Thieves World Book #09
Blood Ties

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae		Lynn Abbey

Introduction			Robert Lynn Asprin

Lady of Fire			Diana L. Paxson

Sanctuary Is for Lovers		Janet & Chris Morris
Lovers Who Slay Together	Robin Wayne Bailey
In the Still of the Night	C.J. Cherryh
No Glad in Gladiator		Robert Lynn Asprin
The Tie That Binds		Diane Duane
Sanctuary Nocturne		Lynn Abbey
Spellmaster			Andrew Offutt and Jodie Offutt

Afterword			C.J. Cherryh

Dramatis Personae

The Townspeople

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

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

GILLA, His indomitable wife.

ALFI, Their youngest son.

LATILLA, Their daughter.

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

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

WEDEMIR, Their son and eldest child.

DUBRO, Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra.

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

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

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

HAKIEM, Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire.

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

SALIMAN, His aide and only friend.

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

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

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

MYRTIS, Madam of the Aphrodesia House.

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

ESARIA, His daughter.

EXPIMILIA, His wife.

CUSHARLAIN, His cousin. A customs inspector and investigator.

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

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

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

The Magicians

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

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

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

Others

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

The Rankans living in Sanctuary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SYNC, Commander of the 3rd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gods

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

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

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

SABELLIA, Mother goddess  for the Rankan  Empire.

SAVANKALA, Father  god for the Rankan Empire.

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

SHIPRI, Mother goddess of the old Ilsigi kingdom.

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

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

The Beysib

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

INTRODUCTION

Robert Lynn Asprin

For the first time in over a decade, Hakiem found himself seriously  considering
leaving his adopted home of Sanctuary.

Leaning out a window on one of  the upper levels of the palace, he  surveyed the
town below  as he  thought-yet even  this depressed  him. He  had always enjoyed
walking the streets, first as a  storyteller and later as advisor to  the Beysib
Empress. The town had always had  a rough vibrancy, like the rich  organic smell
of a swamp, and he  drank it in along with  the rumors to assure himself  of the
city's survival.  Now, however,  he found  that he  rarely ventured  down to the
streets to savor it.

Not that he was afraid for his safety, mind you. Whether it was due to his  long
standing  membership   in  the   community,  his   well  known   neutrality  and
harmlessness, deference to his position as the Beysa's advisor, or a combination
of all of these factors, his passage through town was never challenged.  Rather,
he  often hid  within the  palace shadows  and corridors  to spare  himself  the
heartache of witnessing what was happening to his beloved Sanctuary.

The spirit  of the  town he  knew had  been born  of parents  named Poverty  and
Desperation. While he had cursed the crime and filth along with the rest of  the
citizens,  there had  also been  a secret  pride in  the inherent  toughness  of
Sanctuary's  inhabitants.  Like the  scrappy  optimism of  a  bright-eyed gutter
predator, there had been a certainty  that the town would survive regardless  of
whatever hardships fate or the Rankan Empire could throw at it. Small moments of
tenderness or self-sacrificing  heroics shone  all the  brighter here,  as uncon
testable evidence of the strength of the human spirit.

Then two changes occurred almost simultaneously: the Beysib arrived and  Ranke's
Stormgod had either died or retreated into oblivion.

As Sanctuary's fortunes literally rose through the influx of Beysib wealth,  the
Empire's prestige and power  had begun to wane-and  the very nature of  the city
altered.  Instead of  small, vicious  fights for  survival, the  town sank  into
selfish  power squabbles  which were  proving more  deadly and  disruptive  than
anything the citizens had known before. Instead of desperation and poverty,  the
stench of greed hung over the town and Hakiem found it stifling.

Perhaps he should leave... soon, before the current disorder wiped out what  few
pleasant memories remained.  If the new  path of the  town was fixed,  he had no
idea to ...

"You are very quiet. Wise One, for someone who earns his living with his  nimble
tongue."

Jolted  from his  reverie, Hakiem  turned to  find Shupansea,  living avatar  of
Mother Bey and hereditary, if exiled, ruler of the Beysib Empire, regarding  him
with the delighted  smile of a  child who has  caught his teacher  in a spelling
error.

"Your pardon, 0 Beysa. I did not hear you approach."

"There are no  others about, Hakiem.  Formalities between us  are necessary only
before unfriendly eyes.  Besides, I doubt  you would have  heard an entire  army
approaching. Where is the habitual wariness  you've tried so hard to instill  in
me?"

"I... I was thinking."

The smile disappeared from the Beysa's face to be replaced with an expression of
concern as she laid a soft hand on her advisor's arm. "I know. You seem  unhappy
of late. Wise  One. I've missed  the talks we  used to have.  In fact, I've  set
aside time today specifically to seek you out and learn your mind. You've helped
me so often in the past that gold alone cannot repay it. Tell me, what  troubles
you? Is there anything I can do to ease your concerns?"

Despite his depression, Hakiem was touched by the sincere concern of this  young
woman who  had been  raised to  rule an  empire and  found herself  in Sanctuary
instead. While a part of him instinctively wanted to hide his feelings, he  felt
compelled to respond honestly.

"I fear for my town,"  he said, turning to gaze  out the window once more.  "The
people have changed since the Beysib arrived.

"Not  that I  blame you,"  he amended  hastily. "You  had to  go somewhere,  and
certainly your people have done everything possible to adapt to what I know is a
very strange and often hostile environment to you.

"No. What has  happened to my  town was done  by those who  have lived here  the
longest. Oh, true enough, many of the changes were forced on them by the  Rankan
Empire and its gods-and  I know that all  things must change. Still,  I fear the
townspeople have lost the will and  certainly the wisdom to survive the  changes
which must  follow as  surely as  a storm  follows lightning.  Even now  the new
Rankan Emperor gathers troops to-"

He stopped abruptly as he realized the Beysa was laughing silently.

"I had not intended to be  amusing," he said stiffly, anger flashing  just below
the  surface.  "While  I  know  the  problems  of  a  mere  storyteller  pale to
insignificance before-"

"Forgive me. Wise One. I meant no disrespect. It's just that you.... Please, let
me be the teacher for once."

To Hakiem's surprise, she  joined him at the  window, leaning far over  the sill
until only the tips of her bare toes touched the cool floor.

"I fear you are too close to the problem," she said solemnly. "You know so  much
about  Sanctuary  and  watch  so  many of  its  citizens  that  you  have become
overwhelmed by surface changes and are blind to the currents moving beneath. Let
me tell you what I see as someone new to Sanctuary.

"You underestimate your town. Wise One. You love it so much that you think  that
no one else does-but that is incorrect. In the two years since my people arrived
here, I  have yet  to meet  a man,  woman, or  child of  Sanctuary who  did not,
despite their very loud protests to  the contrary, care as deeply for  Sanctuary
as you do, though they may show it differently. And I find, to my surprise, that
their feelings are quite contagious."

She caught his surprised glance and  laughed again. "Yes, I find that  even with
the blood of  forty generations of  Beysas and our  island empire running  in my
veins, neither I  nor my goddess  has been immune  to the lure  of your town. At
first it seemed to me to be vicious and barbaric, and it is, but there is a zest
and vigor here that is invigorating  and quite lacking in my own  very civilized
people. While you may fear that it has changed or lost, as one watching  through
new eyes, I can tell you that  it is still there, and if anything  it's stronger
than when we arrived. Oh, they may squabble over their new wealth and power, but
this  is  still Sanctuary.  If  threatened, the  people  here will  fight  or do
whatever is necessary to keep that feeling of independence and freedom they have
toiled so long for. The Beysib will be at their side, for my people and I are  a
part of it, just as you and yours are."

After that, she lapsed  into silence and, side  by side, they studied  the town,
living symbols of  the old and  the new Sanctuary.  In their own  thoughts, they
each hoped desperately that she was right.

LADY OF FIRE

Diana L. Paxson

A peach tree  grew in the  courtyard below Lalo's  stairs. It was  only a little
tree, but Gilla  had covered its  roots with straw  to protect it  from cold and
dribbled precious water around it when the sun burned in the sky, caring for  it
as  she cared  for her  children, and  through war  and wizard  weather it   had
survived. But in the bitter spring of the Emperor's visit to Sanctuary the  tree
stood barren, with scarcely a leaflet on its twisted branches, and no blooms.

Lalo paused beside it  on his way to  the palace, wishing that  he could breathe
life into the tree as he had once breathed life into the work of his hands.  But
with the destruction of the Nisibisi Globes of Power everyone's magic seemed  to
have become as strengthless as Master Ahdio's cheap ale; Lalo dared not test his
own. And even at his most powerful, he had only transformed symbols, not already
living things.

He did not know if he could create anything anymore.

The building behind him was as silent  as it had been in the dreadful  days when
Gilla was  Roxane's captive.  Latilla and  Alfi were  with Vanda  at the palace.
Wedemir was enviously watching the Stepsons maneuver themselves back into  shape
for  campaign, and  Gilla herself  was at  the Aphrodisia  House, watching  over
Illyra's  slow recovery  from the  wound she  had taken  in the  riots when  her
daughter died.

If Illyra's body had been all that needed healing it would not have been so bad,
Lalo thought. But  it seemed to  him that both  women were nursing  grief like a
child. A pang twisted in his own belly at the memory-his middle son, Ganner, had
been struck down, outside the goldsmith's shop where he was apprenticed, in that
same climax of disorder that had killed Illyra's girl.

The town was quiet now, but it was the peace of exhaustion-more like a coma than
the  sleep of  healing, and  who could  tell whether  Sanctuary, or  any of  its
people, would awaken to life again?

Lalo shivered and squinted at the sky.  Even if it was useless, he ought  to get
up to the  palace before the  morning light was  gone. As part  of a sequence of
political and religious negotiations which Lalo did not even try to  understand,
Molin Torchholder  had commissioned  him to  paint an  allegorical mural  of the
Wedding of the Storm God and Mother Bey. The work was as lifeless as  everything
else he did these days, but he was getting paid for it. And he did not know what
else he could do.

"She was going to be pretty..." said Illyra in an oddly conversational tone. "My
Lillis had golden hair like her father's, do you remember? I used to comb it and
wonder how anything that pretty could have been born from me...."

"Yes," answered Gilla quietly. "I know."  She had only seen Illyra's daughter  a
few  times,  but  that  did  not matter  now.  "Ganner  was  the  fairest of  my
children..." Her throat closed.

"How can you understand?" exclaimed  the half-S'danzo suddenly. "You still  have
children! But my daughter is dead and they have taken my little boy away!  There
is nothing left for me."

"Your child was young," said Gilla heavily. "You do not know what she would have
been. But all the labor  of raising my boy to  manhood is wasted. He will  never
give me grandchildren now. I have buried one infant and lost one from the  womb;
the boy that was born after Ganner died of a fever when he was six years old.  I
know the pain  of losing them  at all ages,  Illyra, and I  tell you truly  that
whatever age your child is taken from you is the worst. But I will bear no more.
You are still young-you can have other children."

"What for?" Illyra  said harshly. "So  that this town  can kill them,  too?" She
sank back upon the silken pillows with which the Aphrodisia House furnished even
a sickroom and closed her eyes.

From somewhere on the floor below them  came a mocking echo of music. The  faded
silk of the  cushions glowed softly  in the afternoon  light, but to  Gilla they
seemed as colorless as everything else had been since that terrible day when  so
many died. Illyra was right-why give more hostages to malicious fate?

Someone  scratched  hesitantly  at  the  door.  When  neither  Gilla  nor Illyra
answered,  it opened  softly and  Myrtis, a  little thinner,  but as  impeccably
painted and jeweled as ever, came in.

"How is she today?" She gestured toward the half-S'danzo, who lay with her  eyes
tightly closed.

Gilla got to  her feet and  moved heavily to  meet the older  woman-at least one
assumed that  Myrtis was  older, and  today she  looked it,  as if the spells by
which Lythande had  preserved her  famous beauty  were fading  too. Molin  Torch
holder's gold had paid for Illyra's convalescence here, but the famous madam  of
the Aphrodisia House had given them more than a landlady's care.

"The scar is healing,  but Illyra grows weaker,"  Gilla said in a  low voice. "I
think she does not want to live. And why should she?" she added bitterly.

For a moment Myrtis's  eyes glittered. "Do you  need a reason? Life  is the only
thing there is! After all she's survived, and you, too, are you going to give up
and let them win?" Her gesture seemed to encompass everything outside the  room.
Then  she  drew  back   her  hand  as  if   surprised  by  her  own   intensity.

"In any case,  there are others  who need her,"  she continued more  calmly. She
moved aside and Gilla saw another figure in the doorway behind her, tall,  black
haired, with a lithe  poise that the rich  gown she wore so  awkwardly could not
disguise and an energy that made even Gilla give way as she swept into the  room
past Myrtis.

"What are you doing? She's not well enough-" Gilla began as the newcomer  strode
to the bed where Illyra lay, and stood looking down at her.

"They say  the S'danzo  have no  gods, and  no mages,"  the woman  said gruffly.
"Well, the gods the rest of us had aren't talking these days, and the mages  are
useless. I need information. My old  comrades said you're honest. What will  you
take to See for me?"

"Nothing." Illyra pulled herself up against the pillows, stony-eyed.

"Oh, no-enough of my comrades came to you  in the old days that I know you  keep
to the traditional rule. If you take my coin you are bound to answer me...." She
pulled gold from her pouch and held it out. Furiously, Illyra dashed it from her
hand.

"Do you know who I am?" the woman said dangerously.

"I know you. Lady Kama, and there is nothing in Sanctuary that will make me  See
for you!" She  caught her breath  on a half-sob.  "I could not  even if I would.
When my-in the riots-my cards were destroyed.  I am as blind as any of  the rest
of you now!" She finished with bitter triumph.

"But  I  have  to know!"  Kama  said  angrily. "I  have  promised  to wed  Molin
Torchholder,  but  when  I ask  him  about  the ceremony  he  puts  me off  with
theological caveats. And the Stepsons are taking the Third Commando with them on
some mysterious campaign-all my old comrades! I could go with them-I'd rather go
with them, but I have to know what I should do!"

Illyra shrugged. "Do what you please."

Considering that Molin  Torchholder had taken  Illyra's other child  away, Gilla
thought the S'danzo's reaction to this request from his woman mild.

Kama bent suddenly and  gripped Illyra's shoulders. "What  does that have to  do
with it? I've sworn oaths-they still  bind me even if the gods  aren't listening
anymore, and I've  lost too much  blood in this  town to just  walk away without
knowing why.  Do you  think I've  stopped being  a warrior  because I'm  wearing
these?" She  twitched angrily  at the  rich folds  of her  skirts. "I  will have
answers, woman, if I have to wring them out of you!"

Illyra shook her head. "Can you wring  blood from a stone? Do whatever you  like
to me-I have no answers anymore."

"There may be  no blood left  in your veins,"  Kama said dangerously,  "but what
about your husband's? I've learned a lot in this cesspool you call home-will you
sing the same song when you see me applying some of that knowledge to Dubro?"

"No..." said Illyra faintly. "He has nothing to do with this. You can't make him
suffer for me . .."

"Were you somehow under the impression that life is fair?" Kama straightened and
stood looking down at her. "I will do whatever I have to do."

Gilla looked from her to Myrtis,  who was watching with a faint  half-smile. Had
the madam of  the Aphrodisia House  put Kama up  to this in  an attempt to shake
Illyra out of her depression? She could  believe it of Myrtis, but she found  it
hard to imagine Kama cooperating in anyone else's schemes.

"But I cannot..."  said Illyra pitifully.  "I told you.  I have no  cards. And I
cannot borrow a set-each deck is attuned  to the S'danzo who owns it. Mine  came
to me from my  grandmother, and there is  no S'danzo craftsman in  this town who
could paint a new deck for me."

Kama stared at her.  Then her gray gaze  moved thoughtfully from the  S'danzo to
Gilla and back again.

"But you know the patterns of the cards-"

Now it was Illyra's turn to stare.

"And her husband is a  painter who is said to  have certain powers ..." As  Kama
continued, Gilla  read in  Illyra's face  her own  anguished awareness that they
both still had hostages to fate.

"Molin Torchholder is the  limner's patron. He will  order Lalo to come  to you,
and together you will make a new  deck of cards. And then-" Kama's lips  twisted
in what was  intended to be  a sweet smile.  "Then we will  see if there  is any
magic left in this world."

Lalo pinned another  rectangle of stiff  vellum to his  drawing board. He  could
feel the tension in his neck and shoulders, and Illyra looked pale, with a sheen
of perspiration on her brow. The two cards they had already finished were drying
in the sunshine that came through the window.

"Are you ready?" he asked softly through the mask over his mouth he always  wore
now while working, to keep his  breath from accidentally giving life to  what he
made. "We don't have to do any more today. ..." Even if he had had the energy to
continue, he did not think that the S'danzo woman could go on much longer.

"One more..." Illyra winced as  she pulled herself upright against  the pillows.
She was pushing herself. Lalo wondered  if she was beginning to feel  incomplete
without a set of cards, as he always did without drawing materials somewhere  at
hand, or if she simply wanted to get rid of Kama.

"The  next  card  is the  Three  of  Flames," said  Illyra.  Her  voice altered,
developed a peculiarly flat timbre, as if even visualizing the cards was  enough
to push her into the seer's trance. "There  is a tunnel, dark at one end and  at
the other bright. In  the tunnel I see  three figures bearing torches.  Are they
moving toward light or darkness? I cannot tell...."

As if the S'danzo's words had entranced him, Lalo found his hand moving, dipping
up dark pigment for the shadows  and red-orange for the three bright  flowers of
flame. As Illyra spoke of the meaning of the card, shape and color emerged  from
the slip of vellum before him as if his brush were a wand that made visible what
had always been implicit there.

The torchbearers were in silhouette, their  faces hidden, but he could see  that
one was  small, one  broad, one  wiry and  active. Could  the big shape be Molin
Torchholder? Lalo finished painting in the number of the card, and in the moment
between the last brush stroke and his return to normal consciousness he  thought
he saw  something of  Gilla in  the larger  figure. Perhaps  the other  two were
Illyra and himself, then, but were they moving into deeper shadow or toward  the
light?

Lalo straightened and looked  at Illyra, who lay  back against her pillows  with
the stillness of sleep,  or trance. There were  dark smudges beneath her  closed
eyes, as if he had touched her with his paint-stained finger there. He had  felt
the power moving  through him as  he painted, but  this time the  meaning of his
work was hidden from him even when he came out of his own trance of creation and
looked at the cards.

The  three flame-cards  that were  finished glowed  in the  sunlight that   came
through the  window, the  colors seeming  to vibrate  with their  own energy.  /
should be grateful, thought the limner. At least now I know that my hands  still
have power. But he did not  understand what he had painted, and  something ached
in his belly at  the anguish he saw  in Illyra's shut face.  Carefully, quietly,
fearing to disturb her, Lalo began to put his paints away.

"The cards  are beautiful,"  said Gilla.  "So many  of Lalo's recent commissions
have been murals, I'd forgotten how lovely his detail work can be." She laid the
root card of Wood  carefully back atop the  pile. The rich greens  and browns of
the  "Forest  Primeval" seemed  to  glow with  their  own light,  like  sunshine
slanting through  innumerable leaves.  Molin Torchholder's  demand had  for  the
moment given the marriage mural precedence over Kama's commission for the cards,
even though the deck was nearly finished now. Illyra was nearly well now too, in
body. But she and Gilla had grown accustomed to each other's company.

"I hate them," said Illyra in a low voice.

Gilla looked back at the couch, an angry defense of Lalo's work trembling on her
tongue. The S'danzo's  eyes were closed,  but the slow  tears were welling  from
beneath her shut lids. Gilla stifled her anger and went to the other woman, took
a damp cloth, and began to sponge her cheeks and brow.

"My dear, my dear,  it's all right now...."  It was the instinctive  murmur of a
mother to a sick child.

"It is not all right!" said Illyra in a hard voice. "To See, I must open  myself
to the Great Pattern-become one with it and channel the part that relates to the
question the querent has asked. But I do not believe in the Pattern anymore."

Gilla nodded. Men killing each other was one thing, whether in battle or in  the
back streets of Sanctuary, but how  could there be any purpose in  the senseless
death of a child? Memory brought her a sudden image of Ganner's eighth birthday,
when Lalo had brought him  clay and a set of  modeler's tools. The light in  the
boy's face had stamped him and Lalo with a single identity as they explored  the
new medium. Gan-ner was  the only one of  the children to have  inherited any of
Lalo's skill. But he would never bring beauty into the world now. She  swallowed
over the ache in her throat and turned to Illyra again.

"More than half the deck is painted now. Kama will force me to read for her when
the rest are  done and I  cannot," said Illyra  bitterly. "I will  fail her, and
then she will take her revenge on  Dubro. By all of Sanctuary's useless gods,  I
hate her! Her, and the rest of those blade-thirsty, swaggering bullies who  have
destroyed my world!"

"Will you find  a sword of  your own and  go after her?"  asked Gilla, trying to
channel into scorn  the hatred that  was making her  own belly bum.  "Illyra, be
sensible. Try to get well, and be thankful that's not your kind of power!"

"My kind of power..." said the S'danzo reflectively. "No -when men bum my people
for sorcery it's  not because they  fear the simple  power of steel...."  Illyra
fell silent. Her dark hair swung down across her breast, and Gilla could not see
her eyes, but  there was something  in the other  woman's stillness that  sent a
chill down her back despite the heat of the day.

"It's forbidden..." said the S'danzo very softly, "even the little teaching they
allowed me said that. But what do I care for anyone else's rules now?"

"Illyra, what  are you  going to  do?" Gilla  asked apprehensively  as the other
woman levered herself painfully  off the couch and  went to the worktable  where
the cards that Lalo had finished were piled.

"Everything goes two  ways," Illyra said  conversationally. "See this  card, for
instance, the Three of Flames. If it were to come up in a reading, it could mean
things getting darker or brighter for the querent, depending on the context. And
this one. Steel-" She held up the Two of Ores. "In the usual position, with  the
swords pointing toward  the querent, it's  a death card,  but reversed it  means
doom for his enemy."

"So does a real sword," answered Gilla.

Illyra nodded.  "So does  magic. Power  is power.  Good or  evil lies not in the
tool, but in the user's intent and will."

Gilla stared at  her. "You can  use the cards  as a weapon?"  Her heart began to
pound heavily, and she realized suddenly how she had envied the gifts that  Lalo
had acquired so inad-vertently and used with such trepidation.

Illyra was sorting  through the cards  that Lalo had  completed. "Perhaps-if the
right cards are  here..." She selected  one, another, then  three more. "When  I
read, the querent  and the cards  and I are  all linked in  the Pattern and  the
cards that come up reflect his relationship to it. The Pattern is the Cause; the
cards are the effect. My Seeing  only translates to the querent what  is already
there."

Gilla nodded, and the S'danzo  went on, "But if I  were to set the cards  into a
pattern, and lock it with my will-"

"You could reverse the process?" whispered Gilla. "Make the cards the Cause?"

"I could... I would... I will!"

Suddenly Illyra gathered up the cards  and carried them to a parquetry  table in
the comer of the room.  She held up a card  and showed it to Gilla.  "Here, this
shall stand  for the  querent and  its surrounding  atmosphere...." She  laid it
down.

Gilla squinted, seeing only the sun shining brightly over a painted city. "Which
one is that?"

"We call it Zenith-the noonday sun-but  your husband has painted a city  as well
as the sun."  Illyra held her  hands above it  and stood for  a moment with brow
wrinkled in concentration and eyes closed.  "As thou wert Zenith, so thou  shall
become this city!" she murmured. She dipped her finger into the paint water  and
nicked a drop upon the card, then bent and breathed upon it. "By wind and  water
do I name thee Sanctuary, the querent  of this reading, and the subject of  this
casting!"

She shouldn't be doing this,  thought Gilla, watching Illyra search  through the
cards  she had  selected. There  was a  focus to  her movements  that held   the
attention. Gilla remembered how Roxane had compelled the eye, and shuddered. But
she had never understood  what needs drove the  Nisibisi sorceress, who for  all
her great knowledge had no part in ordinary women's joys and pains. Illyra,  she
understood only too well. We shouldn't be doing this! she thought then.

Gilla felt the pulse pounding in her temples, tasted the fury of the  wolf-bitch
whose cubs have been killed. All her life she had known fear, fear of starvation
in times  of want,  fear of  theft in  moments of  affluence. She  had grown  up
listening for the stealthy step behind  her as automatically as she watched  for
movement in  the shadows  whenever she  went out  of her  door. And then she had
borne children, and the fear she felt for them was as much greater than her  own
personal terrors as the White Foal  River was deeper and more dreadful  than the
sewers of Sanctuary. And there had  never been anything that she could  do about
it! Never, until now....

Ominous as a mountain  moving, Gilla's heavy steps  shook the floor as  she took
her place across the worktable from the S'danzo.

"What crosses it. Seer?" she asked.

"The Lance of Ships,"  said Illyra, "the Narwhale,  which may be a  card of good
fortune,  but always  means changeability.  In this  position, it  is the   good
fortune that will disappear!"

"What do we hope for?" asked Gilla, continuing the litany.

Illyra took another card and placed it above the first two. Gilla recognized  it
the Two of Ores reversed, with the Steel pointed downward threateningly.

"And this is what we already  have," added the S'danzo. "Quicksilver, what  some
call the Card of Shalpa-the Root  of Ores and the Foundation of  Sanctuary." The
next card was placed below the first two.

"What has gone  before is the  Face of Chaos-"  Illyra held up  a card with  the
images of a man and a woman twisted and distorted as if in some fever dream. She
smiled grimly and laid the card down.

"And what is to come. Seer-show me  what is to come!" demanded Gilla. She  could
feel energy flowing from her  to the woman on the  other side of the table,  and
knew that more than S'danzo power was going into this casting.

Illyra took another card. "The Zigurrat," she smiled dangerously. "For we  shall
bring the pride of the destroyers tumbling down."

Gilla looked at the image of the disintegrating tower and thought of the patched
up peace that had held the town quiet since the visit of the Emperor. Surely  it
would take only a finger's push to destroy so uneasy a balance.

"How?" whispered Gilla then. "Seeress, show me how it will be!"

Illyra held the remaining cards fanned out in her thin hand. "First the Lance of
Winds-"

The card she set down bore the images of storm and tornado. "This represents our
determination to see this done. And this one is for our fear..."

She  set another  card above  it, on  which a  triumvirate of  robed and  hooded
figures stood pointing at a kneeling man. "Justice," came the whisper, and Gilla
licked  suddenly  dry lips,  understanding  even without  explanation  that this
represented the dead children for whom they sought revenge.

"Our  hope is  for justice,  and therefore  I set  Sanctuary's tribunal   here-"
Illyra's voice had a rhythmic resonance, and her eyes seemed to look through the
card to some other reality. Gilla  realized that the S'danzo was Seeing  them as
truly as ever she  had in a querent's  reading, and she wondered  suddenly if in
choosing just these  cards for Lalo  to paint first,  Illyra had been  guided by
something more than chance, and if her  selection of them now was the result  of
her will to vengeance, or some subtle working of that Pattern Illyra had denied.

Gilla  shivered,  for now  the  S'danzo was  wholly  entranced, and  she  felt a
heaviness in the air  around them as if  unseen forces waited around  her to see
what the  final card  would be.  The magic  of the  mages had  been broken, but,
clearly, she and Illyra were drawing now upon deeper powers.

Without looking at the cards still in the pile, Illyra took one and set it above
all the rest. Gilla  stared at it, her  gaze burned by swirling  patterns of red
and gold, and the beauty of a woman's face staring out of the flames. Even  seen
upside down that  face seared the  sight. She forced  her gaze away  and saw the
appalled wonder in Illyra's eyes.

"What is she?" Gilla asked hoarsely.

"The Eight of Flames-the Lady of Fire whose touch can warm or destroy!"

"What will She do to Sanctuary?"

Illyra was shaking her head. "I do not know. I have never drawn Her reversed  in
a reading before. Oh, Gilla-" The S'danzo's face twisted in a terrible smile. "I
did not choose this card!"

In the days that followed, the Lady  of Fire came to Sanctuary, not in  bolts of
flame from heaven as Gilla  and Illyra had expected, but  silently, insidiously,
as a flame that kindled in men's flesh and consumed them slowly from within.

For weeks the weather had been close and still-plague weather, though usually it
came to Sanctuary later in the year. In a city whose sanitation system had  been
designed to move men secretly rather than sewage efficiently, epidemics were  an
inevitable sign of summer, like the  insects that swarmed across the river  from
the Swamp of Night Secrets. But a dry spring had lowered the water table  early,
and without enough flow to flush  them, the disease bred in the  filthy channels
and spread swiftly through the town.

It began in the  streets around Shambles Cross  and moved like a  slow fire into
the Maze and the Bazaar, where a  few corpses more in the morning caused  little
comment, until the kisses of the drabs who plied their trade in the  cul-de-sacs
and doorways burned with  more than passion's fire,  and men began to  fall from
the benches in the Vulgar Unicorn with their mugs untasted. Soldiers drinking in
the taverns carried the plague back to the barracks, and servants going to their
work in the great houses of the  merchants carried it to the better quarters  of
the town. Only the Beysib seemed to be immune.

Molin Torchholder realized the danger when his workmen began to drop beside  his
unfinished city wall and, returning to  the palace, found the Prince in  a panic
and a full-scale crisis  on his hands. That  morning, the decapitated body  of a
dog had been  discovered in the  ruined Temple of  Dyareela, with "Death  to the
Beysib" scrawled in its blood on the altar stone.

Lalo turned, spattering blue  paint from the plastered  wall past the pillar  as
the High Priest stormed through the Presence Hall with the Prince and the  Beysa
hurrying along behind.

"They are saying that Dyareela is punishing Sanctuary because of our betrothal."
Shupansea tightened her  grip on Ka-dakithis's  hand. "They say  that your Demon
Goddess is angry because the town has accepted Mother Bey!"

"My goddess!" Both Prince and Beysa  fell back as Molin turned on  them, looking
rather like  a Storm  God himself  with his  mantle flaring  around him and dust
flying from his uncombed hair and beard. Lalo found it hard to believe that this
was the same sleek priest who had  given him his first great commission so  long
ago.  But  then his  own  changes in  the  past few  years  had been  even  more
remarkable, if less obvious. And Sanctuary itself had changed.

"Dyareela's no deity of  Ranke, or of the  Ilsig either!" Molin's gaze  fixed on
Lalo and a quick  grab hauled the limner  out from behind the  pillar. "You tell
them-you're a Wrig-glie! Is Dyareela any goddess of yours?"

Lalo stared  at him,  more startled  than offended  by the  priest's use  of the
Rankan epithet.  Torchholder's unguarded  tongue was  the best  evidence of  the
priest's own frustration and fear.

"The Good Goddess was here before the  Ilsigi came." He pulled off his mask  and
answered  softly. "She  rules the  wastelands, and  the lost  spirits who  dwell
there. But mostly, men do not pray to Her..."

"Mostly?" asked Kadakithis. "When do they pray to Her, limner?" .

Lalo kept his gaze on the patterned tiles, his skin prickling as if even talking
about it could bring the fever on. "I was a boy when the last great plague  came
here," he said in a low voice. "We worshiped Her then. She brings the fever. She
is the fever, and She is its cure...."

"Wrigglie superstition," began the Prince, but his voice lacked conviction.

Molin Torchholder  sighed. "I  don't like  to give  recognition to  these native
cults, but it may be necessary. I don't suppose you remember any details of  the
ceremonies?" His grip tightened on Lalo's shoulder again.

"Ask the priests of Us!" Lalo shrugged free. "1 was a child, and my mother  kept
me inside for fear  of the crowds. They  said there was a  great sacrifice. They
dragged the carcass outside the city  to attract the demons away and  burned the
bodies of the dead  and their possessions in  a great pyre. What  I remember was
men and women lying with each other in the streets, with drops of blood from the
sacrifice still red on their brows."

Kadakithis shuddered, but Shupansea said  that she had heard of  similar customs
in the villages of her own land.

"That  may be  so," said  the High  Priest repressively,  "but the   theological
implications are unfortunate, particularly now. My Prince, I am afraid that your
formal betrothal will have to be delayed until this dies down."

"It is the dying I am afraid  of," said the Beysa. "They will be  sacrificing my
people, not stallions or bulls, if you do not do something soon!"

Molin Torchholder's face worked as if he saw the careful edifice of  cooperation
he had constructed collapsing before him. Without answering, he strode off,  and
Shupansea and Kadakithis followed him, leaving Lalo staring after them.

Presently he turned back to the mural he had been working on. On the wall of the
Presence Chamber, Mother Bey stretched out  Her hand to the Storm God  against a
background of the  blue sea. It  was no accident  that the god  looked something
like  Kadakithis,  and  the  goddess  had the  bearing  and  wore  the  robes of
Shupansea, but Lalo  had worked from  imagination and memory  this time, knowing
better than to paint the souls of these particular models for all to see.

Technically  the work  was competent,  but the  figures seemed  lifeless. For  a
moment Lalo wondered what  a little of his  breath would do. Then  he remembered
the wars of Va-shanka and Us, shuddered,  and pulled the mask over his nose  and
mouth again.  With Dyareela  stalking the  streets of  Sanctuary, the last thing
they needed  was two  new deities  with all  the prejudices  and failings of the
originals fluttering about the town.

He was still struggling  with the painting when  his daughter Vanda came  to him
with the  news that  her sister  Latilla had  taken the  fever, and  the Rankans
wanted her out of the palace before darkness fell.

There  were crowds  in the  streets outside  the Aphrodisia  House, but   little
business inside, men  fearing lest the  fires of love  would ignite a  different
kind of  flame. Their  drunken voices  sounded like  the growling  of some great
animal. Broken phrases trembled in the still air. "Death to the fish-folk, death
and the fire!" At least, thought Gilla,  Lalo and the children were safe at  the
palace, while Dubro was adding his strength to Myrtis's guards downstairs.

Gilla pulled the curtain back across the window despite the airless heat of  the
evening and sat down again. Illyra  lay on her couch, clutching'the coverlet  to
her breast at every cry, as if she were cold, despite the sheen of  perspiration
on her forehead. Gilla  looked down at her  own clasped hands, red  and workwom,
the flesh  puffing around  the circle  of her  wedding band,  and tried  to tell
herself that the  plague came nearly  every year. But  she knew it  did not come
this way. She and Illyra had done this, somehow, with their spell.

A new outbreak of shouting below  startled her to awareness again. The  building
shook as the great door of the Aphrodisia House slammed, and she heard a  mutter
of voices and footsteps  on the stairs. It  was their door they  were coming to!
Gilla got heavily to her feet as it  was flung open, and she saw Lalo framed  in
the doorway with Myrtis behind him and Latilla in his arms.

Illyra cried out, but Gilla was already in motion, reaching out to touch the hot
forehead. Latilla opened her eyes  then, focusing with difficulty, and  tried to
smile.

"Mama, I missed you. Mama, I'm so hot, can't you make me cool again?"

Throat tight, Gilla took  the burning body into  her own arms, whispering  words
that made no sense  even to her. Latilla  was so light, her  flesh half consumed
already by that inner fire!

"Lay her down on the couch," said  Illyra in a strained voice. "We'll need  cold
water and cloths."

"I've already ordered them," said Myrtis calmly, "and perhaps these will help as
well." She  gestured, and  one of  her girls  brought in  two of the plumed fans
which they used  to fan away  the sweat of  amorous exercise from  the bodies of
their more important customers, then scurried out of the room.

Illyra had already  smoothed the coverlet.  Gilla laid Latilla  down and reached
out for the first compress without looking away. But she was aware of Lalo close
beside her, and she drew on his  energy as Illyra had drawn upon hers  when they
made their spell. After a little, the fanning and the cold cloths seemed to have
some effect, and Latilla fell into an uneasy doze.

The first crisis over, Lalo had gone  to his worktable and was fussing with  his
paints, laying  them out  instinctively as  if work  could help  him control the
chaos of his world.

"Oh Gilla," said Illyra pitifully, "she looks so like my little girl!" Gilla met
her eyes, and  the S'danzo flushed  painfully. At her  words, Lalo looked  up at
her.

"Where are  the finished  cards?" he  asked then.  "There were  only a few to be
done-if I complete the deck, perhaps you can read some hope for us now!"

Illyra stared at him, and her face  went stark white against the dark masses  of
her hair. Then her  gaze slid unwillingly to  the table in the  comer, where the
cards were still as she had laid them a week ago. Still unsuspecting, Lalo  went
to it and stood, looking down.

Gilla's flesh had turned to stone. Lalo  was no S'danzo, but he was a  master of
symbol, and he had  painted those cards. She  tried to read his  reaction in the
slump of his shoulders, the bent head with its thinning, ginger hair. Surely  he
must know!

"I don't understand," Lalo said in a  still voice. "Did you try to read  from an
incomplete deck? Is this  your Seeing for what  is happening now?" Suddenly  his
hand shot out and he  swept the fatal pattern of  cards to the floor. He  turned
and read in their faces the answer to a question he had not even thought to ask.

"You did this?"

"I don't know," said Illyra in a dead voice. "We wanted revenge for our children
..."

"Blessed Goddess!" breathed Lalo in disbelief.

"No-there are no gods, only Power-" Illyra's laugh scraped the edge of hysteria.

"And you let her-you helped her?"  His shocked gaze turned to Gilla.  "You still
have other children! Didn't you think-"

"Did you think when you gave life to the Black Unicorn?" she spat back, but  her
voice broke. She gestured toward Latilla. "Oh, Lalo-Lalo-here is my punishment!"

"No!" he said  furiously. "Wasn't losing  one child enough  for you? She  hasn't
sinned! Why should she suffer for our sake?"

"Strike me then!" Gilla  said with a half-sob.  Perhaps if he did  it would take
some of this dreadful pain away.

Lalo stared, and something in his face seemed to crumple. "Woman, if I could hit
you I would have done  it years ago." As Gilla  buried her face in her  hands he
turned back to Illyra.

"You did this-you make  it right again. I  have the paints here,  and the blanks
for the rest of the cards. None of  us will sleep tonight in any case. You  will
describe for me the missing cards, S'danzo, and I will paint them, and then  you
will read them anew!"

Illyra pushed back her heavy hair with a thin hand. "Limner, I know what I  have
done," she said dully. "Take up your paints and I will give you the designs, for
all the help that will be. I think the gift I abused has gone from me now."

Lalo shuddered, but his face remained implacable as he went to his worktable and
began to unstopper the little jars of pigment. Gilla stared at him, for it was a
face she had never seen her husband wear before.

"The Seven of Ores is called Red  Clay, the card of the potter, the  craftsman,"
Illyra began as  Lalo picked up  his brush. Then  Latilla began to  whimper, and
Gilla forgot to listen to the S'danzo as she bent to comfort her child.

In the  night the  mobs began  to drag  the dead  and their possessions into the
streets to burn them,  but the sight of  scorching brocades or melting  gilt was
too much  for many  of the  more lawless,   so the  devout took to firing houses
without checking too  closely to  see whether  anyone were  left alive   inside.
Both the Stepsons and  the Third Commando had   their hands full trying  to keep
the  flames  from   spreading  into  the  mercantile   section  of   town, while
Walegrin and  the garrison guarded   the palace  from shouting  mobs  who  bayed
for  the deaths  of Prince Kadakithis and the Beysib whore. By the time the  sun
rose like  a red   eye upon  the horizon,  the  sky  bore a pall  reminiscent of
wizard  weather,   but this  evil  came wholly  from  mortals, or  perhaps  from
mortality.

When Lalo finally  woke, it took  a few disoriented  moments for him  to realize
that his head was throbbing and his  neck stiff not from fever, but from  having
slept slumped over his worktable, and that the gray light that filtered  through
the curtain was not the cool dimness of dawn, but a dreadful noon. With a  groan
he straightened, blinked, and looked around him.

On the worktable before him were the last of the S'danzo cards. Illyra lay still
in her chair.  For one shocked  moment Lalo thought  she was dead,  and realized
that  the horror  and hatred  he had  felt the  night before  had drained  away,
leaving only a hollow  despair. Gilla sat by  the couch like a  monument, but at
his movement her eyes opened, red-rimmed in her ravaged face.

"How-" The  word came  out as  a croak,  and Lalo  swallowed, trying to make his
voice obey him.

"She's  still  alive," said  Gilla,  "but she  still  bums." She  looked  at him
apprehensively.

Lalo made it  to his feet,  remembering how he  had felt when  the Black Unicorn
leaped off the  wall, and went  to her. The  Unicorn had been  the child of  his
pride, and it was only  one, though the worst, of  his sins over the years.  But
Gilla's only sin had  been born of her  despair. Perhaps it made  them fit mates
for each other, but he could hardly say that to her now.

Instead he rested his arm across  Gilla's massive shoulders and began to  softly
stroke her hair.  Latilla moved restlessly  in her feverish  sleep, then stilled
again. She was flushed, and it seemed to him that her cheekbones had grown  more
prominent,  so  that  he saw  the  skull  beneath the  skin.  His  arm tightened
convulsively, and Gilla turned her face against his chest.

"You were right about the Unicorn," he said softly then. "But we got rid of  it.
We'll find some way to deal with this, too."

Gilla straightened and looked  up at him, her  eyes luminous with unshed  tears.
"Oh, you ridiculous man! You make me ashamed for all those years when I  thought
I was  the only  one with  anything to  forgive...." She  took a deep breath and
heaved herself to her feet.

"Yes, we'll do-something! But first we need  to wash up and get some food!"  The
floor shook slightly as she strode to  the door and called for the girl  who had
been waiting on them.

By the time they  had finished eating, Lalo  felt marginally more effective.  In
the distance the deep beat of temple drumming mingled with the confused  roaring
of the  mob. Myrtis's  servants said  that the  high priest  of Us had agreed to
perform a sacrifice for Dyareela when  sunset came. It was hoped that  the scent
of bull's  blood would  appease the  goddess and  the mob.  If it  did not,  the
combined might  of the  garrison, the  Stepsons, and  the 3rd  Commando might be
insufficient to  prevent royal  blood from  running where  the bull's  blood had
flowed, and with such  provocation, the Emperor was  unlikely to wait until  the
New Year to "pacify" what was left of the town.

Lalo  sat  before  his worktable,  eyeing  the  bright array  of  cards.  It was
remarkable, considering  his physical  and mental  state the  night before, that
they looked  like anything  at all.  But the  vision of  the seeress  had flowed
through his hands, and he knew  that these cards were artistically far  superior
to the ones the S'danzo had possessed before. He suppressed the flicker of pride
that the thought gave him. He had no memory of painting them-any praise belonged
to the power that had impelled his hand. And prettiness would not matter if they
could not use the cards to undo the damage they had done.

"I tried to do a reading while you were both asleep," Illyra said when the  girl
had taken the dishes away. "It's no use, Gilla. The cards kept returning to  the
pattern we made with them before."

"Then we'll have to try something else," Gilla nodded de-terminedly.

"Lay them out in another pattern," said Lalo, "a pattern of healing this time."

"I did that too," said the S'danzo helplessly. "But there was no power in it.  I
could tell."

They did it again,  and then another time,  but Illyra had told  them truly. The
cards were no more than pretty pictures making a pattern on the tablecloth.  The
bright colors glowed mockingly in the lurid afternoon sun.

Illyra was  sponging Latilla's  face and  chest. Lalo  sighed, and  cut the pack
again. The card  on top of  the deck now  was the Archway,  a massive gate whose
keystone was  carved with  an arcane  symbol whose  meaning even  Illyra did not
know. Beyond  it was  a mass  of greenery,  perhaps a  garden. Lalo let his gaze
unfocus, trying desperately to think of something else to do. Green vibrated  in
his vision, and he was abruptly aware of a tantalizing sense of familiarity.

He blinked, looked at the card again, and rubbed his eyes. With normal vision he
could see nothing, but there had been something.... Gilla leaned forward to pour
more water into his glass, and the movement of her arm triggered a sudden memory
of a white arm pouring wine of  Carronne from a crystal flagon into a  goblet of
gold-it had been the arm of Eshi, in the country of the gods.

"Lalo, what are you looking at?" Gilla asked.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly. "But I think I know where I might find out...."

"You can't go outside," said Illyra in alarm. "Listen!" Even from the Street  of
the Red Lanterns they could hear the tumult in the city, and Lalo shuddered.

"I don't mean to," he said simply.  "I'm going to go inward, through there-"  He
pointed at the  archway in the  card. Illyra stared  at him, bewildered,  but in
Gilla's face understanding began to dawn, and with it fear.

"If you mean to go into trance then I'm going with you to make sure you remember
to come back again!" she said tartly. "I don't have the means to compel you  the
way I did before."

Lalo had no idea what she meant by  that, but there was no time to question  her
now. "If you can, surely you have the  right to," he told her, "if either of  us
can get there  that way," he  went on, doubting  his own intuition  suddenly. He
propped the  card up  against the  flagon so  that they  could, both see it, and
pointed at the other chair.

It creaked as Gilla eased into it. She settled herself, her hands clasped firmly
in her lap, then looked at Illyra. "If this works, don't let anyone disturb  us,
and in the name of your own Lillis, watch over my child!"

The S'danzo's throat worked, then she nodded, her fingers tightening on the damp
cloth  she  held  in her  hand.  "May  your goddess  bless  you,"  she whispered
brokenly, then turned quickly to Latilla again.

"Well?" Gilla's gaze held his. Lalo took a deep breath.

"Randal taught me  a little about  this," he said  slowly. "Make your  breathing
regular, and try to  relax. Look at the  card until you have  it memorized, then
change the focus of your eyes and try to look through the gateway into the place
beyond. When you can  see it, push your  awareness toward it and  through..." He
looked at  her dubiously.  The procedure  had seemed  reasonable enough when the
wizard described it, but he had the awful feeling that he was about to look like
a fool.

Then Latilla whimpered again, and Gilla reached out to grip his hand. Lalo  took
another breath and fixed his gaze on the archway.

Once more  the riot  of greenery  swirled through  Lalo's vision.  He fought the
compulsion to blink, to  refocus, and tried to  imagine he held a  paintbrush in
his hand. See, he told himself, controlling his breathing. Now all he could feel
was the warm pressure of Gilla's hand. Would she keep him earth-bound? But  even
as he thought it, the confusion before him began to resolve into something-green
leaves fluttering in the sunlight.... He launched himself toward them, and  then
the garden was all around him, and he was through.

For a moment all Lalo knew was  the feel of that springy turf beneath  his feet,
and  the scent  of air  that was  like no  breeze that  had ever  blown  through
Sanctuary. Then  he became  aware that  someone was  beside him.  He turned  and
jerked away, seeing the goddess he had painted on Molin Torchholder's wall.  She
smiled, and the face of the goddess was suddenly that of the golden-haired  girl
he had courted in the spring of the  world, and then both of them were the  face
of Gilla, always  and only Gilla,  who was looking  at him as  she had after the
first time they had ever made love.

But the  garden, when  he looked  again, was  by no  means so  perfect as he had
remembered it. Parts of the lawn were withered, while other sections showed  the
sickly yellow of flooding. The same was  true of the oak trees, and some  of the
leaves were blotched with a blight like leprosy.

"It's  here,  too,"  said  Gilla,  "the  same  thing  that's  been  happening to
Sanctuary!"

Lalo nodded,  wondering which  level had  started the  trouble. But  that didn't
matter-what he needed was to leam the  cure. He took her hand and they  began to
pick their way across the mottled grass beneath the trees.

After a time Lalo  found the pool and  the waterfall. But the  clearing where he
had feasted with the Ilsig gods was empty now. Lalo's heart sank within him.  If
even the Otherworld was  empty, then the magic  of Sanctuary had been  destroyed
indeed! Perhaps the S'danzo were right, and the gods were only delusions of men.
But  even as  that thought  passed through  his mind,  his lips  were moving  in
prayer.

"Father Us, hear me, Shipri All-Mother have mercy! Not for my sake, but for your
people-"

"And for the sake of my child!" came Gilla's voice in his ear.

A little wind gusted around them and  plucked a leaf from one of the  oak trees.
Lalo watched, fascinated,  as it spiraled  downward and settled  at last in  the
breast of Gilla's gown. Then a new voice spoke from behind them.

"Why do you call on Us and Shipri? This is the Face the people of Sanctuary pray
to now!"

Lalo jerked around, flinched as he saw what had answered them and then  stumbled
over his own feet, trying to get  between it and Gilla. But she had  always been
broadly built and big-boned, and she gripped his arm and stayed beside him.

The Thing  that had  spoken looked  on his  confusion and  laughed. Lalo stared,
realizing in horror  that it was  female, wrapped in  scorched robes from  which
pale smoke  rose in  ghostly trails,  with singed  hair that  lifted as the wind
caught it and sent up little spurts of flame. It-Her-face glowed like a lantern,
as if the fire that  burned Her lay within, and  the features of that face  were
contorted in a  demon's mask. "Dyareela,"  he breathed in  appalled recognition.
The goddess responded with a terrible smile. "That is one of the names by  which
men pray to Me, it is true. But  it was you who first called Me, daughter."  She
beckoned to Gilla. "How shall I reward you?"

"Demon, go away!" hissed Gilla in revulsion. Dyareela laughed. "Still you do not
understand! I neither come nor go-I am! Only my Faces change ..."

"Then change your Face again," groaned Lalo. "Three weddings were promised,  and
one of them  royal, to redeem  the land! I  would have come  to them as  Lady of
love's fire! But Sanctuary has chosen to see Me otherwise!" Wind whirled  around
them, and when  the falling leaves  touched the hair  of the goddess  they burst
into flame.

"Be beautiful, blessed Lady, please be  beautiful for us now!" There were  tears
in Gilla's voice and in her eyes.

"Daughter, in this place I am only  a reflection, as you are only a  dream. Your
words have no power over Me here! If I am to bless you I must be invoked in  the
world of men!"

The sky  seemed to  be darkening,  and the  only thing  Lalo could  see was  the
goddess, who glowed like a demon-lantem at the Feast of the Dead.

"We tried," wailed Gilla, "but the cards had no power!"

"The cards never had power; they only focused yours. Make the Great Marriage  in
Sanctuary as has been promised Me! Then I will show you my fair Face again!"

Wind and darkness howled around them. Flaming leaves whirled away and seeded the
barren night with stars. Suddenly the  goddess was gone, and the oak  grove, and
even the solid ground on which they had been standing. Buffeted and blown,  Lalo
lost all sense of who he was and whence he had come, and as awareness left  him,
the last thing he knew was the firm grip of Gilla's hand

Gilla fell  down a  long tunnel  of darkness  into her  body again.  An eternity
later, she tried to move. She was stiff, and so heavy, when she had been  moving
as lightly as... She groaned and opened her eyes.

"Thank the gods!" said Illyra. In  the flickering light of the lamps  she looked
worn and hollow-eyed.

"I thought you didn't  believe in them," muttered  Gilla. She was still  holding
onto Lalo's hand. Carefully she opened her  fingers, and set it on his lap  with
the other.  He was  still unconscious,  but his  breathing had  quickened. In  a
moment, she thought, he will waken, and what then?                        |

The S'danzo rubbed at  her forehead. "Right now  I'll be-   f lieve  in anything
that might help us. I've been  listening to the procession-it's gone all  around
the city and must  be nearly back to  the ruins of the  temple by now. We  don't
have much time." She lifted her head and stared at Gilla. "Will it help us?  You
both went out like doused candles, but were you asleep, or did you actually  get
somewhere?"

Lalo shuddered, and opened his eyes. "We got there. We saw the goddess-a goddess
..." He shuddered again. "She's angry.  She doesn't want a sacrifice. She  wants
Shu-sea and Prince Kittycat to get married!" He began to laugh with a soft  edge
of hysteria  that had  Gilla instantly  on her  feet and  holding him  until the
tremors that shook him faded again. At  last he pressed his face into her  broad
breast and groaned. "We've failed," he whispered. "We've failed."

Gilla held him against  her and stared over  his head, seeing in  her mind's eye
the glorious young man with whom she  had walked in the Otherworld. He had  been
as handsome as a king. She remembered  how lightly she had moved beside him    t
and wondered suddenly. How did he see me?                  (

After a moment  she focused on  the still figure  on the   '  couch, and then on
Illyra again. "How has Latilla been?" she asked.

The S'danzo's eyes were bright with tears. "She has passed the restless stage of
the fever. The sleep she's in now  is deeper than yours was. I've tried  to cool
her, but the cloths dry from the heat of her body as soon as I put them on  her.
I've tried, Gilla, I've tried!" She bowed her head and covered her face with her
hands.

"I know you  have, Illyra," said  Gilla gently. "And  now I must  ask you to try
just a little longer while I do something harder. I must try to make the goddess
beautiful."

Lalo pulled away and sat looking at her in wonder as Gilla went over to the  bed
and kissed her daughter gently on  the brow. Then she moved majestically  to the
door and called for Myrtis.

The madam's eyes widened as she listened to Gilla's requests, but after a moment
she nodded, and her eyes began to glow. "Yes, it is true, though there's  hardly
a respectable woman in Sanctuary who would understand what you mean. Certainly I
never expected that you..." Myrtis left that comment unfinished as Gilla  glared
at her, smiled, and turned away to give orders to her girls.

I never expected to do anything  like this either, thought Gilla, smoothing  her
hands over  the massive  swell of  her bosom  and along  the mighty curve of her
thigh. But by the breasts of the goddess I am going to try!

Sitting in the bath with giggling  slave-girls fussing over her, Gilla knew  the
idea had been  ridiculous. She had  grown-up children, her  blood had ceased  to
answer the  call of  the moon  two years  ago, and  Lalo was  rarely more than a
companionable body  in her  bed anymore.  When she  had gotten  into the  marble
bathing pool, her bulk had sent scented water slopping over the side in a  tidal
wave.

She tried to imagine Lalo's balding  head and skinny legs being scrubbed  by the
girls in  the other  pool, and  thought that  he must  look even stranger in the
midst of all  this splendor than  she did. She  wondered why in  the name of the
gods he had agreed to it. But of course that was why-because of the gods, or one
of them, anyway, and because  of a picture that he  had once sworn she had  been
his model for.

And then she had a marvelous  billowing garment of diaphanous sea-green silk  on
her back  and a  garland of  sweet-smelling garden  herbs on  her damp hair, and
singing girls  were lighting  her way  to a  chamber where  the scent of burning
sandalwood covered the reek of smoke from distant fires.

The  room was  paneled in  cedar, and  behind gauze  curtains the  windows  were
screened by marble  filigree. What part  of it was  not taken up  by the bed was
covered by thick carpet and silken cushions, and there was a rosewood table with
a flagon and two goblets of gold. But of course the bed was the point of it all,
and Lalo was already waiting beside it, carrying off with more presence than she
would have believed possible, a long caftan of jade green brocaded in gold.

He seemed  to be  memorizing the  pattern of  the carpet.  Gilla thought.  If he
laughs at me I will murder him!

And then he lifted his head, and in his worn face, his eyes were glowing as they
had when he looked on her in  the Other-world. Behind her, Gilla could hear  the
rustle of silk and a giggle cut short as the slave girls backed out of the room.
The door clicked shut.

"Health to you, my lord and husband."  Gilla's voice shook only a little as  she
said the words.

Lalo licked dry lips,  then stepped carefully to  the table and poured  wine. He
offered her one of the goblets. "Health to you," he said, lifting the other, "my
wife and my queen."

The goblets rang as they touched. Gilla felt the sweet fire of the wine  burning
down her throat to her belly, and another kind of fire kindling in her flesh  as
she met his eyes.

"Health to all the land," she whispered, "and the healing fire of love...."

Torches painted the rubble of  Dyareela's temple with their lurid  glare, dyeing
with an even deeper  crimson the blood-splattered robes  of the priests and  the
severed head of the sacrifice. The sweet  stink of blood hung heavy in the  air,
and the line of soldiers watched  with wary eyes the chanting, murmuring  masses
of humanity who had crowded into the  ruins to see it. The priests were  praying
now, straining grotesquely toward a darkness of cloud or smoke that blotted  out
the stars.

"Whatever they're expecting, they'd  better get on with  it," said a man  of the
Third Commando. "That kind  of babbling won't hold  this lot long. They've  seen
blood, and they'll want more of it soon!"

The man on his  right nodded. "Stupid of  Kittycat to allow it-anyone  could see
what would hap-" His  words faded to a  mumble as Sync's stony  eye passed along
the  line,  but  his  companion  heard  him  add,  with  a  faith  that  in  the
circumstances was touching, "This wouldn't of happened if Tempus was here."

"Dyareela, Dyareela, hear, oh, hear!" chanted the crowd. Hear, hear, or maybe it
was fear, fear, echoed from shattered pillars and walls. "Have mercy-" came  the
drawn out  cry. A  shiver of  eagerness ran  through the  crowd and the soldiers
stiffened, knowing what was coming now.

Torches flickered wildly in a great gust of wind, a damp wind that came from the
sea. The wind gusted again, and the scene grew perceptibly less lurid as several
of the torches were blown out. A priest grabbed helplessly as his headdress went
sailing away, and the  crowd was abruptly distracted  from its bloodlust by  the
struggle for gold thread and jewels. Then somewhere out to sea, thunder rumbled,
and the remaining torches were doused by the first splatterings of rain.

Rain hissed  in the  embers of  burned buildings  and rinsed  the ashes from the
roofs of those houses which had  survived. It scoured the streets and  ran clear
in the gutters, filled the sewers and flushed their festering contents down  the
river out to sea. It washed the reek  of blood from the air, and left behind  it
the clean scent of  rain. Men who moments  before had growled like  beasts stood
with faces upturned to the suddenly beneficent heavens, and found the water that
ran down their faces mingled inexplicably with tears.

Grumbling, the  priests scrambled  to get  their finery  under cover,  while the
crowd dispersed like drops from  a fountain, and presently the  bemused soldiery
were allowed to break ranks and seek the shelter of their barracks at last.

All that night the clean rain pattered  on the roofs of the town. Illyra  opened
her window to let the cool air  in and, returning to Latilla, felt the  moisture
of sudden perspiration  on the child's  tight skin. Her  own eyes blurring,  she
heaped blankets around her, then  went fearfully to Lalo's worktable.  The cards
fluttered like live  things in the  damp wind. With  beating heart, the  S'danzo
began to lay out the Pattern again.

In the morning, the sun rose on a town washed clean.

And there was a new bud on Gilla's peach tree.

SANCTUARY IS FOR LOVERS

Janet and Chris Morris

Down on  Wideway by  the docks,  where a  warehouse destroyed  by fire was being
rebuilt by fish-eyed Beysibs to house a glass-making enterprise as alien as  the
fish-folk who funded it,  a big man  in tattered trail  gear sat alone  on a mud
colored horse and watched the storm roll in from the sea.

