had gone

Six of 'em, Star'd said Likely five more than they'd need, but you
didn't quit Just because you couldn't win

The three humans rose and scuttled for the room's back wall and the
door there They were bent over because the walkway's partial roof was
no protection against blocks bouncing from the floor at crazy angles.

The front half of the house staggered forward into the street with a

128

AFTERMATH

roar. The sound did not seem loud until Samlor realized that he could
not shout with enough volume to be heard by the two companions he had
dragged with him into the temporary safety of the door alcove.

Skeletal, inhumanly tall figures minced toward the trio, shrugging off
the tons of rubble that had thundered down on them. There were four,
and the mound of stone and timber covering what had been the floor of
the reception room heaved as the creature in the room beneath rejoined

its fellows.

Sheets of pain flapped across Samlor's body from a center where his
right hip had blocked a ricocheting chunk of stone that weighed as much
as he did. The crosswall dividing the house was built as solidly as the
exterior. It remained essentially undisturbed when the emerging demons
had shattered the front of the house. That portion of the building had
demolished itself as brittle stone shifted in a vain attempt to find new

foundations.
The door in front of Samlor was locked or possibly jammed when ruin

made the house twist, but the panel was only thin wood inlaid with horn
and ivory in patterns which were probably significant as well as decora-
tive. Khamwas pounded it with the ferule of his staff, breaking off scales
of ivory without doing anything to get them through the doorway.

Samlor would have kicked the latchplate, but he was pretty sure that
his right hip would neither support him alone nor lift his boot high
enough for the purpose. Wondering how many seconds they had before a
demon lunged onto them, he rotated on his left heel and grabbed a torso-
sized block from the wreckage that had spilled inward during the col-
lapse.

The demons were advancing with tiny steps, chittering in self-satisfac-
tion. When they chose to, they picked their way over the piled rubble, but
one of the four figures strode through the tons of jumbled rock like a man
wading in the surf. The fifth of the creatures heaved itself into sight with
the ease of a toadstool bursting pavement to reach the open air,

"Care—" cried Samlor, turning with the block in his hands. The
movement was so painful that he could feel only his scalp, his palms, and
the ball of his left foot.

"—ful!"

The stone splintered the door and carried on, crashing on the floor of
the hallway beyond and then bouncing harmlessly from the legs of the
sixth demon poised there with its arms spread across the passage.

The air was dead still. The caravan master turned again, no more
conscious of his pain than a fox is conscious of the way its lungs burn
from its running when the hounds encircle it for the last time.

"The sky," Khamwas said hoarsely. "Look."

INHERITOR                       129

Samlor drew the long dagger from his belt and lifted Star to his chest
with his free arm. The semicircle of demons waited, crouching slightly,
with their spindly, steelstrong arms interlocked. They were close enough
that if one of the creatures leaned forward, it could rip the caravan
master's face away in its pointed teeth.

"Look!" Khamwas screamed, and even so his voice was smothered by
a sound like the scream of a giant snake.

Samlor looked up. He could see almost a mile into the sky, up the
lightning-lit throat of a descending tornado funnel.

The lower end was shaggy with tentacles of water vapor condensing in
the lowered pressure surrounding six separate suction vortices. They ex-
tended toward the ruined house.

"Down!" cried the caravan master, but Star twisted like an eel from his
arms and stood while the two men tried to flatten themselves.

One of the demons leaped away, covering twenty feet of the distance
toward the street before being caught by a suction vortex- The creature
reeled upward into the main funnel, like a crab being lifted into an
octopus's crushing beak. Blue-white lightning licked soundlessly but with
coronal radiance from one side of the void to the other-

The funnel hovered at the level of what remained of Setios's roof. A
miniature vortex snaked past Star's erect head, so close that it should
have touched her hair but didn't. It was no more than the diameter of a
wine jar, spinning widdershins though the main cloud rotated with the
sun.

Samlor lay on his back, clutching the medallion of Heqt in his left
hand as he watched transfixed. The broken door panel exploded into
splinters. They cleared themselves up the shaft of the screaming vortex.
The demon flashed out in the grip of the wind, upright and battling
momentarily while its hinder claws gouged pieces the size of a man's fist
from the stone of the doorjambs. Then the creature was gone, falling
upward into the sky in a helix so tight that its limbs had been plucked
from the body before it disappeared into the tunnel of lightning.

The tornado was lifting and folding in on itself like a purse whose
drawstrings were being tightened. Samlor hadn't seen what happened to
the four remaining demons, but they had vanished when he knelt to look
around.

"If you are not slack," said Tjainufi in a perfectly audible voice, "then
your god will be active for you."

Samlor uncurled his fingers from the amulet of Heqt; but it had not
been to the toad goddess that he screamed his prayers in the last in-
stants . . .

130                   AFTERMATH

"I thought Mommy's box was empty," said Star as her eyes met the
caravan master's "But it wasn't "

The tornado funnel flattened into the overcast almost a mile above
Sanctuary Only then did the normal wind return, a huge gust of it, and
with it the start of a cold downpour It was as dark again as the inside of

a tomb.

But the whorl of hair on Star's temple burned for a moment like the

heart of the lightning

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE

John Brunner

By lamplight, by firelight, on a winter evening, Jarveena of Forgotten
Holt sat at dinner with the less-than-man whose foreign agent she had
been for these seven years.

In the years since she had served him merely as a scribe-interpreter,
Master Melilot had changed but little He was portlier, admittedly—the
satin robe he splashed with grease as he gnawed at the carcass of his third
wild duck stretched smooth across his ample paunch—but his suety face
was equally innocent of wrinkles and would no doubt remain so till his
death

Most certainly of all, his inner nature had not altered Though he was
a great deal richer than of yore—Jarveena knew that for a fact, having
put several immensely profitable deals his way, and having laid the foun-
dations of a fortune for herself—the outward signs of his prosperity were
few He was still reluctant to part with money save when it was unavoid-
able, food still came to his table from the fire shared between the kitchen
and the bindery adjacent to the scriptorium on the entrance floor, and
those who clambered up and down the ladderlike stairs with wine jars
and full and empty dishes were still the same sort of apprentices, not
engaged just now in copying or studying A thousand others would have
flaunted their wealth by buying slaves, or installed one of the hoists of
late so popular in Ranke, which delivered food piping-hot by way of a
shaft sunk in the wall Not Melilot He knew that an excessive display of
worldly goods was a sure way to attract the interest of thieves, and he
had no wish to be at the expense of hiring armed watchmen It was
cheaper to rely, by day, on the constant vigilance of his staff, and by night

132

AFTERMATH

on the geese he had installed on the roof, in what formerly had been the
nauseous dwelling of the drunken nobleman whose ancestors had built
this once fine mansion. He had gone to his repose; now the geese could be
trusted to disturb everybody's at a nocturnal shout or footfall, a com-
plaining bolt, or the creaking of a shutter jimmied open.

Besides, here in Sanctuary, what guards were available were as likely
as anyone else to rob their employers if they felt they could get away with

their loot.

Despite his visibly good appetite, Melilot was uneasy. As well as
Jarveena, another guest sat at his table. It was not his custom to admit
strangers to his private quarters. Had the fellow not been vouched for by
Jarveena personally, he would never have set foot outside the public areas

below.

Yet he had been vouched for in a most disturbing fashion. Had he

somehow ensnared the girl—woman, Melilot corrected himself, remem-
bering how much time had elapsed—perhaps by magic? Was their pres-
ence part of some secret plot against him? It was second nature to all in
Sanctuary to think in such terms, from lifelong habit.

Keeping up, between mouthfuls, a flow of gossip as entertaining as
might be heard anywhere in the city and a sight more trustworthy than
most, given that it was based on what he daily gleaned from the docu-
ments given him to transcribe or translate, Melilot studied Jarveena from
the corner of his eye. She had changed more than he had in the past
decade—and small wonder, given the difference in their age and bodily
condition—but she still affected mannish garb, boots and breeches and
laced jerkin. She was still, moreover, patterned with vicious scars, though
they were far less conspicuous than formerly. Therein lay the reason for
her annual returns to Sanctuary, and also why she was not already as
rich as Melilot. Spells were not cheap, particularly when one must apply
to Enas Yorl for them: one of the three greatest wizards in the land.

Under his care, the lash marks on her hands and arms had faded until
they were no more than a tracery beneath her tawny skin—and no doubt
elsewhere on her body, for her once unequal bosom swelled identically
now on left and right, signifying that the old brown keloid had been
spirited away and left her form as shapely as that of anyone her age not
yet a mother, and more than most thanks to her active way of life. Oddly,
though, she had not begun where most young women would have, with
her face as being most exposed to public view. Still, when she tossed her
head in laughter at some especially extravagant yam recounted by her
host, one might glimpse the hideous cicatrix she could reveal by drawing

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE

133

down her eyebrows, that mark which in the days when she resided here
she had used to such effect in cowing disobedient junior apprentices . . .

Oh, she had always been a strange one, this Jarveena! He had been
positively glad when she decided to take ship away from Sanctuary after
that unpleasant episode involving an enchanted scroll, treachery on the
part of a trusted officer, and an attempt to assassinate the Prince.*

Yes, indeed. Life was a great deal more comfortable knowing that this
unpredictable person, half loyal employee and half explosive spitfire, was
safe at sea or bargaining on his behalf in distant ports. The times when
she came back to claim her pay, and spend the greater part of it again in
a single day, were far from the happiest of Melilot's existence . . .

And now she had arrived, for the first time ever, with a companion.
Male, at that. Discarding the third duck, belching unrestrainedly and
calling for more wine, he shifted his attention to this stranger even as he
launched into the best and funniest of the rumors he had lately garnered.
It concerned the plight of a rascally sea captain, Stong by name, half
mariner, half smuggler, who had taken aboard, all unwitting, both a
chestful of silver put long ago by Mizraith under a geas that sooner or
later would compel its restoration to its rightful owner, and also the
victim of a S'danzo curse designed to drive him away from Sanctuary for
all time. He decorated the tale with all sorts of risible detail, much of
which he invented on the spot, and Jarveena, relaxed by his good wine,
enjoyed it to the full. One of the changes she had undergone during her
extensive travels was the acquisition of a keen sense of humor. In her
teens she had had little to laugh at, or about.

Her companion, however, made no pretense even of smiling. His glum
face remained as impassive as a stone idol's except at reference to the
S'danzo curse, whereupon he favored Jarveena with a scowl.

What, Melilot asked himself, could have persuaded her to bring this
boorish fellow here? So far he knew nothing about him save his name,
and that was outlandish and nearly unpronounceable, something like
"Klikitak" except that it ended with a rasp: Klikitagh?

Of course, a few hints could be deduced from his appearance. His
shoulders were broad, his chest deep, his hands large and sinewy: the
figure of a man of action. Moreover he was of a striking color, for be-
tween his fair beard and bushy fair hair his cheeks and forehead were
windburned to a pale clear red after so many days at sea.

But never in all his life, not even when dealing with some nobleman's
illiterate wife desperate to know whether letters brought secretly to her
husband and intercepted described her infidelities, had Melilot seen such

* See "Sentences of Death," in Thieves' World.

134 AFTERMATH

unalloyed misery on a human countenance Why, even Enas Yorl, sport
of a thousand mindless spells that changed his shape, his sex, and now
and then his species, contrived to extract a certain wry and resigned
humor from his predicament  . .

He ended his story, and Jarveena, hooting with laughter, clapped her
hands. The pretty ten-year-old girl who stood silently m one corner be-
side the wine jug mistook her applause for a signal to replenish their
mugs, and made haste to obey Melilot did not correct her He had hopes
of loosening the stranger's tongue, and in that project liquor was his
chiefest ally

"I note, sir," he said with disapproval that was only partly feigned,
"you were not amused by the plight of Captain Stong Is one to take it
that it was because you are unfamiliar with crucial references therein, as
to the S'danzo curse and legendary Mizraith's skill as an enchanter^ You
have the air of a far-traveled man, not acquainted with the ways and
notables of Sanctuary."

Klikitagh stirred, and for the first time uttered more than a discourte-
ous grunt; he had not even expressed thanks for the generous repast that
had been set before him

"No, sir," he returned "Is because in part I can not well to understand
your saying "

Hmm' That aroused Melilot's professional instincts What could this
fellow's native language be7 The accent was none that he recognized, nor
was the curious turn of phrasing Mayhap Klikitagh was literate in some
language lacking from the list posted at the door of his scriptorium,
though that was longer by three, possibly four, than the best his rivals
had to oner If only to learn how to recognize a script he hadn't run
across before, it would be worth his while to pick the stranger's
brains

Before Melilot could formulate any proposal, however, the other had
gone on

"And in other bigger part because is not a matter for make jest, a
curse Speak as pitiably victim knowing well from agony anti-justice,
cruelness, of making curse against mnocency man, me, self"

That emphatic addition occurs in Yemzed, but never at the end of a
sentence  . . Oh, I'm really on to something here' Excited, Melilot beck-
oned the girl back from her corner to pour still more wine

But Klikitagh refused, covering his mug with a broad palm

"Tired I to sleep Must go, we "

As though taking Jarveena's consent for granted, he gathered the
sword belt he had hung on the back of his chair and rose, extending his
hand to help her up also

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            135

She ignored it

A sudden angry flush deepened the color of Klikitagh's cheeks He
said, "You not—"

"I have business to discuss with Melilot," she cut m "One of the kids
will show you to the guest apartment I'll join you later "

Hastily, for fear of Klikitagh provoking a quarrel that. as surely with
Jarveena as with any haughty bladesman of the city, might become a
fight, Melilot forced his immense bulk out of his chair.

"That is so, sir," he confirmed. "But I assure you I shall keep our
conversation as brief as may be " He hesitated, trying to gauge the depth
and cause of Klikitagh's ill temper "If perchance you fear I may trespass
on some right of intimacy the lady has, for the time being, granted to
yourself, I pray you consider the—ah—visible signs of my incompetence
m that regard "

Klikitagh's face remained blank Melilot realized he was so nervous
that out of habit he had used formal, high-flown terms, incomprehensible
to this foreigner He made hasty amends

"It is as Jarveena has said My guest apartment is at your disposal
During your stay at Sanctuary I look forward to chatting with you about
your native country and its script and language, it would be most inter-
esting, indeed a positive pleasure, to hear you on the subject Accord-
ingly, rather than dismiss you to some flea-ridden tavern like the Vulgar
Unicorn, I suggest you make my home your base until you have com-
pleted whatever business brings you here Feel free to come and go . . ."

His words trailed away Klikitagh was scowling worse than ever His
hand would have fallen to his sword hilt—he had refused to be parted
from the weapon, bad manners though it was to bring it into his host's
dining room—had Jarveena not caught his fingers in her own, slimmer
but almost as strong With a sour gnn she said, "You've upset the poor
bastard Not surprising I'll take him away and pacify him, and come
back "

"Pacifying" Klikitagh took so long that Melilot, growing drowsy from
the fumes of wine, was on the point of postponing further conversation
with Jarveena to the morrow—the street outside having reached that
pitch of quietness after which almost any noise might set his geese to
cackling—when, silent as a shadow, she returned wearing nothing but
her skin and slumped back into her chair He noticed that his guess about
the keloid on her chest had been correct

"Foof" she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low "If I'd known
what a handful Klikitagh can be I'd never have agreed to help him Still,
you can't help feeling sorry for the poor devil, can you?"

136

AFTERMATH

"Personally," Melilot grunted, "I find it the easiest thing in the world
to avoid doing so. What spell has he cast on you, who never before to my
knowledge felt sorry for anybody save yourself—and maybe Enas Yorl?"

She pantomimed hurling her wine mug at him, but cancelled the move-
ment with a wry smile at his reflexive flinch. The mug turned out to be
empty. Glancing around, she saw that the little girl in the corner had
dozed off. Remembering, perhaps, the days when she, too, had had to
wait on Melilot's pleasure after dinner, she went to help herself. Having
taken a swig and topped it up a second time, she resumed her place.
"All right." She sighed. "I guess I'd better tell you Klikitagh's story."
"I'd rather hear about the deals with—"

"Tomorrow will do!" she interrupted. "Or more likely the day after."
"I was afraid of that," the master scribe muttered. "On the first full
day of each of your visits to Sanctuary, you invariably have urgent busi-
ness . . . Still, if this time you can afford to have Enas Yorl charm away
the scar on your forehead"—brightening—"you'll no longer present such
an alarming aspect every time you shake aside your forelock."

"It's true that I intend to wait on Enas Yorl tomorrow, as I always
do." Jarveena wasn't looking at him, but at the fading glories of the
painted ceiling, on which the lamps and the flames from the dying logs
combined to cast curious and intersecting shadows, as though some ma-
gician were eavesdropping on them and letting his attention wander now
and then from the spell that assured his invisibility. "But this time, not

for my own sake."

"For . . . his?" Reaching for his own mug, Melilot was so astonished

he almost spilled the contents.

"Yes indeed."
After that there was a lengthy silence, broken only by the occasional

sputtering of a jet of gas boiled out from the dampest and longest-lasting

log across the fire dogs.

Eventually noise drifted from outside: the tramp of booted feet on
cobblestones. One of the night patrols was passing, composed of men
trained locally to Hell-Hound standards of discipline; yet even they did
not dare to venture abroad except in twos, so lawless and unruly was this
premier melting pot of cities. The geese were accustomed to the sound of
their passage, and the boss gander marked it with no more than an evil-
sounding hiss.

Having watched the gleam of the patrol's lantern approach and fade
on the curtains that masked his streetward window, Melilot said, "Are
you sure he has not cast a spell on you? Last year you said this was to be
the time of your final visit to Enas Yorl, at least for personal reasons. You

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            137

said that after it your face would be restored to the same condition as
your"—he coughed behind one plump hand—"the rest of you."

"I'm having second thoughts," Jarveena muttered. "It's sometimes not
a bad thing to be able to turn off an unwanted suitor just by doing this."
And she drew her eyebrows down, glaring at him from beneath their two
graceful arcs. At once Melilot's gaze, against his will, was drawn away
from the rest of her face and horribly concentrated on the livid cicatrix
that marred her forehead and instantly made her handsome features
more repulsive than the worst invention of Sanctuary's hawkmasks.

"You haven't done it to him." Melilot suggested.

"Yes. At first. It had no effect. That was what got me interested Klik-
itagh." She had perfectly mastered the final sound of the name; Melilot,
to his shame, knew that he would have to practice it half a dozen times
aloud and in private before he dared address the man directly.

"What, then, followed?"

"The discovery that something worse could happen to a person than
what I went through as a child."

For an instant her face reflected memories of long ago and far away.
Melilot, knowing what was in her mind, shivered. To have been raped
repeatedly, then whipped and left for dead among the ruins of her native
village Holt—not for nothing now referred to as Forgotten—when she
was no more than nine . . . Was that not sufficient horror to enter into
anybody's life?

Yet she had found someone who, in her view, had suffered even more.
What monstrous events, then, lay in the past of Klikitagh?

Huskily he said, "Tell me his tale."

"Let it begin," she said after reflection, "with the reason why he took
offense at your offer of free lodging. I know you'd not have made it had
you not expected quid pro quo. It's all, of course, beside the point, but
what he might be able to teil you of his mother tongue would be quite
useless. Whether he can write I've not inquired; the same applies."

"Still, knowledge of any distant language—"

"Even a dead one? Dead for centuries?"

"What?" Melilot jolted forward on his chair, one careless elbow over-
setting his mug—but it was empty, and he lacked the energy to rise and
fill it for himself.

"Do you not believe there were great magicians in the past?" Jarveena
challenged.

"You mean . . ." Melilot sank back slowly into his usual pot-bellied
slouch, staring into nowhere.

"Out with it!"

138 AFTERMATH

"He's under an immortality spell?"

"That's only the half of it. Don't imagine you should envy him!"—in a
sharp tone of warning. "On the contrary! He is the most pitiable creature
I have ever met, and in your service 1 have traveled back and forth across
the whole known world. Is that not so?"

Melilot nodded dumbly.

"Then listen." She leaned toward the fire with chin on fists; the flames
made patterns of darkness dart across her face and body. "What lies on
him is no mere spell, but a tremendous curse. In it consists the reason
why he was angry when you offered him lodging. He cannot accept. Nor
will he eat your dinner tomorrow or on any other evening. You see . . ."

She weighed her words with care.

"He is bound never to sleep two nights in the same bed, nor eat a
second meal from the same table. And this has been his doom for a
thousand years."

Now for a great while Melilot sat motionless, save insofar as the play
of fire- and lamplight kept up a constant illusion of movement through-
out the room. Finally he had to stifle a yawn. But behind his plump,
inscrutable face it seemed his mind had been working hard enough, albeit
along lines that were familiar in Sanctuary more than any other place.

"Would this not imply that he cannot be kept in jail?" he suggested.