Thunderstorms in Sanctuary during summer  weren't uncommon. This one, loud  as a
wounded bear  and dark  as a  witch's eye,  cleared the  dockside of  folk as he
watched from shadows thrown by two overhanging roofs: Thunderstorms, these  days
in a  revolution-wracked thieves'  world suddenly  bereft of  the magic that had
driven it, meant that a new and feral god called Stormbringer was abroad.

The  big  man,  on the  horse  whose  muddy disguise  did  nothing  to hide  its
extraordinary girth or the intelligence in  its eyes, cared nothing for the  god
behind  the  storm-if  indeed the  chaotic  principle  named Stormbringer  could
rightfully be called one.

The man cared more  than he wished to  admit for that god's  daughter-for Jihan,
called Froth  Daughter, primal  expression of  Stormbringer's lust  for wind and
wave, who was betrothed to Randal, the Tysian wizard, and trapped here until the
marriage either  was consummated  or renounced.  He'd cared  enough to return to
Sanctuary, though  it was  doomed by  imperial decree  and the  folly of its own
selfish inhabitants- doomed to eradication at New Year's, when the grace  period
the new Rankan Emperor, Theron, had given Prince/Governor Kadakithis would  have
elapsed without order being restored here.

Then  the Emperor's  troops would  come in  a multitude-  "Even though  it be  a
soldier for every tramp,  an arrow for every  rebel, a legion if  necessary," in
Theron's words-and the thieves' world would be a fools' paradise no longer.

Pacifying refractory towns  was a passion  of Theron's. Pacifying  wizard-ridden
Sanctuary  might once  have been  an impossibility,  but not  now: The   feuding
witches  and the  greedy priests  had, between  them, managed  to destroy   both
Nisibisi Globes of Power before  spring had sprung, leaving Sanctuary's  magical
fabric rent and its wards weakened.

At long last. Sanctuary had become what Tempus's fighters of the Sacred Band had
long called it:  well and truly  damned. That this  damnation had come  from the
greedy power plays of its low-lifes,  rather than from the pillar of  fire which
had sprung from an uptown house to affront the heavens, didn't surprise Tempus.

The fact that no one in town save the weakened wizards and a handful of impotent
priests knew the truth of it-how Sanctuary had destroyed its own manna and  been
deserted by  the more  prudent of  its pantheon  of gods-did  surprise even  the
unflappable Riddler who now headed his horse into the storm and northeast toward
the Maze.

He felt no twinge of nostalgia for the old days, when he'd ridden these  streets
alone  as a  palace Hell-Hound  in Kada-kithis's  employ, testing  the  prince's
mettle for  the Rankan  interests who  eventually chose  Theron in  Kadakithis's
stead.  But he  felt a  spark of  regret when  he passed  the docks  from  which
Nikodemos,  his favorite  among the  mercenary fighters  who followed  him,  had
departed seaward, bound for the Ban-daran Islands with two godchildren who might
have been Sanctuary's only hope.

As Niko might have been the only hope of a man who'd taken the name Tempus  when
he realized that his curse caused time itself to pass him by. But hopes were for
Sanctuarites, the children of the damned, the dark Ilsigi whom Rankan and Beysib
oppressors alike called  Wrigglies, and for  women touched with  Nisibisi wizard
blood who sucked purer blood in Sanctuary's steamy summer nights-for anyone  but
him.

Tempus was relieved of duty here, of all responsibility save what his conscience
might impose. And  it had brought  him back here  only to complete  preparations
under  way since  winter's end,  when Theron  had offered  him a  commission  to
explore the unknown east and immunity  from prosecution to any he chose  to hire
for the venture.

So once  again, and  in the  east during  the trek  to come,  he would  have his
Stepsons, the Sacred Band of paired fighters and certain single mercenaries, and
the 3rd Commando, Ranke's most infamous cadre, for company.

And  if their  imminent withdrawal  from Sanctuary  didn't signal  and seal  the
town's doom, then  Tempus hadn't outlived  a hundred enemies  and their legions.
But that wasn't  what made him  hesitate, brought him  down from the  capital to
ride once  more through  garbage-heaped streets  where the  lawless fought  each
other block by block in open revolt and man by man over matters of eye color and
skin hue and heavenly affiliation.

He couldn't possibly  care about Sanctuary's  survival. The town  itself was his
enemy. Those who did not fear him for good reason, hated him on principle; those
who did neither had left this dungheap long ago.

He could have left the withdrawal  to Critias, the Stepsons' first officer,  and
to Sync, the  3rd Commando's line  commander. He could  have waited in  imperial
Ranke's palace  with Theron,  interviewing chart  makers and  seamen who told of
dragons in the eastern sea with emerald eyes and of treasures in shoreline caves
the like of which the Rankan Empire had never seen.

But neither Jihan nor her intended, Randal, understood that their betrothal  was
the result of  a deal Tempus  had made with  Stormbringer, the Froth  Daughter's
father-a deal he'd struck in expediency and  haste with a god known as a  master
trickster. Though deal  it was, he  was no longer  certain it was  prudent: He'd
have use for both Jihan and Randal, the Stepsons' warrior-mage, on the  eastward
trek, and neither one could leave until the matter was decided.

So he was here, to yea or nay the thing, to make sure that Randal, a Sacred Band
partner and one  of his men,  was not trapped  in hell's own  bowels against his
will, and that Jihan's father did not blow storms of confusion in his daughter's
eyes to keep her where He had chosen to abide.

He had come in disguise, as best he was able. His form was heroic in  proportion
and his face resembled that of a god once known in Sanctuary, but banished  now:
High-browed and  honey-bearded, that  face looked  upon the  gutted ways  of the
warehouse district with all the disgust  three centuries and more of life  could
impart.

It  was the  face of  Vashanka, now  called the  Hidden God,  that Tempus   wore
tonight: Selfish and proud, full of war and death, it was the face of  Sanctuary
itself.

It made him feel at home here, as  did the storm descending. In Sanctuary,  self
interest never flagged; his presence  here upon pressing, private business,  was
proof of that.

Turning up Shadow Street  toward the Maze, he  saw deserted checkpoints of  some
faction who claimed everything from Lizard's Way to the Governor's warehouses as
its own.

And because that faction was said  to be Zip's Popular Front for  the Liberation
of Sanctuary  (PFLS), as  unpopular now  as was  Zip himself,  Tempus reined the
horse left on Red Clay Street to reconnoiter despite the gusts and darkening sky
and thunderous promise  of rain that  made the Tros  horse under him  shiver and
throw its muzzle skyward.

He'd never exchanged a  civil word with Zip,  whom some said had  caused far too
much of the springtime carnage- whom Crit said had attempted murder and tried to
blame the affair on Tempus's own daughter, Kama.

And since the target of the murderous attack had been Straton, Critias's  Sacred
Band partner, the  pair had teams  out night and  day, even in  the midst of the
Stepsons' preparations to  withdraw-teams seeking to  even the score  with Zip's
eyes and tongue: an old Band prescription for curing traitors.

Lighting flared, a sheet sky-wide that banished darkness even on Shadow  Street,
so that Tempus saw backlit figures skulking from garbage heap to doorway in  his
wake.

This was PFLS territory all right.

The rain  that accompanied  a peal  of thunder  so loud  it made  the Tros horse
flatten its ears  and lower its  head cared nothing  for whom it  wet or whom it
unmasked: Both Tempus  and his horse  were only desultorily  disguised-the horse
with berry juice and trail mud and its "rider with dyes no better.

The rain  bounced fetlock  high on  cobbles and  ran down  the Riddler's oilskin
mantle to his sharkskin-hiked sword, where it formed rivulets like spilled blood
and just as red from the dye it washed.

The specter  of the  man and  horse (both  too large  and too  well muscled  for
Sanctuary's own, both streaming water red  as blood and splashing it behind,  as
the man called  the Riddler loped  his horse, oblivious  to the torrent  and the
spray the horse's hooves kicked up, down the center of Red Clay Street) was  one
to stop a superstitious heart and make a criminal seek cover.

Yet at the comer of West Gate Street, where the sudden downpour swept seaward to
the wharves down  the slope so  deep and fast  that rats and  cats and pieces of
less recognizable flesh were carried along in its currents as if the White  Foal
River had  changed its  course, three  men stepped  out from  cover, barring his
path, knee deep in water, crossbows drawn and blades unsheathed.

A crossbow, in this wind so fierce it blotted out the Tros's snorts of  warning,
and in a rain so dense no cat-gut or woman's-hair bowstring could be dry,  would
shoot awry.

Tempus knew it, and so  did the three who stood  there, daring him to ride  them
down.

He considered it, though he'd sought  a confrontation, annoyed by the boys  with
sweatbands around their foreheads and weapons better than street toughs ought to
have.

The Tros, having more sense and being a larger target, stopped still and  craned
its neck, imploring  him with liquid  eyes to remember  why he'd come  here, not
just take an opportunity luck offered and waste it to vent some spleen and  make
his presence known.

Still, this sort should have enough sense to fear him.

That none did, that one stepped forward  and said in a thick voice with  a trace
of gutter accent, "Looking  for me, big fella?  All your bugger boys  are," gave
the Riddler time enough to realize  that, while he'd been looking for  the rebel
called Zip, Zip had also been looking for him.

A noise behind, and then more sounds of moving men, gave the mounted soldier and
his horse a good  estimate of the odds  without either turning to  see the dozen
rebels  climbing  down from  rooftops  and up  from  tunnels and  out  of cellar
windows.

Tempus's skin crawled: Pain wasn't something he sought, and with no death at the
end of it, he could suffer infinitely more than other men. But it was his  pride
that leant him pause: The  last thing he needed was  to be taken hostage by  the
PFLS and held to ransom. Crit would never let him forget it.

And the result for the PFLS  would then be eradication- total and  complete, not
the minor harrassment  Crit had time  to field while  busy with a  hundred other
tasks as  he got  two fighting  units ready  to depart  a town that had precious
little else between it and total anarchy.

So Tempus said to the foremost fighter, "If you're Zip, I am," and slid off  his
horse, making fast its reins on its pommel: Whatever Tempus was worth, the  Tros
was  irreplaceable, and  would make  for the  Stepsons' barracks  on a  whistled
command.

But once the Tros, with teeth and  hooves and blood lust spewing carnage in  its
wake, made for the barracks beyond the Swamp of Night Secrets, then the die  for
each and every rebel child was cast.

And children these were, the Riddler realized as he stepped closer: The boy  out
in front of his compatriots was well under thirty.

The youth held his  ground, nickering a hand-signal  that brought his troops  in
closer  and made  Tempus reassess  the discipline  and training  of the   rabble
closing on him.

Then the  Riddler remembered  that this  boy had  had some  little congress with
Kama, Tempus's daughter, a woman who was  as good a covert actor as Critias  and
as good a soldier as Sync.

The boy  nodded a  crisp assent,  then added,  "That's me,  old man. What's this
about?  You didn't  'accidentally' cross  our lines.  We won't  make peace  with
Jubal's bluemasks-or with that Bey-licking Kadakithis, who's sold the Ilsigs out
twice over." The youth  widened his stance and  Tempus remembered what Sync  had
said of him: "The boy's got nearly enough balls, but they override his brains."

So Tempus responded, "No, not accidentally. I want to talk to you ... alone."

"This is as 'alone' as I'm likely to get with you-you're not half so fetching as
your daughter."

Tempus locked his fingers  firmly on his swordbelt,  lest they cause trouble  on
their own, seeking a neck to wring.  Then he said, "Zip... as in zero,  nothing,
zilch... right?  Well, despite  that, I'll  give you  a piece  of wisdom,  and a
chance-because my daughter thinks you're worth it." That wasn't true-or at least
he didn't think so; he'd never spoken to Kama about Zip: She'd earned the  right
to choose her own bed-partners, and more.

The flat-faced youth, standing in the rain, barked a laugh. "Your daughter  lies
in with Nisibisi wizards-or at least with Molin Torchholder, who's tainted  with
Nisi blood. Her idea of who's worth what ain't mine."

The rabble behind and  around laughed, but uneasily.  The Tros at Tempus's  side
pawed the ground and pulled upon its reins  to loose them. He put out a hand  to
soothe the horse and a dozen blades or more cleared their scabbards with a snick
audible even through the  pelting rain, while the  three crossbows he could  see
were centered on his chest.

"The wisdom is; Sanctuary is for  lovers, not fighters, this season. Make  peace
among you, or the Empire will grind the lot into dust, and bury your flesh  with
corn to make it grow tall."

"Crap, old man. I'd heard you were tough-not like the rest," Zip spat. "But it's
the same garbage I hear from them. Tell it to your troops-the Whoresons and  the
Turd Commando: They're the ones causing all the grief."

Tempus's patience was near an end. "Boy,  mark me: I'll call them off you  for a
week-seven days. In  it, you meet  with the other  factions and hammer  out some
agreement, or by New Year's Day, the  PFLS won't be even a memory. Nor  will you
live even that long, to verify it."

There was a silence, and in  it someone muttered, "Let's kill the  bastard," and
someone else whispered back, "We can't-don't you know who that is?"

Tempus  peered  through the  downpour  and watched  the  flat face  before  him,
emotionless and  cold with  rain streaking  down it.  There was  strength in the
youth, like the Enlibar steel some had thought would make a difference here-but,
like the steel, Zip's strength was too little and too late.

Ageless eyes shocked against mortal eyes too sure of their doom and unwilling to
seek favor. But another  thing passed between them:  The weariness of the  young
fighter,  hunted  by too  many  and willing  to  die against  sheer  numbers and
superior force of arms, had turned to hopelessness; that despair met its echo in
the gaze of the fabled immortal who  went from war to war and empire  to empire,
taking life and  teaching the wisest  something about the  spirit's triumph over
death.

Tempus,  who had  created, trained,  and fielded  the Stepsons,  was offering  a
moratorium, some forgotten hope, where an ultimatum had been expected.

There was  something in  Zip's tone  when the  boy answered,  "Yeah, a week. All
right. All I can say is the PFLS will try-I can't speak for the others. It's got
to be enough. Or-"

Tempus had  to interrupt.  A threat  uttered in  front of  the youth's followers
would be binding. "Enough, for you  and yours. What they sow, they'll  reap. You
can come out of this with more than you expect. Zip-an imperial pardon, maybe  a
profession, and do what you do best for the good of the town you say you love."

"The  town I'll  die for,  one way  or the  other," Zip  murmured, because  he'd
understood what Tempus was saying and what had been unsaid in their met  glance,
and wanted the Riddler to know it, before he waved his men back without  another
word from Tempus.

It took only moments for the intersection where Red Clay Street met West Gate to
seem deserted once again. It took no longer to mount the Tros and head it toward
Lizard's Way.

Tempus was thinking, as he rode the Tros past a pile of refuse that  undoubtedly
hid at least one  hostile youngster, that what  Zip might gain, could  he do the
impossible and show progress toward peace-a  coalition of rebel forces, a  cease
fire committee, or even a  pacification program-was more than the  boy's wildest
dream: a home.

There  were no  forces to  replace the  Stepsons and  the 3rd.  The Rankan  army
garrison was just that-Rankan. The Stepsons' barracks, won at so great a cost in
life and love five years past, would  be deserted; the job the Sacred Band  did,
undone.  There would  be a  handful of  Hell-Hounds to  stand against   Theron's
battalions, Beysib oppressors, and the crime-lords of the town.

If Zip would only let him, Tempus  was going to solve a number of  problems that
had seemed insoluble only  minutes before, and do  the youth the only  favor one
man can do  another: Give him  a start on  solving his own  problems, a place to
stand, a world to win-a fresh start.

If Tempus  could  keep  his  own   people  from  killing  the charismatic  young
rebel leader in the meantime.  And if Zip knew  a  last chance when he saw  one.
And  if, in Sanctuary, where  hate  and  fear passed  for  respect.  Zip  hadn't
made  so many enemies that, no  matter what Tempus did, the boy's  assassination
wasn't  as sure as the next thunderclap of Stormbringer's welcome-weather.

When  that thunderclap  did come,  Tempus was  already cantering  the Tros  down
Lizard's Way,  headed for  the Vulgar  Unicorn, where  a fiend  named Snapper Jo
tended bar and word could be spread fast, when a man had rumors he wanted on the
wing.

Snapper Jo was a  fiend of the gray-and-warty-skinned,  snaggle-toothed variety.
His shock of orange hair  stood out every which way  from his head and his  eyes
looked  in both  directions at  once, causing  distress to  certain patrons  who
wondered which orb to fix on when  they earnestly begged for credit or leave  to
pass upstairs, where drugs and women could be had.

Snapper's job of bartending in the day at the Vulgar Unicorn was his most prized
accomplishment-save the winning of his freedom.

He'd  been the  summoned minion  of Roxane,  the Nisibisi  witch called  Death's
Queen. But his mistress had freed him, after her fashion ... or, at least, she'd
not come around lately to order him to this or that foul depradation.

The fact that Snapper thought of his former existence as a . witch's servant  as
depradacious was central  to the fiend's  new outlook on  life. Here, among  the
Wrigglies  and the  mendicants and  the whores,  he was  trying desperately  for
acceptance.

And he was managing.. No  one teased him about his  looks or shrank from him  in
fear. They  were civil,  in the  manner of  humans, and  they treated  him as an
equal, to the extent that anyone here ever treated anyone else so.

And, in his heart of hearts, Snapper  Jo wanted above all to be accepted  by the
humans-perhaps,  someday, as  a human.  For was  not humanity  something in  the
heart, not on the surface?

Snapper Jo wanted  to believe it  so, in this  weird inn where  pop-eyed Beysibs
were hated marginally more than blond and handsome Rankans, where dark skin  and
uneven  limbs  and  snaggle teeth  weren't  disfigurements;  where everyone  was
equally oppressed by the wizards from the Mageguild and the priests from uptown.

So when the  tall, heroic man  with the fearsome  countenance, who seemed  to be
seeping blood-or bloody rain- from every pore, came in and spoke familiarly in a
gravelly  voice, saying,  "Snapper, I  need a  favor," the  day bartender   drew
himself up  to his  full height-almost  equal to  the stranger's-puffed  out his
spoon-chest, and  replied, "Anything,  my lord-except  credit, of  course: house
rules."

This, too,  was part  of being  human: caring  about little  stamped circles  of
copper, gold, or silver, even though their value was only as great as the demand
of the humans who fought and died over them.

But this big human wanted only information: He'd come to Snapper to consult.

The stranger said, while around him the bar cleared for a man's length on either
side and behind him certain patrons  skulked out into the storm and  two serving
wenches tiptoed into the back room, "I need to know of your former mistress -did
Roxane ever find her  way out of Tasfalen's  house uptown? Has anyone  seen her?
You, of all... persons ... would know if she's about."

"No, friend," said Snapper, who used the word friend too much because he'd  just
recently learned  its meaning,  "she's not  been seen  or heard  from since  the
pillar of fire was doused."

The big man nodded and leaned close across the bar.

Snapper leaned in to  meet him, feeling somehow  special and very favored  to be
having this conversation with  so formidable a human  before all the patrons  in
the Unicorn. Nearly nose to nose, he began to notice, through his  right-looking
eye, some things about the man which were naggingly familiar: the hooded, narrow
eyes that watched him with hot intensity,  the thin slash of a mouth whose  lips
twisted with some private humor.

Then the man said, "And Ischade, the vampire woman-is she well? Down at Shambles
Cross? Holding court among her shades?"

"She..." Then memory jogged memory, and Snapper Jo raised a crop of goose  bumps
to complement his warts: This was  the Sleepless One, the legendary fighter  his
former mistress had fought  so long. "She... is,  sire. Ischade... is. And  will
be, always...."

Snapper Jo had friends among the not-really-human, the once-dead, the straddlers
of the void. Ischade was not one of them, but neither was this man, whom he  now
knew.

As he knew why the crowd had drawn  back, this rabble who knew the players in  a
game they joined only as pawns and never of their own accord.

Snapper tried not to cringe, but his lips formed words involuntarily, words that
whistled out sing-sing, "Mur-der, murder, oh there'll be mur-der everywhere  and
Snapper's so happy without it...."

"When next  a Stepson  or Commando  comes in,  instruct him  to seek  me at  the
mercenaries' hostel. And don't fail." The  man called Tempus lay coins upon  the
bar.

Snapper could see  them glitter with  his left-looking eye,  but he didn't  pick
them up until  the big man  had gone, leaving  behind only creaking  floorboards
stained ruddy to prove he'd been there at all.

Then the fiend called one of the  serving wenches from the kitchen and gave  the
girl,  whom he  loved-to the  extent that  a fiend  can love-all  the money  the
Riddler had left him, saying, "See, fear not. Snapper protect you. Snapper  take
care you. You take  care Snapper, too, yes,  later?" And the fiend  gave a broad
and lascivious grin to the woman he favored, who hid her shudder as she pocketed
the equivalent of a  week's wages and promised  the fiend she'd warm  his lonely
night.

Things were tough enough, these days in Sanctuary, that you took what you  could
get.

"You want us to what?" Crit's disbelieving snort made Tempus frown.

For Tempus, the mercenaries' hostel north of town evoked memories and ghosts  as
bloody as the rufous walls here, hung  with weapons which had won so many  days.
Here,  Tempus and  Crit had  plotted to  flush a  witch without  thought to  the
consequences; here, before Crit's recruitment, Tempus had put together the  core
of the Stepsons and taken command of Abarsis the Slaughter Priest's Sacred Band.

Here, even farther in the past, he'd burned a scarf belonging to a woman who was
his most foul curse-a scarf that  had been returned to him, magically  whole and
full of portent; a scarf he wore again around his waist, under his armor and his
chiton, as if all between his first days in Sanctuary and the present were but a
bad dream.

"I want you to protect, not hunt, this Zip, for one week," Tempus repeated, then
added:  "If,  at the  end  of that  week,  there's no  cease-fire  coalition, no
improvement, you can go back to collecting blood-debts."

Crit was the brightest of the- Stepsons, a Syrese fighter who'd taken the Sacred
Band oath  more than  once and  was now  paired with  Straton, who  in turn  was
entangled with Ischade, the vampire woman who lived down by Shambles Cross.

No one wanted the Sacred Band out  of Sanctuary more than Crit. And no  one knew
Tempus's heart better, or the specifics of what had transpired while the Emperor
was in Sanctuary.

Crit pulled on his long nose and stirred his posset with a finger, staring  into
it as if it were a witch's scrying  bowl. "You're not. .." he said to the  bowl,
then looked up at Tempus. "You're  not thinking about using that bunch  of Zip's
as some sort of Sanctuary defense force? Tell me you're not."

"I can't tell you that. Why should I? They're trained, gods know-well enough for
this town, anyway.  And they're tough-as  tough as any  we trained ought  to be,
which most  of them  are. Niko  himself spent  some time  working with  the PFLS
leader. And it shouldn't matter to you who we leave in the barracks, as long  as
it's  not  Jubal.  We  can't have  crime-lords  running  things-Theron  was very
explicit. It'll take locals to police this place, or us."

"That's what  I mean:  None of  us will  want to  stay to  oversee that bunch of
murderers-not me, not  any of mine.  Promise me you  won't do that  to me again,
leave me with an impossible job and an intractable lot of disappointed fighters.
The Band wants to  go with you. I  won't be able to  hold them here. And  Sync's
commandos won't take my orders."

It wasn't like Crit to make excuses, so these weren't excuses: These were points
the Sacred Bander urgently wanted Tempus to consider.

"Fine. I agree. I just  want to make sure that  you understand that Zip is  more
useful alive than dead... for one week. And that whatever is between you and  my
daughter-or not,"  Tempus held  up his  hand to  forestall Crit's denial, "she's
entangled with  Torchholder, who's  Nisi-an enemy.  We leave  her here.  We take
Jihan and Randal  if we have  to drug them  senseless to do  it, and we  get our
tails out of  here-yours, mine, Strat's,  the Stepsons', the  Third's-and that's
that. We're clear  of a degenerating  situation. If we  can leave some  force or
other to help Kadakithis, then we're lily-white."

"That's why you came here in person? To cobble together some stopgap that  won't
hold because Theron  doesn't want it  to? You know  what he wants...  he wants a
tractable, stable Empire's anus. And  with the magic screwed up,  or downgraded,
or whatever it is Randal's been trying to explain to me, he can get it by  force
of arms. I don't see a winning side for us in that kind of fight, and neither do
you ... I hope."

Tempus grinned fondly at his second-in-command: "Get Straton disentangled,  both
from the witch and from his local responsibilities, and-on my explicit order-the
two of you personally see that Zip  manages to make his contacts. And that  none
of ours, the Third included, obstructs him. Then we're out of here, back to  the
capital with the best possible report under the circumstances. And, no, I didn't
come down-country for this-I came down for Jihan's wedding: to stop it."

Randal was in the Mageguild,  consorting with the nameless First  Hazard, trying
to make  some headway  casting a  simple manipulative  spell to  turn the swampy
ground between the complex's outer and inner walls to gardens, when Tempus  came
to call.

The First Hazard was harried, a Rankan of Randal's age who'd assumed the dignity
just when it no longer was one: The Mageguild had held the populace in thrall by
fear  and  power  for  time  uncounted.  Now  that  the  Nisibisi  power globes'
destruction had made simple spells uncastable and love potions useless, now that
sympathetic magic was no longer so,  the Mageguild adepts feared not merely  for
their income.

When  Sanctuary's  denizens  realized  that  no  wards  protected  the   haughty
sorcerers, that spells paid for and tendered wouldn't work, that the Mageguild's
collective foot had been lifted from  llsig and Rankan neck alike, the  Hazards'
lives would be at risk.

So finding  a way  to render  the grounds  and walls  malleable to magic was not
simply an exercise: The Hazards might need an unbreachable fortress in which  to
hide from angry clients.

And Randal,  whose magic  was less  affected than  the local  mages', who  had a
dream-forged kris at his hip and the protection of the very lord of dreams,  had
been called upon  to aid his  guild's relatives-though when  the guild had  been
all-powerful, they had not liked the Stepsons' wizard nearly so well as now.

"It's not me, you know," Randal was trying to explain to the First Hazard, whose
war name was Cat and who looked more like a Rankan noble than a practiced  adept
who'd earned such a  name. "My magic, such  as it is," Randal  went on modestly,
"is part curse and part dream-spawned-not dependent on whatever forces have been
weakened in the south."

The Rankan  adept looked  at the  Tysian wizard  narrowly, then  wondered aloud,
"It's not some power play of Nisibisi origin, then? Nothing Torchholder, Roxane,
and the rest of you northern wizards have dreamed up?"

Randal sneezed  and wiped  his freckled  nose on  his sleeve,  ears reddening in
embarrassment: "If I were  so powerful as that,  couldn't I rid myself  of these
damnable  allergies?"  His  affliction  was  back,  the  one  concomitant   he'd
experienced of the local adepts' distress: Pollen, birds, and especially  furred
creatures  could  bring  him  to  a  paroxysm  of  distress.  Once  he'd  had  a
handkerchief which  quelled them,  and then  he'd had  a power  which suppressed
them. Now he had neither.

The First Hazard's impolitic retort  was interrupted by an apprentice  who burst
in, saying: "My lords Hazard, a man has breached our wards, a stranger-that  is,
we think so,  but he's coming-up  the stairs, now,  and he's got  his horse with
him..."

The handsome First Hazard hung his head, staring at his twisting fingers in  his
lap, and lied to the wide-eyed apprentice, "It's a summoning. We were  expecting
him. Go back to your work. . .  . What is it, for dinner? We'll have  guests, of
course-man and... horse."

"Dinner? It's..." The apprentice was  a witchling girl, thick-haired, short  and
comely,  with  a  small  waist that  accentuated  breast  and  hips despite  her
shapeless  beginner's  robe. Her  face  was rosy-cheeked  and  heart-shaped, and
Randal wondered why he'd  never noticed her, then  banished the thought: He  was
betrothed, soon to be wed to Jihan, a source of power he never mentioned in this
afflicted Mageguild.

The girl,  composing herself  with obvious  effort, said,  "Parrots, fleas,  and
squirrel bunions, m'lords Hazard-a stew, if it pleases."

"What?" snapped the harried First Hazard. Then, when the girl covered her  mouth
under widening eyes, continued: "Never mind the accursed menu, get out of  here.
And keep everyone else away until the dinner bell. Go on, girl, go!"

As she scurried backwards, a clomping of hoofbeats could be heard, followed by a
sound like porcelain crashing on a marble floor.

And then, through the great double doors whence the girl had just fled, a  horse
and rider came.

The horseman  hadn't dismounted;  the horse  had eyes  of fiery intelligence and
pricked its ears at  Randal. Its coat was  mottled, red and black  and gray, but
there was no mistaking it: It was the Tros horse of his commander.

Through a fit of sneezing he miserably endured, Randal hurried forward,  saying,
"My lord commander, welcome, welcome."

And the First Hazard, Cat, behind him, uttered a curse which bounced around  the
room in a gray and sickly pall until, once Tempus had dismounted, the Tros horse
flattened its ears at the half-manifested ectoplasm and kicked it to pieces.

"Hazard," said the Riddler to Randal, "and Hazard," to Cat. "Would you leave us.
First Hazard? My wizard and I need to talk."

"Your wizard" said Cat, still reflexively acting as powerful as he'd once  been.
Then his color drained  as he remembered his  circumstances and put two  and two
together.  "Oh yes,  your wizard.  I see,  my lord  Tempus. Dinner  will be   at
sundown, if you'd grace us. I'm sure we can find some... carrots ... for your...
mount."

Not a  word about  the desecration  of the  Mageguild by  a horse,  not a single
additional attempt to regain control  where all attempts were useless:  Cat just
chewed his lip.

Even though  Randal's eyes  were already  watering, he  felt a  deep and abiding
sadness for the  handsome young First  Hazard, although in  former times he  had
wished, more  than anything,  to be  possessed of  so fine  a form  and face and
bloodline as the Rankan who scurried out  of his own sanctum so that Randal  and
his commander could confer in private.

It was what you were, not how you looked, that mattered these days in Sanctuary.
And Randal was the only warrior-wizard in a town that soon would value  warriors
much more than wizards.

"You  need me,  commander?" Randal  said, trying  to speak  clearly despite  the
clogging of his nose which proximity to the Tros horse was causing.

"Yes, I do, Randal." Tempus dropped  the Tros's reins and it stood,  groundtied,
while the big fighter approached the small, slight wizard, put an arm across his
narrow shoulders, and walked with  him toward the First Hazard's  purple alcove.
"I need your help.  I need your presence.  I need your whole  attention-now, and
always."

Randal felt pride course through him, felt himself grow inches taller, felt  his
neck flush with joy. "You have it, Riddler, now and always-you know that. I took
the Sacred Band oath. I have not forgotten."

Niko  had, seemingly,  but not  even that  cloud could  block out  the light  of
Tempus's favor-not, at any rate, completely, Randal told himself.

"Nor have we. The Band sets out for Ranke soon, there to meet with Niko and trek
east. We want you on that journey, Randal-as a Sacred Bander, purely."

"Purely? I don't understand. It was Niko who broke the pairbond, not-"

"This is not about Niko. It's about Jihan."

"Oh. Oh." Randal slipped out from  under the Riddler's arm, its weight  suddenly
unbearable. "That. She... well, it wasn't  my idea, the marriage. You must  know
that. I'm not even-good-with women. And she's... demanding." The words came  out
in a rush, now that there was  finally someone to tell who would understand  the
problem. "I've put her off so far, explaining that I can't... you know...  until
we're wed. But I'll lose so  much... power, and there's precious little  of that
around, these days. She says she'll make up for it, through her father, but  I'm
not god-bound, I'm bound in-"

"Other ways, I know. Randal, I think I've a solution that might serve to get you
off the hook, if you'll help me."

"Oh, Riddler, I'd be  so grateful. She's-no offense-  more your sort of  problem
than mine. If you could just get me away from her, as long as it's not taken ill
by the Band. I'll sneak away, I'll meet you in Ranke, I'll-"

"No sneaking away, Randal," said Tempus through lips that had parted to bare his
teeth.

That smile was one  all Stepsons knew. Randal  said dumbly, "We can't.  . . hurt
her-sir. No sneaking away? Then how... ?"

"With your permission,  Randal, I'm going  to woo her  away from you-steal  your
bride from under your very nose."

"Permission!"  Oh, Tempus,  I'd be  so grateful-so  everlastingly and  abidingly
grateful...."

"I have it, then?"

"What? Permission? By the  Writ and the devils  who love me, yes!  Woo away! And
may the-"

"Just your permission will  be enough, Randal. Let's  not bring any powers  into
this whose response we can't foresee, let alone control."

The woman  was walking  alone in  the garden  while, within  the manse beyond, a
civilized uptown party was under way. Her hair was blond and curly, bound up  in
the fashion noblewomen  in the capital  had adopted this  season: held in  place
with little golden pins hafted with likenesses of Rankan gods.

He came upon  her from behind  and had his  left arm crooked  around her neck in
seconds, saying only, "Hold, I'm not here  to hurt you," while within him a  god
who  shouldn't have  been there  stirred to  wakefulness, stretched,  and  urged
otherwise.

Ignoring the obscene and increasingly attractive suggestions the war-god in  his
head was making, he gave the woman time to realize who held her.

It didn't take long: She wasn't  a typical Rankan woman of blood-no  man without
Tempus's supernal speed and talent could have caught her unaware.

She stiffened and, every muscle tensed  so that his body began taking  the god's
suggestions literally, pressed  back against him-the  first move toward  putting
him off  balance, ready  to use  her own  arena-training in  weight, feint,  and
misdirection of attention to try to escape.

"Hold," he said again. "Or suffer the consequences, Chenaya."

"Pork you, Tempus," she gritted in a surprisingly ladylike voice unsuited to the
content of  her words.  He could  feel her  hands ball  into fists,  then relax.
Behind him, people indoors chatted and clinked their goblets.

"We haven't time for that, unless you're ready." He put his free hand on her hip
and spread it, moving it forward  to press against her belly and  slip downward,
putting her in a hold she'd never come up against in a Rankan arena.

"Gods, you haven't changed,  you bastard. If it's  not my body-for which  you'll
pay more than it's worth, I assure you-what do you want?"

"I thought you'd never ask. It's a little matter of an attempt on Theron's life,
yours, I  believe-something about  boarding the  barge. Not  a smart  move for a
member of a decidedly ac-royal family:  not for you, not for Kadakithis,  who'll
share Theron's wrath if it's revealed who  tried to feed him to the sharks,  not
for any of what's left of your line."

"Again, halfling, what do you want?"

There were two answers at  that point in time, one  of which had to do  with the
god in his head, who was whispering.  She is a woman, and women only  understand
one thing. She is a  fighter. It's long since We've  had a fighter. Give her  to
Us, and We'll be very grateful-and  she will be Our willing servant.  Otherwise,
you cannot trust her.

To the god in his head, he responded, / can't trust You, never mind her. To  the
woman,  he said,  "Chenaya, beyond  the obvious,  which we'll  see  about"-still
holding her tightly  enough with his  elbow that a  slight jerk would  break her
neck, he began to raise her voluminous white skirt from behind-"I want you to do
something for me. There's a faction here that needs a woman whom the gods decree
cannot be defeated.  What I ask,  I ask for  Kadakithis, for the  continuance of
your bloodline, and for the good of Sanctuary. What the god asks, I'm afraid, is
another matter." His voice was deepening, and into him was pouring all the  long
held passion of Sanctuary's Lord of Rape and Pillage, Blood and Death.

She was a fighter, and god-bound. He hoped, as he began to explain the  business
that  had brought  him here  and the  god in  him got  out of  hand, that  she'd
understand.

The sentry at the tunnel entrance  to Ratfall, Zip's base camp in  Downwind, was
gagged and flopping in a pool of his own blood.

Zip  had slipped  in it,  then stumbled  over the  body in  the dusk  before  he
realized what he'd stumbled on: Sync's calling card-the sentry's hands and  feet
had been lopped off.

He thanked the god  whose swampy altar he  still frequented that he'd  come home
alone as he raised up on hands and knees and, with his belt dagger, made an  end
to the quivering sentry's agony.

3rd Commando  tactics were  meant to  terrify; knowing  this didn't  make it any
easier to keep from  retching. Knowing that it  wouldn't have taken more  than a
half hour for the sentry to have completely bled out didn't help Zip's frame  of
mind: Sync's  people were  probably watching  him from  the adjacent  ramshackle
buildings Zip called his stronghold.

The 3rd  Commando leader,  Sync, said  quietly from  behind him:  "Got a minute,
sonny? Some people here want to talk with you."

The words  weighed on  Zip like  burial stones  and his  own pulse threatened to
choke him. Through the entire winter, Sync's rangers had never rousted him.  The
3rd's leader had  professed autonomy, pretended  friendship, left Zip's  PFLS to
its own devices-as long as it  followed an occasional suggestion from the  3rd's
cold-blooded leader.

But there had  been talk of  an alliance then-before  Theron had visited  Ranke;
before Zip's faction  had recruited too  many and developed  factions within its
own ranks; before some  fools among them had  captured Illyra, the S'danzo,  and
killed a S'danzo child; before an arrow aimed at Straton had been laid at  Zip's
doorstep; before  Kama had  left Zip's  bed and  taken up  with Torchholder, the
palace  priest; before  a falling  out with  Jubal over  a slave  girl Zip   had
liberated... before things had just  gotten too damned complicated, because  Zip
couldn't hold the  territory he'd gained  across the White  Foal, territory he'd
never wanted, like he'd never wanted to be so damned visible (and thus targeted)
as Sync's behind-the-scenes maneuvering had made him.

"Talk with me? You call this  talk?" Zip's voice was shaking, but  Sync wouldn't
be able to tell whether  it was with rage or  fear. At that moment, Zip  himself
couldn't have said which. Blood was all around him, sticky and warm and smelling
all too human; the  corpse beside him had  farted, and worse, once  death loosed
its bowels.

On  his hands  and knees  in blood  and shit.  Zip was  thinking that  this  was
probably it-the death he'd earned,  in circumstances he'd dreamed too  often. He
waited to see if it was a blade from behind that would do the talking.

A sandal splashed in the blood  by his hand; Sync's Rankan-accented voice  said,
"That's right, talk. If your man here had talked before he acted, he'd be  alive
now." A gloved hand reached down for him; above it, a bracer with the 3rd's unit
device of  a rearing  horse with  arrows in  its mouth gleamed-silver, polished,
spotless, and whispering of  a cruelty so legendary  that even the Rankans  were
afraid to use the 3rd Commando.

Even Theron,  who'd come  to the  throne by  way of  their swords,  if rumor was
truth, wanted the 3rd disbanded or under a tight rein. That was why, some  said,
Tempus, who had created them, had got them back: No one else could control them.
Left to their own, they'd slaughter  Rankan emperors one by one and  auction the
throne to the highest bidder-Zip had heard Sync and Kama joke about it when  the
three were drunk.

Zip let Sync help him up, busy  trying to wipe the sticky blood from  his palms.
He didn't  argue about  the dead  sentry: You  didn't argue  with Sync, not over
something as  immutable as  the already-dead.  You saved  it for  the plans that
could get you killed.

The rest  were emerging  now: at  least twenty  fighters-the 3rd  never traveled
light.

The sight of Kama in her battle  dress, with the 3rd's red insignia burned  into
hardened leather above her right breast and campaign designators scratched below
it, made his stomach lurch.

She was unfinished business,  would always be. He  said, "So, here I  am. Talk,"
and found his tongue unwieldy.

Around her, he  realized (as his  eyes accustomed themselves  to something other
than the dead man,  handless and footless, who  still flopped helplessly in  his
inner sight), were others  of the uptown gangs  who masqueraded as authority  in
Sanctuary: Critias, a covert actionist from the Sacred Band who seldom  ventured
forth in uniform  and never  in daylight;  Straton, his  wide-shouldered,  witch
ridden partner; Jubal, black as Ischade's cloak and with a look on his face much
blacker; Walegrin,  the regular  army's garrison  commander and  brother of  the
S'danzo whose child Zip's men had killed; and a blond woman he didn't know,  who
wore arena leathers and had a bird perched on her shoulder.

He  ought  to  be wary,  he  realized-this  sort of  crowd  hadn't  gathered for
something as mundane as  his execution. But his  eyes kept sliding back  to Kama
and trying  to fit  the persona  of her  father over  the woman who'd taught him
things about lovemaking he'd never dreamed were possible.

And then  he realized  why these  uptown hotshots  were down  in Ratfall; Kama's
father. Tempus's minions, all of these were, some by choice, some by duty,  some
by coercion. And none of them with a good word to say of Zip, except perhaps for
the Riddler's daughter.

Fear sharpened  his eyesight,  and he  looked beyond  the gathered luminaries to
their troops, and farther: to where his rebels skulked. None of them would  move
to save him-the odds weren't good enough.

And neither Ratfall nor Zip were worth saving, not at the kind of price the  3rd
Commando would exact, if the sentry was a good example.

And he was. They'd made sure of that, had his visitors.

As he  took deep  breaths and  resolved to  tell nothing  to this corps of fancy
fighters (including the Stepsons' chief interrogator, Strat), Zip realized  that
something was indeed worth saving here: Behind the men, in the long shed against
which  3rd Commando  regulars leaned  with studied  insolence, was  a store   of
incendiaries  purchased  from  the Beysib  glassmakers:  bottles  in which  were
alchemical concoctions that, once their  wicks were lit and the  bottles thrown,
exploded with such force that the shards and flame and concussion from even  one
such bottle could clear a street-or a palace hall.

With  or without  him, the  revolution could  continue, as  long as  the  Beysib
glassblowers took the PFLS's money and Ilsig will-to-fight held out.

So, having determined that  he had something to  lose. Zip said again,  "Talk, I
said. What do you think this is, an uptown dinner party?"

"No," said  the woman  he didn't  know, the  one with  the hawkish bird upon her
shoulder, "it's a revolutionary council -a trial, actually: yours."

When  Kama came  back from  Ratfall, her  eyes were  red-rimmed and  she was  so
disarrayed that she ran  up Molin's back stairs,  hoping to have the  girls draw
her a bath so she could get the Zip-smell off her and the straw out of her  hair
before the Torch saw her.

But Molin  was home:  She could  hear Torchholder's  voice, and  that of another
Rankan, coming from the front rooms.

She froze in horror, realizing suddenly that she couldn't face him-not now, with
her thighs sticky and her blood up, and all her father's heritage aroused in her
so that she wanted nothing to  do with the half-Rankan, half-Nisi who  had saved
her life, and whom she owed so much.

But was  debt the  same as  love? Zip's  faked and  fated "trial" had broken her
heart thrice over.

The  outcome-the  verdict  of  conditional  acquittal-was  assured,  by Tempus's
decree. Zip was the only one who hadn't known it.

It was the crudest thing she'd ever seen men do to another man, and she'd been a
willing part  of it,  the operator  in her  fascinated by  all she saw, by human
emotion and its interplay, by the  passions of those who'd lost loved  ones, and
face, trying to justify the one  and regain the other-all because Kama's  father
had ridden down from Ranke, looked upon the doings of Sanctuary's puny  mortals,
and not been pleased.

Sometimes she hated Tempus more even than she hated the gods.

And so she'd  stayed with Zip,  after the others  had left, to  lick the nervous
sweat from his fine young body and  to wipe the confusion from his heart  in the
only way she knew.

Zip was... Zip, her aberration: a  physical match such as Molin could  never be.
But that was all. She could never make  it more, or let it make itself more,  or
let Zip convince her it could be more.

He needed help, that was all. And everyone was' using him, dangling him this way
and that. She felt sorry for him.

So she gave him comfort in the night. It was nothing.

Yet the memory sent her bolting from Molin's doorstep, because the Torch was too
intelligent to  be fooled  by mumbled  excuses or  headaches, because  Kama just
couldn't fake it tonight.

She roamed night-hot  streets, though she  knew better, almost  hoping that some
pickpocket or zombie or  Beysib would accost her:  Like her father, when  pushed
too hard, Kama craved only open violence.  She'd have killed a Stepson or a  3rd
Commando ranger, one of her own, if any dared cross her this evening.

She  stopped  in at  the  Unicorn, half-hoping  for  a fight,  but  no one  paid
attention to her there.

She wandered back streets on  a borrowed horse, letting it  drift barracks-ward,
until she realized that it had brought her to the White Foal Bridge.

And then, as she gave  the horse its head and  it crossed the river bridge,  she
began in earnest to cry.

It was Crit she wanted now, whether  to hold him or kill him, she  couldn't have
said if her life depended on it.  But Crit was, as Zip would say,  old business,
and Crit had noticed that she'd stayed with Zip.

Maybe she'd stayed with Zip because of Crit, brushing hips with his partner, and
because even  that partner,  Strat, had  sought warmer  company than   Critias's
Ischade for warmth that Crit reserved to formed ranks and duty squadrons and the
next covert operation on his docket.

So when the sorrel string-horse ambled toward Ischade's funny little gate, as if
by habit, Kama brushed  her eyes angrily with  her forearm and blinked  away her
tears.

In her nostrils  was the rank  smell of the  White Foal in  summer, carrying its
carrion to the sea, and the perfume of night-blooming flowers of the occult sort
that Ischade grew here.

And the smell of heated horse: Two were stamping, reins tied to Ischade's  gate,
and one of those was Grit's big black. She recognized it by the star and snip as
it turned its head to whicker softly to the mount she rode.

The mare under her gave a belly-shaking acknowledgment and she realized that the
horse she rode, and his, were lovers.

Hating herself for resenting  even that, for her  confusion and her doubts,  she
dismounted, trying not to think at all.

And walked up to the vampire-woman's gate, and pushed it with a sweaty palm.

Perhaps she was meeting her doom here-Ischade had no reason to cut Kama the kind
of slack she  allowed Straton, and  Crit because of  their pairbond, and  Kama's
father because of some bargain whose specifics Tempus had never revealed.

If Crit was in there,  Kama wanted to see him.  She focused on that and  nothing
else.

Love sucks, she told herself, and wondered what he'd say.

She'd  knocked upon  Ischade's door,  which was  lit somehow,  though no   torch
gleamed or candle flickered  in its lamp, before  she'd thought of an  excuse to
give. She could always say she needed to debrief.

If he was there. If  it wasn't a trap. If  the necromant wasn't into women  this
summer.

Then the door opened and a small and dusky figure stepped out, closing it behind
her so that Kama was forced to retreat a pace, then take a step down the stoop's
stairs.

That put them eye to eye and the eyes of Ischade were deeper than Kama's  hidden
grief for a child lost long ago on the battlefield and the man who'd refused  to
give her another chance.

"Yes?" said the velvet-voiced woman who held Strat in thrall.

Kama, who was more  woman than she'd have  chosen, looked deep into  the eyes of
the woman who was all  any man who'd seen her  had ever dreamed of wanting,  and
felt rough, unkempt, foolish.

"Crit's horse... is it... ? Is he... ?"

"Here? The both. Kama,  isn't it?" Ischade's dark  eyes delved, narrowed just  a
fraction, then widened.

"It, I-I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry. I'll just go and..."

"There's  no harm.  And no  peace, either,"  said the  vampire-woman who  seemed
suddenly sad. "Not  if your father  has the say  of it. You  want him-Crit? Take
care for what you want, little one."

And Kama, who had never  known her mother and thought  of other women as if  she
herself were a man, found her arms outstretched to Ischade for comfort,  weeping
freely, sobbing so deeply that nothing she tried to say came out in words.

But the necromant  drew back with  a hiss and  a warding motion,  a shake of her
head and a blink that broke some spell or other.

Then she turned and  was gone inside, though  Kama hadn't seen the  door open to
admit her.

Suddenly alone with her tears on the  doorstep of one of the most feared  powers
in Sanctuary, Kama heard words within- low words, some spoken by men.

Before the door could reopen, before Crit could see her weeping like a baby, she
had to get out of here. She didn't mean it; she shouldn't have come. She  needed
nobody-not  her father,  not his  fighters, not  Zip or  Torchholder and,   most
especially, not the Sacred Bander called Crit.

She'd run  down the  path and  thrown herself  up on  her saddle before the door
opened again.

Anything the man in the doorway might have shouted was drowned out by the mare's
thundering hooves as Kama slapped her unmercifully with the reins, headed toward
the Stepsons' barracks at a dead run.

There was nothing Crit could tell her that she wanted to hear-except perhaps why
she could forgive Zip, who had  betrayed her and tried to pin  Strat's attempted
murder on her, when she couldn't forgive  Crit, who had wanted to marry her  and
have a child with her.

                                   *   *   *

Tasfalen's uptown estate  had once been  luxurious and fine,  the centerpiece of
one of Sanctuary's most exclusive neighborhoods.

Now  it  stood alone,  blackened  and charred  but  whole, while  all  around it
skeletal remains of burned-out homes teetered for blocks, frameworks leaning  on
lumps of fused brick,  so that occasionally a  charcoaled timber snapped of  its
own weight and  came crashing down  to break an  eerie silence that  spread from
here to the uptown house where the pillar of fire had once raged, and beyond.

Not even rats ran these streets at night, since the pillar of flame had cleansed
an uptown house and all the  witchery that once had centered in  its velvet-hung
bedroom.

But Tempus had called  a meeting here, across  the street from Tasfalen's  front
door,  in  the  dead  of  night-a  meeting  of  those  concerned,  once  all his
preparations had been made.

The sleepless veteran was  the only one unaffected  by the hours he  and his had
kept this week in Sanctuary.

Crit,  who'd  born  the  brunt  of delegated  tasks,  weaved  on  his  feet with
exhaustion as he set torches in the rubble of the house across from  Tasfalen's;
had the light been  better, the black circles  under his eyes would  have told a
clearer tale of what he'd been through and what it cost him to petition Is-chade
for leave to do what tonight must be done here.

Strat, Crit's partner, worked silently beside him, unloading ox thighs rich with
fat from a snorting chestnut who didn't like its burden, and oil in  child-sized
stoneware  rhytons,  and placing  all  on a  makeshift  plinth exactly  opposite
Tasfalen's door.

Tempus watched his Stepsons work without a word, waiting for the witch to  show.
Ischade had decreed this meeting  be at midnight-necromants will be  necromants.
She was crucial to this undertaking, so Randal said.

Tempus hardly cared;  the god was  in him fierce  and strong, making  everything
seem fire-limned  and slow:  his task  force leader;  the witch-ridden  Stepson,
Strat; the horses bearing sacrificial burdens. If he hadn't remembered that he'd
thought it mattered, that he'd felt need to leave here owing nothing, he'd  have
left this stone unturned.

But Ischade owed him this  favor-if it really was one.  And he, in turn, owed  a
debt he was loath  to carry-a debt to  the Nisibisi witch last  seen behind that
ward-locked door across the street.

Tasfalen's door. It  had not opened  since the pillar  of flame had  scoured the
neighborhood  about it.  What might  come out  of there,  not even  Ischade  was
certain. Powers had convened to cleanse the ground here, but stopped just  short
of the house. Powers  that no one thought  would ever work together  had taken a
hand to bar that  door-Ischade's sort of powers,  and others from deeper  hells;
Stormbringer's  primal fury,  and thus  those from  the sort  of heaven  Jihan's
father ruled.

Or thus, at any rate, Tempus understood it. The god in him understood  something
different-something of passion inbound and lust unreleased.

There was a  something in there  all right, the  god was telling  him: something
very hungry and very angry.

Whatever it was-Nisibisi witch, a  ravening ghost thereof, a demon  entrapped, a
shard of  Nisi power  globe-it hadn't  survived in  there since  winter's end on
stored foodstuffs and the occasional mouse.

If it was Roxane, behind Ischade's iron  wards that not even the rip in  magic's
fabric could weaken, then the Unbinding  would have to be carefully done.  If it
was  Something Else,  Tempus was  prepared to  give it  battle-he'd once  fought
Jihan's own storm-cold father to a draw over matters he had less stake in.

Snapper Jo  scuttled up  to the  Tros horse  by which  Tempus stood, the fiend's
knuckles  nearly dragging  on the  ground, its  snaggle teeth  gleaming in   the
torchlight: "Sire," it grunted, "see her? Snapper can't tell." The fiend, in its
distress, ramped like a bear-side to  side, side to side. "Mistress won't  like,
won't like ... Snapper go now?"

"Did you  place the  stone. Snapper?"  The stone'in  question was  a bluish gem,
crazed and fractured, Ischade had given  Crit. For what payment, when the  stone
would help release her enemy and  perhaps release Straton, too, for duty  to the
east, Tempus hadn't asked.

And Crit never made  excuses. But there'd been  no soldierly cursing, no  banter
between the Stepsons here this evening. When Randal had come by briefly, to  say
Jihan would attend, there  had been none of  the obligatory teasing of  the mage
that passed for fellowship. Strat hadn't even called Randal "Witchy-Ears."

Tempus knew he was pushing matters, but  he had his reasons. And the god,  risen
in him, was all the sign he needed that his instinct wasn't wrong.

A  part of  this outrageous  enterprise-the freeing  of whatever  lurked  behind
Tasfalen's doors-he undertook to right a balance out of whack. It was  something
none  of  those about  him  sensed, but  Niko,  the absent  Stepson,  would have
understood: Tempus labored now for maat, for equilibrium in a town that teetered
toward anarchy; and for the Stepsons, who soon might go where Nisibisi magic was
still strong  and had  better not,  with a  debt outstanding  to a witch of Nisi
blood.

But the greatest part of this seemingly evil deed-that Randal had begged him not
to undertake  and that  had troubled  Ischade enough  to bring  her here-he  did
because of Jihan,  and her father,  and a marriage  that, if consummated,  would
bind a god to Sanctuary that  no little thieves' world could or  should contain.

Three  hundred years  and more  of kicking  around this  world of   god-inspired
battlefields and wizard-won  wars had taught  Tempus that instinct  was his only
guide, that any man's sacrifice went unappreciated unless it was to propitiate a
god, and  that the  only satisfaction  worth having  was wrested  from the  deed
itself-was in the process of accomplishment, never in the result.

So the sacrifice he was about to make-not the sacrifice of laying the ox  thighs
on the'oil and sending smoke up to heaven, but the sacrifice of his own peace of
mind-would go unremarked by men. But he would know. And the god would know.  And
the powers who  tended the balance  which expressed itself  in fate and  weather
would know.

How Jihan's father would react, only Jihan would know.

A movement  caught his  eye, and  the god's  eye within  him knew it female. His
scrotum drew up, ready to face Jihan in all her insatiable glory.

But it was Ischade, not Jihan, who came.

Tempus felt a twinge of  distress, of uncertainty-something he'd rarely  felt in
all these years. Could Jihan ignore his invitation? His challenge? The power  in
the game he  played? Could Stormbringer  have gotten wind  of Tempus's intention
and mixed in?  Tricking a god  wasn't easy. But  then, neither was  tricking the
Riddler.

Randal had assured him Jihan had said she'd be here. He knew she thought she was
involved with Randal to make him jealous,  to make him fey, to make him  come to
heel. The question was, however,  whether Jihan herself understood what  she did
and why-that Stormbringer had turned her eyes toward Randal.

Tempus wondered, suddenly, whether it would matter to Jihan if she did know. She
wasn't human, any  more than Ischade,  so slight and  yet so full  of menace, or
Roxane.

Jihan was still learning how to  be alive; womanhood lay heavy and  confusing on
her, as it didn't on the witches  and the accursed women who fought the  witches
of blood.

Ischade, no bigger than  a child to Tempus,  came striding up swathed  in black,
her face like a magical moon on midsummer's eve, her eyes wide as the hells  she
guarded.

"Riddler," she breathed, "are you sure?"

"Never," he chuckled. "Not about anything."

And he saw the necromant draw back,  sensing the god cohabiting with him, a  god
the  fighters  called Lord  Storm,  whose name  had  been translated  into  more
languages than the thieves' world knew, but always meant the same: the nature of
man to fight and kill for lust  and territory. On bad days, Tempus thought  that
the god who dogged him, chameleonlike, adapting by syncretism to different  wars
in different  lands, was  merely an  excuse his  mind made  up-a way to hang his
excesses and  his sins  on others,  a faceless  repository for  all the blame of
every death he'd caused.

But seeing Ischade's reaction to the god high in him made him realize it  wasn't
so.

The necromant took a step forward resolutely, cocked her head, licked her  lips,
and said, "You jest with me? When He is here?" Then, when he didn't respond, she
made a warding sign, withdrawing with  a mutter: "Have your witch loosed,  then.
There's less trouble over there than is right here, with you."

And my fighter, Strat? he or the god wanted to ask, but did not. You didn't  ask
Ischade, you negotiated.  Tempus wasn't in  a position to  negotiate, right now.
Unless ...

"Ischade, wait," he called. Or the god  did. And when she came close, he  leaned
down and let the Lord  of Rape and Pillage whisper  in the ear of the  necromant
who  commanded  all  the  partly  dead  and  restless  dead  who  never  went to
Sanctuary's gods.

He tried not to listen to what  the god said or what the necromant  replied, but
it was a bargain they made which concerned him-concerned the flesh of his flesh,
and the soul of his Stepson, Strat.

When he straightened up, the frail, pale creature touched his forearm and looked
into his eyes. For a moment he thought he saw a tear there, but then decided  it
was the brightness that passion lent to necromants and their kind.

He could survive  what the god  had promised Ischade-or  at least he  thought he
could.

It might be interesting to find out... if, of course, Stonn-bringer didn't  kick
his ass  from one  dimension to  another for  meddling in  the Froth  Daughter's
affairs before he had time  to make good his promise  to spend a night with  the
necromant.

Disconcerted, as Ischade disappeared-literally-into shadows, he mounted the Tros
and stroked its neck for comfort: his comfort, not its.                     .

Up north, at the  Hidden Valley stud farm,  a calmer life still  beckoned. If he
could only be content to  do it, he could raise  horses and a new generation  of
fighters to hold the line against the northern wizards with his friend Bashir.

But no matter how  he craved a different  life at times like  these, when battle
lines of uncertain composition were drawn, with stakes not so simple as life  or
death, and opponents whose strength was  not corporeal, the god would never  let
him rest.

Torchholder, the half-Nisi priest, had told  him all his curse and godbond  were
merely habit. It might have been true on the day the priest said it, or true  to
a priestly eye; but it wasn't true here and now.

And here and now was always where Tempus was, not off somewhere in the realm  of
Greater Good or  Mortal Soul or  Eternal Consequence. He'd  lost the ability  to
determine greater good, if there was one; his mortal soul he'd given up on  long
ago. And as for eternal consequence-he was its embodiment.

So when Jihan finally made her  entrance, glowing softly to his god-shared  eye,
her muscular, lithe form still more  feminine than any mortal girl's, her  waist
too small and breasts too pert  and thighs too sleek below scale-armor  no human
hand had forged, he was more than ready to be just what he was, to lay upon  her
the consequence of her dalliance, of her games, and of her fate.

She came  up to  within an  arm's length  of the  Tros and  it backed a pace: It
remembered the way she used to curry it until its hide showed bare of hair.

He slipped off its back as her throaty voice, arch and full of childish  vanity,
said, "You wished to see me, Tempus?  I can't imagine why. I did not  invite you
to my wedding."

"Because," he said, reaching out for her  with a quick grab and a step  forward,
"there isn't going to be one."

His hand closed on her arm as hers grabbed for his belt.

They struggled there, and he dropped  her by thrusting a leg between  her thighs
and kicking her balance out from under her.

It was a signal.

As Jihan began to curse and rage and kick beneath him among the charcoal and the
bricks, Critias  and Strat  and Ran-dal  began the  sacrifice of  ox and oil, to
pacify the god, while Ischade did whatever Ischade must do to release her wards.

Raping the  Froth Daughter  wasn't easy:  She was  as strong  as he  and just as
agile.

He had counted on the lust they shared and the play-rapes in their past to  turn
her pique into passion  and her body into  an instrument he could  play for best
result.

And something of the sort transpired, though who raped whom, he wasn't  certain,
when they rolled half-naked in the ruins, unconcerned with anything about  them,
while a witch  cast spells and  soldiers spoke ancient  rituals and Randal,  the
Tysian wizard, presided over a fiery  sacrifice meant to set whatever lurked  in
Tasfalen's free at last.

Since Tempus was, in his  way, that self-same sacrifice to  Stonnbringer, father
of Jihan, and since  Jihan's legs were around  him and her teeth  sunk firmly in
his neck, and since  the god within  him loved the  rape-game and Jihan  as well
and since Jihan  was by then  wreaking enough havoc  upon his flesh  to make him
glad the god was in him to bear the brunt of it, he missed the spectacle  taking
place across the street at Tasfalen's.

As a matter of fact, the fireworks inside  his head as the god and he and  Jihan
and her father came together blotted out the simulacrum of last winter's  pillar
of fire, rising up to heaven from Tasfalen's home, which had been left unscathed
then.

He was later  told that, as  it rose, the  doors and windows  of Tasfalen's flew
open of their own accord and something  fiery -something with huge bird's  wings
flew out. And flapped and circled high above the place where Tasfalen lived.

And  disappeared into  the smoke  which billowed  everywhere-too much  smoke  to
credit to burned ox thighs and jugs of oil; smoke that went up from, or down to,
the chimney of Tasfalen's house, as  if the light spewing from every  window was
the light of something burning bright within.

But what burned in Tempus was a light unto itself.

Jihan was his match  in all things physical:  When they lay quiet,  able to hear
more than their own breathing and  see more than their own souls,  she whispered
to him, with her head buried in his neck, "Oh, Riddler, what took you so long to
come and reclaim me? How could you do this to me? And to Randal?"

"I'll take care of Randal. He'll  understand. I want you, Jihan-I want  you with
me. I..." This  was hard to  say, but he  had to say  it, not just  for Randal's
sake, but  for the  sakes of  all who  put their  faith in  him. "I... need you,
Jihan. We all do. Come north and east and everywhere with me-see this world, not
just its armpit."

"But my father..." The Froth Daughter's eyes glowed red as the light he was just
beginning to notice from across the street.

"Will he not honor his daughter's wish?"

And Jihan's arms locked around his neck  in a grip not Tempus, or death  itself,
could brezk, and  she pulled him  down to her.  "Then, Riddler, let  us show Him
that it is my wish."

He wasn't sure  that, even with  the war-god to  help, he could  manage to prove
himself again so soon. But the god was, thanks be to Him, as insatiable as  she,
and, though Stormbringer began  to rumble and to  shake the ground in  pique, so
that soon they thrashed and rolled in  a downpour that quenched the fire on  the
altar and the fire  in Tasfalen's house, it  was too late for  Jihan's father to
intervene.

Tempus had wooed  Jihan, and won  her, and there  was nothing even  Stormbringer
could do to change the Froth Daughter's mind once it was made up.

Zip couldn't believe the trouble he was in, forced into an alliance with so many
who had good reason to wish him dead.

Jubal's hawkmasks escorted him out to the Stepsons' barracks to show him around.
At least he didn't have to live there-yet.

The deal was, as he understood  it, that he spearhead some addled  alliance made
up of all his known enemies and some he hadn't known he had: One, a bitch  named
Chenaya, had more balls than half  the mercenaries lounging on the white  washed
parade grounds and she'd made it clear that she didn't expect the pecking  order
to hold for long unless she was at the head of it.

Heads tended to get lopped off in Sanctuary, he'd told her, with an  exaggerated
bow and outstretched hand meant to indicate that she could precede him into  any
grave, anytime, anyplace.

But Chenaya  was some  sort of  Rankan noble,  and didn't  realize he  was being
snide.  She's  just assumed  he  habitually bowed  and  scraped like  any  other
Wrigglie, and let him  hand her up into  her fancy wagon, telling  him she'd see
him later.

He'd have felt  better about all  the changes ifJubal  had said Word  One to him
about settling matters, man to man,  or if the Rankan Walegrin hadn't  looked at
him as if Zip were a goat staked out to lure a wolf, or if Straton wasn't  twice
his  weight  and  conspicuously absent  when  Zip  was shown  the  ropes  at the
barracks.

Yeah, he could hold out  in the one-time slaver's estate-turned-fortress.  Yeah,
it beat the offal out of Ratfall.  But somehow, he didn't think he was  going to
live to move his rabble in here.

And he didn't think the 3rd Commando  was going to quit this town, where  it was
the  most powerful  single element  save gods,  wizardry, and  Tempus, once  the
Stepsons were packed off to the capital.

Sync was nobody's fool. And Sync was looking at him funny as the 3rd's commander
whistled up a mount  for Zip from the  string herd and showed  him how to put  a
warhorse through its paces.

It was a bright day,  and the horse was sweating,  and he was riding around  the
training ring  with Sync  like some  Rankan kid  with his  daddy when  the arrow
whizzed by his head close enough to knick his ear.

He cursed, dove off  the horse's wrong side,  and rolled toward the  fence while
Sync bawled orders and men went running about in a fine display of concern.

Zip went after the arrow and found it.

If it wasn't  the same one  that had been  aimed at Straton  from a rooftop last
winter, it was a perfect copy.

"That doesn't mean  that Strat-or any  of the Stepsons-  are behind this,"  Sync
said, a  stalk of  hay between  his teeth,  an hour  later as  they walked their
horses and  men came  in, sweating  and dirty,  giving desultory  reports of  no
progress and grinning at Zip, the only Ilsig in the camp, with cold amusement in
their meres' eyes.

"Sure. I  know. Probably  somebody wants  me to  think it  is. No sweat." And he
half-believed what he  was saying. If  Strat wanted a  piece of him,  the Sacred
Bander would take it  with show and ceremony,  lots of ritual, the  whole exotic
Band code enforced so that murder wouldn't be murder once it had been sanctified
by the handy murderer's god.

They had an altar to that purpose, out back of the training arena.

Arrow in hand. Zip walked over  there with his new horse, thinking  about making
some kind of statement by kicking the piled stones apart.

Then he changed his mind, swung up on the horse, and loped it out of there.

He didn't really care who'd tried to kill him. From the talk he'd heard while in
the barracks, neither did the Stepsons: They were more concerned over walls  and
the weather.

He'd known that this  whole business of  putting him at  the head of  some cease
fire coalition was just a roundabout way of executing him.

Ritual execution, political style, wasn't a  nice way to die. But then.  Zip had
killed enough to know there wasn't one.

He rode all day, through the Swamp of Night Secrets, thinking about his  chances
slim-and his alternatives- none.

He was dead the minute he announced he wouldn't play the game; if he was dead  a
week or  two later  if he  pretended to  play along,  that was  a week or two of
living he wouldn't have otherwise.

It wasn't a great shot, but it was the only one he had. He didn't have  anywhere
to run; he had too many enemies without Tempus added to the list. If he diverged
from the "arrangement,"  he'd have no  chance at all  of surviving. It  would be
open season on Zip-for professionals.

He had one hole card, maybe, in  Kama. He couldn't imagine she'd get that  close
with him for any kind of revenge.

He wanted to see her, but by the time he got out of the swamp, the sun was going
down and he knew he'd better head for Ratfall.

Though Sync  had proved  Zip wasn't  safe in  Downwind, somebody  had proved  he
wasn't safe out at the barracks, and  he'd known for a long time that  he wasn't
safer anywhere than his own abilities could make him.

So he went  to ground in  Ratfall, detouring only  long enough to  lay the arrow
that had nicked  his ear on  the little pile  of stones down  at the White  Foal
River's edge.

He used to bring blood sacrifices  there-to something. He wasn't sure what.  But
it  liked  them. He  thought  maybe, if  it  liked him  enough  for bringing  it
presents, it might take  of-fense at whoever had  shot the arrow (which  had his
own blood on it still), and do its single servant a favor.

Because without  a god's  help, a  piece of  alley-grime like  Zip didn't have a
whore's chance of making it through another Sanctuary night unmolested.

Tempus had been right: Sanctuary was for lovers, not fighters, this season.

LOVERS WHO SLAY TOGETHER

Robin Wayne Bailey

Chenaya stretched  in her  bed as  the morning  sun centered  itself in her east
window. A mischievous little grin stole over her lips as she thought again about
her encounter with Tempus Thales.  Not so imaginative as Hanse  Shadowspawn, not
half so enchanting as  Enas Yorl, and the  poor madman had been  disappointingly
quick. If nothing else,  she had added one  more of Sanctuary's notables  to her
personal scorecard, and she was glad to have spotted him sneaking about in  that
gar- den, glad she had decided to intercept him.

It had, after all, been a boring party until he showed up.

Of course, he thought he'd raped her, and that only added to her amusement.  The
impish grin she  wore blossomed into  a truly wicked  smile. What the  poor fool
didn't appreciate was the price he was going to pay for his brief pleasure.

She  sat up  languidly, threw  back the  thin coverlet,  rose, and  pulled on  a
sleeveless robe of pale blue silk. On a small, ornately carved table beside  her
bed lay a  bronze comb. She  picked it up,  began idly to  tease it through  the
thick mass of  her blond curls  as she crossed  the room and  sat on the  window
sill. The sun felt wonderfully warm on her flesh. It would be a scorching day.

She shut her eyes and leaned back. Her thoughts turned to the strange meeting in
Ratfall. It was the first time she'd met or even seen Zip, the leader of the  so
-called Popular Front for the Liberation  of Sanctuary. She smiled at the  irony
of the  name. Zip  wasn't particularly  popular with  anybody right  now, and if
Sanctuary  wanted liberation  from anything  it was  from the  bloody  terrorist
tactics of his night-running faction.

Somehow,  in her  imagination and  from the  stories she'd  heard, she'd  always
thought of Zip as  closer to her own  age. Probably because everyone  called him
boy all the time. It had surprised her  to see that the rebel was older by  some
years,  She called  up her  memory of  him again:  dark-haired, with  that  cute
sweatband above  his eyes, pleasant  to look at.  He hadn't cared  much for her,
though. That had been clear enough in his eyes.

Tempus had made more than one amusing  proposal to her in that garden. Both  his
Stepsons and the 3rd Commando were leaving Sanctuary, he'd told her. That  would
leave the city virtually defenseless  unless someone seized control of  the PFLS
and used it to forge a unified force of all the other factions.

"Use your gift,"  he'd grunted in  her ear as  he fumbled with  her skirts. "You
can't be defeated. Be the one to take control."

Control, indeed. It was she who'd been in control even as he'd pushed her to the
ground. She smiled at that. It was a morning for her to smile, it seemed.

Tempus  had  even  tried  to  blackmail  her  into  accepting  his  proposition.
Apparently,  he'd  realized it  was  she and  her  gladiators who  had  attacked
Theron's  barge when  the cursed  usurper had  unexpectedly come  to  Sanctuary.
Unfortunately, the  wily old  crown-thief had  possessed the  foresight to dress
some luckless  fool in  his raiments  while he  saw to  business elsewhere.  Her
attack had been successful; she'd just aimed at the wrong man.

Still, there was merit to the Riddler's idea, and a plan had come to her in  the
night, like  a dream,  like the  voice of  Sa-vankala himself  guiding her.  She
opened her eyes, glanced at the sun thoughtfully, and resumed her combing.

Things had not gone well between her and Kadakithis lately, and Chenaya knew she
had caused the breach  by returning her cousin's  missing wife to Sanctuary.  It
hadn't been a charitable act, by any means; she'd done it to prevent a  marriage
between him and  the Beysib Shupansea.  Despite a Rankan  law forbidding divorce
among the royal family, Kadakithis clearly intended to announce his betrothal to
the Beysa at summer's end.

Chenaya set the comb in her lap and leaned back. Unless she made some effort the
breach might never heal. She couldn't bear to have her Little Prince angry  with
her, and she resolved to  face the fact that she  might even have to make  peace
with the fish-eyed bitch he wanted to marry.

Tempus, bless his inadequate little self, had handed her the means to do so. She
stared upward at the sun and  uttered a hasty prayer: Thank you.  Bright Father,
thank you for filling the world with such an abundance of fools.

She smiled yet again, rose, and began to  dress. It was going to be a good  day,
full of events sure to entertain her.

The door  to her  quarters opened  without so  much as  a knock  to announce her
visitor. The dark-haired beauty who strode toward her wore a sullen look and the
garments of  a Rankan  gladiator.  Sandalled  heels clicked  smartly on   the un
carpeted floor stones.  She gave Chenaya  a look of  disapproval. Then, all  the
starch went  out of  the young  woman; her  shoulders sagged;  she sighed,  fell
backward with great drama,  and sprawled on the  bed. "Up at the  crack of dawn,
you've told me a score of times,  and out on the practice field ready  to work."
Another sigh rose  from those pouty  lips, and a  delicate ivory finger  pointed
accusingly. "You're not  ready, mistress." Her  last words dripped  with mockery
and accusation.

"Daphne, your bad attitude can do nothing to spoil this day," Chenaya replied as
she pulled on a scarlet fighting kilt  and buckled on a broad leather belt  that
gleamed with gold studs.

"Since Daxus," Daphne whined, "you've given me no more throats."

Chenaya  tied the  straps of  her sandals  and lied  patiently. "I've  told  you
before. The only other  names I could give  you would all be  Raggah. Daxus sold
information about  your caravan  to that  gods-cursed desert  tribe. They're the
ones who sold you to the pirates on Scavengers' Island. There was no  conspiracy
to dispose of you. It was just business as usual for the Raggahs."

It wasn't the truth.  But those others in  Sanctuary who had plotted  to destroy
Daphne's caravan  were too  important- given  the threat  posed by Theron-to let
Daphne carve them. Despite Chenaya's  promise, Daxus was the only  throat Daphne
was going to get.

"Right,"  Daphne  snapped.  "Business  as  usual.  They  just  happened  to land
themselves a princess of Ranke-Kada-kithis's wife. Nothing personal. How  stupid
do you think I am?"

"I'm sure I haven't begun to plumb your depths." Chenaya lifted her sword from a
wooden chest at the foot  of her bed. "If you've  got nothing better to do  than
bitch about life's un-faimess, then get up and head for the practice field. Leyn
will instruct you today."

Daphne sat up, startled, angry. Then, her face recomposed itself into a familiar
frown. "Leyn?" she cried. "Where's Dayme? He's supposed to be my trainer."

"He  left on  a mission  last night,"  Chenaya told  her newest  student.  "He's
attending to some  business for me  that will take  him to various  parts of the
Empire. While he's  gone, Leyn will  be your trainer."  She pointed a  finger at
Daphne. "And no complaints. You've whined enough this morning. Even the least of
my men has  plenty to teach  you. Now, on  your way, Princess."  She put special
emphasis on the title, a  not-so-subtle reminder that Daphne's rank  counted for
nothing while she wore fighting garb.

Daphne rose with deliberate slowness, giving a haughty toss of her  waist-length
black hair. "As the mistress commands," she answered with false meekness as  she
moved toward the door. But before she passed through and out of sight she added,
just loud enough for Chenaya to hear, "bitch."

It  was  one more  cause  for Chenaya  to  smile. After  all,  she didn't  train
automatons-she trained gladiators. And fighters without some spit in their souls
would never be worth a  damn. She'd kept a close  eye on Daphne; for a  princess
she was coming along just fine.

Chenaya headed for the practice field, but before she got much farther than  her
door she bumped into her father.  "Ummm, pardon me," she said, leaning  one hand
on the door he had just closed. "Isn't this Aunt Rosanda's room?" She batted her
eyelashes in mock  innocence, knowing how  such an expression  usually irritated
him.

But this time Lowan Vigeles imitated her, batting his own eyelashes. "I knew all
those expensive tutors were  a fine investment." He  tapped her on the  forehead
with a fingertip. "I brought your aunt a breakfast tray. Nothing more lascivious
than that."

She just stood there, looking up at him, grinning, batting her lashes.

Lowan drew a  deep, patient breath,  his usual silent  invocation to the  god of
parenthood, and pushed open the door. Lady Rosanda flashed them a startled  look
of embarrassment from her bed as a strip  of cold meat fell from her lip to  the
tray on her lap. She chewed hurriedly, hiding her busy mouth with one hand.

Lowan pulled the door closed once  more and regarded his daughter with  the look
of an unjustly wronged man.

Chenaya brushed at her hair with one hand and refused to look repentant. "What a
selfish bastard you  are. Father," she  accused. "Too saintly  to offer what  we
both know  you've got?  Have pity!  The only  man she's  seen in  years is Uncle
Molin." Chenaya faked a shiver.

Lowan Vigeles took her by  the arm and led her  from Ro-sanda's door and down  a
broad staircase to  the floor below.  "I saw Dayme  off," he said,  changing the
subject. "He bears a writ from me that should speed our cause. Later today, I'll
hire artisans to start the barracks and outbuildings. I'll set Dismas and Gestus
to constructing the training machines."

"Not those two," she contradicted. "I'll need them myself today. Have Ouijen see
to it, and Leyn when he has time.  But there's no rush. It'll be a few  weeks at
least before anyone arrives. Assuming any will answer the summons."

Lowan shook his head as they left the manse and stepped out into the rear garden
where  nearly  a  score  of  falcons  were  elaborately  caged.  "That's  not an
assumption. Daughter. My school in  Ranke produced most of the  finest auctorati
ever to  fight in  the games.  They will  come when  I call.  And Dayrne carries
enough money to purchase any other fighters he deems worthy."

She nodded. She  would miss Dayme's  presence at her  side, but when  it came to
choosing trainees  and fighters  there wasn't  a better  judge of  manflesh. And
except for  herself or  Lowan there  was no  other she  would trust  with such a
mission.

"I have to get  to the field. Father,"  she said suddenly. She  raised on tiptoe
and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "Then, I'll be gone most of  the
day. Don't worry if I'm not back tonight."

Lowan batted his lashes, turning her own coy expression against her.

She  punched him  playfully in  the ribs.  "Nothing so  lascivious," she   said,
adopting his line. "This is  business." Then, she looked thoughtful  and amended
her remark. "Well, some of it's business. Some of it will be pure pleasure." She
reached up and scratched his chin; "That mare of yours, is she still hot?"

Lowan Vigeles eyed her suspiciously.  "Changing the subject? Don't want  to talk
about tonight's boyfriend?"  He sighed. "Yes,  the mare's still  hot. I've taken
pains to keep her away from any boyfriends. It spoils them for riding when  they
swell."

She said no  more to her  father. He'd forgive  her, after a  few days, when  he
found out what  she'd done. Tempus,  on the other  hand .. .But  who cared about
him? She grinned,  relishing the delightful  mood she felt  today. Had she  said
pure pleasure? She chuckled aloud.

Lowan looked at her strangely. She  patted his hand, winked, and headed  for the
practice area where Daphne and eleven of the best gladiators ever to set foot in
the arena were already hard at work and sweaty.

The sun was nearing  its zenith when Chenaya  called a halt to  the workout. She
sent Daphne,  Leyn, and  the others  back to  the manse,  but called  Dismas and
Gestus to her side. The two were  a team, almost never apart. Lovers, they  even
resembled  each  other  with   their  sandy  hair,  close-cropped   beards,  and
exaggerated musculature.

"Interested in a little game, friends?"

The two looked  at each other,  then at her,  and said nothing.  They had a good
idea what she meant. They'd helped her with other little games before.

"Nobody can sneak around like you two," she continued. In fact, they'd been  the
shiftiest pair of thieves and burglars in Ranke before they were finally  caught
and sentenced to Lowan's school for arena training. "And very few are faster  on
their feet."

Dismas folded his arms, repressing a grin. "Save the grease, mistress," he  said
in clipped Rankene. "It's  too hot to stand  here and exchange flatteries,  even
true ones."

Chenaya sidled up to Dismas and rubbed her body against his. "Aren't you  taking
good care of him these days?" she  said teasingly to Gestus. With a knuckle  she
tapped the leather groin guard under Dismas's kilt. "He's so grumpy today."

"N'um faults," Gestus answered with a  shrug. That was the odd thing  about this
pair. So alike in everything else, Gestus had never mastered Rankene. Dismas, on
the other hand, spoke it like a court noble.

She stepped back again and turned serious. "There's someone I want you to  watch
for me, and  something I want  you to do.  You'll have a  fat purse of  coins to
spend. If your quarry goes to a tavern,  so do you. If he goes to a  brothel..."
She hesitated, scratched her temple.  "Well, you'll think of something."  Gestus
folded his arms, too, and grinned. Clearly, she'd caught their interests.  "Just
make sure you don't attract notice." She flipped a finger against their  studded
belts. "Wear something less identifiable."

Dismas unfolded his  arms, so Gestus  did, too. "The  name of our  fox?" he said
conspiratorially.

"No fox," she cautioned. "A deadly mountain cat. Mind you, don't cross him. Just
keep an eye on  him and inform me  of his movements." She  beckoned them closer,
and they bent to hear. She made a show of glancing in all directions, then put a
finger to her lips. "Now here's the  fun part. Before sundown I want one  of you
back here with half a brick of krrf."

That raised eyebrows.

As she'd predicted,  the day turned  scorching, too hot  for her usual  fighting
leathers. Yet she'd wanted to make sure she attracted attention, so she'd donned
trousers and blouse of shining black, loose-fitting silk and spit-polished boots
that rose almost to her knee, not quite high enough to conceal the hilts of  the
daggers stuck in each one. Over one shoulder she wore a leather strap to which a
number of  Bandaran throwing  stars were  attached; a  simple twist easily freed
them from their  stud mountings. On  her right hip  she wore one  more weapon -a
gladius whose golden tang was fashioned to resemble the wings of a bird. Lastly,
because she'd seen Zip do it, she'd tied a sweatband of clean white linen  above
her eyes.

Every gaze turned her  way as she strode  brazenly across Caravan Square  on her
way  to  Downwind. She  smiled  and winked  at  the gawkers,  sometimes  lightly
brushing the hilt of her sword. Only a few had balls enough to smile back;  most
glanced quickly in some other direction and passed on.

As she  approached the  bridge that  crossed the  White Foal  River a  gaggle of
grubby street urchins surrounded  her. She smiled at  their play, dipped a  hand
into the purse on her belt, and tossed a fistful of coins over her shoulder. The
children lost  interest in  her and  began scuffling  for the  glinting bits  of
metal. She laughed heartily, started past the deserted guard-post and across the
bridge.

As she set foot in Downwind two  men appeared to block her path. "Mebbe  y'ud be
s'free wi' the rest o' yer spark," croaked the one on her left. The point of his
sword indicated her purse.

"An' wit' yer other charms, too," his partner suggested.

A disdainful smirk flickered over Chenaya's features as she heard two more slide
up behind her,  heard the soft  susurrus of steel  slipping from sheathes.  They
wore no armbands, so they weren't part  of Zip's group. From the rags they  wore
she guessed they followed Moruth.

That suited her fine. Moruth-the beggar king-was one of the faction leaders that
had dared to oppose the PFLS. Well, she hadn't come to Downwind to win  Moruth's
favor. Unfortunately for His Beggar-Majesty, she had come to win Zip's.

She  didn't bother  turning to  see the  two behind  her. They  gave away  their
positions by their breathing and by their constant foot-shuffling. "You'll  make
perfect  offerings," she  informed them  gruffly. "I'll  pour your  blood as   a
libation to the leader of the PFLS."

The man who  had spoken first  tuned pale, but  he held his  ground, tapping his
blade against his palm. "You part  o' Zip's group?" he asked suspiciously.  "You
got no band on yer sleeve,"

"Spoils the silk," she answered. She waited a brief moment, daring them with her
haughty gaze to make their move or to scatter from her path. The man on her left
stopped his incessant sword tapping; the one beside him chewed his lip. Yet they
were unwilling to back away from her, a mere woman.

"She mus' think she's purty good wit' that sticker," said one of the men  behind
her.

Chenaya  had  no  more  time  to  waste.  "Watch  carefully,"  she  advised with
impatience. "I don't often give lessons to scum."

Her hand was almost a blur. Bright steel flashed through the air. A soft  thunk;
a groan of surprise  and fear sounded as  a throwing star embedded  in the first
man's  throat.  His sword  tumbled  into the  dirt,  followed instantly  by  his
lifeless body.

Even before the star  scored, Chenaya had her  sword free. She ran  screaming at
the man on her right. In stark  terror he raised his sword to protect  his head.
Her blade crashed down  twice against his, then  arced down and across,  opening
his  belly. On  the backswing  she knocked  the sword  from his  grip,  severing
several fingers.

There was  no time  to watch  him fall.  She whirled,  settled in a deep forward
stance to meet the remaining two. But these were beggars, not seasoned warriors.
Still, they knew the better part of valor. She watched their departing backs  as
they ran for shelter beneath the bridge. Laughing, she hurled a second star with
all her arena-trained skill. A scream ripped from one of the fleeing beggars; he
tumbled  headlong  through  the  weeds,  down  the  bank,  and  into  the river.
Sputtering, screaming, clutching at the  four-pointed agony behind his knee,  he
dragged himself onto the bank and scrambled after his comrade.

She laughed again, a  bitter and challenging sound  that rattled in her  throat,
and she glanced around in time to spy the street urchins who had gathered at the
far end of the span to watch. They  melted away like shadows in the sun. On  the
Downwind side, too, figures faded into alleys and doorways, unwilling witnesses.
Chenaya bent and wiped her blade  on a dead man's garments, retrieved  the first
star, and cleaned it, too.

She had no doubt that Zip would hear of this. She wanted him to hear. It was why
she had come to  this stink-hole side of  town. Sheathing her sword,  she walked
on, giving no further thought to the bodies in her wake.

Come to me, Zip, she willed, come to me.

There were taverns  in Downwind, or  places that professed  to be taverns.  Only
Mama Becho's, though, could legitimately claim  to be such. Even so, there  were
lifelong drunks in Sanctuary  who wouldn't deign to  spit on its threshold,  let
alone consume its questionable product.

Chenaya stepped through the low, doorless entrance, her vision swiftly adjusting
to the dim light. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to examine her. Quite a different
crowd from the  one that frequented  the Unicorn. There  the faces were  full of
menace or scheming  or general disinterest.  The eyes at  Mama Becho's reflected
only desperation and despair.

It was like no place  she had ever seen before,  and she thought of the  men who
had met her  at the bridge,  men like these,  men with the  same desperate eyes.
They had wanted her gold and had gone  down for it. She saw in Mama Becho's  men
who would have done the same and  welcomed the death she gave. And why  not? For
such as these, life had little to offer, little to hold them.

She thought of the  bridge again, of men  who poured their blood  into the dirty
street for a handful  of spark, and for  one moment, Chenaya hated  what she had
done.

Fortunately,  the moment  passed. She  reminded herself  she had  come to   this
cesspool on business.

"You want somethin', honey, or you  jus' come to see the sights?"  A mountainous
woman in a tattered smock leaned one elbow on the board that served as a bar and
leered at her. She wiped at the interior of an earthen mug with a grimy rag that
hadn't seen a rinsing in weeks. Wisps  of grizzled hair floated about her  thick
jowled face as she worked.

"Uptown bitch," someone  muttered into his  cup. Pairs of  eyes began slowly  to
turn back  to their  drinks, to  the private  fantasy worlds  found only in foul
brews.

"Honey," Chenaya said smiling to Mama Becho, "I want a couple of things.  First,
a cup of  some decent beverage,  Vuksi-bah if you've  got it in  this dump." The
eyes all turned her way again, whether at her mention of the expensive liquor or
because of  the insult,  she didn't  know or  care. "A  respectable wine or cool
water if you don't." She leaned on the board facing the fat proprietor and  felt
it sag  under their  combined weights.  The old  woman's breath  was worse  than
fetid, but Chenaya managed to force a grin. "Then I want Zip."

That got their attention. She reached  into her purse, drew out another  handful
of coins. Not  bothering to look  at them or  judge their value,  she threw them
over her shoulder, all but one which she placed on the board. It was a  gleaming
soldat.

"I'm betting somebody here knows how to contact him," she said, still addressing
Mama Becho, well aware that everyone could hear. "And when he walks through that
door I'll scatter another fistful of coins."

"An'  what if  we jus'  take yer  spark, lady?"  said a  lean, twisted  man  who
squatted in  a gloomy  comer against  the wall.  He fingered  one of  the silver
pieces that had fallen his way.

"Shet up yer mouth, Haggit," Mama Becho snapped. "Can'tcha see we got us a  fine
noblewoman here? Mind yer manners!"

Chenaya cast  the soldat  to the  one called  Haggit; he  caught it  with a deft
motion. "I give my gold where and when  I see fit. Two who tried to take  it are
still cooling at the foot of the bridge." She gave him a hard, penetrating look.
"Now, I want to see Zip, and I'll pay fairly to find him. Play me any other way,
Haggit-" Chenaya  winked at  him and  nodded her  head "-and  you'll do  all the
paying."

Haggit glared  at her  for a  long moment,  bit into  the soldat  with his front
tooth, then rose and went out. One  by one all the other customers drifted  out,
too. Not one of Chenaya's coins remained on the floor.

"Now ye've scared  away my business,"  Mama Becho complained.  She still scoured
the same mug  with the same  filthy rag. "Might  as well get  comfy, honey." She
waved at the cloth-covered furniture that served in place of stools and  tables.
"No tellin' when Zip'11 turn up. Thet boy comes an' goes as he pleases."

Chenaya remained where she was as  the old woman disappeared to fetch  her wine.
She took a  deep breath and  let it out.  Zip would turn  up, she had  no doubt.
She'd spread enough wealth to insure  that; she'd killed his enemies, too.  He'd
come all right, if only out of curiosity.

She took another deep breath and held it. What was that odor? She glanced at the
doorway Mama  Becho had  gone through.  An old,  worn blanket  hung across it; a
thin, tenuous smoke wafted around the edges.

Krrf smoke.

She wet her lips slyly and wondered how Gestus and Dismas were faring.

Two bitter cups of wine and one cup of water later, the man she had come to find
mercifully walked in, leaving, by the  sound of things, a couple of  his cronies
standing guard in the alleyway. Mama  Becho made a discreet nod of  greeting and
headed for the back room.

"Don't bother listening through  the curtain or one  of the cracks in  the wall.
Mama," Zip called and waved his hand to draw her back. "Up here-where I can keep
an eye on you, too." Mama Becho  put on a look of wounded innocence  and reached
for another mug to polish.

Zip walked calmly up to Chenaya; his gaze ran unabashedly up and down her body.

"There's a  lot more  swagger in  your step  than when  we met  in Ratfall," she
commented wryly.

His gaze met hers with unconcealed arrogance. "You've got a lot less muscle with
you this time," he answered bluntly. "What do you want, Chenaya? Did Tempus send
you?"

She laughed. Her hand reached out  to touch his shoulder, drifted down  over his
chest,  then  resumed its  place  at her  belt.  Hard, lean  muscle  beneath his
clothing, she'd discovered, no fat. "Tempus Thales isn't quite the puppeteer  he
thinks himself."

Zip leaned on the board, close to her, giving her a long look. "I wouldn't  tell
him that-not me."

He had a  nice face, she  realized. Young and  rugged, crowned by  a mop of dark
hair. Sweat-tracks lined  his brow and  cheeks, and there  were circles of  dirt
around his neck where the flesh showed above his rough-woven tunic. He  smelled,
but it was a man's musky odor,  not the stench of Downwind. She stared  brazenly
into his eyes and chuckled.

"Oh, I've taken his measure," she said, "and he comes up short."

"He hears the voice  of the Storm God,"  Zip cautioned with an  enigmatic, taut,
little smile.

"He hears voices,  all right." She  caught a piece  of his tunic  and pulled his
face close to hers. In conspiratorial tones she whispered, loud enough still for
any to hear, "But the Storm God?" She shrugged meaningfully. "Between you and me
and these others, I  suspect he's just  a crazy, common  madman. He uses  the so
called voices to excuse his perversions and aberrations. After all, he can't  be
blamed-and needn't take responsibility  for his actions-if divine  voices compel
him. He's only a poor avatar."

Chenaya didn't  actually believe  it; she  had little  doubt of  the veracity of
Tempus's relationship with  the Storm Gods.  Her own experiences  with Savankala
were  proof enough  that such  god/mortal alliances  evolved. Still,  it was   a
delicious rumor to start.

Zip picked up the mug of beer Mama Becho had placed at his elbow. He took a long
drink, regarding Chenaya over the rim. He set the vessel down between them. "You
threw away a lot of money to find me, woman," he said finally. "Why? Not just to
gossip about the Riddler."

She gave  him her  look of  mock-innocence, picked  up his  mug, and drained the
contents. "But I did want to talk about Tempus," she replied. "At least about  a
proposal Tempus suggested to me."

She crooked a finger, beckoning him close again. "Your Riddler wants me to seize
control of your PFLS. He thinks I can shape it into an adequate defense force to
replace his Stepsons and the 3rd Commando when he leads them out of Sanctuary."

A hint of red colored Zip's cheeks. He straightened, took a step away from  her.
"You play dangerous games, Rankan." His eyes glinted. "So you'll just take over?
You think it's that easy?" He chuckled at her.

She threw a fist at  his face. Zip raised an  arm to block it. But  her move was
only a feint. Chenaya caught his rising arm at the elbow, tugged, and kicked his
foot  when  he  tried to  catch  his  balance. Zip  fell  heavily,  stunned. She
straddled him, sat on his chest, and brought one of her boot daggers to rest  at
his throat.

Then, she smiled at  Zip, and suddenly her  lips crushed down on  his. There was
power in her kiss; it didn't surprise her at all when he began to return it. She
sat up, wiped her mouth, grinning.

"Just that easy. Zip, my love," she  told him. "And Tempus knows it. That's  why
he approached me." She tangled her hand through his hair and kissed him again.

When she sat up, the point of her blade flashed downward to bite deeply into the
boards near Zip's ear. She left it quivering there while she loosened the  laces
at the neck of his dirty tunic.  "But I'm not interested in running your  little
social club," she whispered, "and what Tempus wants is unimportant." She dragged
her nails teasingly over the exposed portion of his chest. "However, I have some
proposals of my own. Would you like to hear them?"

His eyes  reflected so  much: uncertainty,  defiance, curiosity,  lust-all  half
hidden behind a facade of nonchalance. Zip  drew a breath. "Get the frog off  of
me." The knife was still  there by his ear. He  could have gone for it-his  eyes
slid that way-but he didn't.

She patted his cheek.  "Soon, lover, when we  have an agreement. But  right now.
Mama Becho is going to bring us a couple more drinks, right. Mama?"

The old proprietor said nothing, but waddled over with two mugs of bad wine.  It
was too far for her to bend over and place them on the floor, so Chenaya reached
up to accept them. Mama Becho grumbled incoherently and backed away.

"I'm supposed to drink from here?" Zip asked caustically.

Chenaya moved one of the mugs near to his head, dipped a finger in it, and  held
it to his lips. After a  moment's hesitation, Zip's tongue poked out  and licked
away the red droplets, their gazes remaining locked all the while.

"I know  the funds  from your  Nisi supporters  have dried  up lately."  Chenaya
dipped her finger again and held it for him to suck. "The PFLS needs money, like
any group, and I've got plenty of  that. We've also got mutual enemies, so  it's
only natural that we should join our efforts." She paused long enough to swallow
a draught from  her own cup.  "You want to  free Sanctuary from  the Rankans and
Beysibs." She tapped his  chest. "I want to  drive out the Beysibs,  too. But it
looks like I've got to get rid of a Rankan to do that."

One of Zip's men slipped through the  door and made a move toward his  leader. A
throwing star flashed  briefly through a  random sunbeam that  spilled through a
crack in the  ceiling and thunked  into the wall.  The man leaped  back. Chenaya
clucked her tongue  and wagged her  finger, and he  leaned uncomfortably against
the doorjamb.

"Kadakithis?" Zip guessed. "But isn't he your cousin?"

She spat. "He's going to marry  that fish-eyed slut, Shupan-sea, in defiance  of
Rankan law. Bad enough  that he allowed them  to land here without  a fight. Bad
enough that he beds the  silly carp. But to marry  one? To make her part  of the
royal family, a  princess of Ranke?"  She spat again.  "Blood is only  so thick,
lover."

"I'd 'preciate it if ye'd stop that," Mama Becho snapped. "Someone's gotter  mop
up when yer gone now."

Zip shifted  beneath her,  locking his  hands together  behind his  head, an arm
cocked around her dagger. He tried to look innocent and almost achieved it.  But
his face was full of suspicion. "All right, lover," he mocked her. "What you got
in mind?"

She pulled the dagger  from the floorboards and  returned it to her  boot, rose,
and extended a  hand to help  Zip to his  feet. Unsurprisingly, he  declined her
offer and got up on his own. He  made a show of brushing Mama Becho's dust  from
his clothing.

"Tomorrow night," she told him, "meet  me with as many of  your men as you  have
the entire PFLS-at the old stables near the granaries."

Zip frowned, bent down, and picked up  the mug of wine that yet remained  on the
floor. He turned it in his hands without drinking. "That's right across from the
dungeons."

Chenaya taunted him with a nasty grin. "Don't get nervous, Zip. I heard you were
a man of action. Well, action is what I'm going to give you." Let him  interpret
that as he wished,  she thought wickedly. "I  happen to own the  guard who works
the Gate of  the Gods tomorrow  night-he has a  very expensive krrf  habit-and a
word from me will open that passage. It's a very brief run from there to a  side
entrance into the palace itself." She pushed back her hair with one hand, raised
herself from the  floor with the  other, and poured  the last of  her own bitter
wine down her throat. Her hand opened then, and the earthen mug shattered at her
feet.

"Now," she  challenged, "you  and your  playmates can  go on butchering helpless
shopkeepers  and limp-wristed  nobles and  getting nowhere  with your  so-called
revolution..." She took the cup he'd been fidgeting with, raised it in a  silent
toast to him, and drained it, too, regarding him over the rim. An instant  later
it joined the first  one in pieces on  the floor. "... or  the PFLS can at  last
strike a meaningful blow. What do you say?"

Zip  looked thoughtful.  "With Kadakithis  dead we'd  still need  some kind   of
defense for when Theron returns." He scratched his chin, frowning.

"Theron will probably thank  you," she pointed out.  It was safe to  gamble that
Zip had never met  the usurper, knew nothing  of the subtle workings  of the old
general's  mind.  Theron wanted  Sanctuary  for a  bastion  on Ranke's  southern
border. Nothing would convince  him to release the  city from the Empire's  iron
grip. Not even the execution of the legitimate claimant to the very crown he had
stolen.

But Zip wouldn't understand that. He was a fighter, no politician.

"No need for all my men," Zip  argued. "A small force- two or three-just  enough
to sneak in and do the job."

Chenaya stepped closer. She was almost  as tall as Zip, almost as  broad through
the shoulders. Again,  she inhaled the  smell of him  and bit her  lip. "A small
force for the prince and his fish-faced consort," she agreed, nodded her head as
a patient teacher might with a  dim-witted but struggling pupil. "The rest  will
take care of every other Beysib in  the palace- and anyone else who gets  in the
way."

Plainly, Zip's thoughts were churning. He  glanced at his man by the  door. He'd
heard every word; eagerness gleamed in his face, though he kept his silence. Zip
began  to  pace back  and  forth, crushing  pottery  under his  tread.  "And the
garrison?" he asked. "What about a way out? Armed resistance inside?"

Chenaya scoffed at  his endless questions.  "Tempus told me  you were a  man who
knew  when  to act,  yet  you sound  like  Molin Torchholder  with  your endless
queries."

Zip shut up, but continued to pace.

"Would you do it with Tempus to lead you?"

He stopped  in mid-stride,  regarded her  through narrowed  eyes. Still  he said
nothing, but questions hung on his lips.

She spat again, but this time for  Mama Becho's sake the wad landed squarely  on
Zip's  boot. "I'm  everything that  Tempus is,  lover," she  said,  grim-voiced,
mocking his trepidation. "And more. You  don't believe that yet, but you  will."
She turned her back to him, went to the serving board. To Mama she said, "Got  a
pair of dice?"

The old woman reached up onto a shelf and found a pair of yellowed ivory  cubes.
She set them on the counter with a rude grunt. Chenaya crooked a finger at  Zip.
"Roll 'em," she ordered. "High number wins."

He paused, studying  her, their gazes  locked in a  game of dare  and challenge.
Finally, he  swept up  the cubes  and tossed  them. "Eleven," Chanaya announced.
"Not bad." Then, she rolled them. "Twelve." Zip seized the dice again and beamed
when eleven black dots showed up once more.

Chenaya didn't even bother to look as she gathered and dropped the ivory bits.

Zip blinked.

Twelve.

"I can't be beaten,"  she assured Zip, never  taking her eyes from  his. "Not at
anything."

"Kind of takes the fun out of life, doesn't it?" Zip said, dead-pan.

She flicked a glance over her shoulder. "Call your man," she instructed him.

Zip did. The man she'd nearly shaved with the throwing star took a step forward.
"The  black smudge  on the  far wall,"  she suggested.  The man  threw his  belt
dagger. One of the daggers from her boot followed. Two good throws, but hers was
clearly nearer the center of the mark. "Not at anything," she repeated.

"So you have luck and skill," Zip conceded. "That doesn't mean squat against the
Riddler's god-or his curse, or whatever it is."

She rolled her eyes; a long sigh hissed between her teeth. "I'll bet you another
kiss," she said at last. "You've played guess-the-number?" She waited for him to
nod. "Go  to the  far end  of the  bar, take  your knife,  and carve  any number
between one and ten. No, wait. Let's make it fun-between one and twenty-five."

Mama Becho waddled up, her gray hair flying. "Oh, no, ye don't!" she cried. "Yer
not cuttin' on my fine board, yer not.  Not easy to come by good wood. An'  I've
jus' about enough of this spittin' and breakin' mugs an'-"

Chenaya pulled  her purse  free and  upended it  on the  counter. Coins  spilled
everywhere. She dropped the  empty leather bag on  the top of the  pile. "Mama,"
she said softly, "shut up."

"All right," Zip announced from the other end, covering his scratching with  one
hand, flipping his knife nervously and catching it.

"Forty-two," she answered smugly. "Cheater."

Zip stared at the number he'd carved into the wood, at his knife, at his men, at
her. Without another word, he went to Chenaya and made good on his bet.

The glaring sun had long since disappeared beyond the western edge of the world,
and beautiful Sabellia, resplendent  in her fullness, scattered  diamond ripples
over the ocean's surface. Chenaya dangled her feet over the end of Empire Wharf,
stared at the  glistening water, and  listened to the  muted sounds of  a nearly
silent thieves' world. The old pilings creaked gently, rocked by the  relentless
surf; the riggings and guy wires of nearby fishing ships hummed and sang in  the
night wind. There was little else.

It was one of the  places she went when she  was troubled. She couldn't say  for
sure exactly what it was disturbed her,  but she felt it like a gloomy  darkness
on her soul. She tried to dismiss  it. The water often made her melancholy.  But
the mood lingered.

She touched the bag that was tied  to her belt. It contained a mixture  of sugar
and  the  high-grade krrf  Gestus  had obtained  for  her. She  squeezed  it and
grinned. No, it certainly wasn't that  which bothered her. She planned to  enjoy
her little prank on Tempus.

What then?

Far out on  the water something  flashed in the  moonlight. There was  a muffled
splash. She peered, straining to see, and spied the silver gleam of a dorsal fin
as it  cut through  the waves.  Briefly visible,  it submerged  and was  gone. A
dolphin, she wondered? A shark?

The world-particularly this  thieves' world-was full  of sharks. She  thought of
Kadakithis and Shupansea hidden away in their palace, and she thought of Zip and
Downwind. She thought of the betrayal she planned.

She knew, then, the cause of her dark mood.

But it must be done, she swore. Sooner or later, it would be done.

Chenaya extended  her arm;  the metal  rings of  her manica  shone richly  under
Sabellia's glory. She pursed her lips, gave a thin, piercing whistle.

It was impossible in the darkness to see Reyk; she didn't even hear the beat  of
his pinions, leading her to guess  he had been circling overhead and  had simply
plummeted in response  to her call.  She felt only  a sudden rush  of air on her
cheek and then his weight and the tension of his talons on her forearm.

She stroked the falcon  very lightly down the  back of his head  and between his
wings. "Hello, my pet. Did you feast?" She had expected to find traces of beyarl
plumage between his talons.  Several of the sacred  birds had skimmed the  water
earlier. But Reyk's claws were clean. She took a jess from her belt and  slipped
it around his leg.

Together, they sat  quietly and watched  the goddess's argent  chariot sail over
the ocean. Chenaya didn't even mind that the moon seemed to watch her, too.  The
light seemed to ease her troubled  spirit, and eye to eye, she  thanked Sabellia
for that small relief.

Reyk  stretched suddenly  to full  wing-span. Talons  tightened on  her arm;  he
emitted a single, sharp note.

The falcon's keen eyes had spotted Dismas before Chenaya had heard his footsteps
on the wharf.  Reyk calmed immediately,  recognizing the gladiator  as he padded
with  a  burglar's  swift  stealth  toward  his  mistress.  "Now,  lady," Dismas
whispered urgently. "It's the  perfect time and place.  We may not get  a better
chance."

Chenaya squeezed the bag of krrf and sugar again, feeling her pulse quicken. She
had waited at the wharf a long time for Dismas to report. "What of Walegrin  and
Rashan?" she asked, getting to her feet.

"They should already be on their way to Land's End. Gestus carried your  message
and returned to keep watch while I came for you."

She removed Reyk's jess and returned it to her belt one-handed. "Where is he?"

The huge gladiator  hesitated only  a moment  and swallowed.  "With the  vampire
woman, Ischade." He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. "Not far, but a good
run. We should hurry. He's been there an hour already."

"Then up,  pet." She  sent Reyk  aloft. His  pinions beat  a steady rhythm as he
climbed into the night sky and disappeared. She squeezed the krrf bag once more.
"Let's go,"  she called,  tapping her  friend on  the arm  in comradely fashion.
There was more than a hint of glee in her voice.

Dismas led her down the Wideway, up the Street of Smells and along a narrow road
she didn't know. The road rutted  out; they were in undergrowth denser  than any
she'd imagined this side of the White Foal. They stopped in a wide ditch.

"There," he whispered.

The  windows were  dark; no  light spilled  out. Nothing  told that  anyone  was
within. Yet Tempus Thales' huge-muscled Tros horse was tethered to the gate.

"An hour, you say?" she questioned Dismas. "Where's our other partner?"

He pointed silently to the deeper brush.

She smiled and stole  a peek at Tempus's  magnificent mount. A very  rare breed,
Tros  horses.  No  other  steed  could  match  them  for  strength,   endurance,
intelligence. She had seen only two others  in her lifetime. It was a cause  for
wonder that Tempus had left the beast unguarded.

Yes, a rare breed, Tros horses, and she meant to have one.

"Get Gestus and make for Land's End  as quick as you can. Have everything  ready
at the family stables when I arrive. Have Walegrin and Rashan there, too."

"But, mistress," Dismas protested. "The vampire and the Riddler-you may need our
help."

Chenaya shook her head sternly. "I can  handle them. Do as you're told and  have
everything ready. Discreetly, too. I don't want my father to know anything about
this." She smacked  his chest with  the flat of  her hand and  gave him a little
shove. "Go!"

She watched as he faded back into the night, then leaned back in the shadows and
drew a  slow breath.  With her  friends gone  she could  safely get  on with her
little prank. It would have been an insult to two good men if she had  explained
why she sent them on. But she knew Tempus Thales, and she knew the stories about
Ischade. If anything went wrong with her plan she didn't want her men to pay the
price.

Chenaya took the bag of krrf and sugar from her belt, loosened the strings  that
held it shut, and  moved toward the dark  house. The Tros horse,  she suspected,
had been trained to recognize warriors. She would have trained it to do so,  and
she expected no less of Tempus. But she was a woman and had left her weapons  at
home this night. Reyk was weapon enough-and her god-spawned luck.

She approached the  beast slowly, mumbling  soft words. The  Tros eyed her  with
suspicion and snorted once. It kept still, though, and that encouraged her.  She
reached into the bag and extracted a handful of powder. Holding her breath  with
excitement, she took the final step that brought her within reach of the horse.

The Tros smelled the sugar but not  the raw krrf. He licked it eagerly  from her
hand and whickered for more. Chenaya gladly obliged. There was enough drug mixed
in the sugar to kill several big  men. Enough, she hoped, to make this  creature
very, very happy.

Handful by handful, the beast consumed  the entire contents of the bag.  Chenaya
cast cautious glances over her shoulder from time to time, watchful of the doors
and windows in Ischade's home, ready to bolt if anyone peered out.

The horse's eyes quickly glazed over. It slurped the last of the powder from her
fingers and palms  and gave her  a look that  almost made her  laugh aloud. If a
horse could go to heaven, this one was on its way.

Have a good time, horsie, she thought, grinning, and don't give me any trouble.

She didn't actually  underestimate Tempus or  his pride; unguarded  as the horse
might appear, it wouldn't easily be  stolen. Carefully she untied the reins  and
stroked the horse along the withers while muttering in its ear. The Tr6s  didn't
move or  make a  sound. She  held her  breath and  locked her fingers around the
pommel, levering herself quickly into the saddle. The animal trembled; its  ears
twitched. She paused, then settled herself more comfortably, smiling.

Then her head snapped back, rolled  around on her shoulders, threatening to  rip
off  first  to the  left  then the  right.  Her spine  folded  backward; whipped
forward. Her right leg came free of the saddle and she kneed herself in the eye.

The world spun crazily. Were those bright  stars in the heavens or in her  head?
She squeezed with her thighs as tightly  as she could, clung to the saddle  with
one hand, to the reins with her other.

There  was a  metallic creaking  and breaking.  The Tr6s  stumbled and  lurched,
making  a ruin  of Ischade's  fence and  gate. The  beast reared,  pounding  the
twisted wrought iron with its shod hooves. It reared again, screamed, raced away
from the house, and collided with a good-size tree.

It staggered back a pace; stared with huge, wet eyes at the offending  obstacle.
Dazed, confused, it took a side step, then another, and stood still.

Chenaya hesitated,  afraid to  let go  of saddle  or rein.  Her heart  thundered
against her ribs, a trickle of blood ran down her chin; she had bitten her  lip.
Finally, she dared to let go of  the saddle. With her free hand, she  rubbed the
small of  her back.  Breath held  much too  long hissed  between her  teeth. She
glanced back at  Ischade's fence, let  go a low  chuckle, then reached  down and
stroked the Tros's powerful neck.

"That looked like fun. Do it again."

Chenaya knew that voice  by now. Her gaze  rose to find her  observer. He looked
down at her from a comfortable notch in the very tree the Tr6s had struck.

"Does the Riddler know you're stealing his horse?" Zip asked sardonically.

She put a finger to her lips and glanced back at Ischade's darkened windows.  "I
think he's  too busy  knowing the  vampire woman,  if you  get my  meaning," she
answered, matching his lighthearted tone.  "Are you doing anything tonight?  How
about a date?"

Zip swung his legs back and forth absent-mindedly, much as she had done  earlier
at the wharf. The similarity struck her as odd.

He rubbed his chin, a barely  visible shadow against the starlit night.  "It has
been rather dull. Nothing I'd like more," he said in his most affected  Rankene.
"You're so easy to follow."

"When I want to  be," she acknowledged. "I  figured you couldn't keep  your eyes
off me." She stared  upward, craning her neck,  guessing what was going  through
his mind as he rose  to stand in the notch.  She admired his daring, if  not his
sense, as he balanced above her.

"A date, you say?"

She stroked the Tros again. "How about a ride?" She put on a big grin. Zip  wore
the shadows like a  cloak, but she was  limned in Sabellia's light.  She knew he
could see her smile. "You  can help me with my  prank on Tempus Thales. Make  up
your mind, though." She  cast another glance over  her shoulder at the  darkened
estate. It occurred to her to wonder  why all the racket had roused no  one. She
didn't particularly care to wait around to find out-not on Zip's account.  "This
isn't  a  very  good  neighborhood,  I'm told,  and  a  lady  has  to guard  her
reputation."

"You expect me  to ride behind  you?" His voice  was incredulous. "After  what I
just saw?"

Chenaya leaned forward, scratched the horse between'its ears. "It's all  right,"
she  assured. "We're  good friends  now, aren't  we, horsie?"  The Tros   didn't
contradict her.

Zip hesitated. She wondered if he had  ever ridden before, or if he was  daunted
by the fact it was Tempus's horse he was being invited to help steal? In  either
case, she couldn't wait around for Zip to find his balls. Dismas had assured her
that  Tempus  was  inside Ischade's  house.  At  this very  moment  he  might be
struggling into his breeches, reaching for his sword....

She blew Zip a kiss. "Sorry, lover," she called. "It's yes or no and no time  to
think about it-that's  the way it  is with me."  She gathered the  reins in both
hands. "But how about  tomorrow night?" She nudged  the Tros with her  heels and
clicked  her tongue.  The horse  raced through  Shambles Cross  and turned  onto
Farmer's Run before Zip could say another word.

Though Lowan Vigeles's properties  extended all the way  to the Red Foal  River,
the major portion of the estate  was ringed by a massive, fortified  wall. Along
the southern rampart, with gates of their own, stood the stables. It was through
this  gate that  Chenaya rode.  Dismas held  it open,  hailed her,  then  leaped
frantically clear before the Tr6s trampled him into the dirt.

Chenaya jerked on the reins with  all her might. The war-horse's hooves  tore up
chunks of earth. It reared, nearly throwing her again, then stopped,  completely
still, trembling.

She blew an exhausted  breath, swung one leg  over the Tros's neck,  and slid to
the ground. Dismas, Gestus, Walegrin, and Rashan hurried to her side.

"Damn beast  nearly gave  it to  me!" Dismas  mutterred, brushing  dust from his
sleeves, looking as if he'd eat the Tr6s if given time to build a fire.

Chenaya pushed the hair back from her eyes. Her golden mane was a tangled  mess;
sweat and dirt streaked her cheeks. She wiped her face with the back of her hand
and passed the reins  to Gestus. "Put him  in the pen with  Lowan's mare. Hurry!
She's in heat, and this one's got enough  krrf in him to incite the lusts of  an
army." She swatted  the Tros's rump  as the gladiator  led him away.  "Rashan, I
want you to invoke Savan-kala's blessing on this union. The mare must  conceive.
I want a strong foal from her."

The priest's eyebrows shot up. "You want me to bless copulating horses?"

"You're a priest, aren't you, the  Eye of Savankala?" She embraced him  and gave
him a quick peck on the cheek.  Rashan had lived at Land's End while  he oversaw
the building of her private temple on the shore of the Red Foal. They had shared
many late night discussions, and he had taught her much.

"Very well," he agreed, rolling his  eyes. "But we must speak this  night before
we part." He turned to follow  Gestus, but continued talking over his  shoulder.
"I've had  another dream.  You must  hear the  message. It  was the voice of the
Thunderer himself."

She watched him go,  saying nothing. But his  words disturbed her. His  walk and
bearing were those  of a warrior,  not a priest,  and his body  was developed as
befitted a Rankan. Yet a priest he was, and first among Savankala's hierophants.
Yet, lately, Rashan had been having  dreams, messages from the god, he  claimed,
visions that foretold Chenaya's future  and her destiny. All through  the winter
they'd argued the  meaning of his  dreams. Not messages  at all, she'd  tried to
convince  him. Just  the wishful  thinking of  an old  man who  saw his   nation
decaying around him.

She clung to that argument now as he disappeared inside the stables with  Gestus
and the Tros. There could be no truth to his dreams. She was not the Daughter of
the Sun. That was only a name, an appellation pinned on her by arena  spectators
and fellow gladiators. Nothing more.

There was movement on her right side. She had forgotten her other guest.

"Lady," Walegrin said uneasily. "It's the middle of the night. Your man said  it
was of the direst  importance that you speak  with me, that I  come dressed thus
out of uniform. Because you are Lord Molin's niece I hastened, but the morning-"

She cut him off with a curt  gesture. "If you came only because of  Uncle Molin,
Commander, then you may leave again." She looked him straight in the eye, not at
all intimidated by his  towering height. "If you  came, though, to enhance  your
own career or to do good service to your prince, then stay and hear me out."

His eyes grew wide in the moonlight, but she turned her back on him and spoke to
Dismas. "There's a sectarius of red wine on a peg in the stables. Bring it."

A  sudden din  from the  stables interrupted  her. They  all looked  toward  the
building. There came a crashing and cracking of wood, the challenging cry of the
Tros horse,  the lamentation  of the  mare. There  was cursing  from Gestus, and
Rashan's shouted prayers soared over the whole.

"Bring the  wine," she  repeated, touching  Dismas's arm  in comradely  fashion.
"There's parchment and ink there as well. Bring them along, too."

She turned back to Walegrin when  they were alone. "You command the  garrison in
this garbage  pit," she  said, folding  her arms  over her  chest, regarding him
evenly. "And the closest thing to a  police force in Sanctuary is your men.  I'm
not going  to hold  it against  you that  you've been  keeping company with that
scheming uncle  of mine.  We all  seek advancement  by the  fastest means, after
all."

"If  your  uncle  schemes,"  Walegrin  broke  in  defensively,  "he  does  so on
Sanctuary's behalf."