"Why, you—!" Jarveena leaped to her feet, brandishing her mug as
though to brain him with it. Only a warning hiss from the gander beyond
the ceiling prevented her. But her face was aglow with fury as she sat
down again. "Is that all you can think about? How would you like to be
in his shoes?"

"Not at all," the fat one answered candidly. "I'm sorry; I hadn't
thought the matter through ... To what is owed this fearful geas,
then?"

"I've no idea. Moreover, nor does he."

"But that's ridiculous!" Melilot stared at her. "You mean he won't
admit—"

"I mean precisely what I said!" Do you think I haven't pestered him
with questions? Do you think I haven't put him under oath? He has
sworn by all the gods and goddesses whose names I recognize, plus one
or two I never ran across before, that he believes the curse to be unjust.
He says, and I've been able to confirm, that he has consulted every magi-
cian whom he could afford to pay, and none has given him surcease.
What is more, none has contrived to relieve his misery by telling him the
curse indeed is warranted. Were he aware of what he is accursed for, he
might at least attempt an expiation. Can you think of a crueler fate than

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            139

his? He is being punished—endlessly, horribly punished—for something
he has no memory of having done! Is he not truly to be pitied?"

A shudder plus a vigorous nod made Melilot's gross body wobble
under his fine robe.

"But how does he make shift aboard a ship?" he demanded. "If he may
not sleep twice in the same bed—"

"He brought a hammock, and each night slung it from two different
posts or hooks. This is permissible."

"Then: eating twice from the same table?"

"Until this evening I had not seen him eat from a table at all. Aboard
ship, he carried his dish to a different spot on deck or in the 'tween-decks,
but this strategem did not entirely serve; our voyage, as you know, was
prolonged by a contrary wind, and for the last two days he did not eat at
all. In the tavern where I met him, where he had already spent a week, he
had to bribe its keeper to move him each night to a different bunk or
pallet, and since there were only two tables for the customers he was
reduced to eating on the floor, like a dog. He was much mocked in
consequence."

"Has he described what happens when he tries to defy the curse?"

"He cannot. He says he's never had the power to do so. It is, he says,
as though he has become a well-trained animal. Though he might sit
down to your table tomorrow, be he never so hungry his hands would
remain in his lap, refusing to lift food to his lips; though he might fall
upon the softest couch in the world, weary to the marrow of his bones,
only the first time would he be allowed repose. Thereafter he would toss
about all night, unless exhaustion drove him to prefer the floor. He must,
he says, avoid the highest and the lowest sorts of lodging: the former
because the wealthy often buy antiques, the latter because the poor make
shift with what's been handed down or looted from abandoned homes.
This carven table might be one he ate from centuries ago, that horsehair
pallet might have been in use elsewhere. The curse still holds, even at so
remote a reach; he starves, he grows red-eyed with lack of sleep, until he
wanders on and falls exhausted."

"How does he live? What trade is open to him?" Melilot demanded.

Jarveena shrugged. "I think when all else fails he has to rob. But there
are tasks even a wanderer may undertake. He goes a lot to sea; sometimes
he enlists to guard a caravan; he has hinted at having been a courier, and
carried confidential mail. Naturally, though, he can't serve long on any
given route."

"Naturally," Melilot said in a dry tone, and had to hide another yawn.
"Well, my dear Jarveena, if it's any consolation, you have indeed elicited
my sympathy. Your vivid picture of his unendurable existence must move

140 AFTERMATH

the stoniest of hearts—which mine, as you're aware, is not. Let us hope
for both your sakes that Enas Yorl relieves the curse tomorrow. Go now
and tell your friend I wish he may sleep soundly in my guest room, since
it may only be this once. And leave me your report and your accounts, so
I may peruse them while you're with the wizard."

"You'll find them all in order."

"Are they not always so?"

"Of course. How otherwise could I have kept on your right side so
long?"

Rising with a chuckle, she headed for the door. Passing his chair, she
bent to plant a kiss on his shaven pate.

"Thank you for allowing Klikitagh to stay. It can't be often that he
enjoys such luxury."

Said Melilot: "I didn't notice him enjoying it . . ."

And his little joke sent him contentedly to bed.

Waking, but with eyes still closed, Jarveena abruptly grew aware of
another presence near at hand, apart from Klikitagh. She tensed, sliding
her fingers beneath her pillow in search of the knife that never left her
reach.

It wasn't there. Come to that, neither was the pillow!

She sat up with a jerk, eyes wide in alarm. Melilot's guest room had
vanished. This was another place entirely, a long low-ceilinged stone-
walled hall, wherein she found herself on an oblong padded couch, Klik-
itagh still at her side. The air was pleasantly warm, pervaded with fra-
grance from dried herbs sprinkled on a brazier.

Looking down on her, clad in a many-layered cape, was a tall and
rather handsome youth . . . but where a normal person's eyes would be,
there burned two red betraying sparks. She exhaled with a gasp.

"Enas Yorl!" she exclaimed.

Her voice roused Klikitagh. He came together all of a piece, instantly
swinging his legs to the floor—which was spread with soft pelts, sable,
marten, and sea otter. He cast around for his sword, but there was no
sign of it, or of his clothing. Perceiving in the unknown youth a captor
and perhaps a rival, he shook sleep from his brain and advanced with
both fists clubbed,

Or rather, tried to do so. When he set his foot down a second time, his
limbs slowed, as though he were forcing his way through deep water
against a fierce contrary current. With vast effort he achieved another
step, but that was all; eventually he remained utterly still, balanced ab-
surdly on his left leg, mouth ajar in a face that had become a mask of fury
and frustration.

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE             141

Jarveena knew how he was feeling. Just so had she been trapped at her
first unexpected entry into the magician's palace. Guarded by basilisks, it
lay beside and beneath Prytanis Street, to the southeast of the Avenue of
Temples.

Except, of course, when it was somewhere else . . .

Licking her lips, for even after all these years it awed her to be in the
presence of Enas Yorl, especially naked—there was no point in adding
"and defenseless," for few there were in all of the known world who
could withstand the power of such a wizard—she said, "Sometimes I
wonder why you keep basilisks and yet enforce that spell in person. Do
they not jest about the man who kept a dog and barked himself?"

"Who fold you there was no trace of basilisk in me?" replied the
seeming youth in mocking tones. "Welcome back to Sanctuary, Jarveena.
You were most royally entertained by Melilot the pinchpenny last night.
The flavor of those roasted ducks must have been excellent!"

Even as he spoke, his face was slowly altering. His eyebrow ridges in
particular were thickening. Meantime his shoulders, gradually hunched.
Jarveena knew what such a rapid change betokened. •

"You've been engaged in a considerable magic," she deduced. "Were
you indeed one of the shadows that played around the fat one's dining
room?"

He inclined his head.

"Can you have been that eager to see me again? Did you wish to find
out whether I'd added any more scars to my toll, making more work for
you in fading them?"

But these gibes were a mere cover for her nervousness. Besides, Enas
Yorl was paying them no heed. He was contemplating Klikitagh with a
frown. After a moment he touched the man's temples gently and briefly
with his forefingers.

He said at length, "I heard his story as you recounted it last night.
Now I can tell you one extremely curious fact. He does believe, with all
his heart, that the curse upon him is unjust. But in my centuries of life—
brief though they be compared to his, of course—I have read, been told,
found though experience, that to impose so powerful and durable a spell
on an innocent victim is, if not forbidden, self-defeating. It must turn
again upon the one who cast it. So say all the best authorities."

"Might there not have been exceptions in the past?" Jarveena ven-
tured- "Could there not have been ancient powers that since have been
forgotten?"

"How can that be so, when Klikitagh has trudged from wizard to
enchanter to magician for a thousand years, telling them his tale and

142 AFTERMATH

begging them to strike off the fetters of his life9 There's more to this than
meets the inward eye      Come' Let us start the day with food "

That was not the usual first engagement she had with the wizard.
Puzzled by the change, though not especially dismayed, she ascribed it
perhaps to his unwillmgness to engage in the lists of love with a third
party present—though she was sure he must have rendered Klikitagh
blind and deaf and lost to the passage of time

In her heart of hearts, though, she knew it was because he was inter-
ested much more by the stranger than herself

Turning away, Enas Yorl made a pass in the air and the far end of the
immense hall drew obediently closer There stood a table set with bread
and fruit and bowls of steaming broth, along with stoups of fragrant
wine Assuming a high-backed chair, as though by afterthought he said,
"Oh—clothe my visitors "

Unseen hands wrapped Jarveena in a silken gown, even to the point of
fastening its sash She glanced at Klikitagh, a robe of homespun cloth as
harsh as sacking fell around his awkwardly posturing frame

"You will not let him join us9" she suggested

"He is feeling neither hunger nor thirst," replied the wizard "Besides,
I may need to loose his tongue by conventional means, as Melilot essayed
to do last night with scant success How can I, if he has already eaten
from my table9"

"But surely .  ." she began, and bit her lip

"You were going to say," came the resigned reply, "you have such
confidence in my abilities, you fully expect him to be set free by nightfall
Well, if so he will of course be dead—had that point not occurred to you9
But the outcome is by no means certain      Join me' Sit down' Toast
your return beneath my roof"

She obeyed, having no alternative The wizard's wine, as ever, was
superb Compared to it the best of Melilot's was sharp as vinegar

The food, too, was exceptional, but she found she had little appetite,
though Enas Yorl ate briskly enough. He had let slip, long ago, that
magic was a tiring business, draining the practitioner of energy as much
as any normal kind of plain hard work. Jarveena, however, was dis-
tracted by the way his face and hidden body kept on changing, as the
minutes ebbed away  . .

At last she could contain herself no longer She burst out, "Old friend
—if I may call you so—what drew your interest to Klikitagh9"

"Old friend9" Enas Yorl repeated, wiping lips that now were broader
and flatter than before, beneath a broader, flatter nose and beetling
brows "Why, there are few so kindly disposed to me as to call me friend
at all—and that, of course, is by design' Nonetheless, I'll not hold your

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            143

choice of words against you'" He gave a harsh laugh and drained his
goblet

"Know, then, that it was much despite my will I guard myself from
sentimental ties that might bind me to this world, hoping for the day
when I myself can be released by death I would not care to overlook the
chance of escape because I regretted leaving anyone, or anything, be-
hind .   " He seemed oddly reluctant in his speech, as though making a
shameful confession

"Nonetheless I have developed a certain attachment to yourself There
is, admittedly, an element of sensuality involved, that apart, however, I
prefer to keep it on the level of—shall we say9—respectful admiration
Few who have so much reason to devote their lives to seeking revenge
break away from their obsession, you have done so "

"Because the taste of vengeance was not sweet," Jarveena muttered
"It turned to ashes in my mouth "

"Even so, even so ... Reverting to the point when I discerned that
you had taken up with a companion, I rejoiced I watch you sometimes m
my scrying glass, you know "

"I didn't'" she said, startled "I don't know whether to be flattered, or
—Never mind' Continue'"

"As I say I rejoiced, hoping that our attachment would thereby be
weakened Despite my best intentions, though, I grew curious concerning
him what manner of man, I asked myself, could win Jarveena from her
wild, her willful ways9 Inevitably, in the moment I found out, I was
ensnared "

"I don't see— Oh'" Jarveena leaned her elbows on the table, goblet
cradled in brown hands "If he is truly innocent, the curse on him must
be stronger than the spells that bind yourself Break his, and you may
find the way to break your own "

"Did I not know you to be ungifted in that area, I might well say you
read my mind "

There was silence between them for a while At last Jarveena looked
him straight in his unhuman eyes

"What are you going to do9"

"I have already begun You would not know what day it is today, the
calendar that counts it has been long disused But it was necessary that
you and he should come here now—not yesterday and not tomorrow
Otherwise one would have had to wait a quarter year "

"You conjured up the wind that delayed our ship'"

"It was imperative "

"Then you must think there's a chance'"

144 AFTERMATH

"Of freeing Klikitagh? Perhaps. First, though, I must learn the reason
why the curse is on him."

"But you said already that he doesn't know! So how—?"
"Wait." The magician raised one hand which no longer matched his
handsome youthful countenance—not that he was so handsome any
longer, either. "What I said was that he honestly believes it was put upon
him unjustly. That does not mean there was no reason for it. I assure
you, even a thousand years ago no one would have undertaken such a
work without a reason. Klikitagh may indeed be innocent; if so, there is a
great and long-outstanding blame to visit on the perpetrator of a crime
against him. Or, more like, descendants of those who benefited by its
perpetration."

"But how can he not be innocent, having sworn by—? I waste my
breath. You must already know."

"Indeed I do. That is perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the mat-
ter."

Enas Yorl rose. "Now I must further the business. Time is wasting."

"May I wait? May I be of assistance?"

"You may not," The wizard's tone was final. "You will go hence about
your own affairs. About now Melilot is rising, and he will be eager to
discuss your trip. He will display great reluctance to mention Klikitagh,
and you yourself will give the fellow not a second thought, save perhaps
to hope occasionally that I can rescue him. Until sundown. At the mo-
ment when the sun cuts the horizon, you may return. Approach the
entrance on Prytanis Street; address the basilisks by name—I'll teach you
how—and they will let you by. If the work is not complete by dark, it
will have failed."

"But these winter days are so short!" Jarveena cried.

"That is precisely why you must go now. It lacks less than an hour of
dawn. Be on your way! No, wait! There's one thing more."

"Yes?"—as she turned to obey.

"No need to bring your customary fee. Reserve that for my final on-
slaught on your scars. It is enough that you have given me my greatest
challenge in a hundred years of weary life, the first of all that holds out
hope for me ... Begone!"

And she was gone, with further words unspoken on her lips.

All transpired as had been promised. Jarveena spent the morning clos-
eted with Melilot, snatched a brief lunch, and in the afternoon went to
the wharf where goods that she had purchased with the money he ad-
vanced her had been disposed in tidy piles: here, bales of cloth; there, jars
of wine and oil; over there again small chests of spice, ingeniously

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            145

carpentered, that had a resale value of their own when empty. A certain
portion being set aside for her, he paid her due commission on the rest.
He might at one time have dreamed of cheating her, as he was used to
cheating everybody else; her friendship with the powerful magician Enas
Yorl prevented that. Besides, there was an additional advantage. It was
not done to steal what Jarveena or any other associate of Enas Yorl's left
on the wharf before it was transferred to guarded warehouses. Or not
done more than once, at any rate . . .

"Well, that concludes our business for the day!" said the master scribe
heartily, handing his compendium and his account scrolls to a boy-in-
waiting. "And in good time, what's more; it isn't even sunset, quite. Now
I'm athirst. Shall we adjourn to yonder ale house and sample their mid-
winter brew? Unless, that is, you're eager to rejoin your man and find
him different lodging for tonight—"

Klikitagh!

Jarveena clapped hand to forehead. How was it possible? All day, since
finding herself back at Melilot's, she had thought of nothing but cargo
manifests and market prices and percentages! And^ the fat one had not
even commented on her willingness to spend the time with him, when
normally she would have been with the magician . . .

And sundown now impended!

"No! No!" she cried. "Don't hold me back an instant more!"

Incontinently she took to her heels,

The way from the harbor to Prytanis Street had never seemed so long,
or so beset with moving obstacles. She lost count of the number of people
she jostled against, the number of futile curses that were hurled after her.
the times she herself cursed patrolmen shouting to know why she was
running, imagining her to be a thief or cutpurse fleeing from her latest
victim.

Somehow, though, they realized: she was not running away from, but
toward . . .

The twin pillars of her destination loomed in the gloaming, accorded a
wide berth by the foot passengers on their way to sunset service at the
nearby temples. And small wonder. At the foot of each reposed a sleep-
ing basilisk, secured at neck and leg with silver chains. As Jarveena
rushed toward them, they became alert. Heads raised, they snuffed the
air and listened, pondering in their slow reptilian way whether or not to
open their eyes and cast their petrifying glare upon her.

Enas Yorl had said, "I'll teach you how to call them by name—"

But he hadn't!

She stopped dead, searching the corridors of memory. No! She had no
idea what she must say!

146 AFTERMATH

"He forgot!" she moaned, clenching her fists in rage.

And then, suddenly, she heard a groaning, grinding sound that made
the pavement shudder underneath her feet. Looking up, she saw that the
bronze door of the palace was sliding open, revealing a hall full of lumi-
nescent mist. And on its threshold—

"Klikitagh!" she exclaimed.

Still in the homespun robe, barefoot, he seemed to respond to her cry.
Shaking his head, he staggered down the five marble stairs that fronted
the doorway. He accorded Jarveena a brief glance, but it was vacant, as
though she meant no more to him than any chance-met passerby.

"Klikitagh?" she said again, uncertainly.

He struck her aside with violence, and staggered off into the darkness.
In a moment the throng of temple-bound worshipers concealed him from
Jarveena's view, while their chattering drowned out her shouts.

"Death and destruction!" she exploded. She spun on her heel and
dashed up the marble steps, desperate to pass the door before it ground
shut again.

The basilisks relaxed; lay down; resumed their former immobility.

She was inside the misty hall before she realized what had happened-

A great metallic slam announced the final closure of the door. She was
alone, and more terrified than she had ever expected to be again in this
life. The mist, though bright, was dense; she could not make out the
walls. When she glanced down, she could barely see her own two feet.

Abruptly she was gripped with pure cold rage.

"Enas Yorl!" she shouted. "Damn you! What have you done?"

Her surroundings shifted in unpleasant fashion, as though someone
had taken normal space in either hand and given it a spiral twist. She felt
she was about to lose her balance, though the weight remained on her
soles. Clawing her knife from its scabbard, she prepared for an attack,
knowing even as she clasped the hilt that any physical action here must
be pointless.

Then the mist cleared, and she recognized the subterranean hall where
she had first met Enas Yorl against her will. There was the table so long it
could have seated the entire nobility of Sanctuary; there was the caped
figure seated at its farther end; and all around her she heard echoes that
brought shivers to her spine, as of cantrips which had set the thick stone
walls to ringing like a new-stuck bell.

She stood as immobile as on that first occasion, this time not by con-
straint, purely from her mingled fear and anger.

"You failed!" she accused.

Her words, themselves echoing along the monstrous room, drove away
the fainter echoes. At long last Enas Yorl bestirred himself.

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            147

"No," he said in a thin voice. "I succeeded."

"What?" Jarveena took a pace toward him. It seemed not to diminish
the distance that separated them; in any case, she had no wish at this
moment to be in his presence at all, let alone come closer. "Then why did
Klikitagh brush past me without a sign of recognition—worse: shove me
out of his way like a persistent streetwalker?" Recollections crowded in.
"Besides, you said that if you did succeed, he'd die!"

"Yes, so I did. Nonetheless . . ."

As she stood striving to unriddle the mystery, he heaved a sigh.

"Come hither. I'll explain."

The hall and table contracted to more customary dimensions; in a
twinkling she found herself where she had been at daybreak, seated in the
same chair. Unseen hands, as ever, had set it behind her knees just as she
was about to lose her self-control completely.

Cautiously she returned her knife to its sheath, staring at the magician.
But for the emberlike glow underneath his brows one could not have
guessed this to be the same personage. His arms, in particular, were far
too flexible. His? Might one not better say its?

But the voice remained, and was uttering slow words, as though each
syllable exacted agonizing effort.

"I did succeed, Jarveena. At what cost I dare not say. Perhaps the cost
of every shred of hope left in my inmost heart. I worked a rite such as has
not been attempted in living memory—not, certainly, in mine , . . And
worked it well."

"With what result?" she whispered.

"I learned the reason for the curse on Klikitagh."

She waited. When she could bear the waiting no longer, she demanded.
"Tell me'"

"I shall not. This only will I say: His punishment is just."

"I don't understand!"

"Better you should not. Better that no one should. Had I known what
a burden of knowledge I was taking on—no! Condemning myself to!—I'd
never have set out to offer help."

Guessing at the meaning behind the words, Jarveena bit her lip. Tears
sprang unbidden to her eyes, and yet were welcome, for they disguised
the ghastly form that Enas Yorl was melting into.

"Here, then, in brief, is the secret Klikitagh has hidden from every-
body in the world, himself included.

"His punishment is just. He told me so."

"It cannot be! No one could deserve that fate!"

"Until today I would have said the same," Enas Yorl said solemnly,
shifting on his chair as though his new form had grown unsuited to it.

148 AFTERMATH

"But how can he have told you so?" Jarveena persisted.

"I chose this of all days rather by enlightened guesswork than by
proper knowledge. As it happened, I was right. On one day of the year, in
the proper circumstances, he is able to remember why he deserves his
curse."

"Tell me! Tell me!" Jarveena pleaded.

"Though you crept to me on hands and knees, bleeding in the extrem-
ity of death, begging to be told before your final breath, I would not let
description of such foulness pass my lips!"

Not that, strictly speaking, it was lips he now must use to speak
with . . .