Chenaya  threw back  her head  and smiled  scornfully. "Molin  Torchholder  does
nothing except in his own behalf. But I didn't call you here to argue my uncle's
lack of virtue. As  you pointed out, it's  late." She rubbed her  backside. "And
I've had a rough night."

Walegrin folded his arms,  unconsciously imitating Chenaya's aggressive  stance.
He looked down at her. "Then what did you call me here for?"

"You're the  police," she  said over  the noise  from the  stables. "What's  the
biggest problem you've got in the city right now?"

He scratched his chin and considered. "Right now?" He pursed his lips, put on an
expression of  intense seriousness.  "I'd say  it's finding  the thief who stole
Tempus's horse before he takes the town apart."

She stared disdainfully at him, gave him her back, and headed after her friends.
"Go back  to your  bunk. Commander.  I picked  the wrong  man. I'll take care of
Kadakithis myself as I've always done."

He came after her, caught her by the shoulder. Chenaya whirled, knocked his hand
away.  "Wait,"  he  pleaded as  she  started  to leave  him  again.  "What about
Kadakithis? If thfcre's some trouble, let me help."

She ran her gaze up and down his rangy height, taking his measure. She'd kept an
eye on him during her time in Sanctuary and generally considered him one of  the
few honest  men in  the city.  Reportedly, he  was competent  with his  weapons,
though not a brilliant fighter. He did seem, however, to have the loyalty of his
men, and that counted for much.

She not only needed his help, she wanted it.

"The PFLS," she said at last, drawing a deep, calming breath. "They started  out
murdering  Rankans and  Beysibs in  cold blood.  Men, women,  children-armed  or
unarmed, it didn't matter.  They began a reign  of terror that ended  up carving
Sanctuary into  sections like  a big  pie, and  their terrorist  activities have
earned them the animosity of nearly every citizen in town." She paused, thinking
suddenly of Zip. "Their leader still harbors dreams of Ilsig liberation, but the
rest kill and kill simply for the feeling of power it gives them when they grind
someone else into the dirt."

Dismas came back bearing the sectarius  of wine, the parchment, and the  inkpot.
"Keep  those," she  told him,  taking the  leather vessel.  She unstoppered  it,
swallowed a mouthful, wiped her lips, and passed it to Walegrin who followed her
example. "How goes it in there?" she asked Dismas, nodding toward the stables.

The gladiator looked  askance and grinned.  "Such a mating  as I've never  seen.
Hear for yourself how the mare enjoys her pleasure. I thought they were going to
tear the stalls down, but they've taken more than a liking to each other."

"I thought I heard Gestus cursing." She took the wine from Walegrin, offered  it
to her man. Though her gladiators called her mistress, she treated them fully as
equals.

Dismas  lifted  the  bottle and  swallowed.  "He  got kicked  in  the  hand," he
explained. "He tried to unsaddle the Tros, but the mare already had her tail  in
the air."

"I've met men  who similarly couldn't  wait to undress,"  she quipped. "I  guess
you're all part horse." She hesitated purposefully, then added, "or some part of
a horse." She slapped her rump and winked.

"The PFLS," Walegrin reminded her, trying to remain patient. "And Kadakithis. Is
there some threat?"

The noise from the stables suddenly  ended. A few moments later, Rashan  emerged
and started  across the  lawn. She  waited for  the old  priest to join them and
offered him the wine. He drank  deeply, then accepted the parchment and  ink-pot
from Dismas. He gave Chenaya an inquiring look.

"Tempus  came  to  me  with  a  proposal,"  she  said  to  Walegrin.  "One  with
implications for all of Sanctuary. You  know that Theron has promised to  return
at New Year's  and make this  city what he  wants most-a bastion  for the Rankan
Empire's southern  border." She  glanced at  Dismas and  a silent message passed
between them. "You also know that I have no love for Theron."

Walegrin surveyed the faces of those around him. "It was you and your gladiators
who attacked his barge and killed his surrogate." He said it with absolute  calm
and certainty.

Chenaya reached up and tapped his forehead exactly as her lather would have done
to her. She had never  attempted to make a secret  of it, just as she  had never
thought to fail.  In fact, she  hadn't failed, just  shot her bolt  at the wrong
target. The man in Theron's robes hadn't been Theron at all, and the Usurper had
gotten out of town before she could try again.

Her  mouth shaped  itself into  a smirk.  "Tempus was  stupid enough  to try  to
blackmail  me with  information that  seems to  be common  knowledge. He'll   be
leaving soon  with his  Stepsons and  the Third  Commando." Walegrin nodded. The
imminent departure of the two groups was not news. "Well, he had an idea that  I
should take control of the PFLS and  use it to weld the various factions  into a
Sanctuary defense force." That much of her speech was the truth, then she  added
her own thoughts and plans. "And use it to resist Theron when he returns."

The garrison  commander rubbed  his chin,  his nose,  an ear,  wishing he hadn't
heard that tidbit,  thinking about what  he'd have to  do with it.  "You realize
you're accusing him of a treasonous offense?"

Chenaya  shrugged, took  another drink  of wine,  passed him  the sectarius.  "I
wouldn't try to make  it stick," she advised.  "Tempus owes more loyalties  than
you and I  can begin to  guess. He joins  Theron but plots  against him. Who can
know his  motivations?" She  shrugged again.  "Anyway, I  thought there was some
merit  to  the idea-but  not  the way  he  formulated it.  Take  a look  around,
Walegrin.  You  don't  expect  this city  to  become  just  another good  little
satellite obedient  to the  Empire, do  you? Something's  brewing here.  Call it
rebellion."

Rashan spoke  up, passing  the wine  to Dismas.  "If you  expect resistance when
Theron returns,"  he said  softly, "then  Sanctuary will  need a  defense force.
Theron is a murderer and a usurper. Loyal Rankans should rise up against him."

Chenaya waved a hand,  dismissing his speech. "Loyal  Rankans have little to  do
with this," she said. "But Sanctuary  is a different matter entirely, a  melting
pot of many  interests, none of  which favor Theron.  Yes, Tempus had  the right
idea,  but  because  he is  Tempus  Thales,  and a  fool,  he  overestimates the
importance of his  Stepsons and commandoes.  Even without them  Sanctuary is far
from defenseless. And we don't need the PFLS to take their place, either."

She held up her fingers and began to tick off a few numbers. "The Beysibs have a
good five  hundred warriors;  that doesn't  include the  Harka Bey,  who are  an
unknown quantity. The garrison houses at least sixty men-at-arms, almost all  of
them  raised and  recruited locally.  There are  the Hell-Hounds,  who feel  the
Empire  has deserted  them; I  think they'll  fight for  us. There  are  Jubal's
minions-they have  nothing to  gain and  much profit  to lose  if Theron  should
pacify this region." She tapped her chest with one hand, rapped the knuckles  of
her other on Dismas's  shoulder. "Then I have  my twelve gladiators, the  finest
arena-flesh in the history of the games. And by the New Year I'll have a hundred
more, the best fighters ever to come out of Rankan schools."

Walegrin looked thoughtful,  seeming to forget  that, as he  spoke, he was  also
committing a treasonous offense. "We could dredge up more from the streets,"  he
observed, "and we have our wizards. Sanctuary is full of wizards."

"What we don't  need," Chenaya continued,  encouraged by his  participation, "is
the  PFLS. That  group has  caused too  much dissension,  actually fostered  the
factionalism that has cost so many lives. The swiftest thing we can do to  unify
those factions is to put an end to Zip and his bloodthirsty band."

The garrison commander  nodded slowly, perceiving  the truth in  her words. Even
Zip's own people, most of the Ilsigi population, had turned away from the  ideas
espoused by the PFLS when it became general knowledge that the group was  backed
by Nisibisi insurgents who wanted only to stir up trouble on Ranke's rear border
while  their  demon-spawned  sorcerers pushed  their  conquests  from Wizardwall
through the surrounding kingdoms.

"Without the Third Commando liaison, we've never been able to lay hands on Zip,"
Walegrin complained. "What makes you think that's going to change? They're  like
rats. And  it's not  just Ratfall  that they  call home;  the Maze  and Downwind
belong to them as well."

Chenaya took another swallow of wine when it came her way again. "Any rat can be
lured out of its  hole with the right  cheese," she said. "I've  already set the
trap. I only need you to help spring it."

Gestus emerged from the stables leading the Tros by the reins. The big  creature
seemed completely bewildered, still in the krrf's embrace. Chenaya could  almost
swear the beast was grinning. She  pointed to the parchment and the  inkpot that
Rashan  held.  "Write  for  me,  Priest,  "  she  instructed.  "Use  your finest
calligraphy."

Rashan looked over his shoulder,  located the full moon, and  positioned himself
in the best light.  He took the stylus  from the inkpot and  held himself poised
for the first stroke.

"Write..." Chenaya paused, thoughtful. "Thanks for the stud service, lover." She
laughed then, remembering her garden  encounter with the Riddler. "Sign  my name
in big letters."

Rashan gave her  a disapproving look,  the kind Lowan  Vigeles would have  given
her. She paid him as much attention, and he wrote. When he was done she took the
parchment and gave it  to Gestus. "Fix it  to the saddle," she  instructed, "and
let the Tros go."

The gladiator looked shocked.  He was, after all,  a thief, and he  thought he'd
taken part in a very clever and daring theft. A good thief didn't give back  the
booty. "Let go horse?" he mumbled.

"Let it go?" Walegrin echoed in better speech.

Chenaya  repeated herself.  "I'm no  fool. Commander.  Though I  enjoy  pricking
Tempus's bubble a little, I don't  underestimate him. In a short time,  the mare
will have a foal,  then I'll have a  half-Tros of my own  to ride. I can  wait a
couple of years. Keeping  this one could lead  to a direct conflict  between the
two of us." She glanced up at  Sabellia floating serenely in the dark sky.  "Who
knows what  cosmic forces  that would  unleash, what  war among  the gods  would
result?" She shook her head. "No, when I risk that, it will be for something far
more important than a horse, even a Tr6s."

Rashan made the sign of his god. "Let us hope Tempus has as much sense. You know
him better than he knows you, child."

Gestus led the Tr6s toward the gate. But before he got beyond it, a  penetrating
and high-pitched  whistle sawed  through the  night. Chenaya  cried out in pain,
clapped hands to  her ears to  stop the sound.  Through tear-moistened eyes  she
watched her companions  do the same.  The Tr6s reared  unexpectedly, jerking the
reins from her  gladiator's hand. It  whinnied and sped  out of sight,  as if in
response to the strange whistle, the  sound of its hooves adding thunder  to the
shrill, knife-edged keening.

Abruptly, the sound ceased, and Chenaya straightened. Despite the ringing in her
ears, she found strength to smile. "I don't know what that was," she said,  "but
I think our living legend finally missed his mount." She rubbed her ears and the
side of her neck. "I hope the note doesn't fall off."

A look  of utter  confusion lingered  on Walegrin's  face. He  whispered to  the
priest in an  overly loud voice.  "What was she  talking about? Gods  and cosmic
forces, all that? I'm beginning to think Molin is right. You're all insane!"

Rashan shook his head, doing his  best to calm the excitable commander.  "You'll
leam soon enough," he said, low-voiced.  "Tempus is hundreds of years old,  they
say. Imagine all his power, maybe more, in the person of such a young woman." He
made a bow in Chenaya's direction. "She is truly the Daughter of the Sun."

Chenaya ground her teeth. "Shut up, Rashan. I told you, I'm tired of that  title
and your little  fantasy. Now leave  us. You've done  your part this  night, and
I've got plans to discuss with the commander."

Rashan  protested.  "But the  dream,"  he reminded  her.  "We've got  to  speak.
Savankala summons you to your destiny."

She waved him away, her irritation  growing. Such talk was disturbing enough  in
private. Before  Walegrin, she  felt a  genuine anger.  "I said  leave us,"  she
snapped. "If I'm really who you think I am, you don't dare disobey me. Now go!"

Rashan stared  sorrowfully at  her, not  angry, not  disappointed, patient. "You
don't believe," he said gently, "but you  will. He will show you. When you  look
upon his face, you will know the truth." He raised a finger and pointed at  her.
"Look upon his face, child. See who you are." He turned, strode toward the  gate
and beyond.

She sighed, her anger turned suddenly  upon herself. Rashan was her friend,  and
he  meant well.  She resolved  again not  to let  his delusions  interrupt  that
friendship. In  such troubled  times and  in such  a city  as this,  trustworthy
comrades were hard to come by.

She put fingers to  her lips and gave  a high whistle of  her own. While he  was
free and  unjessed, Reyk  was trained  to follow  wherever she  went. The falcon
dropped from the sky  to perch on her  arm. She took the  jess and a small  hood
from her belt, stroked her pet a few times, and passed him into Dismas's care.

Then she took  Walegrin by the  arm. "Come up  to the house.  Commander. There's
more wine and a bite to eat."  She called back to the two former  thieves. "Wake
all the others," she instructed. "Daphne, too. They're all involved."

These were treasonous times, and it was time to talk treason.

Eight men. That was all that remained of the Popular Front for the Liberation of
Sanctuary, Zip assured her. There were no more. And looking him straight in  the
eye, she believed him.

They were a rag-tag  lot, some even without  sandals or boots. But  they carried
good Nisibisi metal or equally  well-crafted weapons recovered from Rankans  and
Beysibs they had murdered.  They were young, the  eight, but as they  huddled in
the deep shadows of  the old stables off  Granary Road, their armament  was cold
reminder of the treachery and chaos they had inspired.

It was time, though,  for her treachery, and  she led them swiftly  down Granary
Road, past a comer of her own estate to the Avenue of Temples. Noiselessly, they
stole up to the Gate of the Gods, wide-eyed rats, eager for a taste of cheese.

She looked at Zip's face, barely visible in the shadows, feeling something  that
bordered on regret. He, of all these cutthroats, seemed sincere in his quest for
llsig liberation.  But he  had murdered  Rankans-her people-and  so many others,
done such evil in freedom's name. She turned away from him and rapped quietly on
the sealed gate, glad that Sabellia had not yet risen to shine on this moment.

The gate eased  open a crack.  From beneath the  metal brim of  a sentry's helm,
Leyn peered out.  He cast a  suspicious gaze over  Zip's band, playing  his part
well, and held open his palm. "The other half of my payment, lady," he whispered
slyly. "It's due now, and the gate is yours."

Chenaya took a heavy  purse from the place  where it rested between  her leather
armor  and  her tunic.  It  jingled as  she  passed it  over.  Leyn weighed  it,
considering, frowning, chewing the end of his mustache.

Zip pressed forward impatiently. "Move it, man, while you've still got a hand to
count with!" The others, too, pressed forward, demonstrating that the gate would
be breached whether the guard was satisfied or no.

"You sure it's all here?" Leyn grunted. "Then inside, and damn you all, and damn
the filthy Beysibs." He  tugged the gate wide  and stood out of  the way, waving
them in with a  bow full of mockery.  "Blood to you this  night, gentlemen, much
blood."

Chenaya  led  them, hurrying,  crouched  low, across  the  courtyard toward  the
governor's roses, toward a  small entrance in the  western palace wall. She  had
come here once before, her first  week in Sanctuary, to save Kadakithis  from an
assassin. By this very way she had come. She found that a bitter irony.

Because she listened for the sound, she heard the gate close behind them,  heard
the sturdy iron lock click into place.

Zip heard it, too.  His sword slid serpent-quick  from the sheath as  all around
them shadows rose up  from the ground where  they had rested flat  in the gloom.
There was horror in his eyes when he faced her, and anger. But worst of all  was
the look of betrayal. In an instant, he knew her for what she was, and she  knew
he knew.

That  didn't stop  her. Furiously,  Zip lunged,  his point  seeking her   heart.
Chenaya  side-stepped, drew  her gladius.  In the  same back-handed  motion  she
smashed the pommel against his brow as he passed her. The rebel leader fell like
a stone at her feet and didn't move.

"Sorry, lover," she muttered honestly, meeting the nearest man with balls enough
to try  avenging Zip.  Blades clashed  in a  high arc,  then she dropped low and
raked her  edge over  his unarmored  belly. As  he doubled,  screaming, she  cut
upward through his throat.

A manic yell went up from the  PFLS as her gladiators crashed into their  ranks,
hacking at their foes. The Rankans let out their own cry, a vengeful paean  full
of rage for all their slain kindred.  There was no mercy in them and  no thought
of surrender  in Zip's  band. Blades  clashed and  clanged, throwing  blue-white
sparks. Blood fountained, thick and black  in the night. Cries and groaning  and
grunting filled the palace ground. Walegrin's men came running.

Then hell erupted. All around, flame  spumed upward. Within the bright geyser  a
Rankan  screamed, threw  his arms  up uselessly,  and ran  like a  crazed  demon
trailing fluttering fire.

Another incendiary exploded. Fire spread like a deadly liquid across the  earth.
Rankans and PFLSers alike shrieked and burned. Someone ran screaming toward her,
swathed in fire. Foe or  one of her own, she  couldn't tell, but she gave  him a
quicker death.

She  had thought  to stay  by Zip,  to guard  and keep  him alive  through  this
carnage.  But  now she  whirled  about, searching  for  the bomber.  He  was the
paramount threat.

She spied him then,  as he lobbed yet  another bottle of the  strange fluid. The
flash dazzled her vision;  heat seared the left  side of her face.  The smell of
singed hair crept malodorously into her nostrils-her own hair, she realized with
a start. And though she knew she could not die thus-Savankala himself had  shown
her the manner of her death-in that moment she tasted a small bite of fear.

She gripped her sword more securely and started toward him.

But the  bomber's eyes  snapped suddenly  wide; his  mouth opened  in a horrible
scream. His  hands went  up as  if to  supplicate the  heavens. Then, he toppled
forward, dead.

Daphne eyed her mistress  across the courtyard, her  sword running red with  the
bomber's  blood, a  mad grin  spreading over  her small  face. Knowing   Chenaya
watched,  the  Rankan  princess  threw back  her  dark-haired  head  and laughed
obscenely. Again and again she hacked at the body until the torso was a  scarlet
mass.

Chenaya glanced over her  shoulder at the palace.  Lights flared in the  windows
where  darkness  had been  before.  Heads peered  out  at the  slaughter.  Armed
Beysibs, barely dressed, surged out to join the tumult.

It ended quickly  after that. Gladiator,  garrison soldier, naked  Beysib looked
around for new foes and found none. Taciturn as ever, the fish-folk wiped  their
blades on whatever was at hand and  went back to bed. Walegrin gave orders;  his
men began to drag away the corpses.

Leyn rushed  to Chenaya's  side and  returned her  pouch of  gold. He had thrown
aside the sentry's helm or lost it  in the conflict. His curly blond hair  shone
with the glow of  the fires that still  burned. "Mistress," he said  softly, "we
lost two of our own." He told her the names.

Chenaya drew a deep breath. "Fire or sword?" she asked.

Leyn turned his gaze away. "One to each."

She winced,  full of  grief for  the one  who had  burned. It  was no  way for a
warrior to die. "If  you can, get the  bodies from Walegrin. We'll  give funeral
rites ourselves at Land's End and scatter their ashes on the Red Foal."

Leyn moved away to carry out her order. Alone for a moment, Chenaya fought  back
tears of anger. All of her gladiators were hand-picked men, all completely loyal
to her, and she had  led two of them to  their deaths. Death itself was  nothing
new to her,  but this responsibility  for other men's  lives was. Suddenly,  she
found it a heavy yoke to bear.

She gazed up at the sky, wishing  Sabellia would come to brighten up her  world.
There were but twelve links on her chain now-no, only ten. But soon there  would
be a hundred. One hundred bonds to bind her.

She went back to  Zip's unconscious form. Already,  a bruise had appeared  where
her pommel had struck him. She knelt  and felt for a heartbeat, fearing she  had
hit too hard.

"Is he alive?"

She looked up at Walegrin. The garrison commander was smeared with blood, though
apparently none of it was his own. He was a grisly sight. The color and smell of
it had never bothered her before, but this time she turned her gaze away.

It was then she saw her own hands. They, too, were dyed the same mortal shade.

"He lives,"  she answered  at last.  "I meant  for him  to live." A light breeze
stirred Zip's black curls. Unconscious, there was almost an innocence about  his
features, so composed, peaceful. "He should stand public trial for his  crimes,"
she said, disturbed to the core of  her soul. "People must know that the  PFLS's
long night of terror has come to an end. Then we can start putting the pieces of
this town back together."

A lamb, she thought of Zip suddenly. The sacrificial offer ing that will make us
well and whole again. She took one of his still hands in hers, then pulled away.
For the second  time that night  she tasted fear.  Zip had fallen  on his sword.
There was a long cut  across his palm. It relieved  her to find no more  serious
wound.

Literally now, his blood was on her hand.

She rose, trying to wipe her fingers clean on her armor. "Take him," she said to
Walegrin, "and say this to  Kadakithis and Shupansea"-she looked at  Zip's quiet
face as she  spoke, almost as  if her words  were meant for  him-"that Zip is my
peace offering to them and to this city. I will feud with the Beysa no more, but
it's they who must pull the  factions of Sanctuary into one unified  whole." She
hesitated, swallowed, went on.  "Say also that they  cannot do this from  behind
the palace walls. It's time for them to come out into the midst of their  people
and lead as leaders should."

She looked away from Zip's face and surveyed the courtyard. The dead were  being
arranged in separate  groups: those that  could still be  recognized, those that
could not. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the air. Her gladiators worked
beside the garrison soldiers.  Even a few Beysibs  who had not gone  back to bed
lent their hands.

"Otherwise," she said to Walegrin, "all this will have been for nothing."

She left him then, and Leyn, who still had the key, let her out through the Gate
of the  Gods. When  no one  could see  her, the  tears at  last spilled down her
cheeks, and hating the tears, she began to run. She didn't know the streets  she
took, nor did she know the time that passed before her grief and anger subsided.
She wound up on  the wharf again where  she had been the  night before, sitting,
dangling her feet over the deep water as Sabellia began her journey through  the
sky.

She could  still feel  Zip's eyes  upon her  back, watching  her as  he had last
evening.

She shuddered and hugged  herself and wished for  Reyk to keep her  company. But
the falcon was in his cage, and she was alone.

Alone.

As alone as Tempus Thales?

IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT

C. J. Cherryh

Haught opened the sealed  window ever so carefully,  in this nightbound room  of
shrouded furniture, the  hulking, concealed chairs  and table like  so many pale
ghosts reverted only then  to furniture, pretending in  the shadows. He made  no
sound. He made  no trial of  the wards which  sealed the place,  nor even of the
vented shutters  which closed  the outside.  But a  wind breached those barriers
effortlessly. The first breath of outside  that had come into the mansion  in...
very long, stirred the draperies and  the sheets and brought a sultry  warmth to
the dank, sealed staleness in which he had lived.

That  wind  stirred  the  few  grains  of  dust  that  were  about.  (It  was an
astonishingly clean house, for one sealed so long, from which servants had  long
since fled.) It swept down the halls  and into another room, and touched at  the
face of a man who slept... likewise very long. In that darkness, in that silence
in which the  mere arrival of  a breeze was  remarkable, that cold  and handsome
face lost its  corpselike rigor;  the nostrils  widened. The  eyes opened,  long
lashed, mere slits. The chest heaved with a wider breath.

But Haught  knew none  of these  things. He  was drawn.  He felt the exercise of
magics like a tremor in the foundations,  a quivering in his bones. He felt  the
power coming from that ruin across the street, where most of an entire block  of
Sanctuary's finest houses had mingled all in one charcoaled wreckage of  tumbled
brick and  stone and  timbers; and  he felt  it rush  elsewhere, tantalizing and
horrific and soul-threatening. He  bent down to peer  through the vents of  that
window,  careful  to  shroud  himself, which  was  his  chiefest  Talent, to  go
invisible to mages and other Talents. To that, his magic had descended. He spied
on the working  of magic that  he could not  presently command. He  longed after
power and  he longed  after his  freedom, neither  one of  which he dared try to
take.

He saw  the coming  together of  his enemies  out there  in the  dark, saw looks
directed toward  the house,  and felt  the straining  of spells  which the witch
Ischade had woven about his prison.  He shivered, as he stood there  and inhaled
that  wind redolent  of old  burning and  present sorceries  and exorcisms,   of
revenge; he suddenly knew this house  the target of all these preparations,  and
he felt an overwhelming terror: and trembled with his hatred. He felt the  power
build, and the wards flare with a moment's dissolution-

And he was  paralyzed, frozen with  doubt of himself,  even while that  dreadful
force came all about the house and burst the wards in a great flare of light.

He screamed.

Elsewhere the sleeper  started upright, and  convulsed, and smoked  from head to
foot, which  smoke streamed  in a  flash toward  the hall,  and the chimney, and
aloft, in a moment  that all living flesh  in the house was  battered with light
and sound and pain.

The sleeper fell back again, slack-limbed; Haught collapsed by the window in the
front room, and by the time he was conscious enough to lift himself on his  arms
and assess the damage, all the air seemed still and numb, his hearing blasted by
a sound which never might have been sound at all.

He  gathered himself  up and  clung to  the sill,  and lifted  himself  further,
trembling. He stood there in that  condition till it was all quiet  again, stood
there till the shadowed figures went their way from the ruin across the  street,
and he dared finally move the window and shut it again.

A hand descended on his shoulder and  he whirled and let out a scream  that made
it very fortunate that the party across the street had dispersed.

The calm, handsome face that stared so closely into his- smiled. It was not  the
smile of the man who had owned the body. It was not that of the witch who  lived
there now. Nothing sane was at home within that shell. Haught was a mage, still.
Against another threat he might fling out some power, even with the crippling of
magic throughout the town; he was still formidable.

But  what  slept behind  those  eyes, what  wandered  there sometimes  sane  and
sometimes not, and sometimes one mind and sometimes another... was death. It had
reasons,  if it  remembered them,  to take  a slow  revenge; and  to hurl  magic
against the wards (he felt them restored) which held that soul in-

Haught prayed  to his  distant gods  and cringed  against the  shutters, made an
unwanted rattle  and flinched  again. Ischade  had been  there. Ischade had been
near enough long enough that perhaps this thing that looked like Tasfalen  would
pick that up; and remember its intentions again in some rage to blast wards  and
souls at once.

But the revenant  merely lifted a  hand and touched  his face, lover's  gesture.
"Dust," it said, which was its only  word; daily Haught swept up the dust  which
infiltrated the house, and sifted it  for the dust of magics which  might linger
in it, the remnant of the Globe of  Power; with that dust he made a potion,  and
dutifully he infused it into this creature, stealing only a little for  himself.
He was faithful in this.  He feared not to be.  He feared a great deal  in these
long months, did Haught,  once and for a  few not-forgotten moments, the  master
mage  of Sanctuary;  he suspected  consequences which  paralyzed him  in  doubt.
Because he had choices he  dared none of them: his  fear went that deep. It  was
his particular  hell. "It's  all right,"  he said  now. "Go  back to  bed. Go to
sleep." As if he spoke to some child.

"Pretty," it said. But it  was not a child's voice,  or a child's touch. It  had
found a new word. He shuddered and sought a way quietly to leave, to slip  aside
till it should sleep again. It  had him trapped. "Pretty." The voice  was clear,
as if some  deeper timbre had  been there and  now was lost.  As if part  of the
madness had dispersed. But not all.

He dared do nothing at all. Not to scream and not to run and not to do  anything
which might make it recall who it was. He could read minds, and he kept  himself
from this one with every barrier he could hold. What happened behind those  eyes
he did not want to know.

"Here," he said,  and tried to  draw the arm  down and lead  it back to  bed and
rest. But it  had as well  be stone; and  all hell was  in that low  and vocally
masculine laugh.

The slow hooffalls  echoed in the  alleyway, off the  narrow walls; and  another
woman, overtaken alone in this black gut of Sanctuary's dark streets, might have
thought of  finding some  refuge. Ischade  merely turned,  aware that some night
rider  had turned  his horse  down the  alley, that  he still  came on,  slowly,
provoking nothing.

In fact, being what she was, she knew who he was before she ever turned her face
toward him; and while another woman, knowing the same, might have run in  search
of some doorway, any doorway or nook  or place to hide or fight, Ischade  drew a
quiet breath, wrapped her arms and  her black robes about her, and  regarded him
in lazy curiosity.

"Are you following me?" she asked of Tempus.

The Tr6s's hooves rang  to a leisurely halt  on the cobbles, slow  and patterned
echo off the brick walls and the cobbles. A rat went skittering through a  patch
of moonlight, vanished into  a crack in an  old warehouse door frame.  The rider
towered in shadow. "Not a good neighborhood for walking."

She smiled  and it  was like  most of  her smiles,  like most of her amusements,
feral and dark. She laughed.  There was dark in that  too: and a little pang  of
regret. "Gallantry."

"Practicality. An arrow-"

"You didn't  take me  unaware." She  rarely said  as much.  She was  not wont to
justify herself, or to  communicate at all; she  found herself doing it  to this
man, and  was distantly  amazed. She  felt so  little that  was acute. The other
feeling was simply awareness, a web  the quiverings of which were always  there.
But perhaps he did know that, or  suspect it. Perhaps that was why she  answered
him, that she suspected a deeper question in that comment than most knew how  to
ask. He was shadow to her. She was shadow to him. They had no identity and every
identity in Sanctuary, city of midnight meetings and constant struggle, constant
connivance.

"I heal," he said, low and in a voice that went to the bones. "That's my curse."

"I don't need to," she said in the same low murmur. "That's mine."

He said nothing for a moment. Perhaps he thought about it. Then: "I said that we
would try them... yours and mine."

She shivered. This was a man who walked through battlefields and blood, who  was
storm  and  gray to  her  utmost black  and  stillness; this  was  a man  always
surrounded by men, and  cursed with too much  love and too many  wounds. And she
had none of that. He was conflict  personified, the light and the dark; and  she
settled so quickly back to stasis and cold, solitary.

"You missed your appointment," she said. "But I never wait. And I don't hold you
to any agreement. That's what I would have told you then. What I did, I did. For
my reasons. Wisest if we don't mix."

And she  turned and  walked away  from him.  But the  Tr6s started forward as if
stung, and Tempus, shadowlike, circled to cut her off.

Another woman might have recoiled. She stood quite still. Perhaps he thought she
could be bluffed, perhaps it  was part of a dark  game; but in his silence,  she
read another truth.

It was the challenge. It was the unsatisfiable woman. The man who (like too many
others) partly feared her, feared  failure, feared rejection; and whose  godhood
was put in question by her very existence.

"I see," she said finally. "It isn't your men you're buying."

There was deathly silence then.  The horse snorted explosively, shifted.  But he
did not  lose his  control, or  lose control  over the  beast. He  sat there  in
containment of it and his own nature, and even of his wounded honesty.

Offended, he was less storm and more man, a decent man whose self-respect was in
pawn: whose thought now was indeed for  the lives and the souls he had  proposed
himself to buy. He was two men; or man and something much less reasonable.

"I'll see you home," he said, like some spurned swain to the miller's  daughter.
With, at the moment, that same  note of martyred finality and renouncement.  But
it would not last at the gate. She did not see the future, but she knew men, and
she knew that it was  for his own sake that  he said that, and offered  that, in
his  eternal private  warfare-with the  storm. Man  of grays  and halftones.  He
tormented himself because it was the only way to win.

She understood  such a  battle. She  fought it  within her  own chill dark, more
pragmatically. She staved things off only  daily, knowing that the next day  she
would not  win against  her appetites;  but the  third she  would be  in control
again; so  she lived  by tides  and the  rhythms of  the moon, and knowing these
things she kept herself from destructive temptations. This man served a harsher,
more chaotic force that had no regular ebb and flow; this man warred because  he
had no peace, and no moment when he was not at risk.

"No," she said, "I'll find my own way tonight. Tomorrow night. Come tomorrow."

She waited. In his  precarious balance, in his  battle, she named him  a test of
that balance and she knew even the direction his soul was sliding.

He fought it  back. She had  not known whether  he could, but  she had been sure
that he would try. She knew the silent anger in him, one half against the other,
and both suspecting some despite. But there was the debt he owed her. He  backed
the Tros and she walked on her way down the alley unattended.

Another woman might have suffered a  quickening of the pulse, a weakness  in the
knees, knowing who and  what eyes were staring  anger at her back.  But she knew
equally well what  he was going  to do, which  was to sit  the Tr6s quite  still
until she had passed beyond sight. And that he would wait only to prove that  he
could wait, when the assaults would come on his integrity, not knowing any  tide
at all.

He touched her, in  a vague and theoretical  way. She respected him.  She took a
monumental chance in what he proposed for payment, not knowing whether either of
them might survive it. Perhaps he knew the danger and perhaps not. For  herself,
she felt only the dimmest of alarms. It was the dreadful ennui again, the  sense
of tides.

The fact was that she missed  Roxane. She missed her own household  of traitors.
She missed them with the feeling of a body totally enervated, the ancient  ennui
the worse to bear because for a little while, so long as there had been an enemy
and a challenge, she had been alive, for a little while she had been stirred out
of a still and waking sleep.

Only her lovers could touch her when the ennui was heaviest. It was not the  sex
for which she killed. It  was the moment of anguish,  of terror, of power or  of
fear or  sorrow-it never  mattered which.  It never  lasted long  enough even to
identify. There was only  the instant that had  to be tried again  and again, to
try to know what it was.

Perhaps (sometimes she wondered) it was the only moment she was alive.

The Tros  horse thundered  from the  alley, the  rider never  looking back;  and
Straton,  Stepson, pressed  himself flat  against the  streetward wall,  staring
after Tempus until horse and rider merged with the night.

And turned abruptly and  looked down the dark  and empty alleyway, knowing  that
Ischade would have gone.

That she would blast him to hell for spying on her business.

He heard  rumors of  her-heard!-gods, he  had heard  a thousand whispers without
hearing them, not truly. Then-  then he had taken a  bad one, then he had  spent
long enough  in hell  to shake  any man  from his  confidence in himself, in his
choices, in the fool gesture that had sent him blind angry onto a street without
his cautions or his wits. Now for the rest of his life there might be the  small
twinges of pain, all  unexpected, that shot through  his shoulder when he  moved
his arm at the wrong angle, an unpredictable pain that enraged him when it would
come shooting through and he would stop in a certain reach, at an angle. It came
so quickly and so indefinably that he could not feel whether it was the pain  of
scarred tendons and joint running up  against their limit and freezing dead,  or
whether it was  only the pain  that froze the  arm, in an  eyeblink of flinching
that he was  not man enough  to master. He  tried with exercise  and with dogged
resistance when it did freeze; but still it betrayed him at bad moments.

It was  his confidence  that had  died in  that street,  before Haught  had ever
gotten his hands  on him. It  was the shattering  of a body  he had always taken
businesslike care of, and treated well, and gotten hale and whole to this end of
his life when he had begun to look on shopkeepers and merchants and their  wives
and their brats with a kind of forlorn envy; mere service was a young man's game
and he had begun to think of another  kind of life, still with his body and  his
wits intact, still with his resources and his experience and his contacts-

Until a single careless act wrecked him  and flung him down on a curbside  under
the eyes of all of Sanctuary; left a flinch in his shield arm and a knotted fear
in his gut-not the nightmares that waked him sweating, not that fear. It was the
suspicion that he had deserved it, and that Crit was right: His whole world  was
a construction of cobwebs and moonbeams.

The woman whose face he saw in  the act of love, the beautiful, dusky  face, the
black hair scattered  in silk webs  across the pillows-the  face that mused  and
smiled her thoughtful smile above him in the soft light of a fire and candles-

-he could not equate with the one  who walked the alleys. With the one  who took
lover after lover in the most sordid byways of Sanctuary, indiscriminate-killer.

He followed her the way he drove at the arm, to find the limits of the pain  and
to control it, to exorcise it-like the  other evil. He had seen things he  could
not forget. He had leaned toward  sanity, toward Crit, and leaving her  when the
Stepsons rode out from this town; he  would not look back; he would dream  about
it less and  less. The arm  would heal and  he would recover  himself somewhere,
some year.

But this betrayal he had not imagined, this... double ... betrayal, her with his
commander.

Damn them both. Damn them. He thought that he had felt all there was to feel. He
had not put together until then, that he had been a real power in Sanctuary even
before she had taken him to her bed.  That she had made him almost a great  one.
But that was changed. He  was useless to her, at  a critical time. So she  threw
out her nets and gathered in one more apt for her purposes.

He flung himself around the comer, down the walk, and flinched. It was the  same
street. It was the same blind rage. Reprise, replayed. The bay horse was waiting
for him;  it always  waited, a  mockery of  faithfulness, her  gift to him, that
would never leave  him. He left  it stabled. In  the mid of  nights he heard its
hoof-falls on  the cobbles  beneath his  window. He  heard it  pacing, heard its
breath, the shift of its body in  his dreams. And there was this small  patch on
its rump which ... was  not there. There was nothing  of color about it. It  was
just a flaw, a place that, if  one stared at this coin-sized spot, one  imagined
one saw no horse at all, but cobbles, or the wall beyond, or some shimmer behind
which the truth might be visible. He  began, in his loss of confidence, to  find
terror in its faithfulness and its persistence.

He went to it now and gathered up  the trailing rein and put his left arm  about
its neck, again, his left,  to see if it would  hurt; and hugged and patted  the
sleek warm neck  to see if  it would turn  with its teeth  and prove itself some
thing out of hell. There was pain now,  a muddle of ache and anger in his  chest
and in  his throat  and behind  his eyes,  and he  was a  damned fool out on the
street where a sniper had found him before.

"Strat."

He spun about, a rush of cold fear and then of outrage. "Damn you, what are  you
doing here?"

His partner Crit just stood there and  looked at him a moment. He had  left Crit
down the block, down by the burned houses.

"How'd I get this close?" Crit asked him. "You don't know. That's what I'm doing
here."

"I want to find the bastard that shot  me," he said. "I want to find that  out."
There was a connection. Crit could put most things together. That was what  Crit
did in the  world, add little  pieces and make  big patterns. Crit  had made one
that said he was a  fool. That was the man  Crit saw tonight. He wanted  to show
Crit another one. He wanted to show Crit the old Straton back again, and to take
care of his  business and seal  up the pain  and not let  it interfere with  his
working any longer.

Take care  of his  business and  finish it  so that  he could  ride out  of this
murder-damned town when  the Stepsons pulled  out, and not  go with the  feeling
that he was driven.

Go out of town under Tempus's order, riding in the same company, with his  mouth
shut and his business all done. That was all he wanted.

The bay horse nosed him in the  ribs, lipped his hand with velvet, insistent  in
its devotion.

There was  no relief,  no breath  of wind,  through the  slit of a window, which
overlooked nothing  but the  narrowest of  air shafts  down to  a barren  court.
Somewhere a baby cried. A rat squealed in some fatal moment, in the jaws of some
other predator  of Sanctuary  nights. The  loft just  above rustled  with wings,
disturbance among the  sleeping birds that  cooed and bickered  and scratched by
twilight and now ought to have slept.  Of a sudden they started, all at  once, a
great clap of  wings and avian  panic; and Stilcho  flinched, standing naked  at
that  window in  the dark.  Wings fluttered,  battering at  the narrow   opening
overhead that gave the panicked flock  an escape; gray wings took to  the night,
day  birds  put to  rout  by something  that  hunted above.  He  shivered, hands
clutching the sill; and looked back at the woman who lay sprawled, coverless  on
the ragged sweat-soaked sheet. A body did not so much sleep in this third  floor
hellhole as pass out; the air was fetid and stank of human waste and generations
of unwashed inhabitants. It was as much  resource as they had, he and Moria.  He
was alive,  but barely.  Moria had  sold everything  she had,  and plied her old
trade, which terrified  him; they hanged  thieves, even in  Sanctuary, and Moria
was out of practice. She stirred. "Stilcho," she murmured. "Stilcho."

"Go to sleep." If he came to her now she would feel the tension in him, and know
his terror. But she got up,  a creak of the rope-webbed underpinnings,  and came
up behind him, and  pressed her sweaty, weary  self against him, her  arms about
him. He shivered even so and felt those arms tense.

"Stilcho." There was fear in her voice now. "Stilcho, what's wrong?"

"A dream," he said. "A dream, that's all." He held her arms in place,  cherished
her sticky, miserable heat against him. Heat of life. Heat of passion when  they
had the strength. Both  had returned to him,  along with his life.  Only the eye
that Moruth had  taken-kept seeing. He  had fled Ischade,  fled mages, fled  the
agencies that used him as their messenger  to hell. He was alive again, but  one
of his eyes was dead; and one looked on the living, but the other-

A third shiver. He had seen into hell tonight,

"Stilcho."

He put his back to the window. It was hard to do, his naked shoulders vulnerable
to the night air; and worse, his  face turned to the room, with its  deeper dark
in which his  living eye had  no power. Then  the dead one  was most active, and
what moved there suddenly took clearer shape.

"They've let something  loose, oh gods,  Moria, something's gotten  loose in the
town-"

"What, what  thing?" Moria  the thief  gripped his  arms in  hands gone hard and
shook him for the little she could move him. "Stilcho, don't, don't, don't!"

The baby squalled and shrieked, from the window down the shaft. The poor  shared
their violence  and their  tempers, lived  in such  indignities, the  noise, the
raised voices audible from apartment to apartment.

"Hush," he said, "it's all right." Which was a lie. His teeth wanted to chatter.

"We should go back to Her. We should-"

"No." He was adamant in that. If they both starved.

But  sometimes in  not-quite dreams,  in that  inner vision,  he felt  Ischade's
touch, plainly as he had ever felt it, and suspected in profoundest unease  that
she knew precisely where her escaped servants were.

"We could have  a house," Moria  said, and burst  into tears. "We  could be safe
from the law." She burrowed her head  against him and hugged him tight. "I  came
from this. / can't live like this, it stinks, Stilcho, it stinks and I stink and
I'm tired, I can't sleep-"

"No!" The vision was there again. Red eyes stared at him in the black. He  tried
to shift his sight away from it, but it was more and more real. He tried to push
it away, and turned to the little starlight there was and clung to the sill till
his fingers ached. "Light the lamp."

"We haven't-"

"Light the lamp!"

She left him; he heard her rattling and fussing with the tinderbox and the  wick
and tried to think of light,  of any pure, yellow-golden-white light, of  sun in
mornings, of the burning summer sun,  anything that had the power to  dispel the
dark.

But the sun he limned  in his one living eye,  there in the dark, reddened,  and
became  paired, and  lengthened, winking  out in  a blink  as deep  as hell  and
reappearing in slitted satisfaction.

The lamp  glow began  slowly, brightened,  profligate waste.  He turned  and saw
Moria's face underlit, haggard and sweaty and fear-haunted. For a moment she was
a stranger, a presence  he could no more  account for than he  could account for
that  vision which  had waked  him, of  a thing  launched into  the skies   over
Sanctuary and hurtling  free. But she  moved the lamp  and set it  on the little
niche shelf,  and it  made her  body all  shadows and  flesh tones, her hair all
wispy gold, all over.  The magic that Haught  worked had been thorough.  She had
still the look of a Rankene lady, however fallen.

She needed  him, in  this place.  He persuaded  himself of  that. He needed her,
desperately. At times he  feared he was going  mad. At others he  feared that he
was already mad.

And at the worst times he dreamed  that she might wake and discover a  corpse by
her, the soul dragged back to  hell and the body suffering whatever  changes two
years might have wrought in it, in its natural grave.

Day, brutal  heat in  the still  air that  settled in  over Sanctuary  since the
rains.  Shoppers  at  market  were  few  and  listless;  merchants  sat  fanning
themselves and keeping to the shade, while vegetables ripened and rotted and the
remaining few  fish did  the same.  There was  trouble in  the scarred town. The
rumor ran up from Downwind and down  from the hill, and all the byways  murmured
with the same names, furtively delivered.

High up on the hill an officer  of the city garrison met with higher  authority,
and received orders to carry elsewhere.

In  Ratfall  there  was  a  certain  stirring,  and  certain  merchants received
warnings.

And a furtive woman went out on  the streets to steal again, in gnawing  terror,
knowing her skills were not what they had been, and knowing that the man she had
taken up with was approaching some crisis she did not understand. For this woman
there must always be some man; she was adrift without that focus,  shortsighted,
on some life that  made hers matter; she  wanted love, did this  woman, and kept
finding  men  who  needed her-or  who  needed,  at any  rate...  and  who lacked
something. Moria knew need when she saw it, and went to that in a man like  iron
to a lodestone, and never understood why her men always failed her, and why  she
always ended giving away all she had for men who gave nothing back.

Stilcho was the best, thus far, this  dead man who, whenever he could, gave  her
more gentleness than anyone had ever  given but a strange doomed lord  who still
filled her  dreams and  her daydreams.  Stilcho held  her gently,  Stilcho never
demanded, never struck her. Stilcho gave something back, but he took-Shipri  and
Shalpa, he took; he  drained her patience and  her strength, waked her  at night
with his nightmares, harried her with his wild fancies and his talk of hell. She
could not  provide enough  money to  get them  out of  this misery, and a single
mention of seeking  help from Ischade  drew irrational rage  from him, made  him
scream at her, which in her other  men had ended with blows, always with  blows.
So she flinched and kept silent and went out again to steal, her bright  Rankene
hair done up in a brown scarf, her face unwashed, her body anonymous and all but
sexless in the ragged clothes she wore.

But desperation drove her now. She thought again and again of the things she had
known, the luxuries she had had in the beautiful house, the gold and the  silver
that  would  have melted  in  the fire  that  ended that  life.  And even  among
Sanctuary's brazen thieves there was  a notable reluctance to venture  into that
charred ruin; they came, of course. But none of them knew building from building
or where the walls had stood, or where certain tables had been.

So when evening fell she went back again and began her sooty search, furtive  as
the rats which had  become common in this  stricken district, hiding from  other
searchers. She had never yet found a thing, not the silver, not the gold,  which
must exist as a flat puddle of cold metal somewhere below; but she had  tunneled
for weeks into the sooty ruin, and searched what had been the hall.

That was why she came late home. And this time-gods, she trembled so with terror
in the streets that  her legs had  practically no strength  left for the  stairs
this time she  brought a lump  of metal the  size of her  fist; and to Stilcho's
anxious, angry demand where she had  been, why she was besooted (she  had always
washed before, in the rainbarrel, and wiped it all to general grime on her  dark
clothes) and why she had let wisps of her yellow hair from beneath her scarf-

"Stilcho," she said, and held out that  heavy thing which was, for all the  fire
and its changing,  too heavy to  be other than  what it was.  Tears ran down her
face. It was wealth she had, as Sanctuary's lower levels measured it. Where  she
had rubbed it,  it gleamed gold  in the dim  light from the  lamp he had  burned
waiting for her.

Finally, to one of  her desperate men, she  had given something great  enough to
get that tenderness  she had longed  for. "Oh, Moria,"  he said; and  spoiled it
with: "Oh gods, from there! Dammit, Moria! Fool!" But he hugged her and held her
till it hurt.

The river house waited, throwing  out light from one unshuttered  window, across
the weed-grown garden, the trees and the brush and the rosebushes which embedded
the iron fence and the warded gate.

Inside, in the light of candles which were never consumed, in a clutter of silks
and fine garments that lay forgotten once acquired, Ischade sat in her  absolute
black, black of hair, of eye, of  garments; but there was color in her  hands, a
little lump of blue stone that had also known that fire. She had gathered it out
of  the  ash  in a  moment's  distraction-she  was also  a  thief,  by her  true
profession; and if her hand had suffered bums from the ash, the stone had sucked
all the heat into itself, and rested cool in unscarred, dusky fingers.

It was  the largest  piece of  what had  been the  globe. It  was power.  It had
associated with  fire, and  flame was  the element  of her  own magic, fire, and
spirit. It  was well  it reside  where it  did; and  it was  best if  no one  in
Sanctuary were aware just where it resided.

Hoof-falls sounded outside, echoing off the walls of the warehouses which  faced
her little refuge, while the White  Foal murmured its rain-swollen way past  her
back door.  She closed  her hand  till flesh  met flesh;  and the blue stone was
gone, magician's trick.

She opened the  outer gate for  her visitor and  opened the front  door when she
heard his steps on the porch. And looked around from where she sat as she  heard
him come in.

"Good evening," she  said. And when  he stood there  disregarding the invitation
and too evidently in a hurry about their business together: "Come sit  down-like
my proper guest."

"Magics," he said in his lowest tone. "I'll warn you, woman-"

"I thought-" She made her voice a higher  echo of his, and with a taint of  slow
mockery: "I did think you were in better control than that."

He stood  there in  the midst  of her  scattered silks,  the littered carpet and
scarf-strewn chairs.  And she  shut the  door at  his back,  never stirring from
where she sat. He  stared at her, and  a little spark of  reckoning flickered in
his eyes. Or it was the disturbance of the candles that sent shadows racing?  "I
did think your hospitality was better than this."

The fire was there, inside her, it  always was; and it stirred and grew  in that
way that, last night, should have sent her on the hunt. "I waited for you,"  she
said. "I'm quite at my worst."

"No damned tricks."

"Is this how you pay your debts? I  can wait, you know. So can you, or  you'd be
prey to your enemies.  And you've so much  vanity." She gestured at  the wine on
the tables. "So have I. Will you? Or shall we both be animals?"

He  might have  attempted rape,  and then  murder; she  felt the  tilt in   that
direction. And she felt him pull the other way. Surprisingly he smiled.

And came and sat down across from her, and drank her wine, in slow silence there
at the empty hearth. "We'll be pulling  out," he told her in the course  of that
drinking, amid other small talk. "We'll leave the town to-local forces. I'll  be
taking all of mine with me."

That was challenge. Strat, he meant. She stared at him from under her brows  and
let her mouth tighten ever so slightly at the corners. Her hand came to rest  by
the base of the wineglass. His covered it, and it was like the touch of fire. He
sat there, his fingers  moving ever so delicately,  and let the fire  grow-Wait,
then.  Enjoy the  waiting. Till  it was  hard to  breathe evenly,  and the  room
blurred in the dilation of her eyes.

"We can wait all  night," he said, while  her pulse hammered at  her temples and
the room seemed  to have too  little air. She  smiled at him,  a slow baring  of
teeth.

"On the other hand," she said, and let her leg brush his beneath the table,  "we
could regret it in the morning."

He got up  and drew her  up against him.  There was no  time for undressing,  no
thinking of anything more, but a tending toward the couch close at hand, a hasty
and rough passage of feverish hands. He did not so much as shed the mail  shirt;
it resisted  her fingers  and she  clenched her  hands into  his outer clothing.
"Careful," she said, "slow, go slowly-"  when he thrust himself at her.  Warning
him, with the last of her sanity.

The room  went white,  and blue  and green,  and thunder  cracked, spinning  her
through the dark, through warm summer air, through-

-nowhere, till she came to herself  again, lying dazed under a starry  sky, with
the ramshackle maze of Sanctuary  buildings leaning above her. She  felt nothing
for a while, nothing at all, and  shut her eyes and blinked at the  stars again,
her  fingers  exploring  what  should have  been  silk,  but  was instead  dusty
cobblestone. The back of  her head hurt where  she had fallen. She  felt bruised
along her whole back, and where he had touched her she felt a burning like acid.

He never lost consciousness. For a  moment he was clearly elsewhere, then  lying
stunned on pavement with  a curbside against his  ribs. He had hit  hard, and he
ached; and he likewise burned, not  least with the slow realization that  he was
not in the riverside house, that he was lying in a midnight street somewhere  in
the uptown, and that he hurt like very hell.

He did not  curse. He had  learned a bloody-minded  patience with the  doings of
gods and wizards. He  only thought of killing,  her, anything within reach,  and
most immediately any fool who found amusement in his plight.

When he had picked  himself up off his  face and gained his  balance again there
was no question which direction he was going.

                                   *   *   *

It was a long tangle of streets,  a long, limping course home, in which  she had
abundant time  to gather  the fragments  of her  composure. Her  head ached. Her
spine felt quite disarranged.  And for the most  urgent discomfort there was  no
relief until she rounded a comer and  came face to face with one of  Sanctuary's
unwashed and ill-mannered.

The knife-wielding ruffian gave her no choice and that contented her no end. She
left him in  the alley where  he had accosted  her, likely to  be taken for some
poor sod dead of an overdose of one of Sanctuary's manifold vices. His eyes  had
that kind  of vacancy.  In a  little while  he would  simply stop living, as the
chance within his body multiplied by increments and everything went irredeemably
wrong. The poor and the streetfolk died most easily: their health was  generally
bad to begin with,  and his was decidedly  worse even before she  left him lying
there quite forgetful that he had been with any woman.

She was, therefore, in  a more reasoning frame  of mind when she  arrived on the
street by the bridge,  and walked up the  road which most ignored,  to her hedge
and her fence on this back street of Sanctuary. But she was not the first one.

Tempus was already there,  walking sword in hand  about the perimeter, up  along
the fence; and  he stopped in  his tracks when  she came from  beyond the trees,
into  the feeble  glow of  the stars  overhead and  the light  from between  her
shutters. There was  rage in every  line of him.  But she kept  walking, limping
somewhat, until they  were face to  face. He looked  her up and  down. The sword
inclined its point to the ground, slowly, and hung in his fist.

"Where were you?" he asked. "And where in hell is my horse?"

"Horse?"

"My horse!" He pointed with the sword  to the front of the fence and  the hedge,
as if it were perfectly evident. In fact there was no horse in sight and he  had
ridden in; she had heard him. She gathered her forces and limped on to the front
of the en-hedged fence, where the ground, still soft from the rain, was  churned
and trampled by large hooves.

And where one of her rosebushes was trampled to splinters.

She stood there staring  at the ruin, and  the light inside her  shuttered house
flickered brighter,  glowed with  a white  incandescence. It  died slowly as she
turned. "A girl," she said. "A girl is the thief. At my house. From my guest."

"This wasn't your doing."

His voice was calmer, restrained.

"No," she said in soft and measured  tones, "I do assure you." And drew  herself
up to  all her  height when  he reached  for her.  "I've had quite enough, thank
you."

"It threw you too."

"To the far side of the mage quarter." She drew in a hissing breath through wide
nostrils. It smelled of horse and mud, trampled roses, and bitch. And there  was
wrath and chagrin both  in this huge man,  wrath that began to  assume a certain
embarrassed self-consciousness. "Our curses are not compatible, it seems.  Storm
and fire. And we were so well begun."

He said nothing.  His breathing was  rapid. He walked  past her to  the trampled
ground and gave a whistle, piercingly shrill.

She caught it up for him, reached inside  and flung it to the winds, so that  he
winced and faced her in startlement.

"If that will bring him," she said, "that will carry to him."

"That will bring him," Tempus said, "if he's alive."

"A young woman took him. Her smell is everywhere. And krrf. Don't you smell it?"

He drew in a larger breath. "Young woman."

"Not one I know. But I will. My roses come very dear."

"A bloody young bitch." It  sounded particular and specific, his  eyes narrowing
in some precise identification.

"In frequent heat. Yes."

"Chenaya."

"Chenaya." She repeated  the name and  stored it away  carefully. She waved  the
gate open. "A drink, Tempus Thales?"

He slid the sword into its sheath and walked with her, a light touch beneath her
arm, steadying her as she walked up the steps, and wished the door open, a blaze
of light into the dark thicket of the yard.

"Sit down," he  said when  they were  inside; his  voice was  a marvel  of  self
restrained gentleness; he poured  wine for her, and  then for himself. Then:  "I
owe you an apology," he said, as if the words were individually expensive.  Then
further: "There's mud in your hair."

She gave  out a  breath of  a laugh,  and breathed  larger and  wider and  found
herself awake. It was not a pleasant laugh, as the look on Tempus's face was not
a pleasant one. "There's mud on your chin," she said, and he wiped at it, with a
hand likewise  smudged. They  both stank  of the  streets. He  grinned suddenly,
wolflike. "I'd say," Ischade said, "we were fortunate."

He drank off his glass. She poured another round.

"Do you get drunk?" he asked, directly.

"Not readily. Do you?"

"No," he  said. There  was a  difference in  his tone.  It was not arrogance. Or
pride. He looked her  straight in the eyes  and it was clear  that tonight, this
moment, it was not a man-woman piece of business. It was similar perspective. It
was a rare moment, she sensed, that a man got this close to Tempus Thales. And a
woman-perhaps it was the first time.

She recalled him in the alley,  on the horse, that something-to-prove manner  of
his.

But defeated, robbed and offended,  he was being astonishingly sensible.  He was
going far to  excess in it,  and again she  felt that precarious  balance, polar
opposite to the direction black rage insisted he go. He smiled at her and  drank
her wine, issues all forever unresolved.

One expected  a man  of vast  lifespan to  be complex.  Or mad,  at least to the
limited perspective  of those  who lacked  perspective. It  was vitality  of all
sorts which was his curse, healing, sex, immortality.

Annihilation was hers. And the apposition of their curses was impossible.

She laughed, and leaned her elbow on the table and wiped her mouth with the back
of a soiled hand.

"What amuses you?" There, the suspicion was quite ready.

"Little. Little. Your horse and my  roses. Us." As distant hooves echoed  in the
streets, within her awareness. "Shall we dice for the bitch?"

He had heard the horse coming. He recovered himself, as she had guessed,  became
the stranger again, and headed for her door.

Well enough.

She came out a moment or two  later, when the horse had come thundering  up, and
brought a cloak which had lain underfoot for months. It was velvet, soiled,  and
a horse which had  run the width of  Sanctuary was bound to  be sweated. "Here,"
she said, joining him at the open  gate. "For the horse." Which was rolling  its
eyes and  lolling its  tongue and  reeking of  krrf as  he worked  at the cinch.
Tempus snatched the skewed saddle off, jerked the cloak from her hands, and used
it on the Tros.

"Damn," Tempus said over and over.

"Let me." She moved in  despite the hazard from both,  put out a calm hand,  and
touched the Tros's bowed forehead; it  was a little exertion. Her head  throbbed
and it  cost her  more than  she had  thought. But  the horse  steadied, and his
breathing grew more regular. "There."

Tempus  wiped and  rubbed, walked  the horse  in a  little circle  on the  level
ground. And never said a word.

"He's all right," she said. He knew her magics, that they could heal-others with
some skill; her own hurts with less effectiveness. He had seen her work before.

He looked her way. She demanded no gratitude, nor expected any. There was a sour
taste in her mouth for this abuse of an animal. Their personal discomfiture  she
could find irony in. Not this.

She stood with her arms folded  and her cloak about her while  Tempus carefully,
without a word, threw the sweated blanket and the saddle on. The Tros ducked its
head and scratched its cheek on its foreleg, as if abashed.