"Know only this: after committing it, he bethought himself of his
crime and repented. Haunted by self-loathing, he became a court to try
himself, and passed the only sentence that was fitting. He wanted so to
suffer that no person who had heard about his evil deed, and might be
tempted to emulate it, would fail to hear as well about its perpetrator's
punishment and change his mind—not considering that the time might
come when any such would be long dead and all his victims totally
forgotten. Therefore he made the sentence cruel past conceiving—save by
one who was evil to the fiber of his nerves.

"He decreed that for all time he would believe, in total honesty and full
conviction, that he'd done not a thing to warrant such a doom- Perhaps
this affords some insight into the enormity of his misdeed."

"But what can he have done?" Jarveena shouted.

"You'll never guess. It isn't in your nature to imagine, let alone enact,
so foul a crime."

"Has it tainted you?" She leaned forward accusingly, glad that she
could only vaguely see the shape he now endured. "Has it deformed your
mind as much as your body?" That was cruel, too, in its way, but she
uttered the words regardless. "Have you no mercy? Is not a thousand
years enough for even the foulest of villains?"

"Oh, yes." Enas Yorl's voice had become like the sough of wind in
bare-branched trees. "More than enough, in my view.

"Not in his."

"You—you mean . . ." Jarveena's mouth was suddenly dry. "You
mean you tried to release him from the curse he wished upon himself?"

"I did."

"And he refused to let you, being a more powerful magician?"

"Not exactly."

She threw her hands in the air. "For pity's sake, Enas Yorl! Whether or
not you pitied him, pity me who calls you friend! Never in my life before

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            149

did I find anyone with better reason to hate the world than had I myself
at nine years old! Make plain what you have done and not done!"

"I will try . , ." The voice grew fainter all the time. "But words must
strain to compass these events. The spells required are half outside the
normal universe ... I did succeed! No other wizard now alive could
have accomplished what Enas Yorl achieved today, not even he at Ilsig
whom they call most skilled, not he at Ranke who ato-serves the court.

"Jarveena: I gave Klikitagh his freedom."

There was a long stunned silence. When it had become more than she
could bear, Jarveena husked, "But you said it would have killed him!"

"Which it did."

"What?"

"I speak in plain words, do I not? Despite the deformation I endure!"
The tone was savage now, and sent new shivers down Jarveena's spine.
"Well, maybe your nature fights acceptance. Words plainer then than
ever must be tried.

'7 gave him his release! He died! And even dead,- so dreadful is the
power of that spell, he rose again and said—praise all the gods that no one
save myself could hear those awful words!—'Dead or not dead, I am
condemned to walk the world. I may not eat a second time from the same
table, nor may I sleep a second time from the same bed. It is decreed. By
me. It shall continue!'"

From his recital of the quoted words rang forth a hint, an echo, of the
force that had endowed the curse on Klikitagh with its original power. It
was unbearable. Crying aloud, her brain assailed by hideous visions,
Jarveena slumped fainting from her chair.

In the light of torches, both her cheeks gleamed wet.

She woke, once more at dawn, and found herself alone at Melilot's, as
had often happened to her in the past. Not this time, however, was her
frame pervaded by the truly magic skill of Enas Yorl's caresses. Only a
dull sense of deprivation filled her mind as she kicked aside the covers
and moved to use her chamber pot, then douse herself with the contents
of the ewer on the nightstand. Then, unconcerned as ever about naked-
ness, she dragged the curtains back and threw the shutters wide to the
new day-
Cold air combined with cold water to bring her back to full alertness.
She reached for her clothes—and checked, catching sight of her reflec-
tion in the tall and expensive mirror that hung beside the window.

There was no trace of any scar upon her body. Not the faintest, lace-
like, weblike hint beneath the skin could be discerned. She was as perfect

150 AFTERMATH

as though no wire-lashed whip had ever whistled through the air to break
blood from her tender flesh.

Amazed, then astounded, she flicked back her forelock. Surely the
cicatrix her forehead bore—?

Gone as well

"But I told him!" she said aloud. "I mean. I told Melilot, and he was
listening! I said I wanted to keep that for when it came in useful . . ."

The words died away. She let her hands fall to her sides.

"Oh, you're in there, aren't you, Enas Yorl? You've sown a counterpart
of yourself inside my brain! It's the same trick that taught me the names
of your basilisks! Maybe you have too much on your mind to hear me at
the moment, but I'm damned well going to treat your projection the same
as I would yourself! Now answer me! Why did you take my forehead scar
away before I gave you leave?"

The reply came, not in speech, but in a sense of warm and private
intercourse, reaching below the deepest level of her mind. If it resembled
anything at all, it might be likened to the impact of hot spiced wine on a

cold day.

"Not me," said the mental duplicate of Enas Yorl in words that were
not words. "Not by my intention, anyway. Listen, Jarveena, and remem-
ber all your life!

"Not to recall what he had done was for Klikitagh a mercy. I state this
on the basis of what I have found out. To live with recollection of such
horror . . . ! You must concede this."

She nodded, participating in this nonexistent dialogue.

"However, it became exacerbation of his punishment. It made his sen-
tence unendurable. Indeed it was a mercy worse than none. He knew it,
and condemned himself regardless."

Again a nod, tinged this time with terror.

"Yet you took pity on him!"

"Yes, I did!"—defiantly. "And I still feel the same!"

"You were the first to do so in a thousand years."

For an instant she stood rigid. Then:

"I can't have been!"

"He told me so when I interrogated him, invoking a power greater
than any god's. Not once, till he met you, had anyone felt pity for his

plight."

"Then I weep for our sick world!" Jarveena cried—and abruptly it was
true. Tears that had so long been unfamiliar to her flowed as freely down
her face as they had last night.

"And well you may," the illusory Enas Yorl confirmed.

There was a pause.

A MERCY WORSE THAN NONE            151

"For you have worked a miracle."

"I don't understand." Snuffling, fighting to regain control, Jarveena
resumed the donning of her clothes.

"How are your scars today?"

"Why ask? You cleared them, didn't you? And took away the one I'd
thought of keeping!"

"Not I, Jarveena, but yourself."

She froze in midmovement, bending to strap her boots.

"Go forth, as soon as you are dressed, into the street. Do not ask why;

you will at once find out. I worked a greater magic than I knew. For the
moment, then: goodbye. Don't try to call on me until I send for you. The
names I give my basilisks are daily changed. Sometimes I cannot give
them names pronounceable by human tongues- That's why I have not
spoken words to you this morning . . ."

The contact faded in a garble of discomfort that left Jarveena imagin-
ing for several seconds that she had four stomachs and a mouthful of
regurgitated hay.

The sensation passed. The laces of her jerkin still unfastened, she
dashed down the slanting ladders that served this house for stairs and
cuffed aside a sleepy apprentice who tried to stop her unbarring the main
door on the grounds that Master Melilot was still asleep. Beyond, in the
wan gray light of dawn, she saw a form upon the cobblestones, face
turned aside, one arm outflung, chest smeared with blood still red thanks
to the sharp cold: victim, presumably, of some chance robber's knife . . .

"Klikitagh!" she whispered, dropping on one knee beside the ...
corpse?

It was indeed. No pulse was to be felt. A rime of frost had formed
upon its hair, its beard, its hands , . .

Slowly she straightened, gazing down in wonder.

"So your journey ended here, in Sanctuary," she murmured. "Well,
death was what you most desired. And . . ."

A thought occurred, as wonderful as it was terrifying.

"If I'm to believe what Enas Yorl asserts—and who but him should I
believe in such a matter?—it follows that the worst crime in the history of
the world has been committed. It was yours, my Klikitagh. And yours
alone."

It was going to snow any moment. The air was so cold, the lips she
licked were numb. She half expected to taste ice.

"But even you have reached the last stage of your pilgrimage in search
of expiation. What now becomes of you will be no matter. Let your
shroud be snow. Let dogs and thieves assail your body—you won't care.

152 AFTERMATH

Perhaps you should have come to Sanctuary sooner. It cannot just have
been because of meeting me that you were saved! I won't believe it!"

So saying, she spun on her heel and marched back into the scripto-
rium. Much relieved, the apprentice slammed and barred the door behind
her. White flakes swirled down outside as she went to seek a breakfast of
hot broth and dumplings.

By nightfall—for such had been the will of Enas Yorl—she cared no
more for Klikitagh save in the sense that all misfortune must be pitied,
and he had been least fortunate of all. He lingered in her memory as
myth and symbol; meantime she had a life to lead herself.

"Mayhap," thought the wizard who sprawled across stone flags in
guise but ill adapted to such human artifacts as chairs, "that snow en-
shrouding Klikitagh, by his own verdict foulest villain of all time. will
cover me in turn. Let it be soon!"

Whereafter he composed himself to patient meditation, tinged with
regret that for the duration of their present encounter he and Jarveena
would be unable to make love.

SEEING IS BELIEVING
(BUT LOVE IS BLIND)

Lynn Abbey

Illyra awoke to the sound of an infant's crying and a sudden stiffening
of the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She stayed that way, tense—
almost cringing—until she heard the wet nurse shove her blankets aside,
then stumble across the night-dark room. The crying changed to con-
tented sucking sounds; Illyra closed her eyes and shrank back into
Dubro's arms. He hugged her reflexively but the infant had not inter-
rupted his sleep. Why should it? Children were women's work and this
child was not even his.

The S'danzo seeress matched her breathing to her husband's and
waited for sleep to touch her again. She listened to the wet nurse tuck the
infant back into her cradle and return to her own bed where she swiftly
resumed her gentle snoring. Dubro's strong arms were no longer com-
forting but had become an encircling trap from which she could not free
herself—tangible symbols of the weight she had felt since summer when
her half-brother, Walegrin, had appeared with the newbom girl-child in
his arms.

It had never seemed like a good idea. Three years ago Illyra had borne
twins: a boy-child and a girl. Now they were both gone. The boy, Arton,
had been taken from the mortal world. Caught up in the influence of the
demigod, Gyskouras, he had sailed for the Bandaran Islands this past
spring and if he returned at all, it would not be as her son, but as a
wargod stranger. Worse, Lillis, her blue-eyed daughter had been hacked
into pieces by ravening street gangs during the Plague Riots at about the
same time. Illyra had tried to protect her daughter with her own body—
with her own life—but fate had denied her sacrifice. There was a purple

154 AFTERMATH

scar running across her belly but it went not nearly so deep as the scars
mourning had left on her heart.

She had nurtured her grief and had wanted nothing to do with living
or joy. She had hated that squirming bundle Walegnn had thrust into her
arms. Had wanted to dash its head against the doorposts because it lived
and Lillis did not. But it had wrapped its fragile fingers around hers and
stared into her eyes. And Illyra had Seen that this child would remain at
her side.

Strange how the S'danzo Sight worked. It rarely focused on the self,
family, or loved ones but brought the abstract, the uncared-for, into
clarity. Illyra did not love—would not allow herself to care for—this not-
daughter they called Trevya and so the infant flashed constantly in her
mind's eye where the Seeing visions grew.

Had not Trevya's legs been crippled in the prolonged birthing that had
claimed her blood-mother's life? Had not Illyra Seen, superimposed over
every other vision she commanded, a construct of baleen and leather
guiding the infant's soft bones into a healthy alignment? Had not Dubro
made such a brace, following her precise instructions, and was not that
twisted little leg already growing straighter as the Sight had foretold?

Illyra had wrought a miracle for Trevya, who was not her daughter
and whom she did not love. She had given Trevya freedom and built an
unyielding trap for herself. Hot tears squeezed out from her eyes and
puddled in the crook of Dubro's arm. The young woman who had once
been a mother prayed that they would not awaken him and waited the
long hours until dawn when she would be released.

This not-daughter consumed more of Dubro and Illyra's time and
money than their own children had, for they kept Trevya with them in
the Bazaar rather than send her behind the fortress walls of the Aphrodi-
sia House where working merchants often kept their precious children.
So they had had to hire a wet nurse, a woman—scarcely more than a
child herself—whose baby had been stillborn and who had come to live
with them alongside Dubro's forge. But there wasn't enough room for
them, Trevya and the waiflike Suyan, so they'd hired workmen to make
their home larger. And, of course, Suyan must have food, and clothes,
and medicine when she grew sick.

Fortunately there was plenty of work to be had in Sanctuary these
days. The new city walls were being made from cut and dressed stone;

there were picks and mauls in need of constant repair and replacement.
Dubro had both a journeyman and an apprentice working beside him at
the forge these days, and he talked of building a larger furnace beyond
the rising walls. Verily, a fortune could be made these days in Sanctuary,

SEEING IS BELIEVING                155

but the pump needed priming and it seemed to Illyra that their coin
hoard shrank rather than increased.

She was half S'danzo, fully gifted with their preternatural clairvoyance
but bereft of their tolerance for haphazard poverty. She was half Rankan,
through her father's blood, and craved the material security that was the
heritage of that empire's middle class. And, of course, her S'danzo Sight
could offer no assurances to her Rankan anxieties. Even without Trevya,
Illyra would have lost many a night's sleep this season.

As it was, she balanced on the edge between dreaming and waking,
and her thoughts spiraled far beyond her control. Trevya's face drifted
toward her, like a leaf on the wind or driftwood with the tide. Illyra
called her mind's eye back, but it did not come and the face grew into a
full Seeing of a child running through a neat flower garden, arms out-
stretched, silently laughing and singing a single word over and over
again.

Illyra cried out, breaking the thrall of the Seeing but not disturbing her
husband who, in truth, was accustomed to her cries in the night. The
seeress, still bound in Dubro's protection, stared into the night deter-
mined now to remain fully awake. The vision would not be denied and
inserted itself mto her thoughts, demanding interpretation.

That was easy enough. If Trevya ran, then her legs grew straight and
strong. If she ran through a garden, then she became a child in a place
where beauty was an affordable luxury. If she sang as she ran, then she
was happy. If that word was Mother . . .

But no, Illyra would not acknowledge that part other Seeing—though
it could have told her she would have the material security she craved.
She preferred the loneliness other anxiety and clutched its darkness tight
around her until slits of dawn light came through the shutters.

Dubro stirred, freeing her as he did. The soul of routine and regularity,
the smith rose with the first dawn light year around and had his forge
ready when the sun peeked over the horizon. Usually the sight of his
broad shoulders as they vanished beneath his worn leather tunic was
enough to banish Illyra's night-bom doubts, but not today—nor did she
share any aspect of her visions with him. She remained huddled in the
bed until Suyan had the baby at her breast and even then Illyra gathered
her brightly colored garments as if in a trance.

"Feel you poorly?" Suyan asked with sincere concern.

Illyra shook her head and laced a rose-colored bodice lightly over her
own breasts. The girl's voice—her odd, but lilting, syntax—grated with
extra harshness this morning, and Illyra was, without forethought, deter-
mined to ignore her.

156

AFTERMATH

"Herself cried but once in the night, though if that come at a bad time,
it's enough to keep you waking until dawn?"

Always a curl to her voice. Everything was a question that needed—
no, demanded—an answer. But this time it would not work.

"There's herbs left from Masha zil-Ineel—from Herself's congestion—
that could be brewed up?"

"I'm fine, Suyan," Illyra said at last. "I slept fine. The baby didn't
bother me. You didn't bother me. And I don't need any herbs—
just . . ." She inhaled a pause and wondered what she did need. "I'm
going uptown today. What I need is a change of scenery."

Suyan nodded. She did not know her mistress well enough to sense
how little Illyra needed change of any kind—and would not have done
any different if she had.

Shunning her pots of kohl, Illyra brushed her hair into a thick chignon
and wrapped a concealing, drab-colored shawl around her shoulders. She
would never be mistaken for a woman who followed any of Sanctuary's
fast-changing fashions but neither would she be taken for a S'danzo.

"You'll be wanting breakfast?" Suyan asked from the comer, the lilt
making her maternal and chastising.

"No, no breakfast," Illyra replied, meeting the other woman's eyes for
the first time, and watching them grow fragile with self-doubt. "I've got a
craving for the little tarts Haakon sells; I'll get some on my way."

Those huge eyes grew bright and knowledgeable. "Aye, cravings ..."

Illyra found her fist clenching into a warding sign. Suyan had her own
need for security, and security for a wet nurse was her mistress's preg-
nancy. Not a day went by that somehow, buried in the lilting questions,
the subject of Illyra's barrenness was not raised. As Illyra forced herself
to relax, the unfaimess of it all swept over her and she knew if she
remained one more moment she would dissolve into tears that would
only make her world worse.

"I'm going now," she muttered in a voice that sounded almost as bad
as she felt.

Dubro was instructing the new apprentice in the finer arts of squeezing
the bellows. His voice was deep and even with hard-held patience; there
was nothing to be gained by interrupting him so Illyra gripped her shawl
against the chill harbor wind and hoped to slip away.

"Madame . . . Madame Illyra. Seeress!"

Illyra shrank against the walls, unable to pretend that she had not seen
or could not hear the young woman racing through the market-day
crowd.

"Oh, wait, Seeress Illyra. Please wait!"

SEEING IS BELIEVING

157

And she did, while the other woman caught her breath and pressed a
filthy, battered copper coin into her hand.

"Help me, please. I've got to find him. I've looked everywhere. You're
my last hope. You've got to help me."

Numbly Illyra nodded and retreated the few steps to the anteroom
where she kept her cards and the other paraphernalia of the S'danzo
trade. She could not refuse—though not because of the coin as the suvesh
commonly believed. It was not payment that compelled the Sight but,
sometimes, the contact of their flesh with her flesh. Already she was
growing dizzy with the emergence of another reality. It would be a haz-
ard to her if she attempted to deny the vision.

She pushed the deck across the table as she half collapsed onto her
stool. "Make three piles of them," she commanded; there was no time to
shuffle them.

The visitor's hand shook as she separated the deck- "Find my Jimny
before it's too late!"

Illyra swallowed the notion that it was already too late, then surren-
dered herself to the emerging images: the Lance of Air, Seven of Ships,
Five of Ores, reversed—the Whirlwind, the Warfleet and the Iron Key
transformed into a lock. The lock wound through a chain and the chain
grew from the belly of a dank, swaying ship—not an anchor chain, but a
galley chain from keel to ankle, from ankle to wrist, from wrist to oar.
The air reeked of drugged wine and echoed with a whip's crack.

It was too late. Illyra Saw slaves' faces, one clearly, the rest wrapped in
fog, and heard—as was the way with her gift—Jimny speak out his own
name. She separated herself from the Seeing and sought words to blunt
the despair her answer must contain.

"Another card," she heard herself whisper. "Seek beneath the Whirl-
wind."

The suvesh, the ordinary non-S'danzo folk of the world, might not
know any of the Seeing rituals but they knew the way things were sup-
posed to go after they'd put their coin in a seeress's palm—and any
deviation was certain to mean bad news. Illyra's visitor was sobbing
openly as she reached for the first pile.

Two—not one—cards slipped free: the light-and-dark tunnel of the
Three of Flames and the dark-faced portrait of the Lord of the Earth.
Illyra absorbed them both and grew no wiser.

"He's been taken onto a boat," she said slowly, gathering the now
lifeless chips of vellum into a single stack. "His leaving was not of his
choosing," she continued, putting a high gloss over his enslavement be-
fore adding, without much conviction, "nor will he choose the time or
manner of his return." Illyra could not bring herself to say that the best

158

AFTERMATH

Jimny would likely get out of his future was a grave under the soil rather

than the waves.

"Is there no hope? There must be something I can do. Something,
anything. Which temple should I go to? Which gods should I pray to?"

Illyra shook her head, then spoke as a woman rather than a seeress.
"There is always hope—but hope doesn't come from a handful of

S'danzo cards."

Her visitor shuffled awkwardly to her feet. Illyra confirmed her suspi-
cion that she was a few months shy of giving birth and poorer than Suyan
had been when they'd found her.

"Take back your coin."

"Will it change things?"

"No, but it will buy you today's food and tomorrow's, too."

"I won't need food tomorrow," the girl shouted through her sobs as
she ran from the room.

But she will, Illyra thought, weighed down by the Sight of a pale
woman and a scrawny child. There's no death for her. And no life either.

The clanging of three hammers brought her out of her visions. Dubro
was tapping the cadence and the other two were beating the red-hot iron.
One of them had it right—tap, bang; tap, bang—but the other, probably
the apprentice, was off the mark and stuttered against the metal. The
forge reverberated with an unnatural rhythm that penetrated deep behind
Illyra's weary eyes.

"Can't you get it right!" Illyra snarled, thrusting head and shoulders
through the anteroom drapes.

The percussive chorus came to an immediate halt with an aghast look
on the faces of the younger men and a knowing, concerned one on

Dubro's.

"Learning's not easy," her husband said cautiously, his blue eyes nar-
rowed to unreadable slits.

"What, then, is he learning? How to give me a headache?"

Dubro nodded twice, once to his men who laid down their hammers
and the second time to his wife as he approached her. He wrapped his
arm gently around her and brought her into the anteroom beside him.
Just as the forge was his true home—a place built to his scale and com-
fort—so the scrying chamber was Illyra's true home and it made him
seem an unwelcome giant scraping his head on the rafters, yet unable to
sit, as the visitor's chair would not take his weight.

" 'Lyra, I'll send them home, if you want, but I think it's not the
hammering that's wrong. What ails you, 'Lyra?"

Illyra on her scrying stool had taken command of the room. She would
have had to arch her neck to see Dubro's face, but she had no intention of

SEEING IS BELIEVING                159

meeting her husband's eyes. She spoke to the table instead, in a soft voice
that emphasized the smith's awkwardness. Yet she was no more comfort-
able than Dubro; her hands sought the scrying deck and her fingers
rimed through the cards.

"Everything and nothing, husband. I do not know what ails me—and
I'm almost past caring." The cards broke free of her nervous fingers to
scatter across the green cloth.

Heaving a sigh as he moved, Dubro dropped to one knee; he could
look into Illyra's eyes and force her to look into his. "Read the cards for
me, then. Ask them what I must do to make you happy."

Illyra avoided him, watching the cards as she gathered them into a
rough-sided stack. "You know I cannot. I love you. I cannot See what I
love."

She raised her eyes, thinking to shame him but was herself shamed by
what she read, without Sight, in his face. He doubted her love and, now
that the notion flowed within her thoughts, he had a right to, because she
doubted it as well. The worst pain Illyra had ever known shuddered
along her spine. The cards spilled onto the table when she hid her face
behind her hands. She never imagined Dubro would study and remember
each image in the moment before he reached across the table to massage
her neck and shoulders.

"Had we rich relations or a hidden villa surrounded by lakes and trees,
I'd send you away. It's Sanctuary herself who's hurt you," Dubro said
with an eloquence few others knew he possessed.

Illyra imagined the villa and recognized it from her predawn vision of
Trevya. Fresh sobs came loose within her as she shook herself free of the
villa and her husband.

"What, then?" Dubro asked, a trifle less understanding.

"I don't know. I don't know . . ." but then, though she still could not
discern the nature of, much less the solution to, her problems, Illyra
stumbled across something that could, under different circumstances,
have accounted for her despair. At least to Dubro.

"I woke this morning with a foreboding around me," she admitted, not
yet lying but working herself up to the sort of half-truths she routinely
fed her visitors. "I thought to escape, but that woman came and the
foreboding became a Seeing. She wanted to know where her lover had
gone and I found him—in chains in the belly of a ship somewhere. And
though I only Saw his face clearly, I saw as well that he was not alone
and that many men had been pressed into slavery."

Dubro grew thoughtful, as she had known he would. Chains were
made from iron, and Dubro knew every man in Sanctuary who knew that
metal—in any of its forms—against his flesh. The blue eyes grew un-

160

AFTERMATH

focused as he, like any other ungifted suvesh, ordered and made sense of

his thoughts.

Ulyra watched his pupils move as each mote of knowledge fell into
place. Her sense of guilt lessened; she had tricked him into thinking
about something else—but a good issue might yet come of it. She gath-
ered her cards and wrapped them in a square of silk, never noting which

ones had lain exposed.

"This is something for your brother, Walegrin," Dubro decided with a

firm nod of his head.

"You tell him then. I'm going for a walk, maybe I'll find a garden

somewhere. I don't want to go to the barracks."

Dubro grunted and Illyra suppressed a sigh. A year ago, less even, and
her husband would have gone into a rage at the mention of Walegrin's
name. He had blamed all their misfortunes on her straw-haired brother.
Now, since Walegrin had deposited Trevya in her arms, the commander
was welcome in their house and the two men often spent the evening in a
tavern. Dubro had even gone so far as to share the cost of posting the
child to citizenship in the increasingly meaningless Rankan Empire.

Illyra couldn't imagine conversation, let alone friendship, between the
two taciturn men, had never really tried, then realized they talked about
her. She had pushed them together with the wall she had built around
herself. But the understanding brought no desire for reform.

"Talk to him then. Maybe eat with him as well. I don't think I'll be

back until after sundown."

She straightened her shawl and eased past him to the door, never
touching him, even with her skirts. The journeyman and the apprentice
were gone. Trevya was squalling despite Suyan's best efforts to sing her
quiet. None of it caught Illyra's heart. She was into the market-day

crowd without a backward glance.

There were perhaps two dozen S'danzo in Sanctuary, counting the
female children. The men and the children moved unnoticed through the
city—especially now that it had become the workplace of the empire with
strangers still arriving each day. But the women, the seeresses true and
false, put down their roots in the Bazaar and rarely left its confines. Illyra
recognized many of the faces she passed, but none recognized hers. As
free as she felt, she was also very much alone and shrinking with each
step farther from the Bazaar and the forge.

She was all but invisible when she reached the main gate of the palace.
She was known here, and recognized, from the many visits she had made
to her son when he lived in the royal nursery with the god-child, Gys-
kouras. She was not greeted, as she passed into the interior corridors, for
much the same reason.

SEEING IS BELIEVING                161

There were others here who knew her, who mumbled a greeting with
their eyes averted from hers as they picked up their pace to be gone from
her shadow as quickly as possible. It was, perhaps, a great honor to be
the mother of a godling. Certainly the slave-dancer who'd been the
mother of the other child did well by her servants, suite, and jewels, but
such motherhood did not inspire mortal friendship. In truth, though,
Seylalha, with her lithe beauty, would have found her nest of luxury
without Gyskouras's help and Illyra, confidante to half of Sanctuary, had
never had any friends.

Aside from Dubro and Walegrin, whose relationship to her was defined
in ways other than friendship, there was only one to whom Illyra could
bare her soul: Molin Torchholder. And it was a sorry state when a god-
less S'danzo claimed counsel with a Rankan priest.

At that moment, however, Illyra wore her isolation like armor and
strode by the stairway that would have taken her to Molin's cluttered
suite. She had her destination clearly in mind; a sheltered cloister that
caught the sun without the chill wind. A place certain to have flowers
even this late in the year.

The little courtyard was empty—deserted for considerable time and
given over to weeds. Two hardy roses held onto brown-edged blooms,
their scent all the stronger for the frost that had doomed them. The rest
was yellow-top, white lace, and, in the most sheltered comer, a patch of
fiery demons-eyes. Illyra was grateful she had no allergies as she gathered
an armful of the blooms and settled onto a sunlit stone bench to weave
them into a garland.

She'd learned the flower braiding in a vision once. Her mother had
certainly never taught her, nor Dubro, nor Moonflower, who'd told her
what she'd needed to know about womanhood and her gift. She'd learned
other things as well: bits of song and poetry, snippets of lovemaking,
tricks for killing with a knife or sword. She knew too much to be just one
person—and she'd loved Lillis because she yearned to share herself with
someone, anyone, who would understand.

Trevya could never understand.

The sun warmed her shoulders, finally loosening the knots that had
been there since that late winter day when she'd last held a living daugh-
ter of her own blood in her arms. Illyra turned her face upward, eyes
closed, imagining an ageless Lillis: child, woman, and friend. She took
that predawn vision and changed it until it was her own daughter and she
could hear the laughter and the single word: mother, mother,
mother . . .

But the laughter, Illyra realized after a blissful moment, was real—
echoing within the cloister—not in her imagination. She opened her eyes

162

AFTERMATH

and gazed upon the passel of children who had invaded her retreat with
their games. There were none that she recognized from her visits to the
nursery—save that two were clearly Beysib. Both were girls and, by their
apparent ages, immigrants like their parents.

"It's your turn now!"

"And no peeking!"

The designated child, the younger of the Beysib pair, separated reluc-
tantly from the group. Her arms and legs, which extended well beyond
her fine but dirty and shapeless tunic, were still pudgy with baby fat; her
gait was still flat-footed, after the manner of toddlers, rather than rolling.
Her face pulled back into a near-bawling grimace as the distance between
herself and the others increased but none of the children had as yet
noticed Illyra sitting still and quiet on her bench.

The little girl squared her shoulders and put her hands over her eyes.

"Out loud. Count out loud, Cha-bos!" the other Beysib girl com-
manded.

"One . . . two . . . th'th-three . . ."

By the count of four the other children had vanished, squealing and
shouting and quickly dispersing through the tangle of rooms and hall-
ways of their home. The little girl, Cha-bos, heard the silence and low-
ered her hands from her tear-streaked face. She noticed Illyra for the first

time.

The nictating membrane that distinguished the exile community from
the continental norm flicked over the child's amber eyes and she stared.
Illyra, despite her best efforts, started backward just as reflexively. But
Cha-bos was apparently immune to that gesture—or at least already able

to conceal her own reactions.

"I can't count to one hundred," Cha-bos declared, confident that she
had explained everything, and Illyra learned that Beysibs could cry while

they were staring.

"Neither can I," Illyra admitted—not that she had ever had need to

count so many things.

Cha-bos wilted. What use was an adult who knew no more than she
did? "It doesn't matter," she told herself and Illyra. "They don't want

me to play anyway."

Caught up in those huge, fixed eyes, Illyra Saw that Cha-bos was right.
The older children had not continued with the simple game but were,
even now, regrouping for a greater adventure.

"I'm sorry. You'll grow up soon enough."

"They won't ever grow down."

Illyra felt herself squirming to get free of the child's endless eyes. She
realized why the other gifted S'danzo women stayed so close to their

SEEING IS BELIEVING                163

families—where familiarity, if not love, inhibited the curse of Sight and
the scrying table turned vision into a cold business. She especially did not
want to know that Cha-bos was no ordinary child—even for a Beysib—
but the daughter of the Beysa Shupansea, and already her blood was
laced with potent poison.

"You can't have any friends, can you?" she blurted.

Cha-bos went solemn and shook her head in a slow arc, but the mem-
brane flicked back and she blinked. "Vanda. She takes care of me."

Vanda was a name Illyra recognized from before. An Ilsigi girl who
had somehow gotten herself made nursemaid to the polyglot menagerie
of the palace nursery. Illyra had not seen her since Arton had been sent
away and had, for no good reason, assumed the young woman had been
swallowed back into the city.

"Is Vanda still here?"

"Course she's here. I need her."

Cha-bos's faith in Vanda was as strong as her gut-level certainty that
the world—in the proper order of things—revolved around her personal
needs. She was willing to lead Illyra through the palatial maze to an
interior chamber which by its chaotic condition and the size of its beds
had to be the current location of the the nursery.

Vanda sat with her needle and thread amid heaps of children's ravaged
clothing. Her face glowed with genuine welcome when Cha-bos an-
nounced herself but cooled and became mature when she saw Illyra.

"It's been a long time," she explained, shaking the mending from her
lap and bowing slightly—as was proper in the presence of one who was
the mother of a potential god. "Fare you well?"

Illyra nodded and was at a loss for words, wondering what she had
hoped to accomplish by visiting. "Well enough," she stammered politely.

Living with children had preserved some of Vanda's audacity and
forth rightness. "What brings you here?" she asked, taking up the mend-
ing again.

Illyra felt her mind carom wildly from one mote of knowledge to the
next. Vanda was the daughter of Gilla and Lalo the Limner. Gilla had
watched as her children embarked on the journey of adulthood, and had
buried one who had not at the same time Illyra's Lillis had been laid in
her grave. Gilla had also nursed Illyra through the bleak weeks of their
mutual mourning. Vanda would know what her mother knew, and Vanda
knew children . . .

"I have a child," Illyra began from somewhere deep in her heart.

Surprise and suspicion flickered across Vanda's face. "Oh," she sighed
as a calm mask formed over her features. "How fortunate for you." It
was a voice to quiet the insane.

164 AFTERMATH

The S'danzo couldn't help but feel the emotional distance Vanda hur-
riedly created between them. But her despair was a throbbing, emotional
aneurysm and, having finally found its voice, it would not be stilled. She
described how Trevya had been literally dumped in her arms and how the
child gave her no peace. She spoke of Trevya's twisted leg and the
psychic intrusions that had led to the construction of the baleen splint
which, though it was straightening her bones, chafed her skin and made
her cry for hours at a time.

Then Illyra told herself and Vanda about the changes that had come
over Dubro since Trevya's arrival. Come over him and between them as
if children were interchangeable and a woman's love flowed to any infant
that squirmed in her arms. Not, of course, that it was just one child; there
was also Suyan who was little more than a child herself. And the new
apprentice who, though he still lived with his family in the town, ex-
pected that she would care for him . . . about him.

And through it all Vanda sat attentive and blank, polite, and growing
more reserved with each syllable the S'danzo uttered. Until Cha-bos, who
had gotten infinitely bored very early in Illyra's oration, inserted herself
into their attention.

The child had unearthed one other ti-cosa, the miniature version of the
Beysib court costume, padded and embroidered so it bulked as much as
Cha-bos herself.

"Fix it!" she demanded as she began a run across the room.

Ribbons trailed from the robe's seams and edges, imitating the poison-
ous Beynit vipers that dwelt with the older female members of the
Beysa's intimate family-

"Cha-to-s-tu!" Vanda shouted the child's full name as the impending
catastrophe came closer.

Emerald and ruby silk serpentined around the child's legs. Cha-bos
lurched forward, unaware at first that she was no longer in control other
unbalanced burden. She shrieked as she tumbled forward, becoming a
confused mass of cloth and child. The nursery was frozen and quiet when
her motion ceased. For a moment Illyra and Vanda believed no harm had
been done, then a wail of heartrending terror erupted from the tangled
embroidery.

Vanda reached her first, fairly shouting her reassurances as she sepa-
rated Cha-bos from the cosa. A splinter as long as the child's finger
protruded from her forearm. (The floors, this high up in the palace, were
constructed of wooden planking that had seen better days.) Chabostu,
second daughter of Shupansea and witness to all that had driven her
mother into exile in Sanctuary, was transfixed by the sight of her own

SEEING IS BELIEVING                165

blood. Her whole body stared in the rigid Beysib way; her only move-
ment came during her spasmodic gasps between screams.

Vanda could not relax the child's arm and when she yanked the splin-
ter free the blood followed in bright red spurts.

"Dear Shipri preserve me," the nursemaid intoned as Cha-bos's wide-
open eyes went completely white. "Hold her!"

The child was thrust into Illyra's unwilling arms as Vanda shouted for
the palace guards and crawled toward the unmended clothing to tear a
compress. Illyra rocked back on her heels and went almost as rigid as
Cha-bos herself as the warm blood trickled along her fingers.

This was no ordinary child—no ordinary blood. That was foul and
potent venom gathering in the crevice between her thumb and forefinger.
Illyra gulped, shuddered, and nearly fainted as the fluid streamed over
her wrist and out of sight beneath her cuff. There was nothing she wanted
to do more than heave the little girl across the room and get as far from
her as mortally possible. But Vanda was back, ripping strips of cloth with
her teeth, and the corridor resounded with approaching guards.

Illyra could do nothing but contain her revulsion ^as Vanda tended the
wound and Cha-bos twitched and shuddered in her arms. The nursery
shimmered with surreal absurdity: what manner of contagion could pos-
sibly take root in a child whose very blood was poison? Then the visions
came.

She was in the Beysib Empire, Seeing a nightmare world with a child's
eyes. Giants stormed from living shadows with red-dripping steel in their
hands. Cold, unyielding hands held her from behind and made the world
go wild as they moved her from the familiar to the horrible.

A face swam before her: a face half her mother and half hard, grimac-
ing giant—and the other part, the part that was not her mother, was in
control. But mostly there was blood as the last fortress loyal to Shupan-
sea fell to their enemies and the noblest individuals of the empire scram-
bled for their lives like lowiy peasants.

Illyra, whose childish memory held scenes no less graphic, shared
Chabostu's terror—and an unhealable outrage that not one of those gi-
ants who habitually controlled her world took notice of her. Worse, her
mother, Shupansea, seemed herself to have been reduced to gibbering.

In the starkly judgmental mind of young Cha-bos, Shupansea had
usurped the attention and comforting that belonged to her. Cha-bos was
unable to comprehend this inversion of the universe and so had trans-
formed it into something she could understand: She had never felt like
this before and she'd never seen so much blood before, so blood must
cause the feeling. Must lead to the feeling inevitably.

And blood became the ultimate terror in her world.

166 AFTERMATH

Vanda worked furiously to cleanse and conceal the child's wound, well
aware of the child's progressive fears if not of their cause. Though the
guards had been assured that the injury was neither serious nor the result
of any malfeasance, they raised a racket in the nearby corridors—primar-
ily designed to prove to Shupansea (who had also been summoned) that
they were diligent in their duties. Illyra watched the commotion from a
greater distance. She had freed herself from the child's visions, thereby
insulating herself somewhat from her own fear of the poisonous fluids
still staining her arm. She had wisely resisted returning completely to the
world of the frantic nursery.

The seeress remained detached from her surroundings until Shupansea
crossed the threshold with Prince Kadakithis and a dozen courtiers in
her wake. The Beysa dropped gracefully to her knees and attempted to
take her daughter into her arms. Chabostu would have none of it and
fought like a little demon to avoid her mother's attention.

"Your Serenity . . . ?" Vanda interjected cautiously, cocking a finger
ever so slightly to the bandage.

Knowing what would happen if the wound bled again, Shupansea
withdrew her arms. "It has been very difficult for her," she explained
softly and quickly to Illyra, speaking like any mother who had been
shamed or rejected by her offspring rather than as the de facto ruler of
Sanctuary-

Illyra, though she was the mother of a probable god, had no idea how
to speak to one who was personally both goddess and queen. She cast a
furtive glance toward Vanda whose nod, she assumed, meant she should
treat Shupansea with the same calculated familiarity she accorded her
paying visitors. "Children have their own minds," she said with a trace of
a smile.

The Beysa had the good manners, not to stare, but her pet viper chose
that moment to rustle through her undergarments and poke its jewel-
colored head above her collar. It tasted the air, revealing its crimson maw
and ivory fangs, then, while the women held motionless, it lowered itself
onto Illyra's sleeve.

"Don't move," Shupansea cautioned unnecessarily.

The immense NO remained imprisoned until the beymt investigated
the clotted blood on Illyra's sleeve with its darting tongue. Any thoughts
of instant death were insignificant compared to the reality of the serpent's
touch. With a stifled gasp, Illyra propelled herself out of the circle, fling-
ing the serpent and the child in opposite directions.

Cha-bos cried, the snake disappeared, and Illyra was surrounded by a
mixed cohort of palace guards. Rankan, Ilsigi, and Beysib by the look of

SEEING IS BELIEVING                167

them. they were united by the steadiness with which they kept their well-
sharpened spears pointed at her throat.

The guards saw their duty; no one would blame them for not following
procedure when the child of an avatar of one goddess was bounced on the
floor by the mother of another. For once Sanctuary proved itself a place
of law and due process. Not even the protests of the prince and the Beysa
combined could free the S'danzo from the ordeal of reporting to the
watch commander.

"There's nothing to worry about," the prince assured Illyra as he
joined the bristling circle escorting her from the nursery. (Shupansea
remained behind, watching her daughter and looking for her snake.) "It's
just a formality. Sign your name a few times and it will all be over."

This brought little comfort to the seeress who signed her name with an
X like almost everyone else in Sanctuary.

It might have been different if Dubro had accompanied his wife—for
he had begun life destined to be a scribe, not a blacksmith, and remem-
bered what he now had little use for. Unfortunately Deibro wasn't even at
the forge when a liveried palace servitor made his appearance there, and
Suyan was awed into incoherence.

Not that Dubro had told her where he was going when he banked the
fire and lowered the leather awning that separated the entrance to his
workplace from the entrance to Illyra's. He could hardly admit to him-
self that he was going to the back wall where the other S'danzo seeresses
made camp, to ask their advice.

He thought of Moonflower and was not the only person in Sanctuary
that day or any other to gently mourn her untimely death. She'd been
barely taller than Illyra but in all other respects she was built on Dubro's
scale and he'd felt comfortable around her.

He reconsidered his whole plan as he entered the incense-rich, S'danzo
quarter. He had decided to turn around and retreat to his own familiar
world, when he was caught in the appraising glare of the woman who
had replaced Moonflower as most indomitable among the seeresses.

"Greetings, blacksmith," the tall stick of a woman called. "What
brings you up here?"

It was not done to walk away from the Termagant. She was the living
embodiment of every tale ever whispered in the dark about the S'danzo.
No sane man doubted that she would and could curse anything that
crossed her path in the wrong light.

Dubro crumpled the lower edge of his tunic in his fists and took a step
in her direction. "I have a question to ask—about the cards."

168 AFTERMATH

She looked him up and down, which took a moment or two, then
pulled aside the curtain to her scrying room,

"Then come, by all means, and ask it."

The Termagant lived alone. No one dared ask or remember if she'd
ever had a family. As far as the other S'danzo and all the rest of Sanctu-
ary were concerned she had always been exactly as she was. An aura of
timelessness hung over her—by gaudy S'danzo standards—austere cham-
bers. Her wooden table was worn black and shiny from years of use.