He finished the cinch and gathered up the reins, looked once her direction,  and
then swung up.

And rode off without a word.

She heaved a sigh, the cloak wrapped about her despite the steamy warmth of  the
night. Hoofbeats diminished on the cobbles.

The wide focus had  disappeared, along with the  ennui. Dawn was lightening  the
east. She walked back along the path and closed the gate behind her, opened  the
door, arms folded and head bowed.

Her perspective had vanished, together with  the ennui, from the time that  they
had met in the alley. And since that encounter in the ruin, something had nagged
at her which said danger, which had nothing to do with human spite. It did  have
something to do  with what they  had carried out  uptown, some misfortune  which
encompassed her and perhaps Tempus.

Since the  Nisi Globes  of Power  had dispersed  their influence  over the town,
surprising things happened. Mages missed, sometimes: far more of chance governed
magics than before, and  common folk had more  of luck in their  lives than they
were wont, amazing in  Sanctuary; but dismaying for  the town, mages who  worked
the greater magics found their powers curtailed, and sometimes found the results
askew.

Therefore she  abstained from  the greater  workings, until  she let  herself be
talked into an  exorcism, principally by  the Hazard Randal,  whose professional
and personal honesty she counted  impeccable-rarest of qualities, a magician  of
few self-interests.

Now she simply had that  persistent feeling of unease, exacerbated,  perhaps, by
the experience of being hurled from one  side of Sanctuary to the other, by  the
bruises and the throbbing in his skull. Fool! to have tried such a thing, such a
damned, blind trial of a curse that had  been, for a while and in the height  of
Sanctuary's power, manageable.

The headache was just payment. It could have been much worse.

It  would  have  been worse,  for  instance,  had she  kept  Stra-ton,  had this
blindness and execrably bad  judgment brought him back  to her bed, opened  that
old wound.

And morning seen him dead as that drunken fool in a Sanctuary alley, who was  by
now neither drunken nor any longer a fool, nor able to see the dawn in front  of
his eyes.

"We can't  both leave,"  Stilcho concluded.  Sleep eluded  them both.  They were
hoarse and blear-eyed and exhausted, sitting opposite each other at the  rickety
little table. "I can't leave you here alone with that thing."

"I found it,  dammit." Moria wiped  back a stringing  lock and brought  the hand
hard onto the table.  "Don't treat me like  a damn fool, Stilcho,  don't tell me
how to manage! I carried it clean across town! We melt it-"

"What with, for godssakes? On the damned little firepot we cook on? We just  get
a damned hot lump of-"

"Hssssst!" Her hand  came up out-turned  toward his mouth,  her face twisted  in
fury. "These walls! These  walls, dammit, how many  times do I have  to tell you
keep your  voice down!  I'll steal  us the  stuff, how  do you  think we come by
anything lately, except / steal it, and  you live on it! Don't you tell  me what
to do! I've had it all my life, and I'm not taking it, I'm not taking any of it,
not from you and not from anybody!"

"Don't be a damned fool! You go  flashing gold bits around this town you'll  get
your throat cut, this isn't silver,  dammit, listen. Listen! You-" Of a  sudden,
even in the gray morning light  filtering through the window, the vision  of the
lost  eye  shifted in,  stronger  than the  living  one. He  stopped,  his heart
laboring in terror.

"Stilcho?" Moria's voice was higher, frightened. "Stilcho?"

"Something's  wrong," he  said. In  that inner  eye, soiled,  filmy shapes  went
streaming  like  smoke  through  the  gates,  the  gates-the  fires,  the   lost
reaches.... "A lot of  people just died." He  swallowed hard, tried to  calm his
shaking, tried to  get back the  sight of Moria  across the table,  and not that
black vision where Something waited, where by the riverside-in the woods-

"Stilcho!" Her nails  bit into his  hand. He blinked  and tried again  to focus,
succeeded finally in seeing her, beyond a veil like black gauze.

"Help me. M-moria-"

She rose and her chair overset, crashing down so violently she came and  grabbed
him and held on to him with all her might. "Don't, don't, don't, dammit,  don't,
come back-"

"I don't want to go down there, I don't want to die again -oh gods, Moria!"  His
teeth would not stop  chattering. He could shut  his living eye. He  had no such
power over the dead one.  "It's in hell, Moria, a  piece of me is in  hell and I
can't blink, I can't shut it, I can't get rid of it-"

"Look at  me!" She  jerked his  head by  the hair  and looked  him in  the face.
Another jerk at his hair. "Look at me!"

His sight cleared. He caught her around the waist and hugged her tight, his head
against her breast,  in which her  heart beat like  something trapped. Her  hand
caressed  his  head,  and  she whispered  reassurance;  but  he  felt her  heart
hammering fit to shake her  small body. No safety. As  long as she was with  him
there was none for her, and there was nowhere any for him.

Get out of here,  he would tell her.  But he dreaded the  day he would slip  and
Moria would not be there to pull  him back; he dreaded the solitude in  which he
might then go mad. If he were a  brave man he would tell her go. But  not today.
They would climb out of this pit together; for that much they needed each  other
he needed her skill and she needed  his restraint and his protection to use  the
gold; but after that, after she was set up and he had a chance as well, then  he
would find a way to let her go.

                                   *   *   *

"Damn!" Crit hissed. The news had come down the hill with the swiftness only bad
news could  manage; but  Straton said  nothing at  all. Straton  headed out  the
barracks door and whistled  up the bay, which  came; of course it  came. It made
trouble in the stables, it cleared the  stable fence like a gull in flight,  and
nothing held it. It came to him in this early dawn, and he went to the  tackroom
to get what belonged to it.

"Where are you going?" Crit asked him,  meeting him outside as he came out  into
the  dusty  yard,  his  right hand  hauling  the  saddle,  the treacherous  left
unburdened with anything but the bridle  and the blanket. Crit was careful  with
him nowadays, uncommonly patient, a perpetual walking on eggshells.

"Town," Strat said. He cultivated patience, too. He saw Crit's analytical  look,
the inevitable reckoning what small house lay on his way. And he had not thought
of that till he saw  Crit think of it; then  it got its claws into  his gut, and
the thought began to grow that of powers in Sanctuary which ought to be  warned,
which might exert a calming influence on the town-

-damn, she had contacts  in all the right  places. With Moruth the  beggar-king;
with the rats in the very walls when  it came to that, the rabble that was  most
like to take the slaughter uptown very hard indeed. Zip arrested. That would not
last long. Best he be arrested till  someone had a chance to talk sense  to him.
Likely Walegrin.

"Stay off  riverside," Crit  said, and  laid a  hand on  his arm, delaying him a
moment. In  months past  that would  have gotten  a shrug-off,  at best  a surly
answer. But Crit  was fighting for  Strat's soul, and  Strat had gotten  to know
that, in a kind of  fey gratitude for a friend  with a lost cause, or  at best a
cause that was not worth the effort Crit spent on it. I'm crippled, dammit,  you
got me  back, you  risked your  damn neck  pulling me  out, but  you have to get
another partner, Crit, one who  won't let you down in  a pinch, and you know  it
and I know it. The fire's dying and I'm not going to be again what I was, when I
get the twinges I know that. Tomorrow I'll tell you that. When we're out of this
damned city  I'll tell  you that.  And you'll  tell me  I'm a  damned fool,  but
neither of us is. Time we split. Leave me to fend for myself: you don't have  to
go on carrying me, Crit.

Crit's hand dropped. There was a worried look on his face. Strat's stares  could
put  it  there,  lately.  And  that usually  got  Crit's  temper  up  when other
provocations failed. This time he just stood there.

"Yeah," Strat said. "I'm going to drop  out a few hours on the way  back, expect
it: I'll  be pulling  in a  few contacts."  He hung  the bridle on his shoulder,
flung the blanket over the bay's back, not-not looking more than he must at that
coin-sized patch just  by the bay's  hipbone. "I may  talk to her.  Figure I can
walk out  of there,  too. It's  all cooled  down; she's  got her choices, I have
mine." He slung the saddle up, and the bay never offered to move. It had as well
been a statue that breathed and smelled like a horse. "She's sleeping around. We
got corpses to prove it."

"Don't be a damn fool."

"Hey." He turned his head and looked at Crit. "Trust me to do what needs  doing.
All right? You're not my mother."

Crit said not a thing.

Damn mistake, Crit. Say  it. My mind's like  the damned shoulder, on  and off, I
never know when. I can't think, I can't know when I'm on target, can't know when
I'll flinch.

She's got herself another lover. One I can't match, can I?

I can meet her and ride away again. You don't know how easy it is. I've seen her
in the streets, Crit. Like the rest of the whores. With a pox that'll kill you.

He slipped the bridle on, cinched up, and hurled himself into the saddle without
the least twinge from the shoulder. "See you." he said, and rode for the gates.

"Where?" Tempus snapped, just arrived  on the hill, just arrived  inside Molin's
offices. It was not a good day for Molin either, but Tempus was clearly begun on
a worse one. "When and who?"

"About six of the piffs. Zip survived. He's in lockup, for his own sake. And the
city's. Walegrin's going to have a talk with him."

"Who did it?"

Molin drew a careful breath and told him.

The headache had diminished. The malaise persisted, and discouraged attempts  at
philosophy; Ischade  kept to  her house,  her hair  immaculate, the mud scrubbed
from her person, the salvageable roses off the damaged bush decorating a vase on
the table, not for  the beauty of them  (they were black and  the moisture-beads
which  stood on  their petals  from their  watering shone  blood-bright red   in
certain lights), but as a  reminder of a task she  did not want to undertake  in
her present mood and with her headache.

Having power, she set  limits to it; having  the ability to blast  an enemy, she
refrained from it for no altruistic  motives, but because killing was very  easy
for  her, and  very seductive,  and led  to untidy  consequences which  resisted
solution.

She had taken rare inventory of her  stores, and tidied up a bit (rarer  still).
Haught had kept things in some order. Stilcho had tried. She missed them, missed
them  today  with  outright  maudlin melancholy,  which  both  would  have found
bewildering.

Stilcho had fled, vanished. She might, she thought, find him.

The thought, as she  paused with broom in  hand, became quite inviting.  Stilcho
had shared her bed-many a night.

And died and waked. But that had  been when her magic was unnaturally great.  To
do it now would risk him. And he  had been loyal, he had saved Strat's life,  he
had deserved some choice in his fate, which was patently and sanely not to  come
back to her.

A presence came  near her garden  gate. She knew  it, a little  thrill along her
nerves, in all the noon coming and going up and down the street just beyond.

She suddenly knew who it was even before she heard the horse distinctly, or felt
someone touch the ironwork.  She set the broom  aside, flung the door  open, and
walked out onto the porch against her habit, in the full summer daylight.

"Go away," she said to Strat, and held the wards against him. "Out!"

"I've got to talk to you. It's business."

"I have no business with you."

He held both hands in plain sight. "No weapons."

"Don't try me. I warned you. I told you you'd be no different than the others."

"Fine. Open the gate.  I don't want to  shout from the street.  This is trouble.
Hear me?"

She wavered.  The gate  gave to  his push  against it,  and creaked open when he
shoved. He came walking  up as far  as the porch,  his face all  sullen and thin
lipped. "Well?" she said.

"There's been a murder uptown. A lot of it."

"I haven't been up to much this morning."

"Six of the piffs. You understand me."

She  did  understand. Faction-war  broken  open again.  With  the Empire's  hand
already heavy on the town. "Who?"

"Can I come in?"

It was not wise. Neither was it wise  to ignore the news. Or to fail to  use the
contacts she  had, this  one no  less than  the rest.  She turned  and went  in,
leaving the door open, and he followed her.

Night again.  A shambling  figure staggered  among the  reeds and  the brush  of
riverside, snuffling at times and swatting at the midges and other insects  that
thrived  here.  One who  knew  Zip might  not  have recognized  him  beneath the
swelling, the cuts and bruises: one eye  was shut and puffed, even the good  one
running a trail down his face. His  nose ran: that was the swelling. Or  perhaps
he was crying. He himself had no idea. He sniffed and wiped his nose on a  muddy
arm, the hand of that arm already caked in mud where he had fallen.

Run for it, the Stepson escort had told him, when they had brought him near  the
bridge, at  twilight. He  expected an  arrow in  the back,  but he  had no third
choice: Walegrin had  said they would  let him go.  So he ran  for his life when
they  gave  him the  chance,  raking through  the  undergrowth and  tearing  his
lacerated face on thorns and brambles and branches. He had run until he  slipped
and sprawled on the slick bank, and  run again, till his side hurt too  much and
he took to walking in the dark.

Man, something said to him, just  that word, over and over, and  direction which
was the same as the  direction he went, so that  he hardly needed keep his  good
eye open, only to fend  the branches away with his  hands and to go toward  that
voice that led him. Revenge, it said then; and that was, in his delirium and his
pain and his blindness, even better.

He did not know where he was until he had found the tumbled stones of an ancient
altar. He did not know it at first sight, but stood there snuffling and  tasting
the thin constant seep of his own  blood in his mouth, blinking at the  haze and
trying to focus; but it  was his personal place, it  was the altar where he  had
laid offerings to vengeance, because he was Ilsigi and the old gods the  Rankans
let exist among the temples were quislings  all. Ilsig had had a wargod once.  A
god of vengeance. And if all of them were dead and the statues only statues,  he
had still had a feeling about this old place that no Rankan had ever touched it,
no force but earthquake ever tumbled  these old stones, no Rankan ever  knew its
name to defile it. So he worshiped it, and gave it human flesh: that was the way
he was in those days. It never answered him. But in those days it was all he had
had, till he had ruled a quarter of Sanctuary.

Now Rankans killed  his brothers, other  Rankans turned him  out with apologies,
and he was here, fallen on his  knees back at his beginnings, his ribs  hurting,
his face one mass of agony, his elbows bruised on the stone like his knees  when
he had hit the pavings in the massacre. He wept, and snuffled and wiped his nose
and his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

Revenge, something whispered  to him. He  lifted his head  and drew in  a hoarse
breath, hearing a murmuring and a rumbling in the earth. Something was there, in
the  dark just  across the  altar, facing  him, a  horripilating conviction   of
presence and a voice in his throbbing skull.

He blinked again. Two red slits appeared in that dark, and the same glow  limned
the flare of  humanish nostrils and  the seam of  a humanish mouth,  as if there
were fire inside an utterly dark face. It smiled at him.

My worshiper, it said.

And whispered other things, about power, and how it had been shut in hell  until
it gained its freedom. The pain ebbed down. But not the cold.

"I'm going," he told it. "I got to get to my people, I got to tell them-"

Tell them they have a god. What would you give-for Ilsig to rise again? You paid
lives. You'd pay  yours. But it's  worship I want.  None of this  business about
souls. I want a temple. That's all.  Whatever kind of a temple you want  to make
over there on the Avenue. That's where we can begin. Small. Till we have  things
in hand.

Zip wiped his nose and  wiped it a second time.  He ought to be running,  except
that he had no strength  left. Except that this thing  was real, and in a  world
where magery and power  ruled, it was talking  about Ilsig, and power  of a sort
Ranke had had a monopoly on too damned long.

Me, he thought. Me. With  this thing. He was not  sure what it was. God  did not
quite describe it, but it assuredly had ambitions to be one.

A temple Ilsigis might build. A  priesthood other than those damned eunuchs  and
temple prostitutes the Rankans  called state-approved Ilsigi gods.  A priesthood
with swords. And real power.

He sniffed and swallowed down the  taste of blood, licked a bruised  and swollen
mouth. "If you're a god," he said, "tell my followers come to get me. If  you're
a god, you know who they are. If you're a god, you can call them here for me."

Do you really want them here, yet? We should talk strategy, man. We should  make
plans. You  made one  expensive mistake.  Don't gather  all your  forces in  one
place. Cooperate •with these foreigners. With everyone. Get your information  in
order. Deal  only with  authorities or  use subordinates.  You have  to learn to
delegate.

"Prove to me-"

Oh, yes. The red  slits crinkled at the  comers, the mouth stretched  in a wide,
wide smile. Of course you'd come to that.

Chenaya screamed, in the dark, in a  sudden nowhere as if the world had  dropped
away. She fell and fell....

... hit  a bruising  surface that  wrapped about  her and  bubbled past  her and
folded in on her  with a terrible pressure.  Water drove up her  nose and filled
her mouth and  ears, threatening to  burst her eyes  and eardrums. Instinctively
she tried to move her limbs and swim, but the momentum was too great, until  she
had gone deep, deep, and the pressure mounted.

Asleep in her own bed, her brain tried to tell her.

But  the  cold and  the  crushing force  increased  in one  long  narrowing rush
downward  after the  impact, till  she slowed  enough to  kick and  the  natural
buoyancy of her body began to hurl her inexorably toward the surface. Salt stung
her eyes and her throat; her lungs burned for air and her stomach was trying  to
crawl up  her windpipe  as she  struggled with  arms gone  weak and legs kicking
against too much water pressure.

... not going to make it, not  going to make it, consciousness was going  out in
red bursts and gray and her lungs  were clogged, needing to expel what they  had
taken in, in a spasm which would suck water in after it, and finish her.

Savankala! she wailed.

But nothing hastened her rise. She  stroked and kicked and stroked, and  her gut
spasmed; she  forced the  last few  bubbles out  her nose,  trying to gain time,
fought with all  instinct demanding to  intake air where  there was no  air: she
would faint, was going out, and her body would breathe by that instinct-

Her hand broke surface, and she grabbed at it with that hand and the other,  one
last desperate effort that got her face half clear and a froth of water and  air
sluicing down nose  and throat. She  coughed and spasmed  and nailed, trying  to
spit up water and take in a clear breath while her temples ached to bursting and
her gut racked  itself in internal  contractions. Stroke by  flailing stroke she
gained on life, gulped clear air and vomited, swam and gulped and choked in  the
toss of waves. Her sight showed her nothing but dark, abysmal dark.

"Help!" she yelled, a raw,  animal sound. And gasped a  mix of air and water  as
the chop hit her  in the face and  washed over her. Her  voice was small in  the
wind and the night sky.

She gained enough  strength to cast  about her then,  and blinked at  the lights
that she saw when she  turned in the water, the  distant line of the wharf,  the
Beysib ships riding at anchor. She had not a stitch of clothing. She was chilled
and bruised and half-drowned, and she had no idea in the world how she had  come
there, or whether she had gone mad.

She started to swim, slow, painful strokes, until she remembered that there were
sharks in these waters.  Then she threw all  she had left into  the drive across
Sanctuary's very ample harbor, toward the distant lights.

NO GLAD IN GLADIATOR

Robert Lynn Asprin

Chenaya shivered, pan from her damp  nakedness, part from fear, as she  clutched
the  threadbare  blanket  more  tightly  about  her.  Fear?  No,  rather nervous
anticipation.

The whole thing so  far had a surreal,  dreamlike quality to it.  First the rude
awakening, sans clothes,  deep in Sanctuary's  less-than-fragrant bay, and  then
the long  swim to  shore, worrying  all the  while about  the hunger and size of
aquatic predators lurking below. There had been men waiting for her on the pier,
three  of them,  one bearing  the blanket  she now  wore. Nervousness  made  her
declare  her identity  unasked, including  all her  ranks and  titles, yet  they
seemed as unimpressed and unmoved by her station as they were by her  nakedness.
The blanket itself was a silent  statement of friendship, or at least  sympathy,
however, so  it seemed  natural to  follow without  protest as  they hurried her
through a bewildering maze of back streets and alleys to the room where she  now
sat waiting.

Ignoring the scattering of candles  and oil lamps which cast  flickering shadows
about, she glanced again at the large chair which dominated the room. All  signs
indicated that  she was  finally going  to meet  the man  she had been trying to
contact since she reached town. Well, her requests had said a time and place  of
his choosing.

Her thoughts were cut short by the entrance of a man through a door she had  not
seen in the shadows. Although his features were obscured by a blue hawkmask, she
had  no difficulty  recognizing him.  Tall and  lean as  he was  dark, she   had
applauded him often in  the Rankan arena, and  stood near him in  the "tribunal"
that Tempus had convened on Zip.

"Jubal," she said-more a statement than a question.

He had been studying her covertly as she waited, and admired her spirit  despite
himself. Naked and  alone, she showed  no sign of  fear, only curiosity.  It was
clear to him that this conversation would not be an easy one to control.

Neither acknowledging nor denying  his name when she  uttered it, he set  one of
the two clay bottles he was carrying within her easy reach.

"Drink," he ordered. "It's better against the night chill than your blanket."

She started to  reach for the  offering, then hesitated,  her eyes going  to him
again as he settled himself in the thronelike chair.

"Aren't you  supposed to  taste this  in front  of me?  A hospitable  gesture to
guarantee against poison? I was told it is a local custom."

He took a long  drink from his own  bottle before favoring her  with a mirthless
smile.  "I'm not  that hospitable,"  he said.  "The wine  I'm drinking  is of  a
notably better vintage than yours. I swore off that slop when I left the  arena,
and I don't intend to break that vow just to make you feel better. If you  don't
trust it, don't drink it. It makes no difference to me."

He watched her quick flash of anger with amusement. Chenaya was indeed a  Rankan
noble, unused to being  told that her actions  were a matter of  indifference to
anyone. Jubal half expected her to throw  the wine in his face and stalk  off...
or at least try to. The girl proved to be of sterner stuff, though. Either that,
or she wanted this meeting more than Jubal had realized.

Defiantly, she raised the bottle  to her lips and took  a long pull. It was  the
coarse red wine given to gladiators.

"Red Courage," she  said, using the  gladiators' nickname for  the drink as  she
wiped her mouth with  the back of her  hand, letting the blanket  slip to expose
one bare shoulder. "Sorry  to disappoint you, but  I'm not shocked. I've  had it
before... and  liked it.  In fact,  I've developed  a taste  for it and drink it
often with my men."

Jubal shook his head.

"I'm not disappointed. Puzzled, perhaps.  Arena slaves drink that swill  because
they can't get any better. That or they've never had anything to compare it  to.
Why someone who is highborn and raised to finer things would choose to drink Red
Courage  when there  are more  delicate beverages  to be  had is  beyond me.  Of
course, you've always been one who preferred being coarser than is necessary."

His words were intentionally insulting, but this time Chenaya seemed unmoved.

"I bow to  the master," she  smiled. "Who knows  more of crudity  and coarseness
than Jubal?"

Unknowing, her riposte stuck Jubal in his most vulnerable spot: his vanity.

"I was born a slave," he hissed,  leaning forward angrily in his chair, "and  in
that station crude living and no morals are a way of life. I learned to lie  and
steal and eventually to kill  as a means of survival,  not as a sport. I  didn't
like it, but it was necessary. Once  I won my freedom, I did everything  I could
to rise above my beginnings... not far by noble standards, but as high as I have
been able. I'm told I have a contempt for those below me who have not matched my
efforts, let alone my success. That may  be so, but I have more regard  for them
than for one who is highborn and wallows in the gutter by choice!"

Jubal  caught  himself before  he  said more  and  inwardly cursed  his  lack of
control. The purpose of this interview was not to show Chenaya how to get him to
lose his temper. Such information could be dangerous in the wrong hands.

Fortunately, the girl seemed more taken aback than alerted by his outburst.

"Please," she said in  an uncomfortably contrite tone,  "I don't wish to  insult
you or to fight with  you. I... I made it  known that I wanted to  meet with you
because I hoped we might work together."

This was more to Jubal's liking.  He had anticipated this request when  he first
heard that she was trying to get in touch with him.

"Unlikely," he replied grimly. "I've had you watched since you arrived in  town,
as I do anyone who has the potential of influencing or disrupting the balance of
power in  this town.  So far,  your actions  have been  those of a spoiled brat:
alternating malicious pranks with tantrums.  I have heard of nothing  that would
give you value as an ally."

"Then why did you have me brought here?"

Jubal shrugged. "When I heard of your predicament, I thought perhaps the  sudden
demonstration of  your vulnerability  might shock  you into  thinking. Now  that
you're here, however, I see that you're still too full of yourself to listen  to
anyone else, or even talk to them  instead of at them. Your value remains  zero,
however great the potential."

"But I have much to offer...."

"I have no need of  a slut or a horse  thief. The streets are full  of them, and
most are better at it and smarter about plying their trade than you seem to be."

Jubal expected an angry retort to this, or at least an argument as to her  value
as  an ally.  Instead, the  girl lapsed  into silence,  her thoughts   obviously
turning inward before she answered.

"If  you are  uninterested in  me as  an ally,"  she said,  choosing her   words
carefully,  "then  perhaps  I can  impose  on  you as  an  advisor.  You've been
monitoring my actions, and know what I have  and what I can do. But where I  see
strength, you will  only acknowledge potential.  Could I ask  you to share  your
thoughts with me that I might leam from your experience?"

The crimelord studied her as he drank from his bottle. Perhaps Chenaya was wiser
than he had given her credit for.

"That's the first intelligent thing you've  said in this meeting. Very well,  if
for no other reason than to  encourage your newfound humility, I'll answer  your
questions."

The girl took  another sip from  her own bottle  as she organized  her thoughts,
unconsciously grimacing as if the sour  bite of the wine was no  longer pleasant
to her tongue.

"1 have nearly a dozen gladiators  under my command and am currently  recruiting
more. I've always  believed that gladiators,  such as you  yourself used to  be,
were the finest fighters in the Empire. Am I wrong?"

"Yes."

Jubal came out of his chair in a fluid motion and began pacing. "Every  fighting
force or school sincerely believes that its  style is the best. They have to  in
order  to  muster  the  necessary  confidence  for  combat.  Your  father trains
gladiators, so  you've been  raised believing  that a  gladiator can  defeat any
three fighters without similar training."

He paused to regard her steadily.

"The truth  is that  there are  certain individuals  more suited  to combat than
others. Poor  fighters die  early, whether  they're gladiators  or soldiers. The
survivors, particularly  those who  survive numerous  battles, are  the best  by
virtue of the process of elimination, but it's more a tribute to the  individual
than to the training."

"But  my  agents  have  been  specifically  instructed  to  recruit  experienced
gladiators,"  Chenaya  interrupted. "Professionals  who  have survived  numerous
bouts. Doesn't that insure that I'll be getting the best fighters?"

Jubal fixed her with an icy stare.

"If  you'll  allow me  to  finish, perhaps  you  will hear  the  answer to  that
question. I thought you wanted to hear my opinions, not your own."

Chenaya wilted under his gaze, and nodded mutely for him to continue.

The crimelord  waited a  few more  moments, then  resumed his  pacing. "As I was
saying, it is the individual's abilities that dictate how good a fighter he  can
eventually  become.  Training  prepares  him  for  a  specific  type  of combat.
Gladiator training  is fine  for arena-style  individual combat,  but it doesn't
teach a fighter to watch the rooftops for archers the way he'd need to in street
fighting, or to deal  with maneuvering groups of  fighters the way the  military
does. Then again, even military  maneuvers are useless in some  situations, like
when the  mobs were  forming during  the plague  riots. Any  training will be of
limited value when taken out of its element.

"As for  your so-called  professional gladiators,  I don't  like them, and would
never endanger my name and reputation by hiring them to represent me. Regardless
of what  you might  think, being  a gladiator  is not  a desirable profession. A
soldier or a thief can have a long and successful career and see little, if any,
actual combat. By the nature of  his livelihood, a gladiator must risk  his life
in open combat on a regular basis. If you are a slave, as I was, it's a  dubious
way to earn your keep, but to choose it freely as your 'professional gladiators'
do is unthinkable. They are either fools or sadists, and neither are known to be
particularly controllable."

"So you think I'm foolish to hire gladiators?"

"If that's your only criterion. At the  very least I would advise that you  look
beyond training and  arena records and  study the individuals.  Some of the  men
currently in your employ have questionable backgrounds. You might start  looking
into that before you place too much trust in them. Further, I would suggest that
you find  a trainer  who can  drill your  troops in  tactics more  suited to the
street than the arena. They'll stand a better chance of winning."

"I... I'll have to think on it," Chenaya said slowly. "What you say makes sense,
but it's all so contrary to what I've been raised to believe."

'Take your time." Jubal smiled. "The time to think is be fore, not after  you've
committed yourself. Sending men into combat isn't a game."

She  looked at  him sharply.  "I think  I hear  a hidden  warning in  that  last
comment. I  take it  you've heard  of my  special talent:  the fact that I never
lose. It's not potential, and I should think it would count heavily in my  favor
as a leader... or an ally."

The crimelord averted his eyes as he sank into his chair.

"I've heard of it," he confirmed. "In my opinion, it makes you both arrogant and
vulnerable. Neither of which are traits  I would want in someone leading  me, or
guarding my back."

"But..."

"Let's assume for the moment that you're right.. . that you'll never lose.  I'll
contest that  later, but  for now  we'll take  it as  a given.  You'll win every
contest. So what? Start thinking like an adult instead of a child. Life isn't  a
game. An arrow out of the dark that takes you in the middle of the back isn't  a
contest. You can retain your perfect win record and still be just as dead as any
loser."

Instead of arguing, Chenaya cocked her head quizzically.

"That's the second time  you've mentioned archers or  arrows, Jubal. For my  own
curiosity, were you behind the arrow that nicked Zip?"

Jubal cursed himself inwardly. He  would have to stop underestimating  this girl
just  because  she  was  young.  Her  mind  was  quick  to  pick  up   unrelated
conversational points and weave them into whole fabric.

"No," he said carefully, "but I know who was. The eye behind that arrow used  to
work for me, and unless her  skills have degenerated badly since her  departure,
if his ear was hit, that was the target."

He noted  the sudden  lift of  her eyebrow  and realized  too late  that he  had
inadvertently  given  away  the gender  of  the  archer. It  was  time  to steer
conversation back to less sensitive subjects.

"We were speaking of  your infallible luck. You  seem to feel that  if you never
lose, you'll never fail.  That kind of thinking  is dangerous, both for  you and
anyone who sides with you. There is no such thing as an unstoppable attack or an
impenetrable defense. Believing in one or the other only leads to overconfidence
and disaster."

"But if I never fail in battle ..."

"... Like your attack on Theron?" The crimelord smiled.

"The  attack  was  a  success.  We just  chose  the  wrong  target,"  she argued
stubbornly.

"Spare me the rationalizations. Anyone who  deals with magic or gods gets  quite
adept with excuses. All I know is that supernatural intervention exacts a  price
dearer than most intelligent people are willing to pay."

"Of course, you  speak with the  authority of one  who has had  a wide range  of
experience with gods and magic."

In response, Jubal swept his mask off with one hand.

Vanity made him conceal his unnaturally  aged features from all but his  closest
associates, but at  times like this  his appearance could  be far more  eloquent
than words.

"I have had one dealing with magic,"  he said grimly, "and this was the  result.
Years lost off  my life was  the price I  paid to keep  from becoming a cripple.
While I do  not regret the  trade, I would  think long and  hard before entering
into further bargaining. Does it ever occur to you that sooner or later you will
have to pay for your luck... for ever dice roll that you do so casually to  show
off your so-called talent?"

The demonstration had the desired effect on Chenaya. She shook her head in  mute
admission, averting  her eyes  from the  sight of  the now-old  man she had once
cheered.

"Your  noble  birth  gave  you a  natural  arrogance,"  the  crimelord continued
relentlessly, deliberately leaving  his mask off,  "and your belief  in your own
infallibility has  escalated it  to proportions  that try  the patience  and the
stomach. You seem to believe that you can do whatever you want, to whomever  you
want, without regard to consequence  or repercussion. Perhaps the most  arrogant
assumption of all is that you think that your undisciplined behavior is not only
acceptable, but admirable. The truth is that people find your antics alternately
amusing and offensive.  If they either  tire of being  tolerant, or if  you ever
actually succeed in putting something together that is seen as a genuine threat,
the real powers of this town will  squash you like a bug, along with  anyone who
stands with you."

His taunting stung Chenaya out of her shock. "Let them try," she snapped. "I can
..."

Jubal smiled, watching her face as she stopped in mid-sentence, hearing her  own
arrogance for the first time.

"You see? And that's while you're sitting there in a blanket after being  dumped
in the middle  of the bay.  My guess is  that whoever did  it to you  was merely
annoyed. If they had been really  mad, they would have dropped you  farther out.
Yet still you persist in feeling that it doesn't matter who you offend."

Chenaya was hunched forward  now, hugging the blanket  about her as if  it could
ward off words and ideas as it  had the chill. "Am I really that  disliked?" she
said without looking up.

Jubal felt a moment of pity for the girl. He had also gone through a period when
he wanted friends  desperately, only to  find that his  efforts were ignored  or
misinterpreted. A part of him wanted to comfort Chenaya, but instead he bore  on
relentlessly, taking advantage of her sagging defenses.

"You've given people little reason to like you. There is new wealth in town from
our new Beysib residents, but the  citizens still remember how hard money  is to
come by. You flaunt your wealth, deliberately inviting attack from those who are
still desperate, then  use your skills  or your luck  to kill them.  Were one of
them to succeed in slitting your throat some dark night, I doubt there would  be
much sympathy  expressed anywhere.  Most would  feel that  you deserved it, were
asking for it in fact. I would hazard a further guess that there are even  those
who are  secretly hoping  it will  happen, to  teach an  object lesson to Rankan
nobles who underestimate the  dangers in this town.  Then, there is your  sexual
appetite. The  tastes in  this town  are varied  and often  jaded, but  even the
lowest whore walking the streets near  the Promise of Heaven can approach  a man
without grabbing his crotch in public."

"You're just saying that because I'm a woman," Chenaya protested. "Men do it-"

"That doesn't make  it admirable," Jubal  interrupted firmly. "You  consistently
take the worst models for your behavior. You've chosen to ignore the  subtleties
of femininity in favor of the blunt coarseness of men. What's more, you've tried
to  pattern  yourself  after the  worst  of  men. I  assume  you've  watched the
gladiators  when they're  given women  the night  before they  enter the  arena.
Remember that gladiators  are viewed as  animals by most,  including themselves.
What's more, they  know there is  a good chance  they will not  live through the
next day, so  they have little  concern for thinking  of the future  or making a
good impression on their partners. Then  again, there's the minor detail that  a
gladiator's usually dealing  with imprisoned whores  or slaves. If  he tried his
pre-fight advances  on a  free woman  in a  tavern, I  doubt he  would find them
acceptable to the lady or the other patrons. If you want someone to like you  or
admire you, you don't do it by embarrassing them in public... or in private, for
that matter. Rape isn't admirable, no matter which sex perpetrates it."

"But Tempus is respected, and he's a known rapist."

"Tempus is respected as a soldier, in  spite of... not because of his ways  with
women. I have  yet to hear  anyone, including his  own men, describe  his sexual
habits as admirable. Remember what I was saying about paying a price for dealing
with magic? If my information is correct, part of the cost Tempus pays for being
'favored of the  gods' is only  being able to  take a woman  by force. At least,
that's the excuse he gives for his conduct. What excuse do you have for yours?"

Jubal had  time as  he spoke  to reflect  on the  irony of him defending Tempus.
"Forgive me if  I seem to  harp on my  criticism of arrogance,"  he said, "but I
firmly believe it's the most dangerous characteristic one can have in Sanctuary.
You asked a moment ago of my experience with magic. Well, arrogance is something
I am very experienced with; I've had to learn of its dangers the hard way."

Unbidden, images from the past rose up in his mind. Images that usually confined
themselves to his dreams.

"Once, before your cousin  came to town, I  and my hirelings ran  Sanctuary. The
governor and the garrison were corrupt and ineffectual, and the power was  there
to be  had by  anyone strong  enough to  seize it  and hold  it. We  were strong
enough,  but it  led us,  and me  in particular,  into believing  that we   were
invincible.  Consequently,  we  swaggered  through  the  streets,  flaunting and
occasionally abusing our power, eager to have everyone acknowledge our strength.
The result was that  when Tempus arrived in  town, we were the  obvious targets,
first for his individual attention, and  then for the Stepsons when they  joined
him. My holdings were seized, my force scattered, and I was left with the wounds
that cost me so much to have healed. All that from one man, the same one you are
so willing to provoke with petty games."

"Yet you respect Tempus and are willing to ally with him?" Chenaya wondered  out
loud.

Jubal was suddenly aware of how far astray his memories had led him.

"You miss the  point," he said  brusquely. "The fault  was mine. It  was my open
arrogance that brought attention of a sort I neither expected nor wanted. If you
willingly lay your hand in  a trap, do you hate  the trap for snapping shut,  or
curse your own stupidity for placing your hand in jeopardy?"

"I should think you'd want to avenge yourself on the one who cost you so much."

"I'll admit that I have no great love for Tempus. If at some point in the future
I have the opportunity to pay him back, I'll probably take it," Jubal  observed,
allowing himself  a brief  flash of  the hatred  he fought  so hard to suppress.
"What I won't  do is devote  my life to  it. Revenge is  a tempting side  street
which usually turns out to be a dead  end. All it does is lure you farther  away
from your original path. You would do  well to remember that in your schemes  to
deal with Theron."

"But he had my family murdered!"

"Isn't that part  of the risk  of being a  noble?" he said,  raising an eyebrow.
"Remember what I was saying about  everything having a price? Your family  led a
comfortable existence,  but the  price was  linking your  future to the existing
power structure  in the  Empire. When  it fell,  so did  your family.  It was  a
gamble. One you lost. Do you really  want to spend the rest of your  life hating
and pursuing the winner?"

"But-"

The crimelord held up  a hand to still  her protests. "I still  haven't finished
talking about my own arrogance. If you'll indulge me?"

Chenaya bit her lip but nodded.

"I thought I had learned my lesson. When I rebuilt my force, I contented  myself
with covert operations  and maintained a  low profile to  avoid attention. To  a
large extent it worked, and the  various factions in town turned their  energies
on each other.  I watched them  stacking bodies and  licked my lips...  yes, and
even  worked to  keep them  at each  others' throats.  It was  my thought   that
eventually they would grow so weak that I could again rule Sanctuary."

He paused to take another  sip of wine, a part  of him wondering what there  was
about this girl that led him to confide his thoughts and plans to her.

"It wasn't until  I was criticized  by someone, an  old man whose  opinions I've
grown to  respect, that  I realized  that I  had again  fallen into  the trap of
arrogance. The Empire has changed  and Sanctuary has changed. Things  will never
be as  they were,  and I  was foolish  to think  otherwise. I  will never  again
control this town, and all my machinations to weaken my rivals have only made it
more vulnerable in  its inevitable confrontation  with Theron. That's  why I was
willing to go along  with Tempus's plan to  negotiate a truce among  the warring
factions. There is more at stake here than personal vengeance or ambition."

He noticed Chenaya was looking at him strangely. "You really care for this town,
don't you?"

"It's a hellhole, or a thieves' world if you listen to the storytellers, but I'm
used to it the way it is. I wouldn't like to see it changed at the whim of a new
emperor. To that extent, I'm willing to put my personal ambition and pride aside
for a moment, for the good of the town."

Chenaya nodded,  but Jubal  suspected that  his attempts  to make  light of  his
feelings for Sanctuary had not deceived her in the slightest.

"Tempus wants me to  organize the town's defenses  once he and his  forces leave
town."

Jubal grimaced at her statement as if someone had placed something unpleasant on
his plate.

"Unlikely. As  shrewd as  he may  be militarily,  Tempus still  doesn't know the
heart of Sanctuary. He  is an outsider as  you are. The townspeople  resent your
coming in and clanging the mission bell to tell them how to solve their problem.
Even his own men  are beginning to rebel  against his high-handed ways  after so
long an  absence. The  truce was  agreed to  because it  made sense, not because
Tempus proposed it. I doubt you  could effectively unite the locals because  you
are an outsider. Any cooperation you got would be grudging at best."

He  considered  pointing  out  that  her  betrayal  of  Zip  made  her decidedly
untrustworthy in the eyes  of any who knew  of it, but decided  against it. They
were closing on  one of the  main reasons he  had granted this  audience, and he
didn't want the conversation to veer off on unwanted tangents.

"Who, then? You?"

"I told you before  that I'll never control  this town again," he  said, shaking
his head. "I'm a criminal, and  an ex-slave to boot. Even if  those difficulties
were overcome, too many  of the factions have  old grievances with me  and mine.
No, they might fight beside me, but they'd never willingly follow me."

"Then in your opinion, the best leader would be ..."

She let the  question hang in  the air. Mentally,  Jubal took a  deep breath and
crossed his fingers.

"Your cousin. Prince Kittycat. He's been  here long enough to be considered  one
of the  locals, and  he's very  popular with  those common  folk who've  had any
direct contact  with him.  More importantly,  he's probably  the only  figure of
authority who has not  directly opposed any of  the necessary factions. If  that
isn't enough, he has  closer dealings with the  Beysib than anyone in  town with
the possible exception of the fishermen.  The town will need the support  of the
fish-eyes, both  financially and  militarily, if  we're going  to stand  against
Theron. The proposed betrothal between Kadakithis and Shupansea will cement that
alliance better than-"

"I know. I just don't have to like it."

Chenaya was on her feet and Jubal knew he was close to losing her.

"My cousin will never  marry that bare-breasted freak!  But gods, he's of  royal
birth-"

"... As is she," he snarled, rising to his feet to match her anger with his own.
"Such an arrangement would not only be  for the good of the city, it  might well
be necessary. Think  on that, Chenaya,  before you let  your childish jealousies
rule your tongue.  If you continue  to oppose the  union, you might  just become
enough of a danger for the powers of Sanctuary to test your invulnerability."

"Are you threatening me?" Fear and  rebellion mixed in her voice as  their gazes
locked.

"I'm warning you... as I've been trying to do through this entire meeting."

For a moment the rapport between  them teetered on the brink of  disintegration.
Then Chenaya drew a ragged breath and exhaled noisily.

"I don't think I could give my blessings to the marriage, no matter how good  it
might be for the town."

"I'm not suggesting that you have to encourage it, or even approve," Jubal  said
soothingly,  trying not  to let  his relief  show. "Simply  cease opposing   the
marriage and let events take their natural course."

"I won't oppose it. But I have much to think on."

"Good," he nodded. "You're  long overdue for some  thinking. I think you've  had
enough advisement to fuel your mind for  one night. My men outside will see  you
back to your estate ... and tell them I said to find some clothes for you.  It's
not  seemly for  someone of  your station  to parade  through the  streets in  a
blanket."

Chenaya nodded her thanks and started to go, then turned back.

"Jubal, could I... will you be  available in the future for additional  counsel?
You seem willing to tell me things that others avoid or overlook."

"Perhaps  you  are simply  more  willing to  listen  to me  than  to your  other
advisors. However, I'm sure our paths will cross from time to time."

"But if  I need  to see  you at  a specific  time instead  of waiting...  ?" she
pressed.

"Should anything urgent arise, leave word at the Vulgar Unicorn, and I will find
a way to contact you."

It was a simple enough request, Jubal  told himself. There was no reason at  all
that he should feel flattered.

"So, overall, what do you think of her?"

Saliman had joined Jubal now, and they were sharing the wine, the good  vintage,
as they discussed Chenaya's visit.

"Young," Jubal said thoughtfully. "Even  younger than I had anticipated  in many
ways. She has much to learn and no one to teach her."

The aide cocked an eyebrow at his employer.

"It would seem that she impressed you."

"What do you mean?"

"For a  moment there  you sounded  almost paternal.  I thought  you were  out to
appraise a potential ally or enemy, not looking for someone to adopt."

Jubal started to snap out an answer, then gave a barking laugh instead.

"I did  sound that  way, didn't  I?" he  grimaced. "It  must be  my reaction  to
misguided youth. So little could make so much difference. But you're right, that
has nothing to do with our goals."

"So I repeat the question: What do you think of her? Will she be able to provide
leadership in the future?"

"Eventually, perhaps, but not soon enough to be of immediate use."

"Which leaves us where?"

Jubal stared at the wall silently before answering.

"We  cannot afford  to have  Tempus and  his troops  leave Sanctuary  just  yet.
Something will have  to be devised  to keep them  here. If we  cannot arrange it
through others, we may have to commit ourselves to the task."

Saliman  sucked  in his  breath  through his  teeth.  "Either way,  it  could be
expensive."

"Not as expensive as an ineffectual defense. If the town opposes Theron, it will
have to win. To try and fail would be disastrous."

"Very well," the  aide nodded. "I'll  have our informants  start checking as  to
who's available and if their price is gold or anger."

"The other thing  I haven't mentioned  regarding Chenaya," Jubal  said casually,
"is that I've agreed to advise her in the future. I felt it would be wise to  be
sure that her development followed patterns suitable to our goals."

"Of course," Saliman nodded. "It's always best to plan for the long term."

They had been together a long time, and Saliman knew better than to point out to
Jubal when he was using logic to try to hide his own sentimentality.

THE TIE THAT BINDS

Diane Duane

Pillars of fire and other such events notwithstanding, people in Sanctuary  have
routines,  just as  they do  everywhere else  in the  world. Dawn  comes up  and
thieves steal home  from work,  slipping into  shambly buildings  or into  early
opening taverns for a  bite and sup or  some early fencing. Brothel-less  whores
slouch out of the Promise of Heaven, or make their way up from the foggy streets
by the  river, to  go yawning  back to  their garrets  or cellars before the sun
makes too  much mockery  of their   paint. And  people of  other walks   of life
fullers, butchers, the  stallkeepers of the  Bazaar-drag themselves groaning  or
sighing out of their beds to face the annoyances of another day.

On this particular summer morning, one fragment of routine stepped out of a door
in a much-rundown house near the Maze.  People who lived in the street and  were
going  about their  own routines  knew better  than to  stare at  her, the  tall
handsome young woman with  the oddly fashioned linen  robes and the raven  hair.
One or two early travelers, out of their normal neighborhoods, did stare at her.
She glared at them out of fierce gray eyes, but said nothing-merely slammed  the
door behind her.

It came off in her hand. She cursed the door, and hefted it lightly by its  iron
knob as if ready to throw the thing down the filthy street.

"Don't do it!"  said a voice  from inside; another  female voice, sounding  very
annoyed.

The gray-eyed woman  cursed again and  set the door  up against the  wall of the
house. "And don't kill anyone at work, either!" said the voice from inside. "You
want to lose another job?"

The gray-eyed woman drew herself up to full height, producing an effect as if  a
statue of some angry goddess was about to step down from her pedestal and  wreak
havoc  on some  poor mortal.  Then the  marble melted  out of  her, leaving  her
looking merely young, and fiercely lovely, and very tall. "No," she said,  still
wrathful. "See you at lunchtime."

And off she went, and the people in the street went about their business,  going
home from work or getting up for it. If you had told any of them that the  woman
in the linen chlamys was a  goddess exiled from wide heaven, you  would probably
have gotten an interested inquiry as to what you had been drinking just now.  If
you had told  that person, further,  that the woman  was sharing a  house with a
god, another goddess,  and sometimes with  a dog (also  divine)-the person would
probably  have edged  away cautiously,  wishing you  a nice  day. Druggies   are
sometimes dangerous when contradicted.

Of course,  every word  you would  have said  would have  been the truth. But in
Sanctuary, who ever expects to hear the truth the first time... ?

"She hates the job," said the voice from inside the house.

"I know," said another voice, male.

The house was one  of those left over  from an earlier time  when some misguided
demi-noble, annoyed at the higher real-estate prices in the neighborhoods  close
to the palace, had tried to begin a "gentrification" project on the outskirts of
the Maze. Sensibly,  no other member  of the nobility  had bothered to  sink any
money in such a crazed undertaking. And the people in the mean houses all around
had carefully waited until the nobleman in question had moved all his goods into
the townhouse. Then the neighbors had begun carefully harvesting the house-never
so many burglaries or so large a  loss as to drive the nobleman away;  just many
careful pilfer-ings made easier by  the fact that the neighbors  had blackmailed
the builders  into putting  some extra  entrances into  the house,  entrances of
which the property  owner was unaware.  The economy of  the neighborhood took  a
distinct upward turn. It took the nobleman nearly three years to become aware of
what was happening; and even then  the neighbors got wind of his  impending move
through one of his  servants, and relieved the  poor gentleman of all  his plate
and most of his liquid assets. He  considered himself lucky to get out with  his
clothes. After that the property fell  into genteel squalor and was occupied  by
shift after shift  of squatters. Finally  it became too  squalid even for  them;
which was  when Harran  bought it,  and moved  in with  two goddesses and a dog.
"Whose turn is  it to fix  the door?" Harran  said. He was  a young man, perhaps
eighteen years of age, and dark-haired... a situation he found odd, having  been
born thirty years before, and blond at the time. His companion was a lean little
rail of a woman with  a tangle of dark curly  hair and eyes that had  a touch of
madness to them, which was not surprising, since she had been born that way, and
sanity was nearly as new to her as divinity was. They were standing in what  had
been the  downstairs reception  room, and  was now  a sort  of bedroom since the
upper floors were too befouled as yet  to do anything with at all. Both  of them
were throwing on clothes, none of the best quality. "Mriga?" Harran said. "Huh?"
She looked at him  with an abstracted expression.  "Whose turn is it  to fix the
door?... Oh, never mind, I'll do it. I don't have to be there for a bit."

"Sorry," Mriga said.  "When she's angry,  I get angry,  too.... I have  trouble,
still, figuring out where she leaves off and I begin. She's out there wanting to
throw thunderbolts at things."

"This is  unusual?" Harran  said, picking  up a  much-worn shirt  and shaking it
hard. Rock dust snapped out of the folds.

"It should be," Mriga said rather sadly. She sat down on one of their pieces  of
furniture, a  large bed  with multiple  sword hacks  in it.  "I remember the way
things were for her when she was a  goddess for real. A thought was all it  took
to make the best things  to wear, anything she wanted  to eat, a god's house  to
live  in. She  didn't have  to be  angry then.  But now..."  She looked   rather
wistfully to one side, where a huge old mural clung faded and mouldering to  the
wall. It was a scene of Us  and Shipri creating the first harvest from  nothing.
Everywhere there was a wealth of grain and flowers and fruit, and dancing nymphs
and gauzy drapery and ewers of outpoured  wine. The wood on which the mural  was
painted was warped, and Shipri had wormholes in her, in embarrassing places.

Harran sat down beside her for a moment. "Do you regret it?"

Mriga looked at him out of big hazel eyes. "Me myself? Or she and I?"

"Both."

Mriga put  out a  hand to  touch Harran's  cheek. "You?  Never. I would become a
goddess a hundred times over  and give it up every  time, to be where I  am now.
But Siveni..."

She trailed off, having no answer for Harran that he would want to hear. Perhaps
he knew it.  "We'll make it  work," he said.  "Gods have survived  being mortals
before."

"Yes," Mriga said. "But that's not the way she had it planned."

She looked  at a  bar of  sunlight that  was inching  across the bare wood floor
toward the other piece of furniture, a table of blond wood with one leg  shorter
than the three  others. "Time to  be heading out,  love. Do we  all eat together
today?"

"She said she might not be able to make it... there's something going on at  the
wall that may take extra time. An arch of some kind."

"We should take her something, then."

"Always assuming that I get paid."

"You should hit them with lightning if they renege on you."

"That's Siveni's department."

"I wish  it were,"  Mriga said.  She kissed  Harran goodbye  and left  as he was
looking for a hasp to rehang the door.

Mriga  walked  slowly  toward  her own  work,  threading  the  streets with  the
unconscious care of a lifelong city dweller. It had been a busy year for all  of
them ... for her in particular. One day Mriga had been just another  madwoman...
Harran's bedwarmer  and  house servant,  good  for nothing  but  mindless  knife
sharpening  and mindless  sex. The  next, she  had been  awake, and  aware,  and
divine-caught in  the backwash  of a  spell Harran  had performed  to bring back
Siveni from  whatever oblivious  heaven she  and the  other Ilsig  gods had been
inhabiting. Harran had been one of Siveni's priests, the healer-servants of  the
divine patroness of war and crafts. He  had thought he would remain so. But  the
spell had caught  him, too, binding  him and Siveni  and Mriga together  through
life, past death.  That was no  mere phrase, either,  for the three  of them had
been in  hell together,  and had  come back  again to  what should  have been  a
cheerful, delighted life together... long years rich with joy.

Mriga stepped over the sewer runnel in the middle of a street and reflected that
even the gods were  sometimes caught by surprise.  The trouble had started  with
Stonnbringer's pillar of fire; the banner of a new power in Sanctuary, one  that
was  going to  diminish all  others that  were already  there. She  could  still
remember the night she woke in terrible shock to Siveni's anguished screams, and
to the  feeling of  something fiercer  than life  seemingly running  out of  her
bones, as godhead wavered and sank  within them both like a smothered  fire. And
then the Globes of Power were  destroyed, and what little innate power  was left
to the three of them began to go awry. She and Siveni had said they were willing
to be  mortal, to  die, for  Harran's sake.  Now it  appeared they  would have a
chance to  find out  just how  willing. Meantime,  a god  (or goddess) without a
temple needed a place to live, and food to eat....

Mriga walked across the bridge over  the White Foal (briefly holding her  breath
against the morning smell) and headed into the Bazaar from the south side.  Most
of the stall-keepers  were setting up  their canopies, muttering  to one another
about prices, wholesalers, arguments at home: the usual morning gossip. She made
her way over to the side near the north wall.

There was Rahi, her stallmate, setting up as usual... a large, florid, corpulent
man, fighting with the  canopy poles, sweating and  swearing. Rahi was a  tinker
who did a small  side business in small  arms, knives, and the  like. He boasted
that he had  sold knives to  Hanse himself, but  Mriga doubted this;  anyone who
really had would be too cautious to cry the man's name aloud. At any rate, apart
from his boasting, Rahi was that astonishing phenomenon, an honest tradesman. He
didn't mark up  his wares more  than a hundred  percent or so,  he didn't scrape
true  gilt off  hilts or  scabbards and  substitute brass,  and his  scales  had
trustworthy weights to them.  Why he chose to  be such an exception,  he usually
refused to explain ... though one night, over a stoup of wine, he whispered  one
word to Mriga, looking  around him as if  the Prince's men were  waiting to take
him away. "Religion," he had said, and then immediately drank himself drunk.

Their association, odd though  it might be, satisfied  Mriga. When she had  been
job hunting and had passed through  the Bazaar one day, Rahi had  recognized her
as the crippled former idiot-girl who used to sit there and hone broken bits  of
metal on the cobbles until they could split hairs, until Harran took her home to
sharpen Stepsons' swords and his surgical tools. Rahi had offered her a spot  in
his stall-for a small cut of her profits, of course-and Mriga had accepted, more
than willing to  take up her  old trade. Swords  got dull or  notched quickly in
Sanctuary. A  good "polisher"  never starved...  and Mriga  was the  best, being
(these days) an avatar of the goddess who invented swords in the first place.

"'Bout  time you  got here,"  Rahi bellowed  at her.  Various people  close  by,
sweetmeat sellers and clothiers, winced at the noise, and off in the cattle pens
various steers  lifted up  their voices  in mournful  answer. "Day's  half gone,
where you been, how you gonna make your nut, I hafta kick you out, best spot  in
the Bazaar, eh lady?"

Mriga just smiled at him and  unslung her pouch, which contained all  her tools:
oil, rags, and five  grades of whetstones. Others  in the city worked  with more
tools, and charged more, but Mriga didn't need to. "There's no one up but us and
the birds, Rahi," she said. "Don't make  me laugh. Who's been here with a  sword
this morning that I've missed?"

"Eh, laugh,  sure, sometime  some big  guy from  the palace,  you'll laugh then,
charge him big, but no, he'll be uptown and you, not a copper, out on the stones
again, you be careful!" He rammed the last canopy pole into its spot and  glared
at her, sweating, smiling.

Mriga shrugged. Rahi traditionally spoke in a long gasp with a laugh at the end,
and dropped out words  as if he was  afraid to run out  of them some day.  "Hey,
Rahi, if it gets slow over here I can always go over to the wall and sharpen the
chisels, eh?"

Rahi was shaking out the canopy, a six-foot rectangle of light cotton with  some
long-faded pattern just barely visible in  the weave. "No good'll come of  that,
mark," he  said, "didn't  need the  wall until  now, what  for? But  to hold out
armies, or  hold people  in. Put  a lock  on a  door and  people start  thinking
there's things to steal, sure. That-the Torch-" He was plainly unwilling to  say
Molin  Torchholder's  name  aloud.  That  was  no  surprise;  many  people were.
Sanctuary  was  full of  ears,  and there  was  frequently no  telling  who they
belonged to. "Playing  kingmaker, that one.  If he doesn't  get us burnt  in our
beds ..." Rahi trailed off into grumbling. "Your man, how about him, eh?"

"He's doing all right. Word's been  getting about that there's a good  barber to
be had in the Maze. We haven't  even been robbed yet.... They let us  be, seeing
as how it might be  Harran that has to patch  one of them up some  night after a
job goes sour."

"Doesn't do to have the barber mad at you, no indeed; pots! Pots to sell!"  Rahi
shouted suddenly, as a  housewife with a thumbsucking  child in tow went  by the
stall. "Other lady, the  tall one, she leams  that too? No? 'Spose  not, doesn't
seem the 'prenticing type, too proud, she."

Mriga silently  agreed. While  still active  in the  Ilsig pantheon,  Siveni had
invented many a  craft and passed  them on to  men. Medicine, the  sciences, the
fine arts, the making  and using of weapons,  all had been hers.  Trapped in the
world Siveni might be, but what she knew of the spells and arts of medicine  was
far more than the best of her priest-healers had known; and Harran had been only
a minor  one of  those. "No,"  Mriga said,  "she's on  the wall.  She does  well
enough."

She took out a favorite  knife, a little black-handled thing  already fine-edged
enough to leave the wind bleeding, wiped it with oil, and began absently to whet
it. More people were  coming into the Bazaar.  In front of them  Yark the fuller
went by with his  flat cart. On  top of it  one of the  Bazaar's two big  calked
straw pisspots lurched precariously, making  ominous sloshing noises. "Any  last
minute contributions?" said Yark, grinning.

Mriga shook  her head  and grinned  back. Rahi  made an  improbable remark about
Yark's mother,  the last  part of  which Mriga  lost as  a young  man passing by
paused  to watch  her work.  She lifted  the knife,  a friendly  gesture.  "Have
anything that needs some work, sir?"

He looked dubious. "How much?"

"Let's see."