Her cards were tattered at the edges, their images both faded and
stained. She was a seeress who let no one but herself touch the
amashkiki: the cards, the Guideposts of Vision. They cascaded from one
knobby hand to the other as she settled on her stool.

"Tell me where to stop. Choose your first significance."

Dubro thrust his hands, palms outward, between himself and the flit-
tering paper. "No," he stammered. "I do not choose cards. Illyra chose
them."

The cascade came to an abrupt halt. "If she chose, what is your ques-
tion?" she inquired, though surely she suspected the answer.

"She cannot read for those she loves. She would not lay down the
cards—but certain ones fell from her hands. I believe that she cannot
read for us—but I do not believe she cannot choose."

"For an overly large man, you are not without perception," the Terma-
gant said between self-satisfied cackles. Dubro folded his hands and said
nothing. "Very well, describe the cards you saw."

"There were five. I've heard her name them Orb, Quicksilver, Acom,
Ocean, and Emptiness."

For ten or more years Dubro had stood outside Illyra's workroom,
pointedly ignoring the wherewithal of her craft. Yet he had absorbed
something despite the banging of his hammer. His eyes met hers and
were not put off by the disbelief that grew there.

"Prime cards each and all," he averred.

Not to be outdone, the seeress set her own cards back in their silken
nest with imperturbably steady hands. "1 don't suppose you noticed the
relation of the cards one to another as they lay? Reversed or covering?'*

"They/e// from her hands," he repeated.

"I see." A lengthy pause between them. "Well, then, I suppose it's safe
to assume the simplest message: all images erect and alone. It will be
easiest that way. You do want the simplest interpretation, don't you?"

Dubro nodded, unfazed by her sarcasm. They'd had dealings with this
woman before. Her acid was as normal a part of her as a smile was to
Illyra—or had been to Illyra.

"I take it you know that among the amashkiki there are five families:

SEEING IS BELIEVING                169

fire, ore, wood, water, and air, as correspond to the five elements from
which the universe was made. Each family is led by its Prime and de-
fended by its Lance. There are, of course, cards which do not fall into the
families but they are of no concern here for you described only Prime
cards. Every Prime card."

Again Dubro nodded. He had known that. The amashkiki had been
generally adapted by the larger society around the S'danzo, though only
they preserved its arcane functions. A gaming hand showing five Primes
was worth a heavy bet.

"The Lances defend. They are rigid, sharp-edged, defined. The Primes,
though, are the start of things." The gray-haired woman grinned. "And
also the ends. Magicians like the Prime cards because they mean every-
thing, you know. The appearance of a Prime simplifies the reading, she
may have told you this; two Primes and it practically shouts. Five Primes
is absurd—and you, blacksmith, I think, know that."

This time he grunted, but it meant the same as a nod.

"Perhaps she had just ordered the amashkiki and merely dropped the
end cards?"

"She'd just sent out a visitor. If I thought it were an accident, I'd not
have come here."

"Then you and she stand on the cusp. All has already been revealed to
you. It wants only your feet upon the path."

Dubro nodded to himself, letting her statements shore up his own
convictions. The old S'danzo's eyes narrowed. At her age, Sight was a
secondary gift. Her chiefmost asset was her long knowledge of mortal
behavior. The Termagant could read as much in a gesture as the S'danzo
Sight might have revealed in her cards.

"If she waits much longer," the crusty woman admitted, "that path
may well rise up to bite her feet. It is not to be denied."

"But she will deny it, amoushka"—a S'danzo diminutive for grand-
mother or elder seeress. "She sees Trevya wherever she turns, but her
heart only grows harder."

The Termagant snorted. "She is a little fool who should by now know
what happens when children get tangled up in the Sight and fate."

Even swollen with strong-backed workers from every comer of the
empire, Sanctuary was still a small place where no one was by more than
three or four degrees a stranger to anyone else. It took a determined
insularity to live in rumorless ignorance; it was utterly impossible to live
in privacy. The entire city had known about Illyra's first children and the
Termagant was informed about her well-cared-for but unwelcome not-
daughter.

"The longer your wife denies what her Sight has shown her, the more

170

AFTERMATH

inevitable it becomes, blacksmith. Glimpsed once, fate is a weak thing
subject to change and uncertainty—especially for the young. But repeat-
edly glimpsed and denied, as Illyra has done . . ." The Termagant shook
her head and chortled softly to herself. "Ah, nothing in this life is acci-
dental. Perhaps she knows what she's doing; not even Illyra is stronger

than fate."

The interview had come to an end. There was another visitor hovering
beyond the curtained doorway. Dubro scrunched down to pass under the

lintel-

"Mind you," the old S'danzo added as the curtain slid across his back,

"if you and yours are pawns in fate's game, you will not feel its hand

upon your back."

Dubro shook his head and kept moving. He was suvesh; he expected
clear answers when he went to an oracle and he ignored the ones that
weren't. Visiting the S'danzo quarter had been a long shot at best: a rare
submission to the gambling urge. He was satisfied that he had not lost
anything by the inquiry and was not unduly distressed that he went away

no wiser than he'd arrived.

It was about midday. The crowds were thick and his two assistants
were gone for the day. He could go back to his forge and do a few hours
of business in the old way—by himself—or he, like everyone else in his
extended family, could take the rest of the day off. And, as it seemed a
day for impulses, Dubro decided against the forge for once. He made his
way through the town to the palace.

Walegrin and his men had the first of three great watches these days,
coming on duty in the cold, predawn hours, then relieved at just about
this time. Even if the man hadn't been his brother-in-law, Dubro would
have chosen him over the other two watch commanders, the eminently
corruptible Aye-Gophlan or the murdering Zip, to tell about Illyra's

visions.

And lately, as Illyra suspected, they'd found a comfortable subject of
conversation in their concerns for her. A hearty meal and a few mugs of
ale in the all-male taproom of the Tinker's Knob might be just the cure
for his own irksome malaise. The market-day crowds parted before him
once his destination, the palace barracks, was fixed in his mind.

"There, you see, I told you it was nothing," Prince Kadakithis said
with rather too much surprise in his voice to be entirely convincing.

Illyra nodded weakly. They might have at least warned her that her
examiner would be none other than her own half-brother—and whatever
other flaw Walegrin might have, his sense of family loyalty was above

SEEING IS BELIEVING                171

reproach. He'd made it plain that it was reasonable to panic when one of
those infernal snakes was around.

"I'm certain the kitchens have got more than enough food. Shall I
have the guards escort you there? I'd go myself, but . . ." The prince
cast his eyes upward—in the general direction of not only the nursery but
the Hall of Justice and Torchholder's suite of exchequer and registry.
Neither husband nor ruler, yet somewhat more than a decorative figure-
head, Kadakithis showed his adolescence more these days than he had
seven years ago when he had first arrived as a naive puppet. He was
growing but not yet grown.

"Thank you, I can find it myself," Illyra assured him.

He seemed genuinely relieved and took off at a decidedly unregal trot.
Illyra had a flash vision of him seated on a steel-colored stallion, then
nothing, as her thoughts turned to the aromas wafting out of the beehive-
roofed kitchen. They'd recognize her there and accord her the same
distant politeness the other palace retainers did: they knew they were
better than some S'danzo wench from down in the Bazaar even if she did
have the ear of royalty and the gods.

With a tightly woven basket, worth more than the food it contained,
slung in her shawl, Illyra strolled into the bright forecourt. She might
wander along the General's Road to the hills where the trees had turned
a hundred shades of red, gold, and orange. Or she might go to the Prom-
ise of Heaven which was usually deserted by daylight. Or she might . . .

Illyra's musings stopped short when she caught sight of a familiar
figure passing under the West Gate. Dubro—and though she herself had
told him to seek out Walegrin her heart began to pound. Once or twice—
when she'd been a child and the blacksmith her protector, not her hus-
band—she'd run away from him, but never in recent years. Until now.
She scooted behind a water cart, crouching over her basket, pretending to
examine its contents.

She waited, cried, and thought of Cha-bos who hadn't known how to
count to one hundred. When her tears had dried she decided it was safe.
She headed in the direction she was now facing—to the back corner of
the palace, past the ornate gate where priests and gods made their com-
munion with temporal authority.

The palace stoneyard was here, ready for the next round of palatial
repairs, and the huge water cisterns to sustain the inner fortress in times
of siege. Though far from lost—she could still see the water cart—Illyra
had entered unfamiliar territory and did not know the name of the little
gate she discovered there. Or even if it was a deliberate gate and not one
of Molin Torchholder's bright ideas. It seemed, judging by the dust, to be
the main conduit between the work gangs and the palace.

172 AFTERMATH

"Hey, sweetheart, got anything in there for me?" a half-naked
roustabout called from farther down the path.

"No, just my own meal."

"You're sure? A pretty little piece like you shouldn't be out here eating
alone . . ."

Illyra understood, then, what he had in mind. She blushed radiantly;

he laughed heartily and she ran through the nameless gate into the jum-
bled red sandstones piled beyond it. Indignation got the better other; she
wished all manner of minor disasters upon the workman who had not
recognized her as a happily married matron and implied propositions
never suggested to a S'danzo seeress.

She ate the creamy cheese without tasting it. The fire of her shame
burned inwardly now, illuminating the misunderstanding with which the
world treated her. It wasn't as if she asked for so much, Illyra reminded
herself. It was pure selfishness and stubbornness that kept those who
claimed to love her from understanding that her world—her promise of
happiness—had ended when Lillis died. If they really loved her they
would commiserate with her and cease their meaningless efforts to jolly
her out of mourning.

Her life was a tragedy: a slow dirge relentlessly playing between Lillis's
death and her own. She'd become a martyr—and was comfortable with
that identity.

"You should not scowl so."

Illyra sent the basket flying and stared into the sun, unable to recog-
nize the man who spoke so familiarly to her.

"And you should be more careful where and how you make your
personal storms."

Not about to be scolded by a stranger—or anyone else, for that matter
—Illyra was tempted to break her private vows and launch a full-fledged
S'danzo curse in his direction. But something she did not understand
restrained her. She clambered down from her perch and gathered her
scattered meal instead.

From this angle, away from the sun, he was easier to see but no more
recognizable. Not that there weren't a dozen incomprehensible languages
spoken these days along the walls—but this one wasn't a stoneworker.
Even Tempus, silhouetted by a bloody setting sun, was not so timeless
and out of place as this man seemed to be. Moreover, she could not See
him or his shadow which boded ill when Sanctuary itself was remarkably
free of magic.

"I'm a free woman,'* she said petulantly, climbing onto a different
stone where the light was better and she could look straight into his eyes.

"Not here you're not."

SEEING IS BELIEVING                173

He was calm, not threatening; speaking simple facts as if there were
something obvious she had overlooked. But what could be overlooked
sitting on forgotten rubble with her back to the main path?

"Look down," he suggested in a bemused and paternal manner.

Down. The dirt was red where years of storms had had their way with
the sandstone. Nothing grew there. Nothing was buried there. She
couldn't See anything.

"Where you're sitting. Where you've been sitting this past hour."

Well, that. It was rubble, after all. These stones had been dressed and
shaped into a building once, a long time ago. Not as if these were the only
rocks around with little chips and bumps of some forgotten language on
their sides. Lords and frogs, it could be Rankene for all she would know,
wind-blasted as it was and illiterate as she was.

She took a mean-tempered bite out of her fruit and jawed it pointedly.
"So?"

"Are you blind, child?"

This stranger with his beaten, bronze-colored armor and his probing,
dark eyes deserved nothing less than a S'danzo curse; Illyra decided. His
stare was worse than a Beysib's and his high-and-mighty attitude worse
than that. He'd be less arrogant when the S'danzo were through with
him. She wrapped her thoughts in the ancient forms, then dug deep in
her memory to find the ritual words that would merge her desire with the
Sight.

He sprang at her, though she prepared her curse in silence, and wres-
tled her from the stone with his hand locked firmly over her mouth.

"You fool," he exclaimed, dropping her to the ground. "You blind,
hopeless fool. How many times has Sanctuary been damned by petty
curses uttered in ignorance by petty fools who don't recognize sanctity
when they see it?"

Illyra swept the dust from her skirt as she stood. He was too sincere in
his protests, too secure to challenge directly. "Who are you to scold me?"
she muttered, watching the ground- "Who made you the guardian of
Sanctuary? You're just another stranger come to work on the walls. It's
my home and I'll send it to hell and back if I want to."

"You're more the fool than I thought, Illyra the Seeress."

"All right, I don't want to damn it to hell. I'd love to see a Sanctuary
where flowers bloomed along the streets and honest people didn't have to
hide after sundown. I'd love to see a Sanctuary where men loved their
wives, wives loved their children, and children had a chance to grow up
with food in their bellies.

"Who wouldn't want Sanctuary like that? But Sanctuary's Sanctuary
and it never changes."

174 AFTERMATH

She raised her eyes to glower at him and to make him think better of
whatever he had meant to say next

"If you could bring yourself to take care of it, it might change into
something better Maybe even something you could love "

"That'd be the day Who are you, anyway9"

"Call me a shepherd "

Illyra cocked her head at him Whatever he was, the only sheep he saw
were dead, cooked, and served to him on a platter Some errant warrior,
more likely She noticed he'd left a horse drop-tied back on the path, and
noticed that no one was coming or going on the path, either It was not
really a good idea to argue with one whose saddle and weapon belt
bristled with a dozen modes of death

"All right, I give Sanctuary my blessing—"

"From the rock "

She seated herself on the first stone and made a show of clearing her
throat "I give Sanctuary my blessing," she repeated A gust of wind
carried dust into her eyes, that, and the back-lighting sun made it impos-
sible to see him clearly "Let its people live m peace Let its governors
rule wisely Let its walls be strong and its stewpots full.

"There, is that more like it7" she demanded, squinting into the sun

"You forgot love "

"Right, husbands love wives, wives love children, children  . . oh,
children love whoever they want "

"It's a start," the unlikely shepherd confirmed "Mighty trees and the
like. Are you thirsty9"

He unslung a wineskin and offered it to her Thinking he meant to
embarrass her, Illyra took it Not that many townswomen could aim the
bladder and catch the stream without covering themselves with wine She
could She'd learned to drink from a skin—and not from a borrowed
vision, either It was one of the very few things her father had taught her
The wine wasn't half bad a bit tamnc, perhaps, but not local She caught
a last drop and handed the skin back to him, smiling like a well-fed cat

"Thank you," she said and noted with some satisfaction that she'd
surprised him with her skill

He tipped the wineskin up and maneuvered himself beneath it so his
back was almost touching her and he, too, faced the sun Illyra couldn't
imagine why he twisted around that way, when it was apt to make him
miss his aim Wine spurted past his ear, landing on the red stone

"Watch what you're doing," she snapped, hastily lifting her skirt out of
the way as she spoke

But he squeezed the skin again and left a goodly stain across the worn
inscription before adjusting his arms and getting a decent mouthful of

SEEING IS BELIEVING                175

wine Odd that a warrior, or a shepherd for that matter, would be so
clumsy with the wine Hard, even, to believe it had been an accident—
especially when she caught him looking back at her and grinning

"Out of practice," he said, and she did not believe him at all

"I'd best be leaving It's getting late I live

Illyra hesitated and thought better of telling him where she lived, not
that her heart believed it would help her if this stranger took it into his
head to pay her and Dubro a visit. She slid carefully from the stone,
avoiding him as much as the wine, and put the substantial remains of her
lunch in the shawl-sling It seemed prudent to back away from the stone.
He was still gnnmng when her heel touched the path, then he laughed
and she shot through the gate.

In truth it wasn't that late, barely past midaftemoon, and she hadn't
intended to return to the Bazaar before sundown The day was still pleas-
antly warm, and there wouldn't be many more like this until the next
spring She might still wander along the General's Road and headed that
way—back through the forecourt and along the Governor's Walk

Haakon the vendor was prowling his afternoon route, singing a song of
nutmeats and pastry. Despite the food she'd eaten and the food she ear-
ned, they made her mouth water.

"Copper bit," the vendor said when she started to approach him, then,
when he finally recognized her, added in a much softer voice, "for two "

Ulyra smiled and gave him the battered coin she'd received in the
morning. Because she'd bought two, he wrapped the second one m a
scrap of translucent parchment and tucked it into the folds of her shawl

"Delicious," she confirmed, biting into the sweet and savory confec-
tion

"Best to share "

He meant to share with Dubro but the face that came into her mind
was Suyan She wondered if the wet nurse had ever even tasted one of
these uptown luxuries Not likely Suyan claimed she had grown up
Downwind, though Walegnn had found her in a Shambles house Illyra
imagined the look on Suyan's face when she bit through the still-warm
pastry shell to the nutmeats within She changed direction and hurried
along the street to the Bazaar

The forge was empty but before Illyra could become concerned she
heard Trevya crying and ran the last little way

"I brought you a pastry," she announced as she pushed through the
curtain

Suyan smiled but it was almost lost amid her unsuccessful efforts to
quiet the infant

"Here, I'll hold her They really taste best when they're warm "

176

AFTERMATH

She picked the child up and found, not surprisingly, that she fit snugly
into the crook of her arm and that she remembered how to rock her arms
a bit and wiggle a finger or two as a distraction. And as Illyra's fingers
were shiny with butter and nutmeats, Trevya found them fascinating. She
pulled them into her mouth and sucked contentedly. Illyra felt the sharp
ridge of the tooth that had caused this latest round of wailing.

"She's getting her milk teeth."

Suyan gulped a mouthful of pastry. "Not milk teeth, I'll warrant?"
Another of her lilting questions, but this one came with a furtive smile,

"Not milk teeth then. She'll soon be ready for gruel and a bit of por-
ridge in the morning, I used to like to make porridge—especially in

winter."

The happiness in Suyan's face wavered. Illyra could almost see her

thinking of where she'd been before they'd brought her to the forge.

"We'll still need someone to take care of her. I'm S'danzo, not . . .'*
Illyra hesitated, wondering why she'd been about to say she wasn't
Trevya's mother. Neither was Suyan, for that matter. And other S'danzo
women had children underfoot all the time. "Well, Trevya should have
someone watching her all the time," she decided after a puzzling mo-
ment. "It's dangerous here, with the forge. Not like some other places
where the worst that could happen is a bumped knee."

The tension left Suyan in a great sigh. She ate the rest other pastry but
left the baby in Illyra's arms- They talked then, in the afternoon light, as
they had never talked before, though not about anything of importance.
They talked about the foods Dubro liked, and the ones he didn't; and the
bolts of brightly colored cloth that had just arrived in a caravan from
Croy; and whether the journeyman had a wife in his future.

Illyra stole a look at the future, then shook her head. "I can't See a
thing," she murmured and remembered what she had said out on the
rock. For a heartbeat her blood went cold. He had tricked her. That
strange man who was not a shepherd had tricked her into casting an
unprecedented curse over Sanctuary: a S'danzo blessing. Not that there
was such a thing as a S'danzo blessing. "Everyone's a child, one way or
another—"

"I didn't hear you?"

Suyan leaned closer but Illyra did not repeat herself. She was, after all,
only one S'danzo and Sanctuary was Sanctuary and not likely to change
very much no matter what she did. But she would have to, if she ever saw
him again, thank the shepherd for setting her free, at least.

HOMECOMING

Andrew Offutt

Someone is always awake in Sanctuary

especially when others are sleeping.

—Universal absolute

When she saw that he had wakened, she returned to the bed, mostly
dressed but not quite. She bent down, exotically pale hair streaming long,
to brush the top of his nose with her lips.

"We fell asleep," she told him. "I've got to go! It's terribly late."

Lazily, muzzily, he lifted a hand to try to capture a dangling lobe of
her chest as she bent. She straightened swiftly with a little chuckle and
finished closing her latch-front tunic.

"Awww . . ." he began, lazy-muzzy, and the sound slid off into a
yawn.

She started for the door. He saw her pause, lift a hand to her temple,
up under the newly silvered hair she had combed partially free of the
tangles the two of them had put in it. She turned back. Moonlight admit-
ted by the open window let him see that she was frowning.

"My earrings," she murmured, hurrying back to the little table beside
the bed.

A moment later: "Darling? Didn't I put my earrings right here?
They're—they're gone!"

"Muss've dropped 'em on th' floor," he said without concern, and
yawned again.

Watching her, smiling a little, remembering. Watching her go to her

178 AFTERMATH

knees beside the bed in her search was fun, and he entertained a little
fantasy about that.

"They're not here, Cusher! Please get up and help me. Could you light
the lamp? Those are good eardrops!"

Eight or nine minutes later the bedclothes were on the floor and they
had even searched his abandoned clothing, lest her missing dangles of
gold and jade and topaz had somehow gotten entangled in the attire he
had hurriedly dropped to the floor, hours ago. By then she was sobbing
and babbling about how the baubles had been gifts from her grand-
mother, years and years ago.

At last Imaya—the lady Imaya Rennsdaughter, if truth must be told—
gave it up and left. By now fully as awake as she, Cusharlain latched the
door after her.

A better man would escort her home, he mused. Down to the street, at
least. Absently scratching his thigh, he realized that he was still naked.
He regarded his clothes, forlornly strewing the floor. Then, one eyebrow
up, he looked at the window. Of course it was open, but after all! It
wasn't as if this room was on the first floor!

Naked, he padded to the window and looked out. He saw nothing;

only other buildings and the dark alleys and streets among them; only
Sanctuary, tired and snoozing in the moonlight. He looked down, then,
down three flights, leaning out a bit with his hands on the sill, and then
up. A little shiver ran over him and he ignored it. He twisted his head to
cast thoughtful glances to either side.

Cusharlain straightened, sighing. "Damn," he muttered aloud.

This room was inaccessible save by the locked door, and it had still
been locked when she'd thought to check it while he shook the bedsheet
for the third time. He remembered the same as she did. After one of
those pretty earrings had pricked his arm during their horizontal em-
brace, she had removed them both. He had watched because he liked the
way her bare breasts moved when she lifted her arms to her ears. He had
seen her; she had laid them on the little table right there, just beside her
side of the bed.

And we made love, and drifted off, he mused, staring at the open win-
dow. And while we were sleeping someone came in that window and took
those earrings, not to mention what I chose not to tell her: the moneypouch
sewn into my leggings! Except that no one in Sanctuary could possibly do
such a thing. No one's good enough.

One man was able; one man had both the climbing skill and the stealth
to have accomplished this impossibility. He could have done it. but he's

HOMECOMING                   179

gone; left quite a while back. Over a year? Yes, by all the gods; well over a
year ago.

Nevertheless someone came in thai window and took her earrings and
my purse, while we were right here sleeping!

Damn! The little bastard's back in town!

"I'm a carpenter, Spellmaster. Was." The man with the hound-dog
face held up his hand to display its severely restricted use, especially to a
carpenter.

Strick showed the fellow a compassionate expression. All his recent
weight loss accounted for the droopy aspect of his face; long-stretched
skin still hung in the memory of former jowls and "plump" cheeks.

"Wints told me before you came in that you are a better than good
carpenter, Abohorr, and that you've recently lost fifty or so pounds. He
did not say that you had also lost your thumb."

"Want to hear how I lost it?"

"No," Strick said, regarding the still upraised hand and its thumbless
state. He knew of the occupational hazards of carpenters and woodcut-
ters, and was not interested in particulars doubtless both gory and
overlong in the telling. "That is, telling me would be of no value to either
of us. And I have to tell you at once that I can't do a thing about that
thumb, Abohorr."

Abohorr heaved a big sigh. He nodded. "Figured that. The—the point
is, Spellmaster ... I don't want to carpenter no more. Tired of it. I
mean I was even afore this happent to m'thumb, I swear by Anen's beard
I was. I know you have a lot of contacts and a real name for helping
people, and so . . ."

The formerly fat Maze-dweller waved that maimed hand while he
looked sadly yet hopefully at the very big man behind the desk draped in
rich blue. The man who had already made such a change in Sanctuary
and its troubled, surely damned people. A foreigner with an odd accent,
come here from up north somewhere!

"My abilities don't extend to—to . . . hmm. I'm not sure what it is
you want of me, Abohorr." Strick's pronunciation of "want" rhymed
with "font" or his extreme shortening of the o in "lost."

His visitor rose swiftly. Even standing, he maintained his deferential
aspect, so that he didn't seem to be looking down upon the seated man in
his plain blue tunic.

"I'd do anything for you, Spellmaster. I'll pay you for yer time, too, 'f
I'm wasting it. Just—well, just let me know if you hear of anything; a job
I might fill. I'm big, and strong, and a damned good worker, Spellmaster.
I'm used to a lot of work. You've got a lot of contacts and everybody's

180

AFTERMATH

talkin' about all the people you've helped, Spellmaster- If you hear of
anything . . . well, Wints—yer helper Wintsenay, I mean—knows
where to find me."

Strick nodded. "Wintsenay suggested that you come?"
"I don't want to get him in no trouble ner nothing, Spellmaster. We
was talking, an' he sort of did, just sort of."

"Urn." The spellwright's expression did not change, which took effort.
"Uh, well, anyhow, uh—what do I owe you, Spellmaster?"

Strick showed his visitor a very small smile and a small shake of the
big head that was covered to midforehead, midcheek on each side, and
the base of his nape by the snug cap of leather dyed dark blue. No one
had seen this man's bare head, or a sign of hair. They saw the cap, and
the strangeness of deep blue tunic over matching leggings. Strange, and
dull. The medallion, a plugged gold piece he always wore, did little to
alleviate the severity of his attire. Oddly, the medallion nearly matched

his large and droopy mustache.

"I've done nothing for you, Abohorr. You owe me nothing. You're sure
that you don't want to fight back and cope—to be the best one-thumbed
carpenter Sanctuary ever saw or heard of? That I can help you with!"

"I just don't want to go back to carpenterin', Spellmaster," the poor
fellow said, and with several expressions of thanks and apologies, he left
the office of the man from Firaqa.

Strick waited a minute or so to allow him time to get down the steps
and to the door of what he referred to as "my shop" before shouting,

"Wints!"

The man formerly described as "an overage street urchin" was much
less than a minute in making an appearance. Wintsenay was a changed
man, now, with good steady employment and the blue livery of Strick
tiFiraqa.

"Sir!"

"You suggested to your friend Abohorr that he come see me," Strick
said grimly, fixing the other man with a stem face and a pointing finger
bigger than any of those of the carpenter or ex-carpenter who had just
departed. "You know bloody well I can't do anything about a lost thumb,
Wints! I wish you'd never learned my curse—that I have to help or try;

can't not help to try, especially when I'm asked."

Wintsenay started to expostulate, to deny. He broke that off and
looked down at the nice carpet someone of wealth had recently presented
his master. Like the medallion, it was another expression of gratitude for
another of the white wizard's services.

"I'm sorry, master. He's a good man, Ab is. Used to be so fat and
strong and jolly all the time, you know. Now he looks like somebody's

HOMECOMING                   181

huntin* dog that's been run hard for a solid week of nights. He sure needs
and deserves somebody's help."

"You play tricks with me, sirrah Wintsenay, and so will you need
somebody's help. Now get your treacherous butt out of here and take the
rest of that ugly corpus with it."

Wints understood the first part well enough, and acted on it. He was
setting his slow brain to the working out of the rest of his master's
meaning as he departed, touting at speed.

Strick sighed, shook his head, and slapped an inordinately big hand
down on the fine cloth covering his desk: a large piece of deep blue velvet
that trailed gold tassels on the side facing the visitors' chair. After a
moment he spoke, loudly but not shouting as before.

"Avneh?"

A girl in her teens bustled in, also in the distinctive blue of Croy:

Strick's color. Former streetgirl, former hangerout at the low dive called
Sly's Place, former alcoholic, former aspiring whore. Now she was recep-
tionist and devoted servant of the man who had rescued her. Servant, as
in acolyte of a god. He called her niece and enforced her calling him
"uncle" in self-defense: the grateful teenager had wanted to give herself
to him in every way. She had also just outgrown one tunic ofCroyite blue
and had to have a new one to accommodate her steadily plumpening
body.

"What can I get you. Uncle StrieeEEEE!"

She was staring past him when she broke off to emit that loud, pro-
longed e sound- Her seated "uncle" astonished her by the speed with
which he rose, pounced three feet sidewise, and whirled. An obscenely
long knife had appeared in his hand. He and Avenestra stared at the
intruder while the latter stared at the big man and the ready blade nearly
as long as a sword.

He was dark, lean and rangy at medium height. Jet black of hair and
the eyebrows that almost met above a falcate nose. His eyes were nearly
as black as his hair. He wore a plain green tunic, nicely tanned leather
leggings, short buskins, and several knives. They included one that was a
mate to Strick's outsized blade. Lifting his gaze to Strick's blue eyes, he
elevated his arms a bit as well.

"Mother Shipri have mercy. Hansel" Avenestra said. "Only you could
have gotten in here 'thout being seen by Frax 'n' Wints 'n' me! But when
did you get back in town? I thought maybe you was dead!"

" 'Were' dead, Avenestra, damn it," Strick said without turning or
looking at all away from the intruder, "and get out of here. Tell Frax and
Wintsenay to be still, and hold visitors for a few minutes."

182

AFTERMATH

"That's really Avenestra?" the intruder said a few seconds later. "She
sure looks better'n she used to. Even working on getting fat' Yours?"

"My 'niece,' assistant, and sometime cook, and that's all. I told Ahdio
what you said: that you hadn't taken the red cat, but that it followed you,

even out on the desert."

"You've got a good memory, Strick of Firaqa."

"Umm- Come on around to the proper side of the desk. Yes, I remem-
bered to pass on to Ahdio the message you gave me when we met on the
road to Firaqa, and I recognized you too—once Avenestra called you by
name. I've heard it rather more than once since I came to Sanctuary. You

aren't exactly unknown in this town."

Wiry and youthful, walking almost catlike on the balls of his feet
rather than the heels, the dark, youthful-looking man rounded the desk
and stood beside the chair set there for clients; supplicants.

"Neither are you, Strick. Didn't take you long to gain a reputation in
my town. And that day in the forest I thought you were a weapon-man
on the run! You came to help my town—so're you going to get rid of

those fish-eyed snake-turds from oversea?"
"Afraid not, Hanse. The Beys are here to stay."
"Heard that. Sure going to take some getting used to. Is it true about

you?"

"How would I know?"
Hanse came very close to smiling. "That you deal in white magic

only—"

"Yes."
"That's a switch, in Sanctuary! And is it true that every blessing from

you also comes with some sort of curse?"

"Of sorts. The Price, in addition to the payment in coin or goods.
Avenestra, for instance, no longer needs or wants to get drunk every
night—but developed a rather grievous craving for sweets."

"Which explains her new, uh, plumpness," Hanse said, nodding.
"And you, Hanse. We met only briefly, long ago. Have you come here

on business?"

"No. Just wanted to say hello. I mean, we did meet, however briefly

that day months and months ago, and gave each other a little informa-
tion about Firaqa and Sanctuary—carefully." Hanse chuckled-

"I remember that each of us was very wary indeed of the other, yes,
that day on the road up in Maidenhead Wood. You had a young woman
with you, I remember—and of course the singularly large cat. Red."

Hanse nodded. "Aye. Name's Notable. First cat I ever hked. First cat I
ever didn't dislike! As soon as I came here—"

"From Firaqa?"

HOMECOMING                   183

"Uh, well, aye, along with a, uh, stopover along the way. As soon as I
got here I went to Sly's. I left Notable with goodole Ahdio, who told me
about you. Hearing a lot more about you from other people was easy.
You responsible for this ridiculous silver hair so many people have bro-
ken out in?"

"I suppose."

"Not the bare-jigglies fashion though, hmm? That came from the
snake-eyed fish-faces."

"Urn. You might try to stop calling them names, Hanse. Fact is fact,
and the fact of their continuing presence in Sanctuary has to be ac-
cepted."

"I'll work on it," Hanse said without enthusiasm. "Lots of other
changes since I left. Lots of construction work—reconstruction work.
Noticed repairs to this building and the new paint job outside, too; really
like blue, don't you! You were wearing mostly dust last time I saw you—
first and last time. And liveried guards, too. Even Avenestra in matching
blue. Pretty place, your 'shop.' Handsome cover on that table; handsome
carpet, too."

Strick continued to gaze at him from those large blue eyes above the
droopy, yellowish-russet mustache. He shrugged.

"I'm also hearing about mysterious disappearances in town, and ru-
mors of slavers, operating right here in Sanctuary?"

"A lot of people are trying to learn more about that, Hanse. It appears
to be fact, aye. Be careful, should you chance to be out after dark."

Hanse laughed aloud. After a few moments Strick's big mustache
twitched in his small smile.

"I'm sure I'd be interested in your impressions of Firaqa, Hanse, and
how you fared there. But I do have some visitors waiting, downstairs."

"You'll be interested in hearing a few things, all right." Hanse assured
him. "Do these names mean much to you; Thuvarandis, and Corstic, and
Arcala?"

Strick blinked. Slowly, he sat. He gazed expectantly across his desk at
the younger man. The names of those three men meant plenty to him, as
Hanse had assumed.

Briefly, he outlined his activities and adventures in Firaqa. He ended
the abbreviated narrative with the ghastly happenings in the wizard's
manse, and the outcome.

Strick sat staring. "He is dead?"

"Very."

Strick slapped the blue-draped desk he called his worktable. "Dead!
About time! You've rendered Firaqa a great service then, Hanse. That
was a genuinely wicked man."

184

AFTERMATH

"That," Hanse said in a voice dry as the desert, "I know."
After a silent moment he said, "And you've rendered good service in
Sanctuary, too. Just a pair of do-gooders to each other's towns, aren't

we!"

"Urn." Strick made muttering noises about having to go back and
forth from his fancy villa every day, ending with "I'm a man of the
people who'd rather live in town."

"Why, I can help you with that," Hanse assured him, all wide-eyed.
"Be happy to accept the villa as a gift, Strick."
With a wry smile, Strick asked who owned the Vulgar Unicorn.
At last Hanse let his wiry form slide down into the chair across the
desk from the master of white spells. "Old Earrings' You've asked me
something I know. Unless the place has changed hands since I left, the
owner's the physician Nadeesh, on the Street of Goldsmiths. Can't miss
him. He wears moonstones." Hanse held up two fingers. "Two. Earrings.
Stones black as a tax collector's heart."

"Nadeesh the physician," the big man repeated. "Thanks, Hanse. Oh
—where are you staying?

Hanse's expression became bland and blank, the business face of the
thief called Shadowspawn. "I ... get around, Strick. If you should
want me for anything, just leave word at the Vulgar U or at Sly's."

Strick nodded. "Oh, and your young woman—I gave her my amu-
let . . ."

"Which served her, me, and Firaqa mighty well," Hanse assured him.
"Let's, uh, talk about that some other time, all right? I have a young
woman with me. Odd that you mentioned Old Earrings, or asked about
him—I picked up a nice pair of earrings just last night, as a present for
her. Silky. Well, actually her name is Vivispor, but who cares—just a girl
I, uh, picked up in Suma."

"You . . . 'picked ... up' ... a pair of earrings."
"Right," Hanse said equably, and was hasty to cut off further com-
ment or queries with "And I'm fresh out of a cat. You know, I really got
accustomed to havin' that damned cat with me. I hate to admit it, but I
already miss—oh, No!"

For the second time within a half hour or so, Strick sat gazing at a
person on the other side of his worktable who was staring past him in
surprise unto shock. Since Hanse did not shriek or reach for one or more
of his several weapons, however, Strick refrained from giving another
demonstration of his swiftness and the fact that he was armed.

Besides, this visitor soon announced its presence in its own voice; a
very low and sweet voice at that:

"mew."

HOMECOMING                   185

"Damn it. Notable, you sneaked out of Sly's and followed me again!
Up the side of the building next door, even!"

So that's how he accomplished his not-so-impossible surprise entry!

"I'm sorry, Strick. C'mere, you dam' cat. He always makes that sick-
eningly sweet li'l kitten sound when he hears aggravation in my voice and
he thinks he deserves a tongue-lashing. Come . . . Here, Note . . .
able!"

"mew?"

Strick sat very still while the red cat—unduly, unequivocally, and al-
most unconscionably large—trotted tippy-toe past him and, an instant
after Hanse said "No, Notable!" and started to duck, precipitately ap-
peared on the lap of the seated young man's tunic. Hanse grunted and
gave the spellwright an unusually, unconditionally, and decidedly un-
wontedly subdued and guilty look.

"I'm, uh, sorry, Strick."

"It looks very much as if Notable has decided he is your cat, Hanse,
not Ahdio's."

"Aye, I know," Hanse said. His voice was sad, though .his face was not.

"Once a cat makes up its mind . . ."

"Alleged mind. Aye, I know. It's just that Ahdio's so damned
big . . ."

"Urn. Let's hope he's big about understanding, too. Hanse . . . listen,
I need a favor. Two."

"Uh."

"Take Frax and Wints out and show them how you got in here. Tell
them I want them to make any changes necessary to make sure no one
can do it again."

"Strick, I swear: no one else could."

Strick sat staring at him in silence until Hanse had to exert his strength
to keep from looking down. The expression of wide-eyed innocence that
had long served him well with others didn't work with this man. This
maker of spells was different. Strick was like . . . like no one.

At last Hanse asked, "What's the second favor?"

"Don't ever come in that way again."

"Strick, I swear I won't."

"Good. Thanks. Otherwise, Hanse, good to see you and thanks for the
information about this Nadeesh. We must get together and talk again.
After hours, and normally."

"Uh." After a time Hanse said, "Damn! You just dismissed me, didn't
you?"

"I work days, Hanse. People are waiting."

186 AFTERMATH

Hanse gazed at him, his mouth slowly widening. "Strick, you're really
something! Let's go, Notable, you dam' cat."

On the way out he saw that Strick hadn't exaggerated: two others sat
in the downstairs waiting room. One had the look of a Rankan of sub-
stance. Strick sure is doing well by doing good here, Hanse mused, and
winked at the icily staring blue-uniformed man with the sword and dag-
ger. Ex-palace guard, Hanse was sure. He recognized Wints, too, but
pretended not to notice. A shaking sight, Wints decently dressed, shaved,
and looking as if he knew who he was!

A few steps down the street called Straight, Notable pacing at his side,
he saw still another woman with silver hair. Strick had started this craze?
Damn, why? A man never knows whether a woman's dyed, prematurely
gray or extraordinarily well preserved!

Avenestra ushered in a well-dressed Rankan noble.

Strick swiftly learned that Noble Abadas was new in Sanctuary; he was
cousin to Theron, the new emperor-by-his-own-hand. Noble Abadas was
of medium height, perhaps ten pounds overweight, with receding light
brown hair and reddish mustache, big ears, and stubby fingers. Superb
eyes the color of doeskin met Strick's directly, which was impressive.
Abadas was just arrived from Ranke with his daughter and, unusually, a
single servant. He wanted a good place to live, he said, and planned to
staff with Ilsigi; locals-

Odd Rankan, Strick thought. Seems to be a liberal who wants to show
what a good fellow a Rankan can be; particularly the . . . agent?—spy?
—of the new emperor!

"I have deposited funds with a local banker. You know Renn."

Strick nodded. Renn was one of the two men he banked with, both
Ilsigi.

"He showed me around a bit," Abadas said. "I have to say that I saw
two places I love, Spellmaster. One, a villa, turns out to be yours!"

"Ah."

By the time Noble Abadas departed Strick's place of business, the two
foreigners to Sanctuary had made a business arrangement. Strick was
happy to have leased the villa he bought from Izamel (since old Izamel
and other wealthy, old-money Ilsigi kindly loaned him the money) to
Abadas for an amount that was a shade more than Strick's loan pay-
ments and taxes. The current inflation helped; Strick had recently bought
the place at what were now called "old rates"; prereconstruction rates!
Their deal made both men happy.

Strick called in his man-of-all-tasks.

HOMECOMING                   187

"Wints, go to Cusharlain. Tell him I am looking for a large place in
town, preferably a house I can also use as a shop. All right?"

"Yes sir. Oh, are you—"

"Good. Then go to Gilla Lalo'swife. Ask that good woman whether
any of her children or relatives would like good employment with a
decent Rankan noble. All right?"

"Yes sir. Sir, I—"

"Aye, I am sure that you know of some prospective servants for the
household of the lord Abadas, Wints. Just go on about my business my
way, for now."

Wintsenay went.

In the next hour Strick saw four people. He refused to do anything at
all for the one who wanted vengeance on a landlord, used a minor spell
and an unnecessary foul-tasting concoction to get rid of the really ugly
warts on another's face, told a third sadly that he could do nothing about
the long-twisted leg but secretly made a spell to make the poor woman
more accepting, at least, and told a sufferer of persistently upset stomach
that he needed to go to a physician, at once. It wasn't.as if anyone was
gong to cure the rampant malignant growth Strick saw in the too-young
man's upper intestine, but at least he could go through his final weeks of
life in a drugged state. For all this the spellwright took in three pieces of
silver and a nice bolt of cloth of a color he did not desire. Well, he could
trade it, or use it as gift goods.

Avenestra came in, chewing.

"No one else is waiting, LJncie. I hung out the 'closed' sign as you
said."

"Good!" He rose and stretched.

"Ooooh! What a beautiful bolt of cloth!"

"You like that, Avneh?"

"It's just beautiful. Uncle! I love paisley!"

"Hmm. We may not be able to do anything about your craving for
sweets, poor baby. But show me that you can come in here without
chewing on something and we'll see what we can have made for you from
this."

"Oh I'm sorry, Uncle. Mother Shipri make me strong!"