He stepped closer,  reached under his  worn tunic and  pulled out a  shortsword.
Mriga looked at him covertly as she  turned over the sword in her hands.  Young,
in his mid-twenties, perhaps. Not too  well dressed, nor too poorly. Well,  that
might be a relief. People had been doing better lately; the Beyfolk's money  was
making a difference. The sword was of a steel that had forge patterns like those
in Enlibrite, and  it was dark-bladed  with rust, and  had notches in  it. Mriga
tsked at the  poor thing, while  sorting other impressions  ... for even  though
swathed in flesh and trapped away from heaven, a goddess has senses a mortal has
not. A dubious blade, this, with the memory or the intention of blood on it. But
in this town, what weapon hadn't killed someone?... That was after all what they
were for. "Dark or bright?" she said.

"What?" The young man's voice was very raw and light, as if it might still  tend
to crack at times.

"I can polish it bright for you, if it needs to be seen," she said. "Or leave it
dark in  the blade,  if it  needs not."  She had  learned that delicate phrasing
quickly, after accidentally  scaring away a  few potential customers  whose work
required that their blades be inconspicuous. "Either way, the edge is the  same.
Four in copper."

"Two."

"You think you're  dealing with a  scissors grinder? The  Stepsons brought their
blades to me, and the Prince's guard do still. The thing'll be able to slice one
thought from the next when I'm done  with it. Always assuming that you can  keep
it out of the  tables at the Unicorn  after this." That got  his attention; that
much Mriga  had been  able to  pick up  from the  blade itself, though it wasn't
talkative as steel went. "Three and a half, because 1 like your looks. No more."

The young man screwed up his  face a little, slightly ruining those  looks. "All
right, do it dark. How long?"

"Half an  hour. Take  mine," she  said, and  handed him  her "leaner,"  a plain,
respectable longknife with quillons of  browned steel. "Don't 'lose' it,"  Mriga
said then, "so I don't have to give you a demonstration with this one."

The young  man ducked  his head  and slipped  into the  growing crowd. Rahi said
something not in  a bellow, and  it got lost  in the increasing  noise of people
crying fish and cloth and ashsoap.

"What?"

"You ever have to demonstrate?" he wheezed in her ear.

Mriga  smiled. Siveni,  so long  unprayed-to by  mortals, had  been losing   her
attributes. And as such things will, one attribute-the affinity for things  with
edges-had slipped  across into  mortality and  into the  person best equipped to
handle it:  Mriga. "Not  personally," she  said. "Last  time, the  knife did  it
itself. Just lost its balance all of a sudden... slipped out of the thief's hand
and stuck her right-well, whatever. Word got around. It's not a problem now."

Yark  the fuller  went by  with the  cart again.  This one  was sloshing.  "Last
chance!" he said.

"Pots," Rahi bellowed  beside her,  "pots! Buy  pots! You,  madam! Even  a  fish
sorry-even a Beysib needs a pot!"

Mriga rolled her eyes and began to whet the new knife.

                                   *   *   *

When Molin Torchholder let it be known  that he was going to complete the  walls
of  Sanctuary, the  noise of  merriment about  the new  jobs that  would  become
available was almost as loud  as Stormbringer's fireworks had been.  There were,
of course, quieter  conversations about what  the old fox  was up to  this time.
Some dared to  say that his  sudden industriousness on  the Empire's behalf  had
less to do with his desire to keep Sanctuary safe for the Imperials, as to  keep
it safe from  them. Some day,  not too far  off, when Sanctuary's  own trade was
well enough established, when it had enough  of its own gold, and was secure  in
its gods again... then  the gates could swing  shut, and Molin and  others would
stand on the walls and laugh in the Empire's face....

Of course those who said such things said them in whispers, behind bolted doors.
Those who did  not lost the  tongues that had  spoken them. Molin  didn't bother
himself with such small business; his spies tended to it. He had too many things
to take care of himself.  There was his new god  to placate, old ones to  assist
out of existence, Kadakithis and (in  a different fashion) the Beysa to  manage.
And there was the wall.

As an exercise in logistics alone it was trouble enough. First the plans, argued
over for weeks, changed, changed  again, changed back; then ordering  the stone,
and having it quarried; then hiring  people enough to move such weights,  others
to  work  on  the  roughed-out   stones,  trimming  them  to  size.   Overseers,
stonemasons, mortarers, caterers, spies to make sure everything was  working....
Money was fortunately no problem; but time, all the things that could go  wrong,
were riding on Molin's  mind. The vision  of what it  would be if  all went well
security against  enemies, against  the Empire,  power for  himself and those he
chose to share it-that vision was barely enough to counter the murderous work of
it all. He  took any help  he could find,  and didn't scruple  to use it  to the
utmost thereafter.

He hadn't  scrupled on  the morning  several months  or so  back when  the first
courses  of stone  were being  laid on  the southern  perimeter, and  there  was
trouble with the foundations,  dug too deep and  uneven to boot. The  plans were
spread out on a block on undressed northern granite, and he was speaking to  his
engineers in that soft voice that made it plain to them that if they didn't  set
things to  rights shortly,  they would  be very  dead. And  in the middle of the
quiet tirade,  he had  become aware  of someone  looking over  his shoulder.  He
didn't move.  The someone  snorted. Then  a slender  arm poked  down between his
shoulder and the chief architect's and  said, "Here's where you went wrong.  The
ground's prone  to settling  all along  this rise;  using that  for your   level
strings threw  all your  other measurements  off. You  can still  save it,  with
cement enough. But  you won't have  time if you  stand here gaping.  That ground
dries out, a whole city's worth of cement on top of it won't hold firm. And mind
you put enough sand in it."

He had turned around to see the  ridiculous, the laughable. It was a tall  young
woman, surely no more than twenty-five, with cool clean features and long  black
hair, and a most peculiarly draped  white linen robe with a goatskin  slung over
it. He looked  at her  with annoyance  and amazement,  but she  was ignoring him
which was also ridiculous; no one ignored  him. She was looking at the plans  as
if they had been drawn in the mud with a stick. "Who designed this silly heap of
blocks?" she said. "It'll fall down the first time an army hits it."

Beside him, Molin's  chief architect had  turned a ferocious  shade of red,  and
then began shifting from foot to foot as his gout started to trouble him.  Molin
looked at the  gray-eyed woman and  said, in the  deadly soft voice  he had been
using on the engineers, "Can you do better?"

The woman flicked eyebrows  at him in the  most scornful expression he  had ever
seen. "Of course."

"If you don't," he had said, "you know what will happen."

She gave him a look that made it plain that his threats amused her.  "Parchment,
please," she said,  knocked the plans  aside into the  mud, and sat  down on the
block like a queen,  waiting for the writing  materials to be brought  her. "And
you'd better do something about that cement right now, before the ground  dries.
That much of  your wall I'll  keep. You-" She  pointed at one  of the engineers.
"Send someone to the biggest glassmaker in town and ask for all the cull they've
got."

"Cull?"

"Broken glass. Pound it up fine. It  goes in the cement.... What's it for?!  You
want rats and coneys tunneling under and undermining the wall? Leaving holes for
people to pour acid in, or something worse? Well, then!"

The engineer in question glanced at Molin for permission, then hurried away.  He
turned to her to  say something, but the  parchment and silverpoint had  already
been brought,  and the  woman was  sketching with  astonishing swiftness  on the
smooth side of the skin-drawing perfectly straight lines without rulers, perfect
curves without tools. He had to fight  to keep the scorn in his voice.  "And who
might you be?" he had said.

"You may call me Siveni," she had  said, not looking up, as if she  were royalty
doing a  beggar a  favor. "Now  look here.  That curtain  wall was all wrong; it
would never bear crenella-tions.  And of course you  are going to crenellate  at
some point...."

He entreated her  politely, for the  moment, to speak  quietly; crenellation was
forbidden by the Empire except under very special circumstances, and he had been
planning to  do it...  just not  now, when  it was  important to  seem not to be
having any  thoughts of  autonomy. Even  as he  entreated her,  though, he found
himself  becoming uneasy.  It was  not as  if Siveni  was an  uncommon name   in
Sanctuary; it was not. But every now  and then he was troubled by the  memory of
how the abandoned temple  of the goddess of  that name had had  its bronze doors
torn right off and thrown in the street a while back; and from all  indications,
they had been broken out from the inside. ...

Siveni, of course-knowing all these thoughts of Molin's, in a goddess's fashion,
as if  from the  inside-was amused  by the  whole business.  It amused  her, the
inventor of architecture, to be building for mortals; to be building for the man
who had cast her  priests out of Sanctuary;  to be confusing him,  and unnerving
him, and at the  same time doing something  worthwhile with her time.  Like many
gods, she  had a  flair and  taste for  paradox. Siveni  was indulging it to the
point of surfeit.

Such indulgence was one of the few  pleasures she had these days, since she  and
Mriga and Harran had come back from hell. Harran had been dead, killed by one of
Straton's people in  the raid on  the Stepsons' old  barracks. The two  of them,
with Harran's little dog  Tyr, and Ischade as  guide on the road,  had gone down
and begged his  life of hell's  dark Queen, and  (rather to their  surprise) had
gotten it.

The arrangement was  peculiar. Harran (playing  the barber even  past death) had
picked  up the  wounded soul  of a  mind-dead body,  so that  his own  soul  had
somewhere to live  again. The Queen  had let them  all out of  hell on condition
that from now on they should divide Harran's hell-sentence among them, and  take
death in shifts. Tyr  was in hell presently,  enjoying herself a great  deal, to
judge by the  vague impressions Siveni  occasionally received. Hell's  Queen had
made a pet of her. But how the rest of the arrangement would function now  -even
if it was still  intact-Siveni had no idea.  Hell's gate was closed.  The magics
that had made Ischade free of  the place were severely curtailed since  the loss
of the Globes of Power.

And heaven's gate, it seemed, was  closed, too; the Ilsig gods were  locked away
from the world by Stonnbringer's sudden terrible assertion of power. Originally,
Siveni's plan and Mriga's had been  to take Harran straight back to  heaven with
them, to her tall, fair temple-house in the country beyond the world's time. But
they had dallied too long in the mortal world, while Harran got his bearings and
got  used to  his new  body... and  then one  night had  awakened to  find  that
heaven's gate was shut on them, and no way back. They were marooned....

So Siveni walked the mortal world without her armor, without her army-conquering
spear, and built city walls,  and pondered vengeance on Molin  Torchholder. Some
ways, this was all his fault. Harran  would never have been moved to summon  her
out of the terrible  calm of the Ilsig  heaven had not the  Torchholder banished
her priesthood  from Sanctuary.  And now,  she thought-looking  down between the
fourth and fifth  courses of new  stone at a  little tunnel being  built between
them-now he would pay for it. Or perhaps not now; but as gods reckon time,  soon
enough.

"Yai there,  Gray-Eyes," came  a shout  up to  her from  one of the stonemasons.
"We're ready for the next one!"

She grimaced, a look she was  glad the mason couldn't see through  the kicked-up
dust of the hot day's work. Gray-eyes,  they all called her; but it was  a joke.
There was no telling them who she was. It hadn't been too long ago that she  sat
cool and  calm in  her house  in heaven,  hearing her  name called in reverence,
smelling the uprising savor of good  sacrifices, stepping down in power to  help
those who called on her. No more of that.

Love she  had now,  yes; she  had never  had that  before- certainly  nothing so
immediate. But was it as good... ?

"Right," she shouted back. "Kivan,"  she shouted in another direction,  "get the
crane around, man, the mortar's wet! It's three in a row here. Yes, those three.
Get them up on the hoist. Where the hell are the draggers?"

She watched  them haul  the stone  in question  into place  and wrap the crane's
ropes around  it. While  they were  grunting and  straining she  let herself  go
unfocused for a moment, and  listened. Knife-grinding, she "heard"; and  someone
screaming, while sure hands worked over them and other hands held them down; and
more faintly than the first two impressions, a clear sense came of being  rubbed
in the good place behind the ears. Siveni smiled to herself. She had always been
a  single goddess,  being too  busy inventing  things to  bother splitting   off
alternate personae, dyads and trinities and whatever. Now, after Harran's spell,
and their trek past hell's gate, she  was not only a trinity, but one  with four
members. Interesting, it was. And very unsettling.

And was it worth it... ?

A shadow fell over her as she leaned on the last-laid stone. "Molin," she said.

"How do you do that, mistress? Know how someone's coming behind you, I mean."

She stiffened a bit. "In sun like this," she said, "it would take a blind  woman
not to see your shadow's shape. Has  that new stone come in yet? We'll  need the
softer stuff for the arrowshot wall."

"It's in. Come take a cup of something cold with me."

She stepped  down from  the stone,  wondering about  the odd  tone in his voice,
schooling herself to show no reaction. Carelessly she walked in front of him  to
the tent he'd had set  up at the site, so  that he could watch the  workers, and
her, in comfort. She  flung one flap on  its door aside. Silk,  she thought. And
not because it makes the best tents, either.

There were  only two  chairs, too  close together  for her  taste. She  took the
better  of the  two and  sat waiting  for Molin  to pour  for her.  Massive  and
splendid, he sat  down in the  other chair and  looked at her  for a long moment
before reaching out to the decanter and glasses on its table between the chairs.
Alarm,  his  mind sang  to  Siveni. Curiosity  growing.  Thought winding  around
itself, choking like ivy growing up sheer cold stone....

"Why do  you live  in that  little hole  in the  Maze?" Molin said, pouring, and
passing her the cup.  "You could certainly afford  better, with what I'm  paying
you."

She took the cup  and looked at him,  unsmiling, wishing she had  her spear with
the lightnings sizzling around it; he would not be daring to ask her  questions.
"It'd be too much bother to move in the middle of a work like this," she said.

"Ah, yes. Another question I wish you would answer, with your obvious expertise.
What other jobs have you done?"

Better ones  than you're  doing now,  Siveni thought  as she  lifted the cup and
smelled, very deep in the bouquet of  the wine, an herb she recognized. She  had
invented it; and this was one use for it that she had never approved. "Stibium,"
she  said,  answering  his  question   and  naming  the  drug,  both   at  once.
"Torchholder, for shame. The preparation has  to be started weeks in advance  if
you intend to have someone drink it  and then spill out their life's secrets  to
you. Though perhaps you just mean my  next flux to be painless. A kind  thought.
But I manage that for myself. And I'm pained that you don't trust me."

"You live with a common barber and  a woman who was an idiot once,"  said Molin.
"She's whole now. How did that happen?"

"Good company?" Siveni said.  Oh, for my lightnings;  oh, for one good  crack of
thunder out  of a  clear sky,  to back  this impertinent  creature down! "I'm no
sorceress, if that's what you're thinking. Even if I were, what good would it do
me these days? Most magicians are lucky  if they can turn milk into cheese  now.
Your problem," she said, "is  that I seem to have  come out of nowhere, and  you
have no hold over me  ... and at the same  time, no choice but to  trust me; for
I've saved your  wall from the  rotten ground it  stands on four  times now, and
will keep doing so until it's whole."

He gazed at her as  levelly as he could, and  made a point of drinking  from his
own cup. "You've taken arthicum, I imagine," she said. "Mind that you don't  eat
anything made with  sheep's milk for  the next day  or so; the  results would be
unfortunate. At least,  inconvenient, for a  man who has  to spend more  than an
hour without running off to ease himself."

"Who are you?" he said, very conversationally.

"I am a builder," Siveni said. "And the daughter of a builder. If it pleases  me
to do a  masterwork while living  in a slum,  that's my business.  Think, if you
like, that I'm making this city safe  for my family to live in in  future years.
Have you had anything to complain of about my work so far?"

"Nothing," said Molin. He sounded as if he would rather have had complaints.

"And have you not been checking  the actual building against the plans  each day
and each night?  And have you  or your spies  found one stone  out of place,  or
anything not just as it should be?"

Molin Torchholder stared at her.

"Then let me do my work and take  my wage in peace." She looked at him  merrily.
"Which  reminds me,"  she said;  "there are  stones out  there waiting  for  our
attention at the laying. Come on." And Siveni drank off the cup and set it  down
appreciatively.

"It does add something to the flavor," she said, and got up. "Come, sir."

She went out into the bright  hot day, Molin following. Alarm was  still singing
in his mind; and now in hers, too.

He suspects something... even though there's nothing to suspect. He'll do Harran
and Mriga  some harm  if he  must, to  find out  the truth. Wretched mortal! Why
can't he leave off meddling?

I must think of something to do.

I never had these problems when I was single!

"Yai, Gray-Eyes! You ready?"

"Coming, Kivan," she called, and headed down along the stone course, feeling the
Torchholder's eyes in her back, like spears without lightning.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have let you  sleep through that," Harran said to the  man
he had been cutting. "But with the wound so deep in the hand, if you were asleep
and I hit a nerve,  we would never have known  it, and the hand might  have been
useless an hour later, though the poison was out."

The joiner-Harran  had forgotten  his name,  as he  always forgot  his patients'
names-groaned a little and eased himself up to sit, his wife helping him. Harran
turned  away for  a moment,  busying himself  with cleaning  his tools  and  not
noticing his surroundings. He  had been a priest,  used to clean, open  temples,
fresh air, scrubbed tables, light. Cutting someone on a kitchen table that until
five minutes ago had had chicken  dung on it was not unusual-not  anymore-but he
would never like it.

The few chickens in the mean  little hut walked about the floor,  scratching and
singing, oblivious to the blood and pain  of the last half hour. The joiner  had
driven a nail through his hand while  working, and had yanked the thing out  and
thrown  it away,  going on  with what  he had  been doing.  Then the  wound  had
festered, and  there were  signs of  the beginning  of lockjaw  when Harran  had
finally been called in. He had had to run like a madman down to the flats by the
river for the  plant to make  the lockjaw potion;  luckily, even now,  the small
medicinal magics seemed to work-and then,  once that was in the joiner,  and the
poor man was flushed  and sweating from its  effects, then came the  cutting. He
had never been terribly  fond of that part  of any surgery, but  the suppurating
wound had to be  drained. It was drained,  though it nearly turned  his stomach,
which was saying something.

Now the hand was  bound with clean linen,  and Harran's tools were  clean and in
their satchel. The  man's head was  lolling to one  side, an aftereffect  of the
lockjaw remedy. Timidly, his  wife came to Harran  and offered him a  handful of
coppers. She tried to be nonchalant about it, but it was too plain from her eyes
that they were all she and her man had. Harran considered, took one, for  form's
sake, and then professed great interest in one of the chickens, a rather scrawny
red hen  that looked  good for  soup, if  nothing else.  "How about her, eh?" he
said. "Looks like there's nice pickings on her."

The  joiner's  wife  saw instantly  what  Harran  was trying  to  do,  and began
protesting. But the protests were feeble, and after a while Harran walked out of
the hut with a  copper, and a copper-colored  chicken, and blessings raining  on
his back. He  walked as fast  as he could  out of that  particular comer of  the
Maze. It was always the blessings that embarrassed him the most.

The only good  thing about them,  Harran thought as  he made his  way toward the
Bazaar, was  that they  made it  unnecessary for  him to  cry his  wares like  a
streethawker. In the  old days, as  Siveni's priest, people  had known where  to
come  for healing,  and had  done so  without any  fuss. Even  in the  Stepsons'
barracks, they had known. It had galled him, after the return from hell, to have
to go hunting the sick and injured like some grave robber in a hurry....

Graves.... It  was a  thought. There  was an  old friend  he had  not seen since
shortly after he got back  from hell. He began a  detour, and stopped in a  wine
shop for a pot of cheap red, then headed across town toward the chamel house.

The day was leaning toward noon; the sun bumed down and the streets stank  under
it. What did I ever see in this  foul place? he wondered as he went. The  answer
was plain enough; Siveni's  priesthood, which had been  all the life he  wanted.
But then the  priesthood was banished  as Molin Torchholder  went systematically
about making the smaller  Ilsig gods unwelcome. Then  he had started making  the
best of  things, working  with the  Stepsons, and  with their poor replacements,
until the real ones  came down on the  stand-ins' barracks and slaughtered  them
wholesale.

And Harran with them.

Alive again now,  in a new  body, he had  rather hoped that  the memory of being
dead would go away. Instead it got stronger. Images of hell laid themselves pale
and chill over  daylight Sanctuary-the cold-smoking  river, the silences  broken
only  by  the abstracted  moaning  of the  sleepwalking  damned. More  remotely,
through the  bond he  shared with  Siveni and  Mriga, and  even with Tyr, he saw
things he had never seen himself. The  great black pile of the palace of  hell's
rulers;  hell's gate  burst inward  by a  spear that  sizzled with   lightnings;
Ischade  the terrible,  coolly leading  them down  the path  into darkness;  Tyr
flying in splendid rage at the throat  of a monster ten times her size.  And one
image, brief but clear, of the cold black marble floor of that dark palace  seen
as if by one who groveled upon it... while just out of eyeshot, Siveni's  bright
helm rolled on  the floor where  it had slipped  off her as  she bowed her proud
power down, begging for Harran's life.

For him... all that done for him. He  could never get used to it. And no  matter
how many times Mriga and Siveni  protested that it was nothing, that  they would
do it again, he could not believe them. Oh, they believed it when they said  it.
But their faces from day to day, as Siveni came home looking drawn and grim from
the job she  had made for  herself, as Mriga  looked at her  goddess-sister with
pity, and at Harran with helpless, slightly sorrowful love-their faces  betrayed
them. They were  exiled from the  heaven where they  belonged, and condemned  to
this wretched hole of a town, for his sake.

There must be something I could do, he thought.

The breath went out of him in  annoyance as he sighted the enamel house  not far
away. He had been  something of a sorcerer  once; most of the  priests of Siveni
had been, since there was as much use for magic in the healing and building arts
as anywhere else.  But since Stonnbringer  arrived, all other  gods' powers were
diminished-that was half his problem-and after the globes were destroyed, spells
tended to fall to pieces or produce unlikely results.

Just ahead of him, a small ragged man crouched in an alleyway, wearing a furtive
look. He glanced up at Harran, looked very cautiously around him, and whispered,
"Dust? You want some dust, mister?"

Harran stopped  and glared  at the  dustmonger, who  shifted uneasily  under the
stare. "I don't want  anything of Storm-bringer's," he  said. "As if that  stuff
does anything ... which it doesn't." And he brushed past and made for the chamel
house.

The amazing smell of the place  briefly drove everything, even his annoyance  at
the dustmonger,  out of  his head.  Farmers came  from all  over to  get at  its
muckheap, and barbers and surgeons came here for corpses to practice on.  Harran
had other reasons. He  choked his way through  the long low building  and prayed
for his nose to turn itself off quickly.

Close to the end  of the building, by  the big pickling vats  where innards were
thrown  until  they could  be  buried, he  found  Grian. Grian  had  worked with
Siveni's priests in the old  days, supplying corpses for their  anatomy classes,
and he knew the last of Siveni's priests in Sanctuary rather better than  Harran
wanted to admit. He looked Harran up  and down, noted the winepot under one  arm
and the chicken under the other, and  a look of dull delight came into  his eye.
He tossed the paunching knife he was using to the slab where his present project
lay, and said,  "Lad, where you  been this month  and more? Thought  you'd died.
Again."

Harran had to laugh. "Not sure I could."

Grian moved his big red-headed bulk  over to a bench where jars  with secondhand
stomachs and intestines were waiting  for the sausagemakers. He pushed  the jars
off to the side, and  Harran sat down next to  him and offered him the  winepot.
The chicken, released, fell  to scratching with great  interest in the straw  on
the floor.

They spent a little while just drinking in companionable silence. Finally: "Home
life keeping you busy?" Grian said.

"Not home so much. Work. There are  too many sick people in this town,  and only
one of me." He took another drink. "Same as usual. You?"

"Business, business." Grian waved around him, where ten other men and women were
handling the  day's supply  of dead  bodies. "Had  to hire  on more help for the
summer. Putting in  a new muckpit,  too, 'n' a  new ossuary. Old  one's full up.
Muckpit kept overflowing. Neighbors complained." Grian laughed, a rough cheerful
sound, though Harran noticed  that his friend didn't  breathe too deeply in  the
process.  "They piffles,  they're ruffling  about trying  to get  the better  of
things again. No good. They kill somebody now and the noble-folk, the Imperials,
everybody 'n' his brother comes down on 'em like bricks. Half the people in here
are piffles this  morning. Arrowshot, knifed,  you name it.  People in the  city
gettin' tired of them. About time, I say."

Harran agreed, passed the winepot back. Grian took a long one. "This new  body,"
he said, elbowing Harran genially in  the ribs, "working OK? Eh? Be  interesting
to get inside it one day, see what makes it tick."

Harran smiled again. Grian's  humor never strayed far  from his work. "I  wonder
myself, sometimes."

"Don't  hold  with such  things  myself," Grian  said  in cheerful  disapproval.
"Magic, eh, who needs it? Hear it's gone sour, and good riddance to it. So  many
magicians in  this town,  man can't  spit without  hittin' one.  Unnatural. City
should have done something long time ago.  But now they don't have to, eh?  They
got other problems." Grian swigged at the pot again. "They puttin' less in these
than they used to. Your gray-eyed lady-hear she and Molin are getting  friendly.
Work crew  brought down  some more  heart-seizes from  the Wall  today, saw  her
sitting there in his fine tent, drinking his wine."

Harran's  heart turned  over in  him. Not  jealousy-of course  not-but  concern.
Through the  bond among  them she  could feel,  too often,  a clear  cool regard
turned on Molin Torchholder, a  sense of vast amusement, vast  satisfaction. And
Siveni held a grudge  better than anyone else  alive. "Eh," Grian said,  nudging
him again. "You be careful, huh? Life's hard enough."

"Grian," Harran said, surprising himself-perhaps it was the wine-"have you  ever
been in a situation where you got everything you wanted, everything-and then you
found out it's no good?"

Grian looked in mild perplexity at Harran and scratched his head. "Been so  long
since I got anything I wanted," he  said softly, "I couldn't say, I'm sure.  You
got trouble at home?"

"Sort  of,"  said Harran,  and  held himself  quiet  by main  force  for several
minutes, letting Grian drink.  He had started this  whole thing. The thought  of
bringing an Ilsig goddess back into the world to set things to rights, that  had
been his idea. And the  later, crazier idea of  serving that goddess  personally
the stuff of fantasies-had been his idea,  too. His idea it had been to  bring a
little knife-whetting  idiot-stray home  from the  Bazaar as  servant and casual
bedwarmer. Now the idiot was sane, and not very happy; and the goddess was here,
and mortal, and  even less happy;  and his dog  was in hell,  and though she was
fairly happy, she missed him-and he missed her fiercely. And Harran himself  was
not completely mortal any more, and was also the cause of all of them having the
promise of heaven snatched out from under their noses. His fault, all his fault.
In this world where death wins all the fights and things run down, his fantasies
had accomplished themselves and then promptly turned into muck.

Something had to be done.

Something would be done. He would do it.

"I have to go," he said. "Keep the wine."

"Hey, hey, what  about these cord-twins  here I been  saving in pickle  for you?
Fastened together in the funniest place, now you come look a moment-"

But Harran was already gone.

"Here  now,"  Grian  shouted  after him,  rather  hopelessly,  "you  forgot your
chicken!"

Grian sighed, finished the wine, and picked up his paunch-ing knife again.

"Oh, well. Soup tonight. Eh, chickie?"

The three did not meet at lunchtime,  and dinner turned out to be very  late. It
was midnight when Siveni came in, all  over dust and grime, and sat down  at the
table with one short leg and stared at it moodily. Mriga and Harran were in bed.
She ignored them.

"Eat something, for pity's  sake," Harran said from  under the covers. "It's  on
the kettlehook."

"I am not hungry," Siveni said.

"Then do come to bed," said Mriga.

"I don't want that either."

Harran and Mriga looked at one another in mild astonishment. "That's a first."

Siveni shrugged off her goatskin and threw  it over a chair. "What's the use  of
losing my virginity," she said, "if I keep getting it back every morning?"

"Some people would kill for that," said Mriga.

"Not me. It  hurts, and it's  getting to be  a bore. If  I'd known what  being a
virgin goddess was going to  mean down here, I would  have gone out for being  a
fertility deity instead."

Mriga sat up  in bed, wrapped  a sheet around  her, and swung  her legs over the
edge. "Siveni," she said, very quietly, "has it occurred to you that maybe we're
not really goddesses anymore?"

Siveni looked up,  not at Mriga,  but at the  poor mouldering mural,  where Eshi
danced in her  gauze, and Us  was godly-splendid, and  everything was youth  and
luxury and divine merriment. The look was deadly. "Then why," Siveni said,  just
as quietly, "do  we share this  wretched heartbond, like  good trinities do,  so
that all day I can hear you both thinking how unhappy you are, and how sorry for
me you are, and how you miss the dog, and how we're trapped here forever?"

Harran sat up, too,  tossing the other end  of the sheet across  his lap. "We're
something new, I think,"  he said. "A mixture.  Divine without being in  heaven,
mortal without-"

"I want to go back."

The words fell into silence.

"After this job," she said.  "Harran, I'm sony. I'm  not one of those  dying-and
rebom gods who makes the corn come up, and shuttles back and forth between being
mortal and divine; I'm just not! It's not working for me! I've been fighting it,
but the truth is that I was made for a place where my thought becomes fact in  a
second, where I shine, where I'm worth praying to. I was made to have power. And
now I don't have it, and you're all suffering for my lack." She sat down against
the table. It shifted under her weight, and the broken bit of dish propping  the
short leg crunched and broke with a sound that made them all start.

"I've got to go back," she said; Mriga looked unhappily at her. "How?" she said.
"Nothing's working. You can't make so much as heat lightning these days."

"No," Siveni said. "But have we tried anything really large?"

"After what happened to Ischade..."

Siveni  shrugged,  a  cold  gesture.  "She  has  her  own  problems.  They don't
necessarily apply to us."

"And Stormbringer..." Harran said.

Siveni cursed. The dust on the table began to smoke slightly with the  vehemence
of it. Siveni  noticed it and  smiled, approving. "Come  on, Harran," she  said.
"The situation was no different when you called me out of heaven, and  Savankala
and the wretched Rankene gods were  running things. You brought me out  in their
despite. This new  god is too  busy chasing Mother  Bey to care  a whit about us
hedge-gods." The smile took on a bitter cast. "And why should He care what we're
doing? We'd be  leaving his silly  city, not meddling  with it further.  I think
He'll be glad to see the back of us."

"We," Harran said, and looked sober all of a sudden.

Both Mriga and Siveni looked at him in shock. "Surely you'd be coming with  us,"
Mriga said.

Harran said nothing for a moment.

"Harran!"

"There is  nothing here  for you,"  Siveni said.  "You've thought  it a  hundred
times, you've cried about it when you thought we don't notice. You've seen hell,
you've glimpsed heaven  through us; how  can mortal things  possibly satisfy you
anymore? Any more than they satisfy me? Or you," she said, looking at Mriga.

Mriga stared at the floor.

"Come on!" Siveni said, sounding a  touch desperate. "You were bom a  clubfooted
idiot, you  went through  a whole  life being  used as  a slave or a pincushion,
living like a beast-and  what do you do  that's better now? You  grind knives in
the Bazaar as you always did, and  take a little copper for it, but  where's the
joy in that?  Where's the life  you were going  to lead with  him in the  Fields
Beyond? All the peace, the joy? You expect that in Sanctuary?"

Harran and Mriga looked at each other. "There's something to be said for  life,"
Harran said, as if  doubting the words as  they came out. "In  heaven everything
bends to suit you. Here, you bend-but you come back stronger sometimes-"

"Or you break," said Siveni.

Silence. The firelight and candlelight wavered on the mural; Eshi seemed to sway
a little.

"I'm going back," Siveni said. "I know the spells. I wrote them. And you two-are
you going to  sit here and  be miserable for  all your short  lives, on the  off
chance that it'll make you stronger?"

Mriga let out a long breath. "Harran?"

His eyes were for Siveni, as they had been so many times before, in statuary  or
the flesh. "I wanted you," he said.

They waited.

"It does seem  selfish to want  it all my  way," he said.  "All right. We'll try
it."

Mriga sat back down on the bed.  Siveni shifted her weight again, and again  the
table crunched and sagged.

"When will the Wall be done?" Harran said.

"Weeks yet," Siveni said, looking thoughtful. "It must be done before the  frost
sets in, or the mortar won't set.  But they have the plans. They hardly  need me
to complete them." And she began to laugh softly, so that the table creaked.

Harran and Mriga exchanged looks. "You have to have known," Siveni said.  "There
are passages hidden in those walls  already, alterations I made in the  building
that don't show in the plans. The  wall is as full of holes as  a bubble-cheese.
No one knows-not even Molin. I was most careful. He'll think himself all secure,
and until I choose to  put the word in some  oracle's ear, he will be.  But that
day-let Sanctuary look to its walls."

"Well," Harran said, "one thing only. What about Tyr? She's in hell. No one  can
go there anymore, from what I hear."

"But people can  come out," Siveni  said. "She's of  us. Where we  go, she'll go
also, if she wants."

It seemed  likely enough.  "At any  rate," said  Siveni, "I  shan't wait for the
walls. All the work that I needed  to handle myself is done. Let's get  together
the things we need and be  gone tomorrow night. Not the mandrake  spell, Harran.
The older one, that  you didn't have materials  for the last time-  the one that
uses bread and wine and a god's blood. There'll be no accidents this time. We'll
storm heaven, and settle  down once and for  all, and leave this  poxhole to its
own devices."

Harran shuddered once.

Mriga sighed and climbed back into the bed. "Come and get some rest, then,"  she
said.

"Oh, all right," said Siveni, looking at them both with a lighter expression. It
became apparent that rest was suddenly not on her mind.

Harran's ironic young face got lighter,  too. He slid under the sheet  and said,
"Well, since it is my last night on earth..."

Siveni threw her chlamys over his head and put the candles out.

The old Temple of Siveni Gray-Eyes, near  one end of the Avenue of Temples,  was
not  what  it once  had  been. Its  brazen  doors, struck  down  by its  annoyed
patroness's  spear,  had been  taken  away and  melted  down as  scrap.  Its old
storerooms  had been  looted, first  by its  last priest,  then by  everyone  in
Sanctuary  who could  not resist  an open  door. Even  the great  gold-and-ivory
statue of Siveni, armed and armored  in splendor, had been stolen. Glass  lay in
bright shards on the dirty floor, fallen from the high windows; spiders  wrought
in every comer, and rats rustled here and there. There were fire-scorches in the
comers from squatters' fires, and the bones of roast pigeons and cats.

Also still there, visible by the light  of their one shuttered lamp, was an  old
round diagram traced on  the floor in something  black-bitumen, to judge by  the
scrape marks where curious feet had kicked at it through a year's time.  Curious
signs and letters and numbers in old languages were scribed smudgily there,  and
there was a  brownish mark in  the middle on  the white marble,  as if blood had
been shed.

Harran  put the  lamp down,  being sure  its shutter  was open  no more  than  a
hairsbreadth, and  turned away  from the  street. "I  wish the  doors were still
here," he said.

Siveni sniffed, putting down the bag she had been carrying. "Late for that now,"
she said. "Let's be about our business; it will take a while as is."

Mriga stepped up behind them and put down another bag, quietly beginning to  son
through its contents. "The wine was something of a problem," she said.  "Siveni,
you owe me two in silver."

"What?"

"I thought we were splitting this expense three ways." Siveni somehow managed to
look indignant, even when there was no  light to do it in. "You goose,  we don't
need money where we're going! I'll make you a whole house out of silver when  we
get there."

"Deadbeat."

Harran began to laugh softly. "Stop it. What kind did you get?"

"Wizardwall red," she said. "A half-bottle each of wine of our age. Enough?"

"Plenty. The wineseller say anything?"

"I told him it was for a birthday party. What about the bread?"

"It rose. You needn't have worried about the yeast. The worst part was  grinding
the wretched stuff. I think it's going to have pebbles in it from the flints."

The gongs of one of the temples down the way spoke midnight, a somber word  that
echoed in the summer-night stillness. There  was no breath of wind tonight,  and
the heat  seemed to  have gotten  greater after  the sun  sent down, rather than
less. A  fat bloated  moon, gibbous  and a  day from  full, was riding high, its
pallid light slanting down through the shattered windows and striking  gemlights
from the broken glass on the floor. Echoes tinkled down from the high ceiling as
Siveni kicked the stuff aside.

Harran looked up, brushing away a piece of glass that Siveni had kicked at  him.
"Siveni-are you really sure this is going to work?"

She looked at  him haughtily. "All  those spells that  have gone awry  have been
done by mere practitioners of magic. Not authors of it. I helped Father Us write
this spell; I  taught the bread  and wine what  to mean. All  the dying gods who
come back to heaven on a regular basis swear by it. Really, Harran, we'll  never
make a decent mage out of you if you don't learn to trust your materials."

"Have you ever actually done the  spell? Yourself?" Mriga said under her  breath
as she got a rag out of her bag and began scrubbing some of the old markings off
the floor.

"Not myself. I  gave it to  Shils to test;  it worked all  right. In fact,  they
started to wish in heaven that I  hadn't given it to him. He's a  terrible bore,
and now there's  no getting rid  of him. Throw  him out of  heaven and a  second
later he's back."

They worked in  silence for a  few minutes, Harran  laying out the  bread, Mriga
finishing her  scrubbing, then  uncorking the  wine and  setting out the various
cups into  which it  would have  to be  poured by  thirds and  mixed with blood,
Siveni writing with a bit of yellow chalk inside one of the areas that Mriga had
cleaned off.  At one  point she  stopped and  looked critically  at one graceful
phrase. "I never did like that letter after I invented it," she said, "but after
Us sent it out to men, it was too late to call the wretched thing back."

Mriga sat back on her heels and laughed at her almost-sister. "Is there anything
you didn't invent?"

"The rotgut they distill in the back of the Unicorn. That's all Anen's fault."

A few  minutes' more  work and  they stood  up, finished.  "Well enough," Siveni
said. "Are you sure of the words?"

They could hardly avoid  it, being in some  ways Siveni themselves, and  hearing
her mind nearly as clearly as their own, at the moment.

"Then let's be  about it. The  sooner I see  the inside of  my house again,  the
happier I'll be."

"Our house," said Mriga, in a warning tone.

Siveni began to laugh. "Harran, we used to have the best fights-the house  would
change its nature every other minute. How the neighbor gods stared...." Her eyes
flashed, even  in that  light so  dim as  to make  expression impossible.  For a
moment Harran  looked at  her and  saw again  the crazed  hoyden goddess  he had
fallen in  love with;  and Mriga  smiled, remembering  many fights  won best two
falls out of three, while the  noise scandalized the divine neighbors. "If  this
works..." she said.

"If?" Siveni reached out for the bread. "Give me that."

They took their  places. The diagram  was a triangle  within a hexagon  within a
circle, and other lesser figures were traced in the apertures. At each point  of
the triangle they  stood, each with  a cup and  a small round  loaf of bread  in
front of them-  the cup washed  in wine and  upended, the bread  baked in a fire
struck by the same  flints that ground its  grain. In the center  stood an empty
cup, this one of  glass. If all went  well, at the end  of all this it  would be
cracked and they would never hear the sound; the heavens would have cracked open
for them at the same moment.

"I call, who have the right to call," Siveni said, not too loudly. "Powers above
and below, hear me; powers of every bourne; shapes and strengths unshapen. Night
and Day Her sister;  steeds of mom and  evening, you forces that  clip the great
world round about; all thoughts and  knowledges that live in elements; hear  now
my words, the law laid down, the rule enforced, the balance set aright..."

Harran was beginning to  be upset. He knew  this spell by reputation,  though it
was one that the younger priests had never been let near. He knew perfectly well
that even now, at the first invocation, terrible quiet should have fallen around
them, all light  should have been  extinguished, even the  cold moonfire falling
through the window should  have hit the en-sorcelled  marble and gone dark.  But
none of that was happen-ing.

"... new law, part with  the Worlds and parcel; for  I that was of times  beyond
and fields beyond,  now go again  unto my own.  Death has taken  hold on me, and
failed; life has run my veins, and failed; and having conquered both, now I will
to journey once again where time moves not, where the Bright Mansions stand, and
my place is prepared me among the Deathless as of old..."

There were rats watching them from the walls. No living thing outside the circle
should have been able to be  so close to the wards without  falling unconscious.
Harran sweated harder. Did I  put too much honey in  the bread? Did one of  them
misdraw something... ?

"... and all Powers I call to witness  as I open the gates for my going,  by the
means ordained of Them of old. By this bread baked in its own fires, as my  body
lives and is fueled of its own burning,  I do call Them to witness; that by  its
eating, it becomes of me, and myself of it, in the old circle that is the way of
gods, and both become immortal forever more..."

They all  three took  up their  loaves of  bread and  began to  eat them. Harran
reassured himself that there  was not too much  honey in the bread.  In fact, it
had risen rather nicely. In the great silence left after he had eaten the little
cake, he noticed abruptly how very silent it was getting-

"And likewise behold ye this wine of my age, burning under the sun in the  grape
as my blood has burned in lifelight in  my veins all my days of this world,  and
turned to wine of its own virtue  as the blood and thought of mortalkind  tumeth
to the divine of its virtue and in its time. Now do I drink and make it so  part
of me, and myself part of it, both alike immortal ..."

Harran drank the lovely old vintage, reassured, feeling it slide down his throat
like velvet fire as the spell took, made it more than wine, in token of his  and
the others being more than merely mortal. Across the circle, Siveni made a  face
at the taste of wine only nine months  old; Harran was hard put not to grin  and
spill his own.  The silence was  thick. At the  sides of the  great room, frozen
eyes shone dulled in the spell-light that was rising about them. Harran's  heart
grew fierce inside him.  It was going to  work. Those bright fields  that he had
glimpsed, that long peace, that eternity to love in, to work in, to be more than
mortal in-his, theirs, at last-

"... and these tokens offered up,  these rites enacted," Siveni said, her  voice
becoming temfyingly clear though she had not raised it a whit, "as last sign  of
my intent I offer up my blood, come of gods in the olden time, returned to  them
at  last; wherein  godhead resides  past time  or loss,  and wherein  it may  be
regained..."

They stepped forward, all  three. The night held  its breath as Mriga  picked up
the cup, half full of a mixture of  the three wines of their age. From her  belt
she slipped out her leaner knife. It gleamed like a live thing in the spellfire,
and throbbed as if it had a heart. Siveni put up her arm.

"... that we may drink of it, as the law has always been, as I have made it, and
so be restored to our own. By this token let gates be opened to us..." She never
flinched as the knife slit  her wrist the short way,  as the blood ran down  and
into the wine. "... let night and day  part for us, let time die for us;  let it
be done!"

She passed Harran the cup. He  drank, thinking to ignore the taste,  and finding
that it was more as if the taste ignored him; the liquid in the cup was full  of
such  power  that his  senses  drowned in  it.  He staggered,  seeking  light or
balance,  finding neither.  He felt  as transparent  as its  glass. Blindly   he
reached out, felt Mriga take the cup from him. He felt her own drowning as if it
were his. Then Siveni took it, and drained it; the great uprushing clarity  that
leapt into her mind was a blinding  thing, and Harran nearly fell to his  knees.
He thought  he had  seen the  heavens. He  saw now  how wrong  he was. Something
clutched at him: Mriga. He  held onto her slender arms  as if she were the  last
connection to reality. He was seeing things now, though not with the eyes. Other
eyes there were, that watched them all from within the circle; not dull  beasts'
eyes like the stupefied rats', but eyes that danced and were glad, and glowed in
a small dog's head, waiting for them to break through to touch the owner-

"Let all be open," Siveni  cried, "let the way be  prepared for us; we pass!  We
pass!" And Harran felt her lift the  cup, to dash it against the written  marble
and open the way; and he felt her hesitate; and he felt her sway.

His eyes were working again, much against their will. There was moonlight  where
there should not  have been, and  Siveni stood bemused,  looking at her  wounded
arm, watching the blood run down.

"It's wrong," she said. "It shouldn't hurt."

And she fell to the floor, and the cup went flying out of the circle and crashed
in the wrong spot, all its virtue spilled in a black pool under the moon.

Harran fell down beside her. The edges  of the wound were dark and inflamed.  He
looked at Mriga in horror. "The knife..."

"Poison," she said, her face in anguish. "But it never left me all day-"

"Yesterday," Harran said.

In Mriga's shocked mind he saw the  young man, with his knife with death  in it.
One of the Torchholder's spies.

They started up  in horror together,  neither sparing more  than a look  for the
fair  young form  of Siveni,  that had  lived thousands  of years  as an   Ilsig
goddess, and  had now  had those  thousands of  years catch  up with  her in one
withering second.

That was  when the  silvertipped arrows  came whistling  in, and  feathered them
both. They fell.

When the backwash of the spell had died down a bit, in behind his men came Molin
Torchholder, who missed nothing in  this city, especially nothing done  by those
whom mere  silly love  made careless.  Stormbringer, too,  was not quite settled
yet, and  had spoken  a word  in his  ear about  rogue deities climbing over his
walls, in one direction or another. Molin carefully broke the circle, kicked the
shattered glass of the cup of blood and wine about, and nudged with his toe  the
skin-and-bones body of his erstwhile architect.

"I do wish people  wouldn't try to cheat  me," he said. "Idiots,  anyway, trying
spells anymore. Nothing of this intensity works right."

With a sigh he  turned. "Clean up this  mess," he said to  one of his men,  "and
tomorrow detach a work detail and raze this place. We can use the stone."

Then  he  went  away  to  get  some  sleep.  He  had  a  long  day  tomorrow, on
Stormbringer's business.

His men took the bodies away to the chamel house and left the place in darkness.
One thing they did not take: one  small form, wholly there now, in the  darkness
of the shadows beyond the moon; a shape like a small delicate dog, with too many
lives sitting behind her eyes.

Tyr  snarled,  and  got up,  and  walked  out into  the  night  to consider  her
vengeance.

SANCTUARY NOCTURNE

Lynn Abbey

Walegrin had his back to Sanctuary-vulnerable, unconcerned. One foot rested on a
broken-off piling;  his folded  forearms rested  on his  upraised knee. His eyes
were empty, staring at the still, starlit harbor, watching for the faint  ripple
that might mean a breeze coming up.

A thick blanket of sun-steamed air had  clung to the city these last four  days.
Last winter they-the powers  in the palace-had  told him to  paint false  plague
signs along the streets. Then, in a dry spring, pestilence had erupted from  the
stagnant sewers and only luck, or divine intervention, had saved Sanctuary  from
a  purging.  Now, as  the  dank, foul  air  leeched vitality  from  every living
creature, plague season had come in earnest and the nabobs were worried. Worried
so much that they fled from the palace and their townhouses to outlying estates,
some no more than Ilsigi ruins, to  await a change in the wind. Improvements  to
the city's long-neglected ramparts  had ground to a  halt, as stone, brick,  and
work-gangs were openly diverted to providing comfort and security to those  rich
enough, or powerful enough, to afford it.

But if plague did break out, their walls, atriums, and shaded verandas  wouldn't
protect them. So they told him,  the garrison commander, to keep the  guards out
and alert. His men grumbled, preferring to slouch over a desultory dice game  in
the barracks, but he welcomed a chance  to get away from the walls that  trapped
the heat of summer as surely as they did the frigid dampness of winter.

Sanctuary itself was quiet. No one was moving an unnecessary muscle. The  Street
of Red Lanterns, which he had patrolled, had been almost deserted. Few men would
pay to touch sweat-slicked flesh on a night like this.

It was ironic, in  a way, that after  a year or more  of wizard-witched weather,
the Street talk  was about the  failure of magic.  Most of the  brothels-the big
houses like the  Aphrodisia, anyway-usually bought  cool night breezes  from the
journeymen up at  the Mageguild, but  this summer (a  summer that was  really no
worse than any  other) the  big magic-banded  doors stayed  shut and  the Hazard
mages, when they were  seen at all, were  sweating through their robes  like any
common laborer.

Rumor said the worst was over and the magic was coming back, though only to  the
strongest, or the  cursed, and as  yet too unpredictable  to sell at  any price.
Rumor said a  lot of things,  but Walegrin, who  did Molin Torchholder's  direct
bidding,  got the  truth of  them sometimes.  Stormbringer's pillar,  which  had
purged Sanctuary of  its dead and  deadly, had sucked  away the ether  that made
magic work. It would be a dog's year before Sanctuary's Mageguild sold  anything
but charlatan spells or prestidigitation regardless of the hazardous ranking  of
its residents.

The black  harbor water  diffracted into  diamonds of  starlight; a breeze moved
whisper-weak across the wharf. The  ragged-eared cats with slitted sickly  green
eyes were stretched out along the damp planks. A mouse, or young rat,  skittered
up a mooring rope past  a cat that didn't care  enough to twitch its tail.  If a
man held still, like  the cats-breathing slow, keeping  his mind as calm  as the
water-he could forget the  .heat and slip into  a timeless daze that  was almost
pleasant.

Walegrin sought that oblivion  and it eluded him.  He was a Rankan  soldier, the
garrison commander, self-charged with patrolling the city. Such pride as he  had
stemmed from his  ability to fulfill  his duties. So  his mind churned  forward,
pursuing the thoughts he'd  lost before sunset. He  had an appointment to  keep:
the true reason why tonight, more than any other, he rather than one of his  men
was making the rounds of Sanctuary's alleys.

The summer had seen a change in the city's social fabric that was as profound as
it had been unexpected: Official  protection had been extended to,  and accepted
by, the besieged remnants of the PFLS after their leader was betrayed and nearly
killed within the palace walls.  Gutter-fighters like Zip, whose lives  had been
measured  in hours  and minutes  at the  season's beginning,  now dwelt  in  the
Stepson barracks beyond Downwind and sweated hot and cold under the tutelage  of
Tempus's lieutenants.

And the cause of this change? None other than Prince Kadakithis's  once-favorite
cousin  and  Molin's never-favored  niece:  Chenaya Vigeles,  a  young woman  of
considerable talent and  little sense. A  young woman who  had propositioned him
with treason and upon whom, with the knowledge and permission of his  superiors,
Walegrin now spied.

Once, not so long ago, he had discounted the influence of women both in his  own
life and  in the  greater realities  of the  universe; then  he had  returned to
Sanctuary. In this gods-  and magic-cursed place, the  worst always came from  a
woman's hand. He'd learned  to hold his tongue  and his liquor with  women whose
naked breasts  stared back  at him;  women whose  eyes glowed  red with immortal
anger and women  whose love-play left  a man dead  in the dawn  light-and all of
them were saner than Chenaya.

Rumor said, and the Torch confirmed, that she was favored of Savankala  himself.
Rumor said  she couldn't  lose, whatever  that meant,  because she  and the  few
frightened  remnants  of an  unlamented  Imperial dynasty  had  fled the  Rankan
capital after Theron's takeover and wound  up here in Sanctuary which had  never
been known to  attract anything  or anyone  but losers.  But it  meant something
Walegrin knew that personally. And out at the Land's End estate, where she lived
with her father,  a small horde  of gladiators, and  the disaffected members  of
what had been the city's Rankan  upper crust, there was a god-bugged  priest who
was determined to make a mortal goddess of her.

He'd seen the shrine Rashan was building, with stones pilfered not only from the
ramparts but from  long-neglected, best-forgotten altars.  He'd passed the  word
along to Molin and watched his mentor seethe with rage, but he hadn't managed to
pass along the danger-the awesomeness-he felt  when Rashan made his  Daughter-of
the-Sun speeches or when Chenaya took him into her confidence and arms.

The water diffracted again,  broken as a school  of minnows scattered through  a
larger, slow-spreading circular ripple. Walegrin shed his reverie and  stretched
himself erect. His leather baldric, all  he wore above the waist, slimed  across
his spine; the illusion of equilibrium  between his flesh and the air  vanished.
He wiped  the sweat-sheen  from his  forehead then  wiped his  hand on  the limp
homespun of his  kilt. A nya-fish  spread its fins,  arching above the  water to
outrace the fleeing minnows. Walegrin slid the baldric into position and  turned
back to the city.

If there  was an  afterlife, if  Sanctuary wasn't  hell itself,  then maybe he'd
spend eternity as a nya-fish chasing minnows. At least fish didn't sweat.

The narrow, convoluted streets of the Maze held the heat. Turning down Odd Bin's
Dodge, Walegrin passed through invisible walls of hot, stagnant air. He  sniffed
the air, thought about plague, and knew  he'd have to send men in here  to check
the alleys for bodies come morning. From up on the rooftops, he heard the sounds
that said love, or  lust, had gained a  momentary victory over the  weather, but
otherwise the Maze was uncommonly quiet for this hour.

Hand on his  sword, he backed  into a portico  and put his  shoulder against the
half-hinged door.  Picking his  way across  the rubble-strewn  floor of what had
been, until  recently, one  of the  PFLS safe-houses,  he approached  the window
casement, leaning away from  the gray starlight, and  tried to guess what  route
Kama would use to reach their rendezvous.

Kama.

Buoyed by the heat, Walegrin's mind drifted back in time and a few hundred yards
deeper into the Maze;  back to Tick's Cross  and another night almost  as hot as
this one when he'd taken the midnight  patrol. The night he'd agreed to let  Zip
live-at least until Tempus had ridden beyond Sanctuary's new gates.

He'd heard the horse first, moving too fast through the rutted muck that  passed
for paving stones hereabout, and  made his way to the  cross in time to see  its
rider go ass over elbow to the ground. The horse was well-trained and came to  a
shame-faced stop not five paces from its motionless rider. Walegrin grabbed  the
loose reins and led it back to the moonlit intersection.

Kama lay  on her  back, knees  splayed and  angled up-a  posture more becoming a
whore than a 3rd Commando assassin.  Walegrin had looked only long enough  to be
sure it was her before turning discreetly, uncomfortably, away.

"It would be you. That's twice-damnit all," the husky voice had said,  reminding
him of the time his men had hauled her out of a malodorous cistern. "I've killed
better men for less."

He had stared at her, knowing the  absolute certainty of her claim and yet,  for
one wild, reckless moment  able to see the  absolute absurdity of her  position.
"Better for less?" he'd repeated in a bantering tone he used infrequently,  even
with his own men. "Better for less? Kama, either I'm the best or you'll have  to
kill me right now"-and immediately wished that someone had taken the trouble  to
cut his tongue out long ago.

But Kama,  absorbing the  picture she  presented, had  thrown her  head back and
laughed heartily at some private joke. She'd extended her filthy hand toward him
and, using him as a brace, jumped to her feet.

"Buy me a drink, Walegrin; buy me a tun of the sourest wine in the Maze and  you
can be the best."

They said magic had vanished from Sanctuary, but there was a cold, bright  spark
of magic that moment as they led the lame horse from Tick's Cross, Kama  listing
against his shoulder-her laughter a quaver short of hysteria.

Molin Torchholder trusted her, including  her in any strategy session  her other
duties  allowed  her to  attend,  and frequently  accepting  her opinions  about
Sanctuary's darker  byways without  question. She  had been  the one to convince
them to go  along with Tempus's  PFLS schemes when  he, Molin, and  half a dozen
others had demanded Zip's  last drop of blood.  But she was also  Molin's woman.
She shared his bed-and not simply because the Torch's betrothal offer had gotten
her out of  a tight spot  with the Stepsons.  There was genuine  passion between
them as  well as  a mutual  understanding of  intrigue that  gave anyone who had
known  either individually  a shiver  of apprehension  whenever they  were  seen
talking intensely to each other.

So Walegrin used  his privileged position  as a keeper  of Sanctuary's peace  to
wring not  sour wine,  but carefully  aged, wicker-wrapped  flasks of brandywine
from one  of the  town's better-off  innkeepers. Then,  still leading her horse,
they'd hiked beyond the walls to an abandoned estate, now occupied by one of the
Beysa's innumerable female cousins. She'd sluiced the worst of the muck off  her
leathers in  a still  icy stream  while he  got started  on the  first flask and
reminded himself ten times over that she was more dangerous than beautiful.

They'd talked until dawn:  bragging, swapping anecdotes, and  finally exchanging
the stories they'd sworn no other living soul would hear. Toward dawn, when  she
was lying on her back again, watching the stars fade, magic passed between  them
again; Walegrin could have  set aside his baldric  and undone the damp  laces of
her tunic. He forbore, contenting himself with one agonizingly chaste kiss as  a
red-gold sliver of sunlight flashed above the eastern horizon.

"I always  wanted a  brother," she'd  said in  a whisper  he wasn't  sure he was
supposed to hear.

There  was a  flicker of  motion on  the rooftops;  nothing he  could focus  on,
nothing that was  repeated, but he  knew she was  coming in from  above. Moments
later the stairs creaked softly and she stood opposite him in the starlight. The
supple leather of  her tunic hung  loosely from her  shoulders and her  face was
matte-shadowed.

"Puttering gods below-you're not even sweating!" he greeted her.

"There are places worse than Sanctuary-and I've lived in most of them."

"I spent five years with the Raggah on the Sun's Anvil-it wasn't as bad as  this
and I still sweat like a pig."

Kama laughed and slid down the  wall until her spine settled against  the floor.
"Say it's something I get from my father."

Walegrin, having once acknowledged that Tempus at his best was a heavier  burden
than his own father  had been at his  worst, redirected his conversation  to the
reason for  their meeting.  "It's getting  bad at  Land's End,  Kama. Since they
fished her out  of the  harbor Chenaya's  like one  of those  damned Beysib fire
bottles. She's got herself a head full of schemes and any one of them would  rip
us apart. The Torch's going to have to do something."

"He's going to  have to wait  his turn, isn't  he? Ischade's not  satisfied yet;
neither is Tempus and  the rest haven't even  launched their attacks. I  hear it
was Jubal's men that fished  her out and that he  gave her a lecture that  dried
the water right off her.  You know Molin; He's not  one to waste energy when  so
many others are willing to-"

"It's not just Chenaya, Kama, it's  Rashan, that pet priest of hers.  Rashan and
his crawling  little altar  out there.  He sits  out in  the heat  for hours and
stares  at Savankala's  shadow. He's  god-bugged-and he's  got no  love for  the
Torch."

"God-bugged?" she asked, her body tightening.

Walegrin stammered. It was his own phrase; one he'd first used for Molin himself
when Stormbringer had been after him. He used it to describe a man's face  after
the gods had been in  his mind-when he went about  his business as if a  nest of
fire-ants raced  under his  skin. When  he was  not only  unpredictable but nigh
invincible. Walegrin had witnessed those changes more than once and had only one
word for them: god-bugged.

"Yeah, god-bugged," Kama repeated after he had lapsed into silence. "Crit'd like
that; maybe I'll tell him sometime. You think Rashan's god-bugged, too?"

"Even if he isn't,  he's doing a good  job of convincing Chenaya  that she's got
the gods' own work to do in Sanctuary."

"Savankala's not all-powerful down here, you know," she reminded Walegrin.

"I didn't say Savankala. The frogging  priest's god-bugged. It could be any  one
of them. He's going out in the middle of the night stealing old stones from  who
knows where and piling them against his altar."

"You're starting  to sound  like Molin,"  Kama mused.  "All right,  I'll try  to
convince Molin to take Rashan seriously. Anything else?"

She pulled her legs in and started to rise.

"If he doesn't listen, we'll have to do something... ourselves."

Kama stopped in mid-ascent, her weight perfectly balanced on one bent leg,  then
sank gently back to the floor. "Like what?"

Walegrin swallowed hard, the  tension in his throat  bringing pain to his  ears.
"Like... take him out."

"Shit."

She stared past him. He hoped he had judged her right and she'd come to the same
conclusion he'd already  reached; hoped her  affection for and  loyalty to Molin
Torchholder  was strong  enough. She  laced her  fingers through  her hair  and,
unconsciously, brought it around as a curtain to hide her face as she thought.

"Yeah, if it comes to that. If."

Her hair fell back from her  face which reflected that faint starlight.  She was
sweating now and needed  to tug her tunic  away from sticky skin  like any other
mortal.

"How's your  sister, Walegrin?"  she asked,  sitting beside  him in the casement
now, seemingly eager to place some other thoughts in the front of her mind.

"The same, I guess."

Illyra had recovered from  her wounds better than  they had dreamed possible.  A
quick glance at her sitting under the shade of the forge awning and no one would
suspect that she had lain near death for over a week with a suppurating gouge in
her belly where the PFLS ax which  had slain her daughter had come to  rest. But
her spirit-that was another matter.

"She never smiles, Kama. There's only  two memories in her mind: the  day Lillis
died and the day the ship sailed for Bandara with Arton on it. It's gone  beyond
mourning."

"I tried to tell you both that in the spring."

The tension went out of Walegrin's neck; his chin slanted toward his breastbone.
It was a delicate subject among them. Molin had used his own fortune to  provide
for Illyra's healing and  when the seeress's mind  proved more injured than  her
body  he'd  prevailed upon  Kama's  near-legendary talent  for  dissimulation to
provoke the S'danzo's recovery. No one wanted to discuss it but it seemed likely
that Illyra's  damaged mind  had both  started and  then mercifully  aborted the
spring plague outbreak.

"And we didn't listen."  His voice was as  despairing as his half-sister's  ever
was.

Kama  twisted  her hair  through  her fist.  "Look,  I wasn't  sure,  either. It
bothered me that one woman, who  wouldn't ever hurt anybody, was suffering  more
than anyone else in this whole filthy, stinking town. Gods below, man, the  last
thing  I ever  want to  know is   my destiny-but  I'd belt  myself into  one  of
Rosanda's old gowns again and stand outside  that forge in the midday heat if  I
thought it'd make a difference-"

"But it won't. She's healed wrong-like Strat."

"Maybe another child,"  she mused,  ignoring Walegrin's  remark about  the stiff
shouldered Stepson. "It wouldn't make her forget-but she'd have one to care for,
to keep her going  from one day to  the next until she  didn't feel the pain  so
sharply."

The ebony-haired fighter stared out the window as she spoke. Walegrin knew  what
had passed between herself and Critias.  Knew about the unborn child she'd  lost
up along Wiz-ardwall and her secret  fear that now there could never  be another
one.

"Gods below, her husband's a big man.  He's thought about it but she's too  soon
recovered," Walegrin said, trying to force humor into his voice.

It worked better than he'd expected.  Kama's lips twisted into a lewd,  lopsided
smile. "There're other ways than that, my man."

Walegrin was grateful that such light as reached down into the room fell on  her
rather than him. His face burned  and his groin tensed. He hadn't  always known,
hadn't really suspected much one way or another until recently. Chenaya took far
greater pleasure from her ability to  astound and stupefy him than she  did from
any of his own exertions.

Sensing either his embarrassment or his detachment, Kama made ready to leave the
room. "I'll talk to him, Walegrin, but  you're still his only eyes and ears  out
at that place and he won't want  to lose you. Maybe we'll take the  priest; I've
got the stomach for that, but we  can't touch her. Even if she didn't  have some
sort of divine  protection, she's still  Kada-kithis's cousin and  he'll crucify
anyone who rids him of her."

"I know that.  I tell it  to myself over  and over whenever  I'm with her. She's
using me all the while she pretends to listen or care. When we're alone  there's
hate and disgust. It's unnatural."

Kama paused at  the foot of  the stairs. "The  only thing unnatural  about it is
that she's  a woman  and you're  a man-  otherwise many  men think  it's a  most
natural, and satisfactory, arrangement."

Bitterness and  anger had  pushed the  taste of  bile into  his mouth. He almost
asked about the men of the 3rd, or the Stepsons, or her father who could not lie
with a woman, only rape one. In the end, though, he swallowed and stared out the
casement, away from her.

"It helps,  sometimes, to  bathe, to  scrub yourself  with a  coarse cloth until
you've shed your own skin," she added  in a gentler voice as she disappeared  up
the stairs.

He waited  until he  was certain  she was  gone before  making his  own way back
through  the twisted  streets. There  was an  old Ilsigi  bathhouse between  the
garrison  barracks  and  their  stables.  Cythen  made  use  of  it  frequently,
regardless of the  season, often getting  his lieutenant, Thrusher,  to help her
build the  fires and  haul the  water. He  had generally  ignored them; indulged
them, if the  truth be known,  because they were  shy about the  time they spent
together. Perhaps he  would join them...  no, not that,  but leam how  the fires
were built and follow Kama's usually wise advice.

The narrow streets of the Maze gave way to the Street of Smells, which more than
merited its name these  days. He crossed it  and made his way  into the Shambles
where the chamel  houses, infirmaries, and  butchers plied their  trades. A year
ago this had been where the dead dwelt: an area of Sanctuary given over to magic
and other worlds. For  a while, after the  spring plague, the Shambles  had been
almost completely abandoned, but they were occupied again.

Theron had proclaimed  his command to  rebuild Sanctuary's walls  throughout the
Empire. Singly,  in pairs  and in  small groups,  men had  begun to  come to the
Imperial anus to make their fortunes. Roustabouts, seventh sons, and exiles from
the ongoing Wizardwall skirmishes took over the empty buildings of the  Shambles
and took  their places  on the  work gangs.  They drank,  whored, and  otherwise
indulged themselves in  ways that made  longtime residents smile  uncomfortably,
for these men had great expectations that, so far, Sanctuary had not beaten  out
of them.

They  had  their own  taverns  as well-the  Broken  Mallet, Tunker's  Hole,  and
Belching Bili's-laid out  in a row,  spilling sound and  light onto Offal  Court
despite the night's  heat. Walegrin watched  as a man  staggered out one  bright
doorway and relieved  himself in the  street before choosing  another route. The
newcomers didn't get into much trouble-yet.

The  chamel houses  were busy.  Sacks of  lime were  stacked hight  against  the
buildings. Moonlight turned the dust  a glowing, yellow-green. It reflected  off
the carapaces of the night-flies,  the jewel-colored insects which had  recently
appeared here and which were too  beautiful to be vermin. He'd heard  the Beysib
glassmakers were  having some  success instilling  the colors  in their work and
that traders were taking egg cases to aristocratic gardens all over the Empire.

Walegrin watched their swirling dance.  Its ethereal beauty took the  stench and
the  heat  from his  mind,  but spared  him  enough awareness  to  know he  was,
suddenly, not  alone. Tensing  imperceptibly, he  located the  sound and let his
fingers hook casually over his belt-and  his sword hilt. He spun around  into an
armed crouch as the intruder hailed him. "Whoa! Commander?"

He recognized the voice and wished to  the gods he didn't. With his sword  still
at the ready, he  straightened up. "Yeah, it's  me. What do you  want. Zip?" The
Rankan waited  while the  PFLS leader  came down  the street.  There was an ugly
shadow  across the  young man's  face-courtesy of  the treachery  he'd found  at
Chenaya's hands. He'd been proud that Sanctuary had never marked him. Those days
were probably over.

"You keepin' your promises. Commander?"

Walegrin shifted his weight nervously  and with evident distaste slid  his sword
back into its scabbard. "Yeah, I'm keeping promises. You got a problem you can't
handle?"

There was no love lost between these men. Zip had wielded the ax that had hacked
Illyra's gut open and broken her daughter  in two. They'd meant to fight to  the
death that day-only Tempus's accidental intervention had stopped them.  Walegrin
judged  it extremely  likely that  he'd finish  the job  someday; someday  after
Tempus was gone and Zip's absence wouldn't raise embarrassing questions.

"Not me personally-unless you  lied to your priest  and the Riddler both.  Well,
you coming with me?"

Liking it not at all, Walegrin fell in step behind Zip and followed him into the
alleyways.  The  truth was,  and  the garrison  commander  knew it,  that  Zip's
feelings were never very  personal. He and Illyra  had had a run-in  more than a
year ago  and he'd  stabbed her  then-but that  had had  nothing to  do with his
attack on her  daughter and neither  had meant that  Zip felt any  more strongly
about her than he felt about anyone. Tempus's Ratfall farce had probably secured
Zip's loyalty and good behavior about as well as it could be secured.

There wasn't really any reason for Walegrin's sweat to go cold as they tunnelled
through another cellar and he knew he'd  not get back to a street he  recognized
without help before

sunrise.

They were at another of the PFLS safe-houses, an old, uninviting structure whose
only doorway  opened on  a blind  courtyard. Glancing  at the rooftops, Walegrin
knew they weren't a stone's throw from the Wideway-but he'd never imagined  this
house and its courtyard existed. He wondered how many other boltholes like  this
the PFLS retained and if even Tempus truly had them under control.

"It's upstairs," Zip called and vanished through the half-ruined doorway.

It  took a  few moments  for Walegrin's  eyes to  adjust to  the  faint-shadowed
darkness  of the  house. By  the time  they had,  he'd heard  the groaning   and
flailing about in  the upper room-  the room to  which Zip was  leading him. The
Torch  had offered  to keep  Zip and  the two  other piffles  who had   survived
Chenaya's ambush in sanctuary at the  palace until their wounds had healed.  Zip
had refused for both himself and his men; Walegrin figured he regretted it now.

Certainly the smell  of blood was  strong enough in  the airless room  they were
crowded into. A  lump-tallow candle provided  sputtering, smoky light.  Walegrin
took the sconce  from the wall  and studied the  place. He shoved  a smaller man
aside  and headed  for the  comer where  the whimpering  was coming  from,  then
brought himself up short.

"It's a woman!"

"It usually  is," Zip  replied. "She's  been like  this for  three days.  Around
sunset we thought she was going to have it, finally. But it's only gotten worse.
You gonna help?"

Walegrin knelt down and had his worst suspicions confirmed. This was no hell-cat
PFLS fighter; this wasn't even the result  of a private quarrel; no, this was  a
girl, a child really, lying on the filthy wood, her clothes long since torn  and
discarded, laboring to get a child out of her belly.

"Sweet Sabellia's tits," he swore softly.

The girl opened her eyes. She tried to say something to him but the sounds  that
came from her were too ragged for him to understand.

"I could stitch  up a cut,  maybe. Maybe get  Thrush.... Shit on  a stick. Zip-I
can't do anything for her. I'm not a goddamned midwife." He stood up and took  a
step away.

"She needs a midwife," another voice told him, the man he'd pushed aside who was
no more a man than the girl in the comer was a woman.

"She needs more than a midwife. She needs a bloody miracle!"

"We'll settle for a midwife," Zip countered.

"You're crazy. Zip. Three days she's been here? Three days? Maybe two days  ago;
maybe even at sunset  she needed a midwife.  You can't possibly move  her; she's
half-dead already."

"She's not!"  the youth  shouted, his  outrage turning  to tears.  "She needs  a
midwife-that's all." He  turned to Zip,  not Walegrin. "You  said-you said you'd
find someone."

The  PFLS leader's  facade of  uncaring arrogance  cracked a  bit-enough so  the
garrison commander could recognize a  familiar despair. You made your  men trust
you so you could ask  them to do the impossible  and get results, but then  they
turned around and asked you to  do the impossible as well. Walegrin  didn't need
to like, or even respect. Zip to sympathize with him.

"What about it? You know anyone?" Zip asked.

"Who'd come here? At this hour?"

Walegrin  twisted  his  bronze  circlet free,  pushed  the  loose  hair off  his
forehead, and blew  a lungful of  air through his  teeth. The unborn  baby chose
that moment to send its mother into a back-wrenching arc of pain and terror.  As
she thrashed about Walegrin saw more than he wanted to see: a tiny leg  dangling
below the girl's crotch. Even he knew babes were supposed to enter the world the
other way around.

He locked stares with Zip and racked his memory for a competent, but  foolhardy,
midwife.

Molin Torchholder  had told  him, back  when he'd  begun taking  orders from the
priest, that in the Rankan Empire a place's population was usually about fifteen
times its tax  roll. Until the  coming of the  Beysib, the Prince  had collected
taxes, or tried  to collect taxes,  from some four  hundred citizens: Say  6,000
people in the city,  not counting Beysibs and  newcomers, and Walegrin knew,  or
could recognize, most of them.

He had a memory for faces and names; had made a hobby of it since his  childhood
right  here  in  Sanctuary:  Moreover  his  mind  was  sufficiently  flexible to
recognize  people  years  after  he'd  last  seen  them.  He'd  recognized  Zip,
remembering  him  as a  street  tough about  his  own age-always  surrounded  by
followers, always fighting, never winning. He'd recognized another not long ago:
a lady living in moderate style and comfort near Weaver's Way.

"Maybe," he told them and headed for the door.

"I'll be going with you," Zip countered and preceded him down the stairs.

They left a different way than they'd come, squat-walking through a gap Walegrin
would not have  noticed without Zip  to lead him.  The safe-house shared  a wall
with a dilapidated warehouse. A warehouse which should have been empty,  judging
by the way Zip  recoiled when they confronted  the burning lamps and  the little
man coming toward them.

"Muznut!" Zip shouted and the bald little man came to a shame-faced stop.

Dressed in  drab Sanctuary  rags, it  took Walegrin  a moment  to realize he was
actually looking  at a  Beysib who  was well-known  to, if  not exactly friendly
with, the PFLS leader. He didn't recognize the foreigner, but he'd know him  the
next time they crossed paths.

"We share with them, for a price," Zip tried to explain. "Some fish want to  get
out of the water." He turned  to the Beysib and snarled:  "Get back to your  tub
boat, old man. You've got no business here after sundown!"

The man's eyes went wide and glassy, like he'd seen a ghost, then he turned  and
ran. Zip stood staring after him.

"Umm," Walegrin said, pretending disinterest. "I thought we were in a hurry.  If
this is your  shortcut to Weaver's  Way, I don't  think much of  it." He sniffed
disdainfully, as the  locals expected the  Rankans to do,  and took note  of the
smells in the air. Only one  was worth remembering: distilled light oil  such as
he had smelled when Chenaya ambushed  the PFLS and they'd retaliated with  their
fire-bottles.

"Can't trust those fish,"  Zip said as they  approached the door the  Beysib had
left open in his haste to leave the warehouse.

"Ain't  that  the  truth,"  Walegrin agreed,  and  wondered  if  Zip were  truly
preoccupied enough to believe that a Rankan soldier hadn't figured out where the
oil and glass for his fire-bottles was coming from.

The PFLS leader set a  good pace along the Wideway.  Sweat came up and clung  to
the  both of  them. Once  they crossed  the Processional,  though, and   entered
Sanctuary's  better  neighborhoods,  Walegrin  took  command  with  Zip  walking
nervously beside him.

"You sure about this place?" the dark-haired man demanded.

"Yeah. I'm no fool. You'll owe me one."

Zip stopped, touching Walegrin's arm as he did, so the two men stood facing each
other.

"Pork all, Walegrin. It's for the girl back there, not me."

"That's part of the job. You owe me for keeping quiet about your warehouse  back
there and your fish glassblower."

"They're shit-dumb, man. He thinks we own the place, so we charge him rent."

"It's not going to wash. Zip." Walegrin watched as the other man went white  and
furious in the  moonlight. "Now look:  You're dealing with  the guy who  brought
Enlibar steel to this hole. You  got yourself a nice advantage there,  but right
now you don't need it, correct? Everybody's at peace; you're one of us. And, now
that I've got the pieces in my head- well, I can get to better Beysib than  your
Maznut.

"But let's say I don't  want to. Let's say I  don't trust some of my  allies any
more than you do, but the time comes, maybe, that I need a fire-breathing  hero,
then you  come running,  Zip-or Shalpa's  cloak itself  won't hide  you from me.
Understood?"

Zip weighed his options in silence.

"Maybe  you  can  find  another  warehouse,"  Walegrin  bantered  easily. "Maybe
something will happen to  me before it happens  to you. I remember  you from the
Pits, long before Ratfall, and  I'm betting you want to  be a hero just once  in
your life. But  you don't swear  right now, and  you'll tear Weaver's  Way apart
looking for her... and you won't find her." He smiled his best triumphant smile.

"What do you get out of it?"

"Maybe I'm going to need  a home-grown, fire-breathing hero," Walegrin  replied,
thinking of Rashan and  the altar out at  Land's End and hoping  that Kama would
approve.

Zip gave his  word and they  continued in silence,  alone on the  streets, until
they reached Weaver's Way.

"Keep out of sight," Walegrin told his companion before he climbed the steps  to
rap loudly on the door.

"Be gone wi' you!" a voice called from inside.

"It's the Prince's business! Open up or we'll break through the door."

There was a long silence, the sounds  of two heavy bolts being drawn back,  then
the door cracked open. Walegrin smacked the heel of this hand against the  upper
part of the  door and threw  the weight of  his hip against  the lower. It  gave
another few inches but not enough for  Walegrin to enter. He looked down at  the
house guard.

"I want to talk to the Mistress zil-Ineel. Call her." He emphasized his  request
with another shove, but the house guard was braced as securely as he was and the
door didn't budge.

"Come back in the morning."

'Wow, fat man."

"Let him in, Enoir," a woman called from the top of the stairs. "What's  Eevroen
done now?" she asked wearily as she descended.

Walegrin gave the hapless Enoir a leering smile and pushed his way into the open
room. "Nothing unusual," he told the woman. "I'm here to see you."

"I haven't done  anything to warrant  a midnight visit  from the garrison,"  she
retorted with enough fire  to convince Walegrin that  he had indeed come  to the
right house.

He softened his  stance and his  voice. "I need  your help. Or,  rather, a young
girl in the Shambles needs your help."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're Masha zil-Ineel; you were  Mashanna sum-Peres t'lneel until your  uncles
went bankrupt and married  you off to Eevroen.  You lived on Dry  Well Street in
the Maze until somehow  you got lucky, disappeared  for almost a year,  and came
back to buy this place."

"I came by my good fortune the hard way: honestly. I've paid my taxes."

"When  you lived  in the  Maze, Masha,  you worked  as a  midwife-with a  doctor
present east of the Processional, without one the rest of the time. The girl  in
the Shambles- she's been in labor for three days, in this heat. Once upon a time
visiting the Shambles was moving up for  you; I'm hoping you won't be afraid  to
go there tonight."

Mash sighed and let her lamp rest  on the handrail. "Three days? There won't  be
much I can do."

But she would come-the answer showed on her face before she said anything. Enoir
protested and insisted  he accompany her  but she ordered  him to remain  at the
house  and  retreated  upstairs to  dress.  Walegrin  waited, politely  ignoring
Enoir's barbed glances.

"You have  an escort  in the  street?" Masha  asked when  she returned, one hand
pulling a prim, but almost transparent, shawl around her shoulders and the other
carrying a battered leather chest.

"Of course," Walegrin replied without hesitation as he, rather than Enoir,  held
the door open.

He called  for Zip  as soon  as the  door had  shut behind  them. "That  is your
escort?" Masha sneered, the edge in her voice trying to cover her discomfort and
fear.

"No, that's our guide;  I'm the escort.  Let's get moving."  Whatever Masha  zil
Ineel was doing now that  she had money, she hadn't  let it soften her. She  let
the shawl drape  loosely from her  shoulders and kept  pace with them  along the
Path of Money. The heavy chest seemed not to slow her at all and she refused  to
let either man carry it. The moon  set; Walegrin bought a brace of torches  from
the Processional night-crier  and they continued  along their way,  avoiding the
Maze though all of  them knew the secrets  of its dark passages.  They came into
the Shambles and halted.

A knot of torch  fires was headed toward  them, bobbing, even falling,  as their
bearers  shouted  into  the  still,  hot  air.  It  reminded  the  three  native
Sanctuarites  of the  riotous plague  marches that  told the  city's  better-off
citizens when death had erupted in the slums. Silently Zip melted back into  the
shadows, pushing  Masha and  her white  shawl behind  him. Walegrin  slipped the
straps off his green-steel  sword and shoved the  stump of his own  torch into a
gap in the nearest wall.

A  gang  of newcomer  workmen  emerged from  the  darkness. They  staggered  and
stumbled into each other and their shouting proved to be the once-tender  chorus
of  a  love ballad.  Walegrin  shrugged a  good  deal of  the  tension from  his
shoulders but held his ground as they took note of him and lurched to a halt.

"A  whorehouse,  off-sher,  where the  wimmen're  pretty?"  their ersatz  leader
requested, drawing  the outline  of what  he considered  an extremely attractive
woman in the air  between them. His cohorts  broke off their singing  to whistle
and laugh their agreement.

Walegrin rubbed the loose hair from his forehead and tucked it under his  bronze
circlet. If  he waited  a few  more moments  at least  two of the newcomers were
going to pass out in the dust  and their whole expedition would come to  naught.
But the men who worked on the walls were being paid daily in good Rankan coinage
and the Street of Red Lanterns was suffering from the weather. He did his  civic
duty and pointed them out of the  Shambles toward the Gate of Triumph where,  if
they did not fall afoul of Ischade, they would eventually find the great houses.

Zip was at his side before he had the torch pulled from the wall.

"Forking, loud fools," he snarled.

"Maybe we should give up our respective trades and build walls or unload  barges
for a living," Walegrin mused.

"Listen to them.  They must be  halfway into the  square and you  can still hear
them! They'll get eaten alive."

The garrison commander raised one eyebrow. "Not while they're traveling in packs
like that," he challenged. "You backed off quick enough."

And Zip  stood silent.  There were  big men  in Sanctuary.  Tempus was about the
biggest; Walegrin  and his  brother-in-law, Dubro,  weren't exactly  small-boned
either. But, save for the Stepsons, the newcomers were the biggest, best-fed men
Sanctuary  had seen  in a  generation or  more. Even  if they  were only  common
laborers,  another man-a  native man  like Zip  -would have  to think  seriously
before bothering them.

"They're ruining the town," the PFLS leader said finally.

"Because they work for their bread?  Because they pay fairly for what  they need
and save to bring their families here to live with them?" Masha interjected.  "I
thought you were bringing me down here to see a woman."

With  a half-glance  back toward  the square,  where the  newcomers were   still
singing.  Zip grabbed  the torch  from Wale-grin's  hands and  plunged into  the
Shambles backways.

The safe-house was ominously  quiet as Zip doused  the torch and led  the way to
the deeply shadowed stairway. He stopped short in the doorway to the upper room;
Walegrin bumped  into him.  The girl  was still  lying in  the comer  silent and
motionless. Her  young lover  squatted beside  her, his  face shiny with unmanly
tears. The garrison  commander scarcely noticed  as Masha shoved  him aside. Her
movements did not interrupt the invective he privately directed to such gods and
goddesses as should have taken a care in these matters. Like many fighting  men,
Walegrin could understand the sudden death that came on the edge of a weapon but
he  had  no tolerance  for  the simpler  sorts  of dying  that  claimed ordinary
mortals.

He watched, and was faintly curious, as Masha took a glass hom from her kit and,
with the solid stem of it to her ear and its open bell against the girl's  skin,
performed a swift, but precise, examination.

"Get the torch over here!" she commanded. "She's still breathing; there's  hope,
at least, for the babe."

None of the men responded. She stood  up and grabbed the nearest, the young  man
who had been crying.

"There's hope for your child, you fool!" She shook his tunic as she spoke and  a
glimmer of life  returned to his  eyes. "Find a  basin. Make a  fire and boil me
some water."

"I... we have nothing but this." The young man gestured at the crudely furnished
room.

"Well, find a basin... and clean rags while you're about it."

The young man looked at Zip, who stared blankly back at him.

"Your fish-eye,  Muznut-next door,"  Walegrin suggested.  "He'll have  all that,
won't he? Even the rags, I imagine."

Zip's face twisted unpleasantly for a moment, then, with a sigh, he turned  back
to the stairway, and the warehouse. The other men followed.

Masha hung her delicate shawl over a huge splinter in one of the wall beams  and
began unlacing her gown. There was messy work to be done and no sense to ruining
her own clothing as well.  She tore off the bottom  panel of her shift and  used
one strip to bind  her already dripping hair  away from her face.  With the rest
she mopped up  as much of  the blood as  she could and  plotted the tasks before
her.

They built a fire in the courtyard using some of Muznut's fine charcoal and such
bumable rubble as was scattered about. The flames turned the ruined gardens into
an inferno but  the men stayed  close by the  fire, returning to  the upper room
only when Masha demanded fresh water or cloths. They said nothing to each other,
choosing  positions  within the  courtyard  that allowed  a  clear view  of  the
midwife's  flickering shadow  and yet  shielded them  from each  other's  casual
glance.

Toward dawn  the bats  returned to  their normally  deserted lairs, their shrill
peeps  echoing  off the  walls  and the  men  themselves as  they  protested the
occupation of  their homes.  The day-birds  took flight  as well  and the  small
square of sky  above them turned  a dirty gray  that betokened another  round of
oppressive heat. Walegrin wanted a beaker of ale and the limited comfort of  his
officer's quarters in  the palace wall,  but he remained,  rubbing his eyes  and
waiting until Masha was through.

"Arbold!" she called from the window.

The young man looked up. "Water?" he asked, giving the neglected fire a prod.

"No, just you."

He headed into  the house. Walegrin  and Zip exchanged  glances before following
him. Masha had expected them and was at the doorway to block their entrance.

"They've only got a few moments," she said softly.

The midwife had washed the new mother's face, smoothed her hair, and  surrounded
her with the last  of Muznut's fine-woven fuse-cloth.  Her eyes were bright  and
she was  smiling at  both her  swaddled child  and her  lover. But her lips were
ashen and her skin had  a milky translucence in the  dawn light. The men in  the
doorway knew Masha was right.

"The baby?" Zip whispered.

"A girl child," Masha replied. "Her leg is twisted now, but that may come  right
with time."

"If she has-" Walegrin began.

A final  spasm racked  the girl's  body. A  red stain  spread swiftly across the
cloth as she closed her eyes and gasped one more time. The child she had cradled
with her waning strength slipped through her limp arms toward the floor;  Arbold
was too stunned to catch it.

"It killed her," he  explained, his hands balled  into fists at his  sides, when
Masha tried to place the infant in his arms. "It froggin' killed her!" His voice
ascended to screaming rage.

The  infant,  which  had  been sleeping,  awoke  with  the  short-breathed cries
peculiar to the just-bom. Masha held her protectively against her own breast  as
the young man's rant-ings showed no sign of abating.

"Killed  her!"  she  shouted  back.  "How  should  an  innocent  child  be  held
accountable for the chances of its birth?  Let the blame, if there is any,  fall
on those fit  to carry it.  On those who  left her mother  here without care for
three endless days. On the one who fathered her in the first place!"

But Arbold was  in no mood  to consider his  own part in  his lover's death. His
rage shifted from the infant to Masha  and Zip moved swiftly across the room  to
restrain his comrade.

"Is there one you trust to care  for this child?" Masha asked Zip. "A  mother? A
sister, perhaps?"

For a  heartbeat it  seemed there  might be  two irrational  men in the cramped,
death-ridden room,  then Zip  emitted a  short, bitter  laugh. "No," he answered
simply. "She was the last. No one's left."

Masha continued to hold the infant tightly, rocking from side to side across her
hips like an animal searching for a bolthole. "What then?" she whispered, mostly
to herself. "She needs a home. A wetnurse-"

Walegrin chose that moment to step  between them. He looked down at  the infant.
Its hands were red and impossibly small-scarcely able to circle his  forefinger;
its face was  dark-mottled as if  it had taken  a beating just  in entering this
life-which it probably had.

"I'll take her with me," Masha concluded, daring Zip or Arbold to challenge her.

"No," Walegrin said-and they all stared at him in surprise.

"Is the garrison commandeering babes-in-arms now?" Zip sneered.

The blond man  shrugged. "Her mother's  dead; her father  refuses to acknowledge
her: That makes her  a ward of the  state-unless you're thinking of  raising her
yourself."

Zip looked away.

"Now, Mistress zil-Ineel's an upstanding woman-but she's raised her own children
and's not eager to raise another."

His ice-green eyes bore down on the midwife until she, too, looked away.

"I know a woman whose children have been  taken from her. You know her too.  Zip
know her very well."

"Gods. No." Zip inhaled the words so they were barely audible.

"You'd gainsay me?" Walegrin's voice was as cold as his eyes.

"What? Who?" Arbold interrupted.

"The S'danzo. The  one in the  alley. You remember:  the pillar of  fire and the
riots afterward?" Zip replied quickly, never taking his eyes away from Walegrin,
whose hand rested on the exposed hilt of the only sword in the room.

"What would a S'danzo want-" the young man began.

"You'd gainsay me. Zip, now or ever?" Walegrin repeated.

The PFLS leader shook his  head and extended an  arm across Arbold's chest,  pre
empting any untoward response from that comer.

"Say goodbye to your daughter,  pud," Walegrin commanded, lifting his  hand from
the sword-hilt and fumbling through his  belt pouch instead. "This is for  you,"
he dropped a silver coin in Masha's hand, "for the birth of a healthy child. And
this is for her," he gestured to the dead woman before dropping similar coins in
Zip's palm, "to buy a shroud and see her properly buried beyond the walls."

His hands  were empty  now; he  reached out  for the  infant. Masha  had already
assessed his determination and placed  the squirming bundle gently in  the crook
of his off-weapon arm.

"Shipri  bless  you," she  whispered,  pressing her  thumb  against the  child's
forehead so it left a white mark when she lifted it, then she spun her shawl off
the splinter and tucked her leather  chest under one arm. "I'm ready,"  she told
Walegrin.

They left  before the  two piffles  could say  another word.  Walegrin was  more
nervous about dropping  the child than  about having Zip  at his back.  He could
feel it struggling against the bands of cloth and the awkwardness with which  he
held it.  Once they  had clambered  through the  courtyard and  warehouse to the
Wideway, he offered to swap burdens with the midwife.

"Never held a  hungry newbom before?"  Masha guessed as  she settled the  infant
under her breast. Her companion  grunted a noncommital reply. "I  certainly hope
you  know  what you're  doing.  Not every  man's  mistress is  eager  to take  a
foundling."

Walegrin adjusted the sweaty  hair under his circlet  and glanced at the  rising
sun.  "We're  taking the  child  to my  half-sister  in the  Bazaar.  Illyra the
seeress-her own child was slain and she  took Zip's ax in her belly in  the fire
riots last winter. And I have no idea if she'll want to keep it at all."

"You are a bold one," she aveired, shaking her head in amazement.

The heat was affecting the Bazaar as  it affected the rest of the city.  Most of
the daily stalls were shuttered or deserted and the vendors who made their homes
in the dust-choked plaza were standing idly by their wares, making little effort
to confront potential  customers. Lassitude had  even touched Illyra's  husband,
Dubro. The forge  was still banked  although the sun  was well above  the harbor
wall.

The smith saw  them coming, took  another bite of  cheese, then came  forward to
meet them. The months since Illyra's  injury had seen a mellowing of  the uneasy
relationship between the two men. Dubro, who blamed his half-brother-in-law  not
only for the absence of his son but for all the flaws of the Rankan Empire,  had
been forced to  admit that Walegrin  had done all  any man could  do to save his
wife and daughter.  He missed his  son, mourned his  daughter, but knew  that he
cherished Illyra above all  else. He greeted Walegrin  and Masha with a  puzzled
smile.

"Is Illyra about?" Walegrin asked.

"Abed, still. She sleeps poorly in this heat."

"Will she see us?"

Dubro shrugged and ducked under the  lintel of his home. Illyra emerged  moments
later, squinting against the sun and looking nearly twice her natural age.

"You said you were patrolling nights until this heat broke."

"I was."

He explained the  night's events to  her-at least those  that accounted for  his
presence with a midwife and infant. He said nothing about his conversation  with
Kama or the  anger that had  swept over him  when he saw  the newbom girl's life
being bartered  among unwilling  patrons. Illyra  listened politely  but made no
move to take the infant from Masha's arms.

"I'm no wetnurse. I can't care for the child, Walegrin. I tire too quickly  now,
and even if I didn't-I'd look at her and see Lillis."

"I know that; that's why I've  brought her," her half-brother explained, with  a
sincere  tactlessness that  brought fire  to Dubro's  eyes and  a sigh   through
Masha's lips.

"How could you?"

They were all staring at him.  "Because her mother's dead in some  stinking room
in Shambles Cross and no one wanted her. She didn't ask to be born any more than
Arton asked to become a god or Lillis asked to die."

"No other baby can replace my daughter, don't you understand that? I can't  take
her in my arms and tell myself  that all's well with the world again.  It isn't.
It won't ever be."

The elegance and simplicity of logic that  had allowed him to face down Zip  and
the child's father  ceased to  support Walegrin  as he  stared back  at his half
sister's face. Words themselves  failed him as well  and a crimson flush  spread
quickly from his shoulders to his forehead. In desperation he grabbed the infant
himself and thrust it into her arms  as if physical contact and the sheer  force
of his will would be sufficient.

"No, Walegrin," she protested softly, resisting the burden but not backing  away
from it. "You can't ask this of me."

"I'm the only  one stupid enough  to ask it  of you, Illyra.  You need a  child,
Illyra. You need to watch someone laugh and grow. Gods know it should have  been
your own children and not this one...." He turned to Dubro. "Tell her. Tell  her
this mourning's  killing her.  Tell her  it's not  good for  any of  us when she
doesn't care about anything."

So it  was that  Dubro, after  a long  moment's hesitation,  put his  arms under
Illyra's  to  support  the  child.  The  girl  child  did  not  immediately stop
struggling within  her swaddling  nor did  the oppressive  weather vanish,  but,
after she sighed,  Illyra did smile  at the infant  and it opened  its blue-gray
eyes and smiled back at her.

SPELLMASTER

Andrew Offutt and Jodie Offutt

Wear weapons openly and try to look mean. People see the weapons and believe the
look and you don't have to use them.

-CUDGET SWEAROATH

One thing led to another and swords came scraping out of their sheaths.  Fulcris
knew he was in trouble. The two  men facing him with sharp steel in  their fists
had  left the  caravan yesterday  afternoon when  it halted  here, just  outside
Sanctuary. They had gone on down into  the town for a little of the  partying he
had denied them en route from  Aurvesh. Now, just after midday, they'd  come the
short distance back out here to the encampment. Looking for trouble.

Fulcris  wasn't the  sort to  pretend not  to see  them and  be somewhere  else,
however wise that would have been. They had obviously been drinking their lunch.
That was bad; these two, still cocky  adolescents at thirty or so, were mean  as
sat-on spiders to begin with.

He spoke quietly and calmly and everything he told them was true. They chose not
to accept any of it. Furthermore, they chose to push it. All three men knew that
part of the reason was the sword-arm  of caravan guard Fulcris. Only a few  days
ago he had taken a wound, high up near the shoulder. It still bothered him.  The
arm and its muscle were weakened, a  little stiff. That made him a good  man for
two men to pick a fight with. Or a good victim.

Now their sword-hands had made it clear that they were through talking and  he'd
better be, too. His choices were two:  he could run or he could defend  himself.
The fact that it was not fair because  of his arm was not important to them  and
it had better not be to Fulcris.  Besides, the choice did not exist for  him. He
couldn't run. He  was a caravan  guard. To flee  from attackers, whether  two or
four, days-old wound or no, would ruin his reputation and the life he hoped  for
in this new town.

With only the slightest of winces, well hidden behind clenched teeth, he reached
across his  belt buckle.  He made  sure that  when he  drew his sword, the blade
swished audibly and blurred as it rushed across him into readiness.

The  man  in the  green  tunic blinked  at  that and  his  arm wavered.  Fulcris
remembered his name: Abder.

His companion kept coming, though, and so Abder did, too.

Just feint at the green tunic, Fulcris told himself, going high, and try to  get
the more dangerous one on the backstroke, down. Abder will waver. If I can  hurt
his crony, it will be over.

If I don't, they'll kill me.

Damn. What a way to end a good  life. And just when I was thinkin' about  trying
to settle down. He whipped his sword  back and forth, strictly to make a  bright
flash  and an  impressive whup-whup  noise that  should give  third thoughts  to
Abder, who had already had second ones about this encounter.

Uh. The exertion started the wound  leaking. He felt the trickle of  blood, warm
on his upper arm.

"You son of a bitch," snarled the one in the grayish homespun tunic.

One more step, Fulcris thought, knowing the name-calling stage was about to end.
The homespun man was worked up just  about enough. For the first time in  a long
while, Pulcris knew fear. One more step. Then either 1 end it or they do.

"Yo!"

Fulcris ignored  the hail.  He kept  his gaze  on his  assailants. They  glanced
toward the source  of the  call. A  solitary traveler  was pacing  his large dun
colored horse toward them, trailing a pack-animal. His hair was invisible within
the odd flapped cap he wore, leather left its natural shade. Fulcris could  have
taken out both of them, then. He didn't.

"You two fellows need help with this mean-looking criminal?"

"No business  of yours,"  homespun said,  while that  big dun-colored horse kept
coming at him, just pacing.

"That's  true,"  the  newcomer  said in  a  quiet  voice,  staring levelly.  Not
menacingly, or with a mean expression; it was just a steady look.

Fulcris allowed himself  a glance. He  saw what they  saw: a big  man with a big
droopy moustache, sort of bronzey-russet. A great big saddle-sword, and  another
sheathed at the man's left thigh. A shield, looking old and worn and bearing  no
markings whatever. His  dusty, stained tunic  was plain undyed  homespun with an
unusually large neck. Its sleeves were short enough to show powerful arms.

A horseman coming alone, with seeming consummate confidence, from the  northeast
Aurvesh? A man of weapons. He kept his mount pacing easily, while his calm  gaze
remained on the two men before Fulcris. He never glanced at Fulcris at all.

An experienced man of weapons, Fulcris thought.

"Just interested," the quiet voice said equably. "No blow's been struck but  his
arm just started leaking.  Got yourself a man  with a recent wound,  hmm. Two of
you. You calling him opponent or quarry?"

Abder of the green tunic said, "Huh?"

Homespun said, "Listen, you-"

And then he  had to back  a couple of  paces, because the  big-dun colored horse
paced right in  between him and  Fulcris. Fulcris was  on the horse's  left. The
mounted man stared down at homespun. Abder tried to be unobtrusive about backing
two more paces.

"Came here to ask a favor. You with the caravan?"

The two  men exchanged  a look,  homespun having  to turn  a little  because his
companion had backed  farther away. Homespun  looked back up  at the interfering
newcomer.

"Naw. He is."

"Mind if I tock with him, then?" He had said "talk," but part of his accent  was
that the aw sound came out as short o.

Abder moved away from  his companion. His arm  hung straight down; the  one with
the sword in it. Homespun exchanged stares with the nosy newcomer a while,  then
glanced at  Abder. He  was surprised  to see  that the  latter was several paces
behind him and well to his right.

"Huh! Leaving me alone, huh, Ab?"

"Pardon  us," the  mounted man  said, "while  we lock."  On Fulcris's  side  the
newcomer's left hand moved in a little waving gesture.

When  the  dun  horse  began  pacing  forward  again,  between  Fulcris  and his
accosters, Fulcris  paced too.  He noticed  that the  newcomer never  so much as
glanced at him. They took about twenty steps without anyone's saying a word.  By
that time,  the other  two were  well behind  them. The  newcomer leaned back to
swing a big-thighed leg over the pommel  of his saddle, which was molded in  the
shape  of  a turtle's  head.  He dropped  to  the ground  a  foot from  Fulcris.
Surprisingly blue eyes looked  into the very brown  ones of the caravaner.  They
were about the same height. The traveler was bigger.

"You a caravan guard?"

"Aye. Those two-"

"Mean on strong drink. You took a wound a few days ago?"

"Aye. You just-"

"I could sure use some wotter, and your arm could use something."

Not much for talking, Fulcris thought, and nodded. "Right. Just over here."

"Uh. Wait here. Jaunt."

Fulcris assumed that was the name of  the big man's horse. He tried not  to talk
as they walked toward  his old tent of  faded blue and dull  yellow stripes, but
just now that was impossible.

"I started with  the caravan in  Twand. Those two  joined us in  Aurvesh. Just a
little  trouble the  first night,  and me'n  another guard  had to  forbid  them
anything stronger'n water. Caravan stopped here to break up; sort ourselves out.
You know. They went right on into Sanctuary last night lookin' for what we  kept
from them. They obviously had some more this mom-ing."

"Urn."

Sure not a talker, Fulcris mused. "Oh-name's Fulcris."

"Strick."

Guess that's his name, Fulcris thought. And didn't this man speak quietly and in
an  unusually matter-of-fact  voice, no  matter what  he was  saying or  talking
about! "The arm's not  bad, but it could've  made a difference. Thanks,  Strick.
Here."

His gesture indicated the interior of  his tent; the flap was open  and fastened
back.

Strick glanced  back to  see the  two men,  swords sheathed,  heading toward the
city's wall.  He nodded.  "Saw it  all. Noticed  the arm."  Ducking his head, he
entered.

"Uh-huh. You notice a lot, don't you."

"Only one  of 'em  was dangerous.  I never  glanced at  the other.  He cot that:
contempt. When I called, you kept your eyes right on them. You know what  you're
doing, Fulcris. Might want to be careful, in Sanctuary."

"Cot" was "caught," Fulcris  realized. "You too! They  don't like either of  us,
now. Here you go." Fulcris started to pass Strick the cloth-wrapped water  skin,
then changed his mind.  He decanted cool water  into the tin cup  he had carried
for  years.  The  cup  showed  it.  "You  didn't  think  I  was  a 'mean-lookin'
criminal'?"

Strick shrugged. He drank, uttered  the predictable "ahh," and drank  some more.
"I  wanted to  interrupt and  that was  something to  say. Didn't  want to  come
galloping and embarrass you. Let's see about that arm."

"It's all right."

"Wouldn't have started leaking  if it was all  right. Clotted now. Hmm."  Strick
had pushed up  the other man's  sleeve and bent  a little closer  to peer at the
wound. "Spear cut. Not one of those two?"

"No. Little trouble just this side of Aurvesh, four days ago. Six idiots thought
we looked attackable and  played bandit. Two of  them got away. One  of the dead
ones gave me this. It's all right."

"Looks all right. Give me some wine, though, so I can give you a sting."

After Strick  had re-reopened  the wound  and treated  it with  wine-it stung-he
rearranged and re-tied the bandage. "It will be fine in two days," he said  with
casual confidence. "Won't leave a scar, either."

More like another week, and there  will be a scar, Fulcris mused,  but certainly
didn't say it. Instead:  "Saying 'thanks' is getting  to be a habit.  What about
putting some of that wine on the inside?"

"I wouldn't mind."

Fulcris filled the tin cup. Noticing that Strick asked no questions, he  decided
to emulate that, though naturally he wondered where the big fellow was from  and
why he'd come here.  From how far, alone?  He even managed not  to volunteer his
own business.  After a  couple of  minutes he  remembered: "Oh.  You mentioned a
favor."

Strick looked  at him,  lowering his  cup. The  lines around  his eyes,  Fulcris
thought, put the  big man up  in his thirties.  Maybe forty, depending  upon how
much of his life  he'd spent traveling. Fulcris  was thirty-eight, but years  of
escorting caravans had lined his face so much that he could pass for  forty-nine
or fifty.

"I'd like to leave my horse  here, along with the shield and  saddle-sword." His
eyes gazed  straight into  Fulcris's and  his moustache  writhed in  a smile  it
concealed. "Don't  want to  ride into  a town  looking like  a dangerous  man of
weapons."

"Who rode here alone, from... someplace that gave you an accent I can't place."

Strick shrugged. "True. Will you name me a charge for keeping my horse for a few
days?"

"You looking for work as a-for weapon work? There's a mere camp not too far from
here, and another in the city."

"No, that's not what I want to do. You know a few things about this town."

"Just a few," Fulcris said, thinking that the man was not telling the truth  but
that he even lied well, in  that same matter-of-fact way. "You leam  things from
people you pass on the  road, and I listened, up  in Aurvesh. This town's had  a
real mess in  the past year  or so. Fire,  flood, a war  among witches trying to
take over and the Stepsons-mercenaries  under someone named Tempus who  has sort
of taken over 'defense' and peace-keeping;  and all the while the town's  really
been taken over by some odd invaders from oversea. The Empire's not as strong as
it was."

"Ranke?"

"Right."

"So I  heard. Odd  invaders?" Even  "odd" sounded  odd; this  man's short  o was
extremely short.

"Freaks, or half-humans,  or something. Guess  we'll find out.  Listen, you know
I'm not going to charge you to take care of your gear and horse for a few  days.
But here's a thought, unless you're in a hurry. A man and a couple of women  are
riding into town later, and they've already asked my caravan master if he'd give
them an escort. He  asked me. Sure; that  trio's rich!" Fulcris flashed  a smile
and noticed that the  other man only nodded.  "Anyhow, if you care  to rest here
while I see to a few things I have  to do, the five of us can ride in  together.
You'll  be a  lot less  noticeable-people will  take you  for another  from  the
caravan."

"Fulcris, well met and I thank you. I can waste some time knocking the dust  off
and leaving the shield and big sword- here?"

"Of course. Just  consider the tent  yours while I  take care of  business. Have
some more of that, if you want."

"I don't."

I didn't think so. Fulcris thought, and left the tent.

                                   *   *   *

He was surprised, a couple of hours  later, at sight of his new friend.  Fulcris
had seen him an  hour ago, putting his  stripped pack-animal into the  temporary
enclosure the cara-vaners had set up.

Now Strick's  tunic of  drab, undyed  homespun had  given way  to a considerably
nicer  one  in  medium  blue  wool.  He  had  buckled  on  his  sword  again, an
unremarkable weapon with a  brass-ball pommel in a  worn old sheath, but  he had
replaced his worn old belt with a newer one, black with a silvered buckle. Never
mind the dagger. That was an everyday  utensil no one saw as a weapon  until one
came at  him. Strick's  was plain  of handle  and pommel.  Merely utilitarian; a
working man's tool. The stained  leather leggings were gone, replaced  by snugly
fitting cloth, dun-colored. What calves and thighs the man had! His light  boots
were medium brown, and well worn.

Aside from his bronze-red moustache and ruddy face, a quite drab man despite the
handsome tunic of  Croyite blue. He  still wore that  odd, napped skull-covering
cap, too.

Jaunt stood nearby, saddled and bridled anew-with worn old leather that had been
unremarkable even when new-and wearing a smaller version of the traveler's pack.
Shield and the big sword were not in evidence.

"Left a few things inside," he said, so quietly and half apologetically.

"Good," Fulcris said, and introduced the wealthy man and the two women.

All three of them looked dressed  for court. The not-unhandsome man in  matching
tunic and leggings of yellow-green silk wore  a fine cloak of a blue so  pale it
was nearly white-not from  age or wear. Strick  was polite, greeting each  woman
with a  little inclining  of his  head, speaking  quietly as  ever. The  bosomy,
steatopygous one in pink to the  collarbones, along with garnets set in  silver,
was  the wife  of this  Sanctuarite nobleman.  Chest on  her like  a shelf   for
displaying fine  glassware, Fulcris  thought. The  lean, dimply  young blonde in
blue,  Fulcris saw,  was interested  in Strick.  Despite both  his and  Strick's
efforts to avoid it,  she rode beside the  big man with the  bronze moustache as
they walked their horses the sixth of a league or so to the city walls.

"Where are you from, Strick?" Her voice was girlish and her dimples glorious.

"North."

She shot him a look. "Oh. Do you intend to settle in Sanctuary?"

"Might."

After a few moments of silence, she tried again: "Will you, uh, go into business
here, Strick?"

"I'm considering it."

Riding in front of them beside  the wealthy Noble Shafra-lain of Sanctuary  just
back from  a lengthy  stay in  Aurvesh, Fulcris  smiled. The  Noble Shafralain's
doubtless noble wife was chattering away about what son of shape the house might
be in. The lean young blonde had gone silent, doubtless wracking her brain for a
way  to get  Strick to  converse. Politeness  forbade her  pursuing any  of  the
previous  questions,  since  he  apparently  was  not  minded  to  volunteer any
information on those subjects.

At last her voice piped again: "Do you know where you plan to stay, Strick?"

"I don't know, my lady. Perhaps-"

"Oh goodness, Strick, do call me Esaria!"

A glance to his left showed Fulcris how Noble Shafralain's well-molded face went
grim in disapproval.  From behind them  the quiet voice  spoke as if  Strick had
seen that expression: "Perhaps you could suggest an inn, my lady Esaria. It need
not be the city's fanciest!"

"Oh. Father-would you recommend an inn to this traveler from afar?"

"My dear," the silken-cloaked man beside  Fulcris said stiffly, "we do not  know
this foreigner's means. The  prices of Sanctuary's inns  vary as greatly as  the
quality of their food. The Golden Oasis, I should say, is our best."

"Oh darling, it's been so long-let's do take dinner there tonight!"

"A moment, Expimilia," Shafralain said, with mild impatience.

"I am from Firaqa  to the northwest. Noble  Sir, and hardly of  your means. What
are second- and third-best?"

Fulcris smiled.

"Could we do that, darling? I really don't relish opening the house just in time
to have to eat there! Who knows  what the servants have done with the  place-and
what shape the larder's in!"

Fulcris's smile broadened at Lady Expimilia's importun-ings.

Her husband continued to stare straight ahead, chin nobly high. Without  turning
so much as his  head in replying to  the man riding behind  him where Shafralain
doubtless thought he belonged, he named two other inns.

"A grateful foreigner's thanks,"  Strick said, with only  the hint of stress  on
the third word.

"Are we going to sup at the Golden Oasis, Father?"

"For all we know," Shafralain said, this time with a slight turning of his head,
"the Golden Oasis has been destroyed, or sadly damaged."

"I'd be  glad to  ride straight  there and  have a  look," Esaria  said. "I'd be
perfectly safe, too; Strick would ride with me, wouldn't you, Strick?"

"That," her father said, "will not be possible."

They rode in silence, approaching the wall of Sanctuary. Abruptly the nobleman's
noble wife turned partway around and spoke in a determinedly pleasant voice.

"Well, Strick of  Firaqa, will you  please escort me  to the Golden  Oasis? Yes,
Esaria, you may come along. Aral," she said to her husband in a different voice,
"we will be fine and will join you later at home."

The Noble Shafralain gave his wife a long, slow stare.

"My lady," Strick said softly, "I regret that I already have other plans."

"Oh-h!"  Esaria  said,  in  clear  exasperation.  Obviously  Strick  had  chosen
diplomacy and deference to her father over touching off family problems.

For the first time, Shafralain turned  to give the foreigner a fleeting  glance.
It was not an unpleasant look.

"Firaqa,"  he said,  turning back.  "Firaqa... oh.  That where  the pearls  come
from?"

"Aye."

"Freshwater  pearls,"  Expimilia exclaimed.  "Of  course! Firaqan  Souls  of the
Oyster!" Abruptly she  half-turned to look  at the quiet  man. "You didn't  come
here to sell any of those beauties, did you?"

Shafralain snorted. Strick made a chuckling noise. "Sorry, my lady."

They entered the city and within a  few hundred feet were accosted by two  young
men. Each wore a cloth  band of the same color  around his upper arm and  bore a
crossbow in addition to sheathed sword.

"Welcome to Sanctuary! You will need a pass in this area, gentle travelers," one
glibly told them. "We offer five armbands for two pieces of silver."

"A pass!" Shafralain snapped. "Likelier  you'll be ridden down! Since  when does
the Noble  Shafralain need  to wear  a dirty  patch of  cloth in  order to  move
through his own city?"

The faces of their accosters underwent  unpleasant changes. The one who had  not
spoken stepped  back and  showed that  his crossbow  was cocked.  Passersby were
carefully not-seeing the tense encounter. Most wore brassards matching those the
two youths wore and offered for sale.

"Since  quite awhile,  Noble," the  spokesman said.  "Maybe you  left town  when
things got nasty last year and're  just coming back, hmm? See, citizen  security
is sort  of divided  up amidst  serveral pertection  groups, and  we just  can't
gamtee yer safety here without but you're wearing onea these handsome armbands."

"Oh, I think they're quite pretty armbands really," Esaria said.

Her mother said, "If it's what people are wearing this season. .."

Shafralain, however, was Shafralain: "You threaten us, fellow?"

"Here is a piece  of silver," a quiet  voice said. "It should  suffice. See that
nothing happens to these people, whether  they consent to wear your armbands  or
no. I will."

"So will I,"  the surprised Fulcris  heard himself say,  even as they  heard the
ring of silver off a thumbnail and saw the young man before him throw up a  hand
to catch Strick's coin.

He examined it. "Huh! Never seen onea  these before. What's this on it, a  fire?
Whur's it from at?"

"Firaqa," Strick told him. "Way up northwest. Not part of Ranke's Empire.  Mints
its own coins, with the sign of the Flame. It will spend; it's silver."

Immediately after his  last word came  the sound of  his clucking to  his horse.
Fulcris swallowed, but at  once made the same  sound in his cheek.  That worked;
the horses moved forward and the two accosters stepped back on either side.  The
speaker extended a number of armbands.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he  told Strick, as the latter accepted  the
"passes."

"Fulcris," Strick said, and passed one to the caravaner. "Noble Shafralain?"

The nobleman would not turn or glance at the proffering hand. "I had far  rather
chop the arm off that arrogant snot than put one of his dirty rags on my arm!"

"Me too," Strick said, equably as ever. "But while we did that, the other  would
have flicked his trigger and sent a crossbow bolt into... one of us."

"Those boys?! Likelier he'd have missed!"

"Father-r..."

"Agreed," the quiet voice said from behind stiff-backed Shafralain, "and  alone,
Fulcris and  I might  have taken  that chance.  I'm very  aware of  being in the
presence of a noble of this city-and of two women."

The only way out of that one was for Shafralain to take offense by pretending to
have been accused of cowardice. Either he chose not to do or he didn't think  of
it. "Hmp," he  muttered. "What has  become of my  city while I  have been out of
it?"

Coincidence or that goddess known as Lady Chance chose to let Strick and  milady
answer in chorus: "We had better find out," and she went on, "and be careful the
while."

"Good advice, my Lord," a nervous  Fulcris said. He was beginning to  wonder how
soon a caravan might be heading east and need a guard. Or north, or west either.
Or even south, right into the sea.

Abruptly Shafralain's  arms tightened.  "Whoa," he  said, and  turned-with stiff
dignity-in the saddle  to look back  at the big  man beside his  daughter. After
studying him for a moment, the noble asked, "Can you use that sword, foreigner?"

"Name's Strick. From Firaqa."

The two men gazed at each  other, each maintaining a practiced serene  look from
wide-open eyes that each  had learned obtained this  or that result. The  moment
stretched on, with four people watching the lean, thin-moustached face of  Noble
Shafralain  with  its  high  cheekbones  and  sculptured  brows.  Suddenly those
features moved in a small smile.

"I was hoping you  would answer my question.  Can you use that  sword, Strick of
Firaqa?"

Stick shrugged and made a depreciatory gesture. "When I must."

"Until we know more about the situation in my city," Shafralain said, "we  shall
not be going to the Golden Oasis or anywhere else save our home. My family and I
can  not  stoop to  giving  aught to  scum  who demand  'protection'  money with
crossbows. I would like to double what you gave that scum if you would ride with
us, Strick ofFiraqa."

Strick nodded.

"Good, then. Let us-"

"Perhaps you could change a few of these Firaqi coins for me," Strick said, just
as Shafralain started to  turn back to face  front. "Collector's items for  you,
and I  attract less  attention as  a foreigner.  If we  exchanged ten for ten, I
believe I'd owe you a difference; a few coppers."

Shafralain clicked in his cheek while jiggling his reins of shining red leather.
His horse paced  a few feet  before being reined  about so that  its rider could
face the man from Firaqa.

"Difference! A few coppers! I just heard astonishing honesty! Certainly you  are
not a banker! But... do you have ten silver coins, Strick?"

Strick nodded lazily.

"We will exchange ten for ten as soon as we reach my home, sir!"

"Your pardon. Noble, but-let's do it now. Just in case."

Shafralain cocked his head. "Just in case of what?"

Strick tapped the armband he had slipped on. Even below his elbow, it was  snug.
"Just in case your home is in another area of protection."

"Damn!"

"Agreed."

While Fulcris watched,  more astonished than  nervous now, the  two men solemnly
exchanged  ten  coins of  silver,  while sitting  their  mounts on  a  street in
Sanctuary. At  least they  were as  discreet as  possible about  what they  were
doing. In daylight, in the street. In the town called Thieves' World!

Shafralain  turned  to  Fulcris.  "Caravaner,"  he  said,  "thank  you  and good
fortune."

Since that was an obvious dismissal,  Fulcris touched a finger to his  forehead,
nodded, and started to rein away.

"Meet you at the Golden Oasis at  noon tomorrow for a cup of something,"  the by
now familiar voice  said quietly, and  Fulcris nodded and  smiled as he  rode on
into a city suddenly sinister. Wearing a cloth brassard as "protection."

Strick was right about the city's "security" zones. By the time they reached the
imposing  mansion  on its  walled  estate, they  had  collected another  set  of
armbands and the noble owed more silver to the quiet man from Firaqa.

That was how it  came about that on  his first night in  Sanctuary the foreigner
dined with the Noble Shafralain and family in their fine big manse, waited  upon
by  silent servants  in beige  and maroon.  He did  an amazingly  superb job  of
telling little about himself and wandering around the outskirts of questions and
answers,  and  he  would  not  stay the  night.  Shafralain  was  glad  of that,
considering his marvelously dimpled daughter's fascination with this unusual and
quite mysterious fellow.

Strick knew that. It was precisely  why he declined the invitation and  departed
to walk alone through the darkness of that divided city.