Strick patter her shoulder, turning a little sidewise to avoid being
hugged (with hands one of which he saw was sticky from some pastry),
and hurried downstairs to collect Fulcris. Leaving Avenestra "in charge"
and Frax on guard, Strick and his other aide headed for the Street of
Goldsmiths.

188 AFTERMATH

Nadeesh the leech had heard of the foreign spellwright who had come
here to be of such value to Sanctuary, both physically and psychologi-
cally. His sad-looking servant ushered the visitors in to his master.
Nadeesh the leech was a cadaverously thin man with hair that began at
about the midpoint atop his skull and dangled stringily in long ugly
strands of corpse-gray. He looked to be seventy or more. He also, Strick
and Fulcris discovered, wore only one earring. Attired in a paradoxically
bright tunic that appeared to be draped over mere bone, he sat weakly in
a chamber made dim by drawn drapes. Strick saw at once that he was in
bad shape, and not just from the healed wound that showed his left
earring had been torn from him. The fellow looked far too old for his age,
which he said was "about fifty."

"What do you think is wrong with you, sir?"

"Can't find a cause, sir. Just last night a friend—a fellow physician—
suggested that it might be ... a spell,"

Strick saw the little shiver that went through this too-thin man as he
spoke those words. Showing confidence and making sure to project it,
Strick suggested that he look. Nadeesh agreed, nervously.

"What—what do you need to do?"

"I need for you to give me something of value, and then just lie back
and try hard not to think of anything at all. I will have my hands on your
shoulders, that's all."

The physician snorted. "Only the gods know how many patients I've
said that to—and all of us knowing all the while that it's completely
impossible!"

With a little smile, Strick accepted the proffered coin and set his hands
on shoulders that might have been mere bone covered by the other man's
yellow tunic- The Firaqi wizard was quite able to stare at nothing.

It took him only seconds to discover the cause of Nadeesh's malaise.

"Your friend was right, leech. Someone has set a dark spell on you."

Nadeesh moaned.

"Hmm. And left a barrier. Perhaps you would think of an opening
gate, opening doors, a cave with a wide open mouth ... no no, please
be still but not stiff . . . hmm."

A little work discovered the impossible: the spell came from a dead
man. One Marype, the son of a mage named Mizraith and long appren-
ticed to a shadowy mage name Markmor. The problem was that every-
one knew Marype was dead! Except that this spell is not that old. Marype
is vehemently alive! Furthermore he's past the apprentice stage—past jour-
neyman, by the Flame! Strick concentrated, began to sweat . . . and
soon realized that the severity of Nadeesh's affliction was because
Marype had gained possession of something belonging to the physician.

HOMECOMING                  189

"Ah, the earring, and thus a bit of blood!"

"Wh-what?" The wizened physician's voice quavered.

Strick released those frighteningly bony shoulders and sat beside the
man who looked far too old for the age he claimed. The spellmaker
would have bet that before this malignant spell the physician had looked
fifteen years younger.

"How did you lose your earring?"

"Late one night about two months ago I was set upon by footpads and
—by the gods! This began about then! I have lost very much weight in
these past two months, Strick, and of course strength as well."

"Urn. Those were not footpads, Nadeesh, but men hired for a definite
assignment. A dark mage who hates you used them to gain possession
not only of your earring but, since it was torn from your ear, a bit of your
blood as well. It has enabled him to make a powerful spel! indeed.'*

"How do you know this?"

"Do you answer your patients when they ask you such a question?"

"No. And usually I cannot answer this one; What is to happen to me?"

"You already know. You are wasting away; no one would know that
it's the result of an inimical spell. I'd say this sorcerer intends your
death."

Nadeesh surprised his visitor with a string of words concerning the
unnamed mage, his sexual activities, and his mother. Then:

"Who is it? Who has done this, Spellmaster?"

"That I cannot say," Strick said, as perfectly capable of lying when he
deemed it wise as any physician. "What mage hates you so much?"

"None! I mean—I've no idea."

"You've never treated a sorcerer?"

"Not knowingly."

"Urn. In that case, have you refused treatment to a sorcerer?"

"Not knowingly," Nadeesh repeated. After a few seconds he added,
"But now one is going to murder me."

"Is murdering you," Strick said, staring at nothing. "Unless we can do
something about it."

Nadeesh lurch up, gasping with effort. "You think you can?"

"One can always try. In this case, one must."

"I don't understand."

"Never mind. You are too good a man to be murdered this way with-
out my trying to stop it."

A long sigh escaped the pitifully wizened man, and Strick heard the
rattle in his scrawny throat.

"Bearing in mind that I am a spellwright, not a physician, let us dis-
cuss the bill in advance."

190 AFTERMATH

Nadeesh's smile was hideous, but genuine. "You certainly have me, sir.
Name the price and I shall agree. Understand that if the patient dies,
however, he cannot pay."

Despite the gravity of the complaint of his "patient," Strick laughed
aloud.

They discussed his bill.

Hanse noted more construction/reconstruction on his way to pay a
visit to Mignureal's widowed father. It was not something Hanse wanted
to do. He had loved Moonflower, Mignue's gross diviner of a mother; he
was able to admit that to himself, now. Ahdio and a couple of others at
Sly's Place last night had already observed that the dark, youthful man
called Shadowspawn was "different." They were right. Events on the
desert and up in Maidenhead Wood had changed him a bit; the
Mignureal experience had enforced responsibility and changed him ac-
cordingly; the constant dark shadow of sorcery and ghastly events in
Firaqa had changed and matured him; and so had more recent experi-
ences in Suma.

The presence of the outsized red cat strolling along at his side, tail
high, attracted plenty of looks. Hanse's eyes and the presence of so many
sharp blades worn openly here and there about his person persuaded
people to keep their comments to themselves or low-voiced. Once he did
hear a scornful laugh and knew it for a deliberate attempt at provocation.
He didn't even turn. Shadowspawn was "different," yes.

At the shop where Mignureal's father Teretaff sold this and that . - .
item, he was admitted by one of Mignureal's dark-haired and dark-eyed
younger sisters. Since their number was several and Hanse had never
been interested in children, he wasn't sure of this one's name. Odd, how
she had bloomed in so short a time. Girls had a way of doing that, and
the S'danzo did seem to bloom earlier than others.

He entered into warmth made heavy by a fragrant mix of odors, aro-
mas, smells, scents of foods and leather and spices and perfumes and
other herbal . . . things. The shop had always been cluttered. It was
more so now, with Moonflower dead.

"Does your father have a, uh, woman friend?" he asked, feeling
sneaky, and was not displeased by the shaking of a large-eyed head. What
was this girl, about thirteen? That meant that the next one—the boy
Cormentaff—was fourteen. Another member of the family was pushing
sixteen too, as he recalled. The one with red hair, or almost red. What
was her name, anyhow?

This one made girlish noises over Notable, who eluded her attempts to
pet him. The cat disappeared behind a counter.

HOMECOMING                   191

"He, uh, he's a one-man cat," Hanse explained. "Notable, if you knock
anything over or get into anything it will go hard with you!"

"Mraow."

Hanse was not happy to discover that Teretaff already had a visitor.
The aged S'danzo "chief" with the implacable eyes and straight mouth
and the usual multicolored, modestly cut garb barely acknowledged
Hanse's presence. Hanse was determinedly respectful. The Termagant
was not visiting Teretaff, he realized; she was interested in the almost-
sixteen-year-old. Now both stared at Hanse, Jileel from huge round eyes
the color of walnut wood flanked by a great deal of hair the color of a
roan horse. Her blouse was striped yellow and green and was unaccount-
ably stuffed; under a multiprint apron, her skirts showed six or nine other
colors and hues.

"You left here with my daughter," Teretaff said, but it was a question
rather than an accusation.

"Precipitately," the Termagant said, straight-mouthed and flat-eyed.

Suddenly Hanse has to tell them, no matter the consequences: "Yes.
When I found Moonflower I went wild. I started running, ran into a fish
—a, un, Beysib, and killed it. Her. I think it was the one who ki—
who . . ."

"Oh, I do hope it was!" the almost-sixteen-year-old said ferociously, in
a rather throaty voice.

"Jileel!" the Termagant snapped, inadvertently helping Hanse by pro-
viding the girl's name.

Teretaff glanced at her, and back to Hanse. "I hope so too, Hanse. She
did like you, my wife."

Hanse was surprised to hear himself say, "I loved her, Teretaff."

All three of the others blinked. At last the old woman said, "You have
changed, young man."

Hanse nodded. "We endured much. We even accomplished much, up
in Firaqa."

"Firaqa?"

"A city far north. Strange people with a strange religion. Ruled by a
sort of council of sorcerers. The chief was also the most evil and I sup-
pose the most powerful. He's dead, now. Teretaff, Termagant . . .
Mignureal's powers soared, in Firaqa. She was glad to find a small colony
of S'danzo. They were unwelcome in Firaqa; S'danzo, I mean. That's no
longer true. She . . . Mignureal has remained there, Teretaff. She's an
accomplished Seer, now, an amoushem. Did I say that right?"

"Yes!" the Termagant said, astonishing Hanse by the sudden happy
light in her eyes. "So! She flowered, then, and is respected, with the
Ability."

192 AFTERMATH

"Yes. She Sees, Termagant, Teretaff; Mignue Sees beyond anyone else

in Firaqa."

"She will do well there, then," Teretaff said, with some happiness and
pride mingled with sadness. Tears had appeared in the walnut eyes of the
girl beside the old woman, to hear that her sister was not coming back.
"But—you are here and she there?"

Hanse nodded. "It was not easy. Oh, we had our troubles—probably
mainly because we were under the shadow of sorcery all the time. But I
think we will always love each other. It's just that I had to come back,
and she felt she had to remain there. She is happy there. Established."

"I am glad for her," Jileel said but her voice quavered and she sniffed.

'7am delighted'" the Termagant said, and again she astonished Hanse,
by proving that grim mouth could smile.

Hanse wondered whether Teretaff might have been less equable about
this news had the Termagant not been present, and so enthusiastic. Al-
most he wished that Jileel were not present. She kept staring at him,
staring with those huge dark brown eyes. She always had, he remem-
bered, when he had come to see Moonflower and then Mignureal, but
now it seemed different. She was older, with the cusp of womanhood
newly sealed upon her. And . . . could that be she in there, rather than
the family laundry or a couple of smuggled melons, making her blouse
stand out and strain so? Mignureal had not been constructed so! Of
course her mother had been, but Moonflower had been huge everywhere,
a truly obese woman whose size had made walking difficult for her. (She
also remained the most beautiful woman Hanse had ever known. It was
she who taught him, just by being, that beauty was not something a
person wore, like clothing or skin, but was inside; it was something a

person was.)

He produced the bag and handed it to a surprised Teretaff. It jingled.

"From Mignureal," Hanse told him.

"From Mignureal?" Now it was TeretaflPs eyes that glistened wetly.

Hanse pretended not to notice. He nodded. "She insisted. She is doing
well. That is for you and her sisters and brother, she said. It is, uh,
considerable Firaqi gold, Teretaff. Gold because that way 1 had fewer
coins to carry. Be sure to go to a decent bank to get a fair exchange on
those flame-marked coins, now."

Teretaff smiled, then laughed, and embarrassed himself when laughter
became sobs. In manner womanly, his daughter Jileel went to embrace
him- Uncomfortable, Hanse began backing.

"I have to go now." He swallowed. "Got an appointment, you know."

"Young man."

Hanse swallowed again. "Name's Hanse, ma'am."

HOMECOMING                   193

"Hanse, then. And I am called the Termagant. You know that I am the
senior amoushem; first among the S'danzo with the Ability. Moonflower
liked you. I know, and Mignureal . . . well. I admit that I never had
much—I never had any use for you. That has changed. You may consider
me friend. Hanse.

Still again Hanse swallowed. It was his way not to act honored, but he
could not escape the feeling that this was like being acknowledged friend
by the Prince-Governor, as he had been. Suddenly his stance changed,
and his grin was the old cocky one.

"My occupation hasn't changed. Termagant."

She blinked. "I do not hear you. A friend entrusted a bag of money to
you for her father, and you brought it this long way."

Damn! "Uh . . . well, that's different. You won't tell anyone, will
you?"

"What?"

Hanse shrugged. "I've got my reputation to think of."

"But young ma— Hanse, it is a bad reputation!"

Hanse nodded. "It's mine, Termagant."

Between the old woman and her father, with her arm around him,
Jileel giggled.

The Termagant shook her head. "I, however, have spoken. You are to
consider me friend, Hanse."

"I'll remember. I have to go now."

As he left, he heard the Termagant's voice: "Very well now, Jileel, let's
test you again to see if that really was the Sight . . ."

Hanse hurried on, clucking to Notable, thinking of the considerable
amount of money he had secretly left with that banker in Firaqa for
Mignue, dear Mignue ...

He found a decent place to live, in Red Court in the Maze, and de-
lighted the proprietor by laying down a few coins in advance. Silky the
ever supple and ever ready was for testing the bed; this soon after leaving
Mignureal's family, Hanse just couldn't. He also couldn't admit that. He
pointed out the need to find her employment, and they wandered. Some-
time that afternoon he realized that he had no intention of living with the
tan-haired girl he and his loneliness had acquired up in Suma. All right,
he could handle that; he was not stuck with her and besides she was
obviously not charmed with the Maze, Hanse's natural habitat.

He did succumb to Silky's importunings to buy a melon. As he cut it,
he noticed that the wooden handle of his favorite knife was loose.

"Damn!"

Next he noticed that she was talking animatedly with another of the

194

AFTERMATH

pedlar's customers, a Rankan. Good, he thought, and without any com-
punctions at all he walked away. Silky wasjust Silky, a passing fancy, but
a defective knife was serious business. Using this cut-through and that, he
was soon on the Street of Tanners. Three blocks down from Sly's Place
was Zandulas's Tannery; one had only to follow one's nose to find it and
the busy establishment of Zandulas's next door neighbor, Cholly. Cholly
the Gluemaker was the man to see. Oh, his real name was Chollander,
but only his wife called him that. Cholly performed a number of impor-
tant services for Sanctuary, including the making of glue. In a town
where bodies tended to appear with the morning sun and tended never to
be claimed by anyone, a man who had use for them and thus rendered a
free corpse-collection service was valuable. Come to think, "rendered"
was the right word for the main part of Cholly's activities.

The bear-sized man with the barrel belly greeted Hanse heartily and
with surprise. "Why haven't I seen you for so long, Hanse? Must be a
year or more."

Cholly was alone in his smelly, cluttered place of business, meaning
that his two assistants were out on this errand or that. Taking orders for
delivering glue, probably, or the ancillary products of Cholly's trade.
Selling jewelry, perhaps, or slightly used clothing. A bone or two, maybe.
Or nice long hair, perhaps, to make nice wigs.

Briefly and without much patience, Hanse told Cholly where he had

been.

"I had no idea, Hanse' Oh—I guess you left before that sexy Rankan
gladiator came to town, didn't you?"

"How can a gladiator be s— oh. You mean Chenaya Nutcracker? We,

uh, met, Cholly."

"Oh? Surprised you don't grin when you say that, Shadowspawn.
Surely Milady Swagger either insulted you, tried to kill you, or bedded
you. Or all three."

Hanse clamped his teeth. "She bedded me, Cholly. That's the way it
was, too—she collected me. took me home, and bedded me. She's good-
looking and she's cat-supple, I'll give her that. Bed is another matter. I
didn't enjoy it with her and we will not be doing it again. I prefer
women."

Cholly saw the expression and heard the tone. Considerately and
wisely, he nodded and said nothing at all. Then his visitor laid the
wounded knife on his counter and the huge man shifted to his business
demeanor. He picked it up in a big meaty hand, examined it, said "hmm"

twice, and shrugged.

"Easily fixed, Hanse. Let's just make repairing this a welcome-home
gift," Cholly said, already starting to work. "We'll use dry-tack. It's a

HOMECOMING                    195

special sort of glue I made up; sticks by pressure." He grunted softly; a
man the size of Chollander the Gluemaker seldom found tasks large
enough to require large grunts. "There. Now we apply the dry-tack wet,
so, and allow it to dry. We don't have to wait long. I remember this old
knife from years back. A really superior blade! Oh—you, ah, pick up any
new knives up in Furakka?"

Hanse showed him a couple, knowing this lover of knives would con-
sider both of them exotic because they were of foreign manufacture. "The
really fancy one was a gift from the head mage up in Firaqa, a man
named Arcala."

"Hmp! Never knew you to stay around a mage long enough to receive
a gift! Hard to imagine, from a fellow who hates sorcery worse than
anybody!" Cholly said, admiring it and the other knife Hanse handed
him, a normal enough sticker. He examined both with the respect and
care of a man who knew knives. "Nice," he said, laying them down.
"Here, look at this pretty thing while I finish the job on your old knife."
He placed in Hanse's hand a dagger whose blade was inlaid with silver.

Sensing trade negotiations, Hanse naturally found it necessary to de-
mean the seeming treasure. "Uh. Pretty," he said casually. "I'll bet this
fancy inlay weakens the blade, though."

Sensing an impending trade, Cholly snorted and made a chuckling
noise to show Hanse how silly that was. It was also subject-changing
time:

"Ah yes, this is good now, Hanse- Dry-tack's a really good bonder. I'm
proud of it. It won't stick to slippery surfaces, see, like wax or grease. Or
soap. On the other hand it's easy to peel it off smooth, polished surfaces."

"In that case how can it be strong enough for a knife I need to trust?"

"I said 'peel' it off, Hanse. Pulling it off, breaking the bond—that's
another matter. Believe me, I could glue a handle onto a horse's back and
lift him by it. If I could lift a horse, I mean. It's strong."

That triggered a thought, but Hanse was careful to sound casual when
he asked how one got the stuff off.

Cholly gestured. "Oh, I have a remover for it! Had to come up with
that!"

"Uh. I guess," Hanse said, and decided it was time to swing back to
the potential trade: "How strong d'you think this silvered blade is?"

"It's a dagger, Hanse. I mean, it isn't as if you're going to try throwing
it or chopping trees, is it?"

The ritual of leading up to a transaction had begun. The dickering had
to come first, of course, and the deliberate dropping of the subject for
friendly converse before returning to another offer or "suggestion" of
offer. This time the process took only fifteen or eighteen minutes. When

196 AFTERMATH

Hanse left, Cholly had both Firaqi knives in exchange for the inlaid
dagger and a pot of the dry-tack Hanse called "Cholly's Dry Stickum."
The gluemaker threw in the remover as a courtesy. Their deal made both
men happy-

Hanse returned to the area where he had left Silky. The melon pedlar
had gone on, and apparently so had Silky. A little asking around apprised
him that the tan-haired Sumese girl had departed, with that blond
Rankan. While Hanse's pride was wounded a bit, he was not unhappy.
He did seem to be stuck with the big red cat. By that evening he had left
Notable with Ahdio twice. The moment a door was opened. Notable
hastened to use it and seek out Hanse.

"All right, you damn' cat, let's go home and drop off my new pot of
glue! You'll need to sniff out the place anyhow."

Notable swerved sharply to bang his flank into Hanse's leg. "Maowr!"

"No."

"mew?"

"No, damn it. Notable, we will not stop and get you a beer now!"

Strick's rule was that people came to him; he went to no one. For this
interview he had long wanted, however, he would have gone to the pal-
ace. Prince-Governor Kadakithis would not hear of it. Instead, secretly,
in disguise and terribly early on a Fourday morning as agreed for his
convenience and security, he arrived in Strick's "shop." In this absolute
privacy and confidence, the handsome young Rankan of about Hanse's
age and size astonished Strick; he admitted that he was less than he
wished to be and had decided that it was because he was too indecisive;

fearful of what the Ilsigi would think of him.

"The young half-brother of the emperor," he said quietly, tapping his
chest while studiously not-looking at the spellwright, "always had to be
careful not to offend or even be very visible, you see. Abakithis—the
emperor—was that sort of man. In time, though, he decided that I wasn't
invisible enough. He shipped me out here. The goal was not to do any-
thing for Sanctuary or for me, but to get me out of Ranke!" Kadakithis
sighed. "So, I felt the need to prove something, to do well. Trying too
terribly hard, I was overzealous in trying to clean up this town. In taxing
the Red Lantern Houses and . . . other things."

Strick sat very still. He said absolutely nothing and more, he made no
sound.

Embarrassedly looking at the wall to his right, Kadakithis went on in
that sadly quiet voice: "This morning Lord Abadas, the new emperor's

HOMECOMING                   197

cousin, visited to present himself formally. I disgusted me. I was posi-
tively ingratiating."

After a time he turned his head to look at Strick from pale blue eyes.

"Your efforts and actions were understandable," Strick said just as
quietly. "And with Lord Abadas as well. The man is surely here to keep
an eye on you for his cousin, isn't he. After all, you're half-brother to
. . . Emperor Theron's predecessor in the imperial chair."

Kadakithis shook his head. "No, Strick; I have come to like this town,
both from sympathy and feeling a part of it. If I'm to amount to anyth—
if I'm to help these people in anything approaching the way you have, I'll
need . . ." The Prince-Governor broke off in embarrassment.

Strick didn't need to hear the words. "I like Sanctuary and its sorely
stressed people, too, lord Prince, and ... I must help, I have no
choice."

"I have heard that mysteriousness before, Spellmaster, but I will not
pry. I believe you. If it is pain, then I am sorry. Both of us know pain."

"And so am I sorry, lord Prince, so am I. Now I must warn my lord
Prince about the Price."

Kadakithis nodded. "Naturally I have heard about that, too- I want
that help you've given so many others, Strick."

"The Price is the Price, Prince Kadakithis. It is beyond my control.
Sometimes it is severe and sometimes it is readily bearable. I have no
control over it."

"I know these things, Strick. I said I want that help you've given so
many others. While I am called Kittycat, you are being called Hero of
the People. Is a prince of the people not a person? Shall a prince be
treated as less? Shall a prince be fearful of the Price? I know about it,
Strick. Must a prince cajole?"

Strick rose and bowed. "Noble Lord Prince! I have desired this meet-
ing for months- These people deserve more of their gods and their rulers.
Now you embarrass me; I have wanted to be of aid to you, as you know.
The warning, believe me, is something I give to everyone who comes
here. I must."

Kadakithis nodded. And sat looking expectant. Waiting.

Strick called Avenestra, but met her at the door. She knew that she
was not to enter as usual and not even to see this visitor, and was able not
to try. He let the prince hear him bid her prepare "Saksaraboonmga."
She already had the drink's revolting but harmless ingredients ready,
except for a bit more stirring to mix the vegetable colors of purple and
green. She hurried to do so. Strick waited at the door; Kadakithis sat
very still, staring at nothing past the Firaqi's empty chair. Avenestra
reappeared from the other room to hand her savior a silver goblet. Strick

198 AFTERMATH

paced over to set it on his worktable before his visitor. Kadakithis stiff-
ened, bent forward to peer into the cup, stiffened the more, and tensed his
face. Then, as if accepting a mandated cup of poison, he bravely reached
for it.

"A moment, my lord Prince. Give me something of value."

First Kadakithis gave him a look. "I suppose the ritual bans the use of
the word 'please'?"

Strick stood gazing at him. He said nothing. True, this was a prince
royal of Ranke and governor of this city—co-governor, at least, with his
alien companion. Torezalan Strick tiFiraqa, however, was Tbrezalan
Strick tiFiraqa, Spellmaster and Hero of the People.

From within his pillow-stuffed brown tunic the disguised prince slid a
tiny, beautifully carven box. He set it on the desk and opened it to reveal
a single pearl. As if ritually, Strick only touched it. And looked expec-
tant.

With obvious misgivings and distaste for the concoction Strick had
been at pains to make unpleasant in appearance, odor, and flavor, Prince
Kadakithis drank it down. All of it, without lowering the cup. The man
did know, Strick mused, how to take medicine!

Lowering the drained goblet, Kadakithis shook his head. "And people
think it's easy being a royal! By all gods, Strick, what's in that stuff!"

"Nothing to harm you, lord Prince. A secret formula I have of a
Zimmanabuniga wizard far to the west."

With hands on the lean blond's shoulders, Strick told him that he was
decisive, charismatic, and had no need to lack confidence, "for charisma
and more importantly your intelligence will carry you through, to the
benefit of Sanctuary. You must think much on this, particularly before
sleep and before rising."

The Rankan Prince-Governor of Sanctuary stood and gripped the far
bigger man's hand. Strick noted that the young man stood more erect
than when he had entered. For a few moments they stood gazing into
each other's eyes. Then Kadakithis swung, drew his hooded cloak again
about himself and his padded tunic, and left. With, Strick noted, a firmer
and more confident tread than when he had entered.

Strick sighed. Charlatan, he grumbled at himself, hardly for the first
time. That handsome young man was already charismatic and decisive!
It's just that now he Believes!

Then the spellwright sent Wintsenay to pass the word; Strick needed to
see Hanse.

Kadakithis paid the Price. That same Fourday afternoon he received
word that Taya had fled the palace.

HOMECOMING                   199

Shupansea was amused: "Well after all, she came here as your concu-
bine, my love. And, however pampered, she's had nothing to do for a
long, long while now!" Then: "On the other hand, I would recom-
mend—"

"Never mind," Kadakithis said with cool decisiveness. "I have already
decided to take no action whatsoever. This cannot reflect badly on me,
but will serve as further proof of how truly you and I love each other."

Shu-sea blinked. "Well. How very clever—no, how very intelligent of
you, my love!"

Yes, he thought. And the point is, this is obviously the Price I must pay
for Strick's help. even if it costs me face.

An hour later a bank messenger arrived to tell Strick that someone had
just deposited sixty unshaved golden Imperials to his account, each coin
bearing the face of the previous emperor. Strick smiled and nodded. He
knew who it was from, and wondered what other Price Kadakithis was
paying.

A short time later, Hanse responded to Strick's request to visit. He met
the young Lady Esaria on her way out. Neither recognized the other
because neither knew the other.

Somewhere, the goddess Eshi smiled.

"Hanse," Strick said without any preamble at all, "a man needs your
help. A client needs a service only you can perform."

Hanse put on his face of sweet innocence. "I can't imagine what you
mean."

Strick's smile was cursory; dutiful, "A wall or two needs to be scaled.
A house and a room or two need to be entered. An item needs to be
fetched."

"Ah! I've heard of just the roach you need. He's called Shadowspawn,
I believe."

"Do you think he will perform this service?"

"Probably. He usually works for himself. But, if the price is
right . . ." Hanse gestured eloquently. "Tell me about this . . . mis-
sion."

"The price is right," Strick said, and told him about the mission.

"Oh, no! Not a sorcerer!"

"Hanse! After your experiences with the real thing up in Firaqa, this
boy will pose you no problem. True, he was apprentice to Markmor the
Archmage, but Markmor was found dead even before I came here. A lot
of mages have come and gone, Hanse."

Hanse nodded. "I remember that big one with the blue star on his
forehead . . ."

200 AFTERMATH

"Lythande," Strick said.

"Lythande! Odd name for a man!"

"That one will not be back, Hanse. Lythande does not like this town at
all, and will never be back."

"You know a lot, Strick. for a newcomer who's been here only a few
months."

Strick nodded. "Yes. I make it my business to learn things. Sanctuary
is my business, now. And I, believe me, am here to stay. And we were
discussing a certain venture concerning a roach and one Marype."

"Oh but Father Us, how I hate sorcery!"

Strick stared. "Perhaps you will refer me to a brave professional, then."

"Bastard!" The professional thief made a show of his sigh. "What does
he have that you want . . . acquired?"

Strick held out his hand. An earring gleamed brightly in his palm: a
glowing black stone caged in good gold. "The mate to this. It was torn
from its wearer's ear and now that swinish mage is using it to harm him."

"Nadeesh," Hanse murmured, and sighed. He nodded, gestured.

Strick told him a bit more. Reluctantly, Hanse named a price. Discon-
certingly, Strick did not even bother to dicker. He rose, placed the ear-
ring in Hanse's hand, bade him grip it and try to visualize its mate, and
laid hands on the best cat-thief in Sanctuary.

"Now. You will be able to find it, once you're in its proximity. If it is in
a container, bring it that way. This is important."

Once more Hanse sighed. "A sorcerer! Gods, how I hate sorcery!"

Strick merely gazed at him.

The younger man rose. "It will be done, Strick," Shadowspawn said
casually, on his way out.

Strick surprised him with the standard benison on a thief: "May the
night-dark cloak cover you and your actions this night," Meanwhile the
spellwright was thinking: How interesting. He keeps company with an
ensorceled cat and wears a dagger that's the product of sorcery. Hates it,
hmm?

Hanse wandered his town, thinking and working to relax as he pre-
ferred to do before an important reaching venture. He noted reconstruc-
tion, a purse-cutting, the painting of various buildings, the large number
of foreigners imported to handle the work. Occasionally he returned—or
ignored—a startled greeting. He saw Beysib mingling with Ilsigi and
Rankans. Near the marketplace he was surprised to see large dark eyes
peeping at him; the girl he had thought of only as Mignue's little sister.
He pretended not to notice. Beard of Us' Jileel! All grown up and seem-
ingly smuggling watermelons—and still staring!

HOMECOMING                   201

Noise at a wall's reconstruction site attracted him. He ambled that
way, seeing that it was a real uprising. While disgruntled Ilsigi laborers
mutter-muttered, refusing to work, a big fellow harangued them. He was
ranting loudly about the way these walls were wrecked, among other
destruction and deaths, and how the gods were angry at Sanctuary, and
why should "we fix and put back a wall for those damned oversea Beys
occupying our palace!" Imported workers meanwhile stood away. Unin-
volved, they performed that act known as honoring the strike, meaning
they stood or sat around enjoying the break.

Some of the bully's words made sense to Hanse Things were bad here
when I left, and obviously got a lot worse. I hate these loudmouthed
rabble-rousers, but . . .

Suddenly a lean, blond young man appeared, wearing a leather apron
over his well-made blue tunic. He commenced working. Stone dust flew.
Brave fellow, Hanse thought. Brave fool! Then he frowned, seeing the
ranter pick up a jagged chunk of stone and take aim at the sole
worker . . .

Almost out of sight, the three Beys sent by Shupansea to watch over
her beloved drew bowstrings to slay the rabble-rouser in defense of
Kada—

And Hanse threw. His flat lozenge of knife rushed to slice across the
back of the big fellow's hand so that he dropped the stone with a scream.
Another scream followed: he had dropped it on his own foot. Laughter
rose as he danced, simultaneously squealing and cursing.

The Beysibs lowered their bows and went back to looking invisible
while everyone watched the dark, wiry young man who came running
into the work area, wearing a good green tunic and nice doeskin leggings.
The daring young worker in the leather apron, having retrieved the
thrown knife, stared while the newcomer faced the loudmouth.

"Go away, Tarkle," Hanse shouted. "All that babble you've been giv-
ing out is just that—everybody knows you just don't like to work."

The big rabble-rouser with the bloody hand, once again discovering
that bullying was becoming a more and more hazardous pastime,
glowered and made surly noises. He also noticed the deadly eyes and
several other knives on the person of a known expert he had thought was
long gone from Sanctuary. Tarkle backed off—limping. Suddenly Hanse
and leather-apron were exchanging stares of recognition:

"Prince!"

"Hanse!"

Excited noises went through the assemblage along with the usual rum-
ble-rumble as they watched the Prince-Governor himself pounce onto a
high spot and extend a hand to Hanse.

202 AFTERMATH

"See who works on the walls of Sanctuary?" Kadakithis called, in a
loud clear voice. "A Rankan! See who saves him from a murderous bully
who knows not what he's doing?—an Ilsig ... my friend."

Hanse's eyes rolled. Oh blast! There goes my credibility!

Kadakithis spoke on, startling all of them with his confidence and
charismatic eloquence. They cheered! His people went back to work—
with Kadakithis.

Damn, Hanse thought cheerlessly, stooping to grasp a big cut slab of
stone. I'm stuck! I can't just walk off and leave the Prince-Gov working
like a Downwinder! But . . . damn! Work! Me!

Since Markmor's death, Hanse learned the following Eshday afternoon
from one of the fixture/characters of the Maze, the street cleaner and
trash picker called Old Thumpfoot, the quite young Marype had secretly
set himself up in Lastel's villa, whether legally or otherwise.

"How nice," Shadowspawn murmured, meandering along the Serpen-
tine. He knew that well-appointed villa, and the late Lastel/One-
Thumb's secret. All he had to do was use the tunnel connecting the house
with a House; the brothel called Lily Garden. True, he had an idea about
Cholly's dry-tack, but he'd try that another time. Cheered by that pros-
pect, he dropped in to the Vulgar Unicorn for a piece of cheese and an
apple. He'd eat a proper meal afterward, if his stomach agreed. He tar-
ried, more than civil and almost loquacious to the surprise of a couple of
old acquaintances. He left their company at sunset, taking a small pail of
beer home to his new second-floor room. Notable was happy to see him
and more than happy with the beer. He lapped with gusto while Hanse
stretched out to rest and think.

No question about it, entry will be like slicing pie. Now what am I likely
to need? he thought, and his smile faded. Blast. Here previously, and up
in Firaqa, he had grown accustomed to Mignue's warnings and direc-
tions!

Suppose I'm in and it turns out that I should have brought a brown
crossed pot, or a copper kettle, or . . .

"Gulp," he said aloud, trying to shame himself out of unwonted ner-
vousness that was as uncharacteristic as his affability to the Vulg.

Notable looked up from his whisker-grooming. " 'rraow?"

"I said cats aren't supposed to belch, you beer-guzzling greedbag."

Hanse directed his thoughts to Nadeesh, and from that unfortunate
man to Strick. That man's going to make a Difference, he reflected. Al-
ready has! Twice he shocked Notable by lurching up into a sitting posi-
tion and snapping a throw. He had not told his landlord why he had
grunted up here to his room with the old wooden wheel. It was inordi-

HOMECOMING                   203

nately thick and joined by pegs rather than nails. Braced against the wall
farthest from the bed with the iron rim removed, it made a nice target.
The throwing star he sent straight into the hub; the slender wafer of a
knife from its sheath on his right upper arm missed by an inch.

"Must be getting old," he muttered, swinging off the bed to retrieve
both missiles. Pacing back to the bed, he whirled and threw. The flat,
hiltless and guardless knife appeared in the hub. Tired of the violent
nonsense, Notable said "rrawwrr!" and pounced.

"Ouch! How'd you like to become my favorite target, Notable you
dam' cat?"

A couple of hours later he rose again and stripped, to change into his
blacks; his work clothes. Notable seemed already to understand this rit-
ual, whether or not cats saw colors: the big red animal pounced up onto
the shelf under the window and looked from it to his human.

"You're right," Shadowspawn said, double checking the lock on his
door. "That's the way we go out tonight, m'friend."

They did.

An hour later, both of them had easily gained silent-entry to the large
house formerly occupied by one Lastel/One-Thumb and now the lair of a
young mage many thought dead. Hanse was sure they were wrong, al-
though by now he had heard tales of the legions of walking and indeed
wandering dead who had plagued Sanctuary's streets during his absence.
No. Marype was alive. A look in the kitchen provided evidence of occu-
pancy and recent cooking. A bed on the second floor had been used
recently. In fact that bed looked as if Marype had lately entertained
company. The tall cabinet-like press contained clothing. Not that of the
departed Lastel, surely; expert eyes found membranous black gloves and
noted that the thumbs of both were expanded by wear. On the point of
keeping those nice thin gloves, the silent intruder decided against it. He'd
steal nothing from the lair of a sorcerer; only that property of another
which he was here to retrieve. He departed the bedroom without search-
ing further, remembering the spellwright's words that he would know
when he was nigh Nadeesh's earring.

Soft-soled buskins as silent on good carpet as Notable's pads, a living
shadow roamed dim corridors and stepped briefly into well-furnished
chambers. Some had been long closed, he saw; he passed them without
opening their doors. Man and cat saw no one and heard no sound. Nota-
ble gave no indication that he scented any. Once he paused, head and one
foot uplifted, and his companion went to the corridor wall like a shadow.
A dark knife had materialized in his hand even as he squatted. Notable
ambled over. Shadowspawn didn't touch the animal, waiting for any

204

AFTERMATH

further indication of danger. Notable gave none. After several silent mo-
ments his human tapped his back with the knife.

"Dumbhead," Shadowspawn whispered, and Notable immediately
commenced purring. "Shhh!" He rose and ghosted on, purring cat pacing

close by.

At last they came to a room containing a worktable and things that

made the hair twitch on Shadowspawn's nape and writhe under his
working blacks. Notable's purring stopped as if sliced. Ogods, how I hate

sorce—

Abruptly he knew that the earring was in that nice little mahogany

casket. Nice work, Strick. On the point of opening the box, he paused,
cocked his head, and stepped to one side. From there he flipped up the lid
with the point of one of his knives. He heard the concealed trigger and
watched the slender dart fling itself straight up into the ceiling with a tiny
thunk of impact. Notable went into a low crouch while Shadowspawn
nodded at sight of the little box's contents. Bloodstains, too. Still using
the knife, he tipped the lid and waited alertly. Nothing happened save
that the lid dropped almost noiselessly back into place. On the point of
snatching it and departing this silent chamber whose contents made him
horripilate, he spotted several strands of hair on the table. He popped
them into the box, wrapped it in a nice strip of scarlet cloth off the table,
and slipped it into his black upper garment. With rather unseemly haste,
he vacated the chamber of Marype's sorceries.

Easy as slicing pie. he reflected as he hurried down to the concealed
entry to the old tunnel. Just as good as ever, without any help from

Mignureal or anyone else!

In that musty old tunnel he heard a rat and saw another and then he
saw ghastly eeriness. Ghost images seemed frozen, locked in eternal com-
bat. It looked like—could that be old One-Thumb? Surely not, he
thought, and that was when the rat pounced.

It was big, a rat the size of a normal cat, which Notable was not.
Shadowspawn was only just able to duck, flailing. The cat had already
pounced at the rat with a long ugly "Rrrawwwww," and Hanse smiled in
anticipation of a swift squeaky massacre. A flurry of action wiped away
his smile and brought a grunt from his throat; a big red shape went
hurtling backward to flop loosely on hardpacked earth.

"Notable!"

Shadowspawn slammed a throwing knife into the rat, then another.
His eyes went wide and he felt his nape hairs stir again at sight of both
blades passing through the creature, bloodlessly. Shock immobilized him
long enough for the rat to leap upon him and sink its fangs into his arm.
Hanse groaned and bit his lip while he clamped the unnaturally heavy

HOMECOMING                   205

beast with his right hand. The rat felt just as strong as he. Its fangs were
like thick needles and the pain was awful when he tried to pull the huge
rodent away. Sweat coated him in seconds. Despite the fact that the other
knives had accomplished nothing against what was obviously sorcery, he
could not give it up. Even as the rat-thing gnawed him and his brain
began to stagger in a red haze of pain, a terrified Shadowspawn drew
Cholly's dagger and stabbed, slashed.

With a shriek and a horrid jolt that made him cry out, the sorcerous
thing vanished. So did the pain in Hanse's arm and the mark there. Yet
his glance showed him a satisfying smear of blood on the dagger's silver-
inlaid blade. Pouncing to take up the unconscious Notable, Shadow-
spawn ran.

I didn 't name Strick a high enough price/

Emerging like the shadow of a ghost into the Lily Garden, he ducked
an amorously entwined couple who never saw him. A downward glance
showed him that the big heavy cat in his arms had one eye slitted open. It
gazed greenly up at him.

"Oh, Notable, you omery faker! See who gets the beer after this night's
work!"

Notable made a distinctly unpleasant remark. Hanse tarried to be cute
with the Lily Garden's proprietor, Amoli, but not for long.

A few minutes after his departure, Amoli was bustling along the tunnel
to tell Marype a few things . . .

Early Anenday morning Strick himself arrived at the home ofNadeesh
the leech. Using the earring with its brown-stained post, Strick easily
"cured" the physician- Nadeesh upheld his bargain: he agreed to sell the
Vulgar Unicorn (which he wanted to get rid of anyhow!) to Strick
tiFiraqa. Strick kept the sorcerer's box and the few strands of human
hair. Marype's hair.

"There, Snapper Jo. Do you have any further doubts that I have power
over you?"

The cowering demon shook its hideous head.

"Good," the new owner of the Vulgar Unicorn said. "You've just been
replaced. Go find other employment."

By the following night a native Ilsigi had been installed as night bar-
man at the Vulg; seeing that former carpenter Abohorr had lost a digit,
everyone immediately delighted in calling him One-Thumb. Later that
evening those same patrons were astonished and proud to see in their
favorite haunt here in the very heart of the Maze: the white spellmaster
Strick and Lady Esaria (with two bodyguards, of course). They seemed

206                   AFTERMATH

to have a nice time. Even drunks were sensible enough to say nothing
untoward to the spellmaster's lady.

No one knew that Strick owned the place. As a matter of fact hardly
anyone knew that Nadeesh had owned it. Most patrons did like the new
serving girl. Silky, with her odd accent.

That same Moondy night Hanse ambled along, richer by quite a bit
and actually trying not to swagger. As he passed an alley he was hit by a
stagger spell, grabbed by three large toughs, punched, drugged, bound,
gagged, and popped into a big cloth bag. Callous men hurried him to the
waterfront. Their bagged burden thought of the stories he'd heard of
slavers, right here in Sanctuary. Groggily he recognized one voice among
the three: Tarkle. In the rope-bound sack, Hanse was boosted onto the
ship Asienta and tumbled into the hold with a mild splash. He listened to
the hatch being screwed down tightly. Groggily he heard that the ship
sailed tomorrow for the far Bandaran Islands.