Although Fulcris walked  into the Golden  Oasis before noon  next day, he  found
Strick there before him. The reason was simple: Strick had spent the night here.
He had risen relatively early to  descend for breakfast. Since then he  had done
no talking, asked few questions, and done a lot of listening. Seated privily  at
a small,  shining table  in the  well-kept main  room, the  two newcomers sipped
watered wine and shared new-gained knowledge of a damned city.

The place was a mess.  Too many people had grabbily  tried to treat it as  their
own and,  greedy for  power and  control, indiscriminately  introduced too  many
random factors. Meanwhile supposed rulers, anointed and otherwise, took no  firm
stand and failed to exercise the control they were supposed to have and wield.

"Sanctuary," Fulcris said, "is ruled by King Chaos."

"Black magic," Strick said morosely, looking ill. "The bot-tomness of humanity's
inhumanity."

Sanctuary had not even recovered from or grown accustomed to Rankan rule  before
the seaward  invasion of  the folk  called Bey  sins. Both  men had  by now seen
examples of  that strange  womanish sea-race  with the  unblinking eyes equipped
with nictitating membranes.

They merely turned  up one day  "in about a  million boats," as  a man had  told
Strick at breakfast, and  after that it was  essentially "Hello: Welcome to  the
Beysib Empire!" That turned the city on its ear-on its rear, as Fulcris put  it.
The Beysin gynecharch, the Beysa, moved herself right into the palace. No one in
power  did  anything.  About  ten minutes  later,  out  of  the gutters  crawled
something called  the Popular  Front for  the Liberation  of Sanctuary: a rabble
organization of the unorganizable led by a feisty-swaggery street-lord-and-dolt.
His avowed dedication was to throwing out the invaders and their  (god-related?)
lady boss with  her twining snakes  and bare jigglies,  along with her  people's
ghastly habits with small, preposterously lethal serpents.

What he and his  PFLS accomplished was a  great deal of mischief  and murder and
discomfort among his fellow Ilsigs. The fish-folk nourished.

"Ilsigi," Strick corrected Fulcris. "It's plural and possessive both. No s."

Next came still another group, this one with the unlikely name of the Rankan 3rd
Commando, whatever that meant. By then the staggering town was divided some four
ways and none of the rival groups could claim to be in charge.

All did.

Meanwhile   gods   wrangled   and   rassled,   people   murdered   each    other
indiscriminately, and consumption  of alcoholic spirits  increased dramatically.
An apparently  brutish fellow  named Tempus  and his  herd of  nomadic womanless
warriors-for-hire stayed just  long enough to  make things worse  for the people
they despised as "Wrigglies." Then they decamped, to leave behind a vacuum  that
led to more struggling and more murder of guilty, guiltless, and innocent alike.
Decent, normal citizens cowered about their daily business. As a matter of  fact
so  did  indecent and  abnormal  citizens. Daily  business  had come  to  mean a
striving to continue living.

To what purpose, none could be sure.

Speaking of the abnormal  and indecent, the next  advent was of a  vampire witch
and a necromant-or maybe  it was a necromant  and a vampire witch;  everyone was
confused because it was all too  much-along with acres of walking dead.  The two
witches juggled people and Balls of  Power and did everything but dice  for poor
pitiful Thieves' World.  The rule of  females in Sanctuary  became absolute. The
founder-god seemed to have abdicated. Tale-tellers tried using female names  for
their characters, even when they were transparently male. That did not work; the
storytellers bogged  down and  received fewer  coins because  reality was beyond
their imaginative abilities.

Dead men wandered about and acted and a dead horse clop-clopped the streets of a
city surely forsaken  by all gods.  Meanwhile intelligent natives,  smart people
such as Shafra-lain, got the hell out.

Fifteen or so minutes ago Fulcris had learned why the ruler -the youthful Rankan
governor-wasn't ruling; he was busy playing house with the fish-eyed  snake-lady
with the  naked turrets.  Even his  fellow Rankans  sneered at  this Kadakithis,
calling him by a contemptuous nickname.

All right, so she wore her turrets partially covered these days. Because of  the
invasion of  her striding  dykish females,  decolletage was  very much in vogue.
Sanctuarite breasts were bared just short of the nipples-while skirts were  long
and flounced and saddlebagged.

"I've no-tisssed," Strick said, and Fulcris chuckled.

"Me too. The skirts are stupid and ugly but I do love all the jiggle above!"

A demonic monoceros had run rampant, goring people and wrecking real estate.

"They have a low inn or dive called the Obscene Monoceros," Strick said, shaking
his head.

Fulcris  stared for  a moment,  then fell  back laughing.  "Vulgar Unicorn!"  he
corrected.

Strick shrugged. "Blackest magic," he muttered, staring into his cup. "This city
is damned and abhorred by all gods, surely."

"Yet why do gods or people allow it," Fulcris said, and drank. "You heard  about
the  dead  (?)  warrior-god-female, of  course-some  fool  revived to  terrorize
streets and citizenry?"

Strick countered with the fact that another someone had broken into the  palace,
impossibly,  and  (impossibly)  made  off with  the  head  snake-lady's  wand or
something, and she had done not a bloody thing about it. Incredible!

A nasty adolescent boy in a female body was going about in the garb of a  Rankan
arena-fighter, insulting and threatening  everyone in sight, including  the ones
she whorishly  lay with.  Five well-trained  soldier-bodyguards from  Ranke were
reduced to guarding cattle or goats or orchards, while a street tale-teller  was
in the  palace, wearing  silk robes.  The Rankan  highest priest  was apparently
giving more time to personal romance-despite his being married-than priesting.

And King Chaos waved his scepter over Sanctuary.

Street  skirmishes erupted  into street  war. Blood  flowed in  the gutters  and
someone started a fire that burned a good bit of real estate-mostly the homes of
the poor, of course. After that Sanctuary was assaulted by a few years' worth of
rain, all in a few days. Every creek, river, and sewer decided to back up.

"Sorcery," Strick muttered. "Abhorrent black magic. Ashes and embers, what  poor
pitiful people in need of help!"

A burned town was washed off  and hoisted off its foundations on  swirling flood
waters. Somewhere in  there the high-civilization  bisexual meres of  Tempus had
come back  and barbarously  massacred a  band of  men in  "their" barracks. More
innocents had of course perished in that private war. Meanwhile in Ranke someone
did away with the emperor and the new one-up from field general, hurrah!-dropped
over to Sanctuary to say hello. Apparently he did naught else.

Yet  perhaps   it  was   he  who   pushed  it   along:  the   war  against   the
witches/vampires/Things had grown, and a whole fine estate-mansion had burned in
a towering pillar of fire for days or maybe it was weeks. When the fire went out
the place was still there but no one dared go near it.

"Still is," Fulcris said. "Furthermore,  one of the witch-women-Things is  still
about, living peacefully just outside town,  and none of these poor excuses  for
humanity is doing a bloody thing about it."

"Black magic," Strick muttered, staring into  his cup. "All black magic, on  and
on. By  the Flame,  but these  people need  relief, help,  an advocate! A little
surcease from agony and blackness in their lives!"

While Fulcris was still blinking at that strange utterance, their attention  was
drawn to the  door. It had  opened to admit  a good-sized fellow  in a light tan
tunic whose skin- and sleeve-hems were  decorated with maroon bands, and with  a
maroon bar running over each shoulder and down his torse. His high buskins  were
dark red.  He bore  a sword  and long  dagger in  maroon sheaths,  and he looked
competent. Just inside, he swept the common room with a bleak gaze. It  lingered
for a moment on Strick and Fulcris  before passing on. He backed a pace,  nodded
to someone outside, and stepped in to stand to the door's left. Rather  stiffly,
in the manner of a sentry.

Through the  doorway, all  bright and  summery in  white and  yellow, bustled  a
beaming Shafralaina Esaria.  Smiling and dimpled,  she came straight  to the two
men.  Strick  continued looking  past  her long  enough  to note  the  other man
outside, also in her family's livery.

"Strick! Fulcris! Well met!"

"What a coincidence," Strick said drily, as both men rose.

"Don't be silly! I came here to see you! I'd have been here earlier, but first I
had to convince father that  I needed to shop, and  then I had to wait  while he
gave detailed instructions to no less than two 'escorts' to accompany me. What's
in those cups?"

She had a breathless, girlish way of talking that Strick could not despise.  The
tallish, lean girl with the pale hair was too fresh, too charming. Soon she  was
seated with  them, also  with a  cup of  water-weakened wine.  Well met  indeed,
Strick soon learned, when he mentioned that he wanted information as to where he
might "open a  place of business."  Flashing those bemazing  dimples, Esaria was
delightedly able  to help.  A cousin  of her  father's, it  seemed, was  a civil
servant   whose   customs  job   had   remained  secure   through   the  various
administrations.  That  was partially  because  of his  sideline:  he remembered
everything and conducted scrupulously private investigations.

An hour later  Fulcris was on  his way back  to the remnant  of the caravan  and
Esaria was introducing Strick to her  second cousin. Then she took her  leave to
buy something or other to prove to her father that shopping had indeed been  her
goal.

"And what about the report those dangerous-looking bodyguards give him?"  Strick
asked, smiling a little.

"Oh, they  tell him  what I  tell them  to tell  him. They  do exactly as I tell
them."

Strick thought  this an  opportune time  to say,  "I am  not that  sort of  man,
Esaria."

White teeth flashed  and dimples sprang  into bold evidence.  "Can't I just  see
that, 0 Mysterious Foreigner!" And with a wave, she was gone.

Still  smiling that  close-mouthed smile  of his,  Strick turned  to her  Second
Cousin Cusharlain.

"Second Cousin Esaria is ... taken with you, Strick."

"I know. That's why you just heard me warn her. I am being careful,  Cusharlain,
and not encouraging your noble and wealthy cousin's dotter, believe me. Now  let
me tell you a little about my plans, and the sort of information I need."

Confident that Cusharlain  was working on  his behalf, Strick  wandered. Passing
snatches of conversation  informed a tourist  who used his  ears as well  as his
eyes.

Carrying a bag formed  of a dirty sheet  trailing dirty laundry, he  studied the
palace while Beysin guards studied him with little interest. He went on his way,
and soon bought a third armband. When it would not fit around his upper arm,  he
was apologetic about  returning it. The  "protectors" chuckled after  him as the
foreigner, apparently chicken-hearted for all his size, went on his way.  Having
strolled to the very end of Governor's  Walk, he had a look at Sanctuary's  main
temples.  He noted  destruction, and  the busy  work of  reconstruction. No,  he
learned, there  was no  Temple of  the Flame  or any  kind of fire in Sanctuary.
About every  other deity  imaginable was  represented here,  though, including a
little chapel to Theba.

The foreigner nodded. The death goddess was of no interest to Strick of Firaqa.

He took the  Street of Goldsmiths  down to the  Path of Money,  noting among the
well-off citizenry more decollete dresses too busy below the waist. He found the
moneyhandler Cusharlain had recommended.

They held  a bit  of converse,  during which  both men  learned this and that of
interest to each. Then, in private, Strick opened the dirty-sheet bag to  reveal
its other  contents, carefully  pressed together  and snugly  wrapped to prevent
their clinking.

The banker was delighted to  make the acquaintance of Torezalan  Strick tiFiraqa
and his foreign gold.

Strick left in  possession of several  documents and carrying  the bag that  now
held only dirty laundry. Two doors down and across that showily clean street, he
entered the establishment of  the second moneyhandler Cusharlain  had mentioned.
While that individual might have been uninterested in a foreigner with so little
taste as  to carry  his soiled  clothing along  the street  called Money, he was
experienced enough to know that eccentric  people came to him with treasures  in
eccentric disguises. He acceded to a private interview and was rewarded.

From his underwear the foreigner in the strange skullcap took a small felt  bag.
It did not jingle, but it did  contain two gleaming examples of the largesse  of
Firaqa's Pearl River. They were worth over twenty horses, or much gold.

Strick departed  with several  more documents,  less weighty  underclothing, and
carrying the bag that now held only dirty laundry.

He stopped in at the Golden Oasis to get something done about the latter and  to
visit his horse. He left bearing  a smaller, cleaner bag. It contained  food and
wine. Ever listening, he walked down the Processional to Wideway. Here he  noted
that most damage to the ever-important docks had been repaired. He saw  workmen,
fisherfolk and their boats, and  Beysib ships. Ambling easily, keeping  his face
wide open and his eyes  large, he observed, listened, asked  carefully unpointed
questions, and  listened. He  noted some  flood damage,  rather less decolletage
among these working people, and some damage from fire.

Three workmen were astonished at the offer  of the strange big man who spoke  so
quietly. Naturally they accepted: They joined  him on a loading dock for  a bite
and a bit of wine.  This time he learned the  location of the dive called  Sly's
Place; two of these  men knew of it.  He was in the  wrong section of the  city,
though close. He was advised  to stay out of that  area of town, and he  thanked
the adviser.

Only after he had meandered  off on his way, leaving  the rest of the wine,  did
they realize that they had learned little from him while he had learned much. No
matter. What a fine nice fellow he was, with his funny accent!

Strick, meanwhile, was wandering some more, observing and listening.

"Well. Here's a new face! I'm Ouleh. Buy a girl a cup, good-lookin'?"

Strick looked up at  the woman who materialized  beside his comer table  in this
noisy place. She was  a "girl" of thirty  or so, wearing a  canary yellow blouse
scooped deeply to display a great deal of her head-sized breasts. Her long skirt
was without flounces or adornment other than its positively manic striping.

He said, "At the bar."

"Hmm?" She cocked her head on one side and tried to look sweet.

"Go to the counter, tell Ahdio I'm buying you one, and to look this way. I  will
nod."

"Nice man! Be right back."

"No. I drink here, you there."

"Oh."

Without further comment aside from a shrug that imparted massive movement to her
blouse, she jiggled back to the counter. Strick saw her point, saw the big  mail
coated man look at him. Strick held up one finger and nodded. So did the big man
in the  coat of  linked chain.  A moment  later Ouleh  was making  expostulatory
noises and gestures  while Ahdio  headed for  the comer  table, bearing  a  blue
glazed mug.  Strick heard  the jing-jing  of the  armor as  the other  large man
approached.

Is he the focus? Strick could not be sure. He read three separate spells in this
place. Two  involved Ahdio's  assistants, the  extra-homely woman  and the young
fellow with the limp. The other was in back, and seemed to have to do with an

animal.

Someone called,  "Takin' that  poor innocent  stranger another  mug o'  cat-pee,
Ahdio?"

"Nah," the dive's proprietor called  back, turning his head that  way. "Sweetboy
Special is what's in your cup, Tervy. Newcomers get the good stuff." Arrived  at
Strick's table, he went on in a lower voice: "Ouleh said you said you'd buy  her
one and would nod to prove it.  Overhung Ouleh's an old friend and this  place's
favorite blowze,  but for  all I  know she  told you  to nod  hello to me when I
looked this way. Brought you one, though."

Strick  decided to  stand. Patrons  stared. They  seldom saw  a man  as big   as
Ahdiovizun, even one an inch or so shorter.

"She told it  right. And she's  to stay over  there. I have  a message for you."
When the other man instantly shifted the  mug to his left hand, Strick backed  a
pace. "Easy. I just came here from Firaqa. Name's Strick. Along the way I met  a
young man and woman. Boy and a girl, maybe. He asked me to tell you that the big
red cat with them followed them-even out across the desert-and to swear that  he
did not take it."

Ahdio stared for  a moment, then  smiled. "You get  the next one,"  he said, and
drank half the contents of the cup in his left hand. "Dark fellow, hawkish nose,
medium height and wiry? Wearing anything unusual?"

"Knives."

Ahdio laughed.  "That's Hansey!  Thanks, uh,  Strick. I've  been wondering about
Notable. Hanse is the first person that  cat ever took to. Be damned. Where  was
this?"

"Hey Ahdio, how about onea them sausages over here?"

Ahdio glanced  that way.  "Suck your  finger, Harmy!  This is  an old war crony.
Throde? Sausage for Harmocohl. Oh, and fill a cup for Ouleh before she stares  a
hole in my back."

"Up in Maidenhead Wood,  other side of the  desert," Strick told him.  "A day or
two this side of Firaqa. They were headed there."

"They were? You know, I've never even met anyone from up there. You just arrive,
Strick? Moving to Sanctuary? Got a place to stay?"

"Aye."

Ahdio grinned. "All three. All right. I won't ask any more. Thanks again. You're
not staying here in the Maze?"

"No."

"Thought not. The cat look all right?"

"Large and well-fed. Stared at me the whole time we locked."

"That's Notable!" Ahdio  nodded, beaming. "Uh-Strick.  Because you bought  Ouleh
one, Avenestra will be over here  next. She's a mighty unhappy little  girl, and
taking too much mouth  from too many of  the boys here. You  did Hanse and me  a
favor. Wish you'd do her  one. They'd leave her alone  when she's with a man  as
big as you-who is  also an old war  crony of mine," he  added, with a new  grin.
"Maybe just talk with her a while, or just let her talk. She's all right.  Mixed
up pretty bad. A round for you both is on me."

"All right. Give her what she wants and suggest that she bring it over here with
a mug of something weak for me. Ahdio: any men in here looking for work? Anybody
you trust?"

Ahdio smiled. "That narrows the choices! What kind of work? Beg pardon, but  you
look like a weapon-man to me."

"No. Need a guard, when  I open a shop. And  a-oh, a lackey who knows  Sanctuary
and can look and act decent."

"I'll give it some thought and tell  you later, Strick. Oh- and thanks, for  all
of it. The girl too, I mean."

Strick nodded.

Ahdio returned to the counter. Strick didn't see what he did, but a few  moments
later a girl-this one  really was, an angular  girl in her mid-teens-was  moving
toward his  table. Her  black singlet  fitted her  like a  coat of paint above a
violet skirt slit up both  sides to her big black  belt. Looked as if she  had a
waist measurement to match  her age and a  chest maybe eight inches  larger. She
bore two mugs. Someone said something  she didn't like and someone else  slapped
her bottom and that quickly she turned  to dump the contents of one of  the mugs
down his front. Men laughed, but not that one, and two big men converged on  the
trouble spot.

The man in the soaked tunic, on his  feet with his hand raised to slap her  less
intimately  but  more painfully,  glanced  up to  his  left. Massive  chest  and
scintillant mail, chin at a level with  his eyebrows. Then up to his right.  Big
broad chest and arms in an undyed tunic big enough to fit him twice, and a  chin
on a level with his eyelashes. The butt-slapper sat down.

"When a girl wants  her tail slapped, Saz,  that's one thing. When  you know she
doesn't, that's another. You want to stay?"

Saz nodded. Ahdio nodded. "Throde! Saz needs one,  and so does my old war  crony
oh no! Now Avvie, damn it, why'd you go and do that? You have two mugs-why'd you
have to throw the qualis on him 'stead of the beer?"

That brought more laughter, while both Saz and Avenestra kept their heads  down.
Ahdio said something, and Strick did, and the girl went to sit with Ahdio's  old
war crony.

Conversation  began slowly.  He knew  at once  that Avenestra  was unhappy   and
defensive. She  kept darting  curious/ suspicious  looks at  him from black eyes
under  jet brows  that indicated  her hair  had help  in being  gold-blond.  She
glugged her  qualis, set  the cup  down rather  sharply, and  stared at  him. He
signed for more. It came. He told her little and said none of the things a  male
might  be expected  to say  to a  female in  her apparent  profession. He  asked
questions and  shrugged when  she didn't  answer or  was evasive.  He even  said
"Sorry; not prying," a couple of times,  and he did not ask her age.  He studied
her, but looked away  when she acted uncomfortable.  He did leam that  Avenestra
was infatuated with Ahdio,  and that the homely  woman was his wife.  Never mind
his  age; he'd  been kind  to Avenestra.  She told  Strick what  qualis was  and
assured him he would like it; she offered him a taste. He shook his head and she
knocked back the expensive wine. He signed for another round.

Avenestra put her gaunt-faced head on one side. "You trying to get me drunk?"

"No. You had your limit?"

"You rich?"

He shook his head. "Are you an orphan, Avenestra?"

Her eyes clouded. "How'd you know? Oh, Ahdio told you!"

"No. If I'd known I wouldn't have asked, believe me."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you know you can and because I don't want a damned thing from you."

"Huh! That's a first."

He said nothing and neither did she. She drank and let him see that her cup  was
empty. He looked at the empty mug, looked at her, and signed for another.  Again
she put her head on one side and gave him that dark, dark suspicious look.

"You're hardly  drinkin' anyth'  but you  keep or'erin'  f'me. You  sure you not
tryina get me drunk?"

"Do you need help?"

Avenestra put her head down and wept for the next ten minutes.

Strick sat silently. He did not touch her. Ahdio's wife came, but Strick  raised
a finger to his  lips. He gave her  money. "Tell Ahdio to  tell Cusharlain." She
did not understand, but gave him his difference and went away. Good woman, spell
or no, Strick thought, while Avenestra kept weeping. After another five or eight
minutes  she raised  her head,  looking horrible  and pitiful.  She watched  him
thrust a big hand down  into the outsize neck of  his tunic and come out  with a
white cloth. He handed it to her.

"Wha'm I sposed to do wi' this?"

"Wipe your eyes and face, and blow."

She sat staring, blinking,  oozing kohl from her  eyes. Then she wiped  her face
and eyes, and blew. She looked at the kerchief and shook her head.

"Avenestra: let's go."

"Wan' 'nother cup first."

"If you have another qualis you won't be able to go."

"So?" She made  a feisty face  and used a  matching voice: "You  said you didn't
want anything from me."

"So you'll be here, drunk and unable to wock, and then what?"

She  didn't have  to translate  his "wock"  to "walk."  She wept  for ten   more
minutes. After that, they left. Ahdio watched. His fingers were crossed.

The Golden Lizard was hardly golden  and hardly comparable to the Golden  Oasis,
but it was not a hole and aye, a room was available. No eyebrow was raised  when
Strick laid down coins for two days  and three candles, and took a candle  and a
silent  Avenestra, her  legs almost  functioning, upstairs.  He was  careful  to
secure  the  door  and inspect  the  window.  He turned  to  the  girl slouching
unprettily on the edge of the bed.

"Avenestra, I want you to give me something."

"Uh-huh. How you wan' it?"

"No, I mean an object. Something of yours. A coin. Anything."

"Huh! Think you're that good? You give me someth'."

He handed her a silver coin. "That's yours. I want nothing fork."

She stared at it, held  it up closer, stared, and  slid off the bed. Sitting  on
the floor, she wept for the next ten or so minutes. When at last she looked  up,
he bade her use his kerchief. She did. He repeated his request. She stared, head
on one side. At last, wriggling loosely, she gave him her broad black belt.

"Thank you." He squatted and put his hands on her narrow and meatless shoulders.
"You think fondly of Ahdio as an  uncle. Since you have no reason to  drink, you
just stopped."

"You," she advised, "are so full of shit your blue eyes are turning brown."

Grinning helplessly, he whipped back the tired old spread and inspected the bed.
He found nothing alive. He picked  up the slumping girl with preposterous  ease,
and stretched her on the bed. He  took off his weapons belt, thinking about  the
new armband he'd been forced to buy.  He sat on the floor with his  back against
the wall. The candle he set to one side.

When Avenestra awoke five or so hours  later, headachy as always, he was not  in
the room. The silver coin was. She was certain that she had done nothing for it.
And she remembered what  he had told her.  Crazy, she thought, and  was thinking
fondly of that nice fatherly Ahdio when she slipped back into sleep.

Cusharlain arrived in the common room of the Golden Oasis shortly after noon and
Esaria shortly after that. She was bright and  summery and pretty in a long  sky
blue dress cut dazzlingly  low. She was also  babbly, and her cousin  put a hand
over her mouth.

"I have two good prospects as places of business and lodgings, Strick, and Ahdio
suggested four  names. A  fifth he  is not  totally certain  about. Said  he had
seven, but you  specified decent and  honest. You can  interview them where  and
when you wish. Unh! Stop licking my palm, brat!"

"Let's go look,"  Strick said. "Stop  giggling, Esaria, and  you may come  along
with the big boys."

They went. Along the way Esaria  told them how miserable her mother  was because
of the new bosom-displaying style.

"Beard of Us!" Cusharlain  said. "With those melons?  She should be pleased  and
proud to display all that bounty of the gods, much less half!"

"You don't understand. Second Cousin. Never tell her I told you, but mother  has
a large hairy mole rather high up on her left, uh, bounty. Right on top.  That's
why she has  stayed covered to  the collarbones, always.  Now-either she reveals
it, or  everyone whose  opinion she  cherishes will  sneer at  her for  being so
ridiculously out of style."

Cusharlain laughed. Strick  did not, and  Esaria noticed. She  took his arm  and
snugged it to her. Her bodyguard ambled along behind, aware that he was  smaller
than Strick.

By  midaftemoon that  quiet man  with the  accent had  leased three  rooms,  two
upstairs  over the  ground-floor one,  and had  optioned another.  His shop  and
dwelling  were  on  the  street  called  Straight,  between  Chokeway  and   the
Processional and thus  not at all  far from the  Golden Oasis. By  the following
afternoon, with the help of Cusharlain and an eager Esaria, he had acquired most
of the furnishings he needed.

He paid Cusharlain and returned Esaria's hug.

"I will visit Sly's tonight and  observe the men Ahdio recommends," he  told her
cousin. "But as to Harmocohl: no, in advance."

"Surely I can be trusted by now, Strick. You have a carpet, drapes, some  chairs
and a desk, and beds. What  sort of shop is this to  be? What do you plan to  do
here?"

"Help people,"  Strick told  him, and  after a  while Cusharlain  went his  way,
having learned no more. Strick turned to Esaria.

"Esaria: you must get your mother here as soon as you can. I don't care how many
bodyguards she brings. You've just got to get her here."

She looked at him. "It isn't going to do me any good to ask why, is it?"

"Not yet. Try."

"Try! I'll do it!  Are you going to  take me to that  dreadful dive back in  the
Maze?"

"A bunny in the lions' lair! Never!"

"What about to bed? Are you ever going to take me to bed?"

He repeated his previous utterance.

No, Strick was  told, Avenestra was  not in the  Golden Lizard. No,  she had not
drunk anything and she had not stayed the second night. But she had been in four
times, asking after him. She had bidden the proprietor mention... Uncle Ahdio?

Strick smiled, paid for two more days/nights and made his thoughtful way back to
the Golden  0. There  he was  confronted by  a certain  caravan guard.  Solemnly
Fulcris turned up the sword-arm sleeve of his tunic.

"The wound is  fine," he said.  "And by the  very beard of  Yaguixana, I'd wager
there will be no scar, either!"

"Told you, Fulcris. I know a good wound when I see one. What are your plans  for
"

"It's not  going to  be that  easy, my  friend. What  did you  do? What have you
done?"

"In addition to which," a new voice asked, "what are you, Strick?"

Strick looked at him, eyes large. "Hello, Ahdio."

"You might as well  call me Uncle  Ahdio. Avenestra does.  And now I  have a non
drinker cluttering up my place!"

Strick didn't laugh.  "You know what  I am, Ahdio.  Just understand this:  It is
what Sanctuary needs most. It's all white."

"All, Strick? Always?"

Strick met his  eyes and put  force into his  gaze. "All, Ahdio,  always. It's a
vow-and don't question me that way again."

Ahdio returned the gaze, his head  moving almost imperceptibly in the mere  hint
of a nod. "I believe you. I even apologize."

Strick smiled and squeezed his arm, while their exchanged look lengthened.

"Do... do I dare ask?" Fulcris asked nervously.

"Fulcris my friend, I  will tell you. Not  just now. I repeat,  though: what are
you going to do? Stay? Go? Find work here, or on the next caravan out?"

"I will tell you," Fulcris said with dignity, "but not just now." And he  turned
and walked away.

"That's interesting," Ahdio said. When Strick  said nothing but only gave him  a
questioning look,  he said,  "He's the  fifth man.  The one  I told Cusharlain I
couldn't be sure about  because he isn't a  Sanctuarite and I don't  know enough
about him."

Strick smiled  and looked  at the  door that  had closed  on Fulcris. "I do," he
said, so quietly. "Proud fellow, isn't he!"

"Um.  That's three  of us.  Strick-you said  'you know'  when I  asked what  you
are..."

Strick looked at him again, into the other big man's eyes. "Aye. Three spells in
your place, none dark-though  I can't be sure  about the cat I've  never seen. I
doubted coincidence."

"You can ... see spells?!"

Strick nodded. "Usually. Often, anyhow. Not always. It's an ability."

"God-it's a talent! A marvelous talent!"

"No, Ahdio. An ability. I paid. I paid for all of it."

Ahdio met the gaze of those large blue eyes for quite some time before he  said,
"I won't ask, Strick."

"Good. I won't either. Tell Avenestra she  has a room at the Lizard tonight  and
tomorrow night."

"I'll tell her. And I won't ask, Strick."

The man named Frax arrived clean and military-looking for his interview. He  had
been a palace  guard. Then the  Bey sins came.  Now Beysibs guarded  the palace.
Frax had yet  to find employment.  Strick sat thinking  about that for  a while,
chewing the  inside of  his lip.  Suddenly he  stared past  Frax, his eyes going
wide. He had not finished his "Look  out!" when Frax had spun to face  the door,
crouching, poised. Each fist had grown a  dagger. He saw nothing; no one and  no
menace.

"You're  hired,"  Strick  said,  and  Frax  turned  to  find  him  still  seated
comfortably. "A  partition will  divide the  room downstairs:  an entry hall and
your room. Your bed will be in it, and your belongings. You'll consider yourself
on duty at all times, starting on  the morrow. What payment did you receive,  as
palace guardsman?"

Still in partial shock, Frax told him.

"Hmp! The Prince is no less important than I am-yet. Same wage, Frax."

"You-that was a trick! You tested-"

Frax blinked down at the swordpoint at his chest. His new employer had stood and
drawn and set it there as fast and smoothly as any man Frax had ever seen.

"You had to be almost as good as I am, Frax," he said in that equable way,  eyes
large and serene. "I  won't be wearing a  sword." And Strick swung  the sword up
and back, touched his shoulder with it, and sheathed without glancing down.  "Do
you know anything about a sort of over-age street urchin named Wintsenay?"

"Not much, Swordmaster. He's a-"

"You definitely are not to call me that, Frax! We'll-" He paused, listening, and
smiled. "I have a guest, Frax. If I'm lucky, two guests. In the morning, Frax?"

Frax was  nodding, working  at finding  a respectful  title for  his astonishing
employer, when Esaria bubbled into the room.

"I eluded  my 'escort'  for once!  Hurry, Strick,"  she said, and, triumphantly:
"Mothahhh awaits your pleasure in the Golden O!"

Strick smiled.  "Good. My  guardian Frax  will accompany  you." He unbuckled his
weapons belt and passed it to the other man. "Hand me one of your daggers, Frax;
there's a good one in that sheath. Frax will escort you. Noble Shafra-laina, and
will escort your mother back. This is my place of business."

"I will do anything for you. Lord Strick!"

"Do not call me lord and do not be silly, Avenestra. Your infatuation with Ahdio
is ended and  so is your  nightly drunk-enness, that's  all. You are  right back
where you were. An  orphan of fifteen who  hangs about a low  tavern every night
and survives by  selling her body-for  what little poor  men can afford  to pay!
It's a  rotten life  and will  only rot  you. Besides,  there is  the trade,  or
reverse effect. The Price. What effect  is your new craving for sweets  going to
have on the body you peddle?"

Avenestra looked at the floor and began  leaking tears. "What-what else can I  d
do-o?"

"What would you like to do? Think, girl! For once, think!"

"B-b-be you-you-ourss!"

Strick slapped the desk  cover, a huge piece  of deep blue velvet  trailing gold
tassels on her side. "My dotter, you mean."

"Daughter? Uh-"

"Look at me and consider my age and forget the other, Avneh!"

She did  look at  him, from  unkohled eyes  all soft  and misted with tears that
traced glistening tracks down her gaunt cheeks. She bit her lip. She nodded.

"What-what does your daught-your dotter do?"

"Strangely  enough, she  is called  niece rather  than dotter,  calls me   Uncle
Strick, and lives in the room across the corridor. I am helping to relocate  the
present tenant. My niece learns decent  behavior and decent things to do,  wears
decent clothing, and will I hope become aide and receptionist."

"I-I-I don't even know what that means..."

"In the meanwhile, she markets for me and cooks for me."

"Oh, oh M-Mother Shipri-yes, yes, I will cook for you!"

Strick smiled.  "My niece  also stops  watering this  nice carpet  with so  many
tears."

She smiled. "Oh my lor-Uncle Strick! How did you come by your ability?"

"The  power of  the Ring  of Foogalooganooga,  far west  of Firaqa,   Avenestra.
Wints!"

The door opened  and a thin  man appeared. He  was freshly barbered  and shaven,
wearing a nice new tunic of Croyite blue. "Sir?"

"Take my niece around to a few places and introduce her, Wints. You and she will
be buying some food. At Kalen's, tell him  she is to have a tunic from the  same
bolt as yours. White broidery at the neck and-umm. Length just above the  knees.
Avneh: it is not to be tight!"

"Y-ess, Uncle," she said, trying not to weep in her joy.

"All right  then, be  on your  way-what's all  that damned  noise!" Then, "Easy,
Wints. Don't  be so  fast to  draw that  dagger!" Strick  strode to the door and
stared at the stairwell. "Frax! What's all that n-oh. Noble Shafralain. Come in.
My aide and my niece were  just leaving. Wints: despite his stride  and fiercely
determined look, this man and I are friends."

He gestured. Wide  of eye,  Wintsenay and  Avenestra departed  while the  silken
tunicked nobleman strode into the room that Strick called his "shop." Shafralain
paused to regard the other  man, who was most  unusually attired. Strick's  calf
length tunic of medium blue and oddly, unfashionably matching leggings made  him
seem less big and  yet more imposing, in  a different way. A  matching skullcap,
encompassing most of  his head, had  replaced the odd  leathern cap of  the same
design.

"What are you, Strick? First I saw a big man with a sword and few words. Another
caravan guard,  I thought,  probably looking  for mercenary  employment. Then  I
discovered you  had character  and consideration-and  silver. In  my home  I was
struck by your comportment-aye, and deportment: the manners of a man well  born.
Nonetheless I was nervous about my  daughter's uh seeming fondness for you.  Yet
Cusharlain assured me that you were  not encouraging her; strange way for  a man
to behave, with a highborn girl who shows him attention! Soon I learned from her
that you had  taken these rooms,  in a good  location, and purchased  furniture.
Next I discovered that you have real money; we share a banker, Strick. Ah, don't
look that way! He is close-mouthed as he should be; it is just that I am one  of
his partners. Now my wife-gods of my fathers, Strick! What are you?"

"Sit down. Noble," Strick said,  as he did so. "It's  no secret, now: I am  open
for business.  I recognize  most spells,  and I  possess a  smallish ability  to
redirect... problems.  Call it  an ability  to cast  minor spells.  I also  have
rules. I help  people, but by  what most would  call 'white magic'  only. I will
have nothing to do with the other kind, but would fight it."

"That is the most I have ever heard you say!" Shafralain had slid down into  the
comfortable  chair  across  the  handsomely  draped  desk  from  the  quiet man.
"Whence... whence came this ability?"

"From Ferrillan, far  north of Firaqa.  From a woman  now dead. I  am unbound by
gods and  locale, or  by spells  or anti-spells.  Partners with my moneyhandler,
eh?"

"Never mind that. The  unsightly mole on my  wife's... chest has been  there for
over ten years.  Now it has  vanished without a  trace, because she  came to see
you. She is ecstatic -and she says you did not even touch her."

"Not quite true," Strick told him. "I did  see the mole, and later I did put  my
hands on her shoulders. It was sufficient."

Shafralain shook his head.  "Such power-and can  you heal? Are  you a  physician
mage, is that it?"

"Not really. Can't raise  the dead and wouldn't  strike dead an enemy  of yours,
not for all  your fortune. Couldn't  heal a dagger  wound in your  belly either,
Shafralain."

Shafralain made a face at the image  that brought to mind. "My lady wife  is the
happiest of women, and yet you took from her a single piece of silver. Now-"

"No. I asked for something of value, in advance, and a silver coin was what  she
my third client here-chose to give me. Another gave me water and wine; another a
worthless belt. But it was of value to her, you see."

"Now my wife tells me I should give you a hundred more!"

"I have what I  want of her and  of you, Shafralain," Strick  said, omitting the
other man's title for the second time. "How many of high station has she  told?"
He smiled. "I hope she exaggerates  the amount paid but not my  ability! Because
of her, others will  come. I will have  my hundred pieces of  silver! But-is she
totally happy? There is always another Price; a Trade. I paid mine. A person who
was infatuated with one much older  and driven to drunkenness now has  a craving
for sweets that  will become trouble.  Fulcris's wound healed  swiftly without a
scar. I had only a little to do with that, but he will have some small complaint
by now. The reverse effect; the Price."

Shafralain stared.  "Expimilia's tooth!  You are  telling me  that the  suddenly
painful tooth my wife had to have drawn is an additional price she paid for your
help?"

"Probably. It was not  in front, I hope.  Ah, good. Doesn't show?  Good. Has she
any other recent complaint?" When the other man shook his head, Strick shrugged.
"The painful ab-cess was probably the  Price, then. Not a terrible one.  That is
beyond my control.  It might have  been gentler, and  it could have  been worse.
Still, some people prefer the original problem to the Price."

Shafralain sat studying him. "I am not sure I believe all you say, Strick.  Easy
to admit that I'd like to! White magic only, eh?"

Quietly and in an equable tone, staring, Strick said, "Snarl and sneer at street
urchins. Noble Shafralain, but do not question me."

Shafralain  stiffened and  his knuckles  paled as  he gripped  the arms  of  the
comfortable chair Strick provided for his visitors. Strick's eyes never  wavered
from the nobleman's stare. At last Shafralain's hands and body loosened.

"Strick, my family existed  in ancient Ilsig since  before Ranke was. My  family
has been here since Us the All-seeing led my people out of the Queen's Mountains
and here to Sanctuary. The city  of the children of Us  has been beset by  blood
lusting Rankans and weavers of the darkest spells. For a time it seemed that the
All-father had turned our city over to  His son, the Nameless One who is  patron
of shadows and  thieves. For a  time some of  us thought we  saw promise in  the
young prince whom the emperor-the murdered emperor, now- sent out from Ranke. He
is no Ilsig, but damn  it we thought he was  a man. Now we have  the sea people.
New conquerors.  And that  same young  prince, who  has a  Rankan wife, consorts
openly with one of those... creatures."

He came to painful pause rather than a halt, but Strick said, "All this I  know,
Aral Shafralain t'llsig."

Shafralain nodded. "1 said  that I want to  believe you, Strick. White  Magic is
the Old way.  We need it.  Sanctuary needs hope."  Abruptly he rose.  "I was not
questioning you, my touchy friend. I love Sanctuary and hope you do."

Strick rose. "My vow is long since made, Shafralain, and bound about. I am  what
I say. A minor weaver of spells; spells for good and that only."

"You said that  you paid a  price," Shafralain said,  after gazing at  him for a
time. "I would dare ask what price you paid for your... abilities. A tooth?"

Strick shook his  head. He reached  up and brushed  his hand over  his skullcap,
wiping it backward from his head. Shafralain stared at the other man's head, and
at last he nodded. He extended his  hand. Strick took it, and again their  gazes
met. Then  Shafralain departed  amid a  rustle of  silk. The  big man  carefully
replaced his skullcap.

Noble Shafralain could guess  at the rest of  the Price Strick had  paid for the
ability, but probably would not. Strick didn't care.

His name was Gonfred  and he was a  goldsmith with a reputation  for honesty. No
shavings, no scrapings  or drippings remained  in his possession  when he worked
with the gold of others. He hiccoughed as he entered Strick's shop and again  by
the time he was seated and laying a silver coin on the desk's blue cloth.

"Is this of value to you, Gonfred?"

The goldsmith gazed at him, smiled shyly, and added another silver coin. And  he
hiccoughed.

"How long have you had the hiccups, Gonfred?"

"Six days. I work with my ha-uh!-hands. Can't work."

"I want you  to sit back  and take about  three deep breaths.  Hold the third as
long  as you  possibly can.  If you  hiccup during  that process,  do it  again.
Avenestra!"

Sucking up great breaths, Gonfred saw the blue-tunicked young girl who appeared.
"Sir!"

"Please  fetch an  ounce of  Saracsaboona for  this honest  goldsmith, with  two
ounces of water."

She  departed.  Gonfred hiccoughed  and  started the  deep  breathing again.  He
succeeded in holding the third.  Avenestra returned from the adjoining  room. In
both hands she bore a goblet  of translucent green glass. It contained  an ounce
of ordinary wine, an  ounce of water, and  an ounce of saffron  water for color.
She set it before Strick.  Taking it in both hands,  he rose and came around  to
the seated goldsmith. Gonfred accepted  it and looked questioning; he  was still
holding, barely.

"Let the breath out," he was told. "Drink,  and try to do it in such a  way that
it all goes down at a gulp."

When Gonfred took the goblet, gasping, Strick put his hands on the seated  man's
shoulders. "Your hiccups are going, Gonfred..."

Hurriedly Gonfred knocked back the contents of the goblet. He gasped some  more,
watching the other man return to his chair behind the cloth-draped desk.

"Your hiccups  are gone,  Gonfred my  friend. There  is always  a trade, a Price
beyond this silver, over which I have no control. If it is unbearable, return."

Gonfred sat staring. His hiccoughs  were gone. "Thank you, Spellmasier!"  He was
at the door when  he turned, paced back  to the desk, and  retrieved both silver
coins. In their place he laid down  a plain, drilled disk of pure gold.  Then he
departed.

He entered carrying a  sack. His name was  Jakob and he was  called Blind Jakob.
Strick's face was sad as he watched  Wints guide the fruit pedlar to the  chair.
Jakob's hand found the desk and he set the sack upon it.

"I am Strick, Jakob, and I have fear that I cannot help you."

"It-it is-you think it  is permanent, sir?" The  blind man looked stricken.  "Ah
gods. But it is so troublesome-so embarrassing."

Strick blinked. "Embarrassing?"

"The roiling inside is bad enough, but when I break wind in public, particularly
when a woman is examining my fruits..."

Strick clamped both hands over his mouth to hold back all sound of laughter. The
poor fellow was accustomed to his true affliction. But gas disturbed him; it was
socially embarrassing! Strick rose and moved around the desk.

"I am coming to put my hands on you, Jakob. Give me something of value."

The blind  man leaned  a little  forward to  touch the  sack. "Three people have
insisted on buying  those in the  past hour, sir.  They are the  most valuable I
have had in a long while."

Strick's hands were on him, now. He  was relieved to feel no death here,  and he
knew at  once that  the offering  was of  value to  this man.  Then he  felt the
tension, and was sure that Jakob's gas was not dietary. He must be careful. This
man did  not live  or work  in a  truly dangerous  area. Yet  relieve him of all
tension and he might be left so complacent that he really would be in the danger
that now he mostly imagined. Strick did what he could, to the extent he dared.

"Your gas is gone, Jakob my friend, save when you overindulge in food or  drink.
Radishes and  cucumbers are  your enemies,  Jakob. Mind  now, there  is always a
trade, a  Price beyond  this sack,  and over  that I  have no  control. If it is
unbearable, return."

Jakob arose, made his request and heard it granted, and traced out the lines  of
the other man's face with his fingers. He departed with his sack, now empty. The
two muskmelons were superb, indeed things of value.

"Bad breath, yes. Would you open your mouth and let me see the source,  please?"
Bent close  to look,  Strick was  half overcome  by the  foul odor  that was his
client's complaint. He  turned his head  aside, took a  deep breath, and  looked
closely into  that mouth.  He straightened.  Shaking his  head, he  went to give
Wints  quiet  instructions.  Strick  returned  to  stand  over  this  friend  of
Shafralain, looked sternly down at him.

"Noble Volmas, you must have more love for both gods and self. The gods gave you
those teeth. You have not cleaned them for  years. Do so, man! In the  meanwhile
ah, thank you, Wintsenay. In the meanwhile. Noble, take this cup. Note the  five
seeds in  its bottom.  The cup  also contains  salt water.  Aye, make a face-and
drink! See that you swallow the seed. The Seeds of Malasaconooga are the  source
of my abilities."

Strick remained standing, sternly watching, while the poor fellow drank off  the
salt water. Finished, he made choking noises and a dreadful face. A stem  Strick
held out his hand for  the cup. He peered within.  A seed remained. He heaved  a
mighty sigh, sent it back to be  filled with water, and gave the finely  dressed
man with the great belly even  sterner instructions. The noble drank. The  fifth
seed went down.

"Now. That foul breath that has cost you friends and alienated your wife is  not
gone, but will go, steadily. I am only a maker of small white spells. Noble, and
sometimes I must have help. Keep that cup. Use it. Clean your teeth twice daily,
after you eat. Get  in there with cloth  and soap. Yes, it  will taste terrible;
you've been told there is a Price here, beyond those ten silver coins you  claim
to find dear. After you have cleaned, add a goodly measure of salt to that  cup,
fill with water-not-wine, and rinse. You heed not drink. Swirl it about in  your
mouth and spit, until all is gone. Remember all this! It is important. If in two
weeks your breath is not improved fivehold, return to me."

After  Volmas  had left,  Strick  stood shaking  his  head. Charlatan,  he  told
himself. Yet he had done good for everyone who had to come in contact with  that
stupid swine, to whom ten pieces of  silver were as naught. That cup was  one he
had never liked, and  he had known he'd  find a use for  some of the seeds  from
blind Jakob's melons!

"My dear, you are under  a spell. I cannot see  whose, and I am sorry.  You need
the aid of powers beyond mine. Go to Enas Yorl. Here now, take back your gold. I
have not earned it. If he does not or will not help, return and we will try."

Smoke of  the Flame,  he thought  in anger  and true  pain, watching her unhappy
departure. Abhorrent  black magic  again. After  two weeks  here I  have done so
little  for  these  poor  pitiful people  with  their  misery  and their  wicked
sorcerers!

                                   *   *   *

The lady of wealth was forty-eight and showing about one gray hair for every six
black.  The  dyes she  had  tried made  an  ugly mess,  deadening  her hair.  He
considered  her, her  vanity, and  her offer  of three  golden disks  bearing  a
likeness of the new Emperor.

"It  is  a natural  process.  Lady Amaya.  The  problem is  that  presently it's
streaky. If it  grayed faster, or  went white, you  would be both  beautiful and
striking."

"Oh-oh my."

She went away and he waited an hour before sending her golden coins to her.

She returned next day. "Show me silver," she said, setting a largeish dinky  bag
of purple cloth on his desk, and he showed her. He also "cheated." She did  look
magnificent with silver  hair, and he  added a small  spell so that  she and her
vanity agreed with the fact.

"Oh! Oh  my!" she  said, staring  at the  mirror, turning  her head this way and
that. "Oh, Spellweaver! You  are a genius! My  husband will love it  and all the
girls will-oh my. What shall I tell them?"

"That you have been dyeing it for two  years or so, and are so happy to  be over
your vanity!"

Amaya laughed in  delight. "A genius!  They will be  filled with both  shame and
envy!"

Within the next two weeks he had five requests for silver hair, although none of
these others, of varying stations in life, gave him fifty pieces of silver.  Not
to mention the chain of gold Amaya's husband sent as "token of his pleasure."

"So. It's  been a  month, and  you are  staying busy.  Tell me  about your day,"
Esaria said, looking so bright and sunny across the little table from him.  They
were taking  dinner in  the Golden  0, while  her guard  and Frax sat across the
room, visiting. He wore his odd blue "uniform," including the plain gold disk on
a gold chain about his neck.

He spoke to the pepper pot with which he toyed. "I was asked for a love  potion.
She said she just knew he was fond of her but when he's up close he loses ardor,
unto aloofness. I gave her what she needed. A vial of colored wotter with a  bit
of wine and camomile for aroma, and soap made green by simple herbal coloring. I
bade her bathe daily and  well, putting a bit of  each into the bath wotter  and
drying thoroughly."

Esaria looked very skeptical indeed. "That's a love potion?!"

"It is what she  needs. She stinks. If  he doesn't respond to  her better aroma,
someone will; she's  attractive. For that  I earned two  coppers. Stop laughing,
brat. My business is help for the people.  I had to turn away a clubfoot. I  can
do  nothing  about that-by  the  Flame, how  I  wish I  could!  A former  client
returned. Looked good:  I had indeed  removed his acne,  but his Price  took the
form of diarrhea  he could not  bear. I removed  the spell and  returned his two
coppers.  So-he  has  acne  and  a  settled  stomach."  Strick  shrugged.  "He's
seventeen. The acne will go. Mine did."

"So has most of mine," she said. "But at this rate you could

starve!"

He shook his head. "Hardly. A certain friend of your mother's is very  sensitive
about her scraggly hair. I put a little spell on it and made her promise to wash
it at least every  other day. For that,  she left fourteen silver  Imperials-old
Imperials. Said it is her magic number."

"Is it?"

He smiled.  "No. Must  be mine,  though," and  they chuckled  together. "Too,  a
messenger arrived from Volmas. His message was a nice fat gold piece."

"Is that  what happened  to his  foul breath!  Ah, my  hero!" Clasping her hands
under her chin, she gazed at him. "What else. Hero of the People?"

"I spelled a wart off a finger. Ten coppers! Accepted a sack of decent wine  for
still another head of silver hair. I think it was more than she could afford, at
age thirty. A woman asked me to cast  a spell on her neighbor, who is after  her
husband. Third request  for punitive spells  this week. I  refuse them all.  The
very next client asked  me to make her  more attractive to her  husband. See the
difference in the minds of the two individuals? I told her she would be, as soon
as she gets him to come to me. The  spell, you see, needs to be on him, so  that
he perceives her as more attractive!"

"How lovely! You  might put one  on a certain  man for me,"  she said, tracing a
finger idly along his forearm.

"If you were more attractive no one  in Sanctuary could stand it," he said,  and
rushed  on  before  she could  say  what  he did  not  want  to hear.  "This  is
interesting. The  man and  the woman  came together.  Their neighbor's dog barks
every night and disturbs their sleep and that of their infant. He said he wanted
the dog dead and I  told him no. He came  back with almost a command:  'At least
punish my neighbor! The swine sleeps right through that beast's noise!'"  Strick
sighed. "That was tempting!"

"I should think so! Sounds like justice to me," Esaria said.

"True. But it's beyond what I will  do. When he settled down and she  begged for
any sort of relief, I promised that the dog would not bother their sleep again."

"Oh how wonderful, Strick!" She squeezed  his arm. "You put a sleeping  spell on
them?-or one on their ears?"

"No! Never that; I  couldn't make such a  spell selective. They could  perish in
their sleep because they heard nothing. No,  but if you'd like to take a  little
ride with me 'morrow  afternoon, we will visit  their neighbor's dog. Simple:  I
merely see to it that he makes no sound between late twilight and

dawn."

She laughed aloud. "How  marvelous! And yes, I'd  love to go!" She  squeezed his
arm at  the elbow.  After a  few moments  she sobered:  "Oh. But suppose someone
tried to break in at the home of the dog's owner? Won't you have done bad  along
with the good?" Now her leg had found his, under the

table.

"A dog that barks at night without real cause is of no value, and better off  on
a farm someplace. Besides, its owner  sleeps right on, remember? Else he'd  have
got rid of the dog long ago. Or become its master as well as merely owner."

"Ah. I should have known better than  to question you. Oh Strick you're so  wise
and so sensitive! You care so, about

people!"

Strick responded to compliments no better than most, and chose not to respond to
that. "Do you know someone called

Chenaya?"

"Yes. Uh-not well. I am not interested in knowing her

well."

"Um. Neither is much  of anyone else, apparently.  Came in yesterday. First  she
challenged Frax and sneered at him,  then made a sexual suggestion to  Wints and
then a nasty remark, said another nasty to Avneh and came swaggering in. Reminds
me of an adolescent boy with a lot to prove. Challenged me -not to a passage  at
arms, I mean, just by remarks and attitude. A thoroughly poison personality. She
had persuaded herself to come, but had trouble stating her problem. A very, very
defensive... person. Demanded to know the  source of my ability. I told  her the
emerald Eye of Agromoto and-"

"That's not what you told me!"

"No, but it's what I  thought of yesterday; today I  told a fellow it came  from
the Hoary Head of the Hawk of Horus. I asked this Chenaya for something of value
and she slapped down a dagger. Nice  sticker, with a jewel or two. She  wondered
aloud what's  under my  cap and  I only  stared, waiting.  She kept  hedging and
meandering  verbally. I  made the  signal for  Wints to  interrupt and  tell  me
someone  was waiting.  'Get out  of here,  lackey!' she  snapped at  him, and  I
quietly told her  that I would  give orders to  my people, thanks,  and never to
hers. She glowered for a while, then looked away, mentioned needing privacy, and
told me what she perceives as her problem."

Strick paused to shake  his head. '"I'd like  to-to do better with  people,' she
said. 'No one-I mean, some people don't uh er seem to uh like me.'"

Esaria made a nasty noise.

He went on: "At last  she'd got it out, but  she continued looking at the  wall.
Embarrassed and defensive. Ready to  challenge, snap back, fight, argue.  What a
rotten job her parents  did with her; how  defensive and unhappy she  is! I told
her that I could help  her, but that she would  not like the solution -and  only
her gods  could know  what the  Price might  be! She  looked at  me, then, and I
thought how sad it is that she has such genuinely pretty eyes."

He shook his head. " 'What would  you do that would be so terrible?'  she wanted
to know, and I told her: Lock your tongue. Render you unable to speak. That  and
some real counseling."

Esaria giggled.

"Her glare got worse," he said, ignoring her. "She called me charlatan, snatched
up  the dagger,  and stalked  to the  door. That  didn't surprise  me; it   just
saddened  me.  Then  she  surprised  me:  she  turned  back  and  made  a sexual
suggestion. I said no. Unfortunately she demanded a reason. I told her I did not
find her sexually attractive. I don't, and stop looking that way. She seems bent
on couching every male in the  city-as if, Wints says, her creator  mandated it.
Not this one. I am more than disinterested: The idea is abhorrent."

"Glad to hear it," Esaria said. "Does that vow encompass all women?"

He  shook his  head and  leaned back,  smiling to  cover discomfort.  "No.  Just
Chenaya, girls such as Avneh, and the daughters of wealthy noblemen."

"Bigot!"

In his mind  Strick identified his  bankers as the  Pearl One and  the Gold One.
Amaya was the wife of the Pearl One with the simple name: Renn. The Gold One was
Melarshain- probably another ancient Ilsig  and relative. After three months  in
Sanctuary, the quiet  man had a  considerable amount on  deposit with each;  far
more than  the pearls  and gold  that had  established his  credit here.  It was
Melarshain who asked him to come  in this afternoon for a "discussion."  Without
asking questions, Strick went. First he changed clothes.

The floor on  which he paced  into the chamber  was of rich  tile, alternating a
warm russet  with a  nicely contrasting  pale cream  yellow. Handsomely  painted
scenes decorated the  walls; one centered  around an intricately  fitted mosaic.
Entering with  his lightweight  beige cloak  flapping at  his ankles, Strick saw
that the furnishings were designed simultaneously for show and for  comfort-rich
comfort.

He was surprised at the collection of men who awaited him, but did not show  it.
They  showed  their  surprise that  he  did  not wear  the  "Strick  uniform" of
unfashionably long  tunic over  unfashionably matching  blue leggings.  Today he
boldly displayed large bare  calves and big bare  arms in the undyed  tunic with
the extra-short sleeves and  extra-large opening at the  neck. He had chosen  to
appear as colorless as  he had been when  he arrived in Sanctuary,  three months
agone. The cloak, however, was no inexpensive garment.

"So the  moneyhandlers of  Sanctuary are  not enemies,  hmm?" he  asked, looking
blandly at Renn. And at Volmas, and Shafralain, and another man he did not know,
and then  at Melarshain.  "A moment,  please." He  turned back  to the  doorway.
"Fulcris? It seems that I have not  been invited here to be murdered after  all.
Come and take this, will you, and find some aide of Melarshain's to go down  and
tell Frax he can relax his guard."

While five men of  wealth sat staring, an  armed man Shafralain recognized  came
into the chamber. He wore a blue  tunic with darker bands at hems and  over both
shoulders. Without so  much as a  glance at them,  he accepted the  weapons belt
Strick unbuckled, and took it away.

Strick turned to face the seated  men, who were staring and exchanging  looks of
surprise or worse. These  five represented a fifth  of the wealth of  Sanctuary.
Strick nodded to them, and sat. He gazed at Melarshain with a mildly questioning
look and an expectant air.

"This is Noble Izamel, Strick."

"Hello, Noble Izamel.  You probably know  why you are  here. Melarshain, I  have
come as asked. Tell me why."

Izamel, a quite old man around whose  skull remained only a halo of white  hair,
chuckled. "I have been told considerable  about you, but I had not  realized how
direct you would be, Spellmaster."

"I am in  the company of  wealthy men who  can afford an  afternoon off. I  am a
working man who can ill afford the luxury."

"You are hardly a poor man, sir."

"I did not say  that I was poor.  Noble. Since it is  you who speaks and  not my
moneyholder Melarshain who invited  me, I repeat to  you: I have come  as asked.
Tell me why."

Melarshain glanced at Renn, but it was Shafralain who made an impatient  gesture
and rose. He paced as he spoke.

"We are men who love Sanctuary. We  believe that you do. We have heard  that you
consider leaving."

Strick's face  was open,  his eyes  large. He  said nothing.  He had started the
rumor.

"You have done  good in Sanctuary;  for Sanctuary," Shafralain  resumed, when it
became obvious that Strick would not comment. "For four of us here directly, but
what is more important, for the city. For  the people. For us of Ilsig, for  Ran
kans-even the Beys. We wish you to remain, Strick."

"I am moving into the city from  my villa, sir," Izamel said. "The villa  is for
sale. We wish you to purchase it."

"You. . .  flatter and please  me," Strick said,  even more quietly  than usual.
"Too, I appreciate bluntness. Noble Izamel.  Yet while I have prospered here,  I
am sure I cannot afford your villa."

At last Melarshain  got himself together.  "Strick, what you  see here is  a new
cartel. We have discussed. The five of us love Sanctuary and welcome another who
has only her  good in mind.  We propose to  loan you the  money to purchase  the
villa of Noble Izamel, at  no interest, and to sell  you as well an interest  in
the glass manufactory two of us own. You may specify the terms."

Strick looked  about at  them. The  ancient aristocracy  and wealth  of ancient,
long-dead Ilsig.  Five  men  who  genuinely  cared.  Cared.  These  were  Ilsigi
Wrigglies,  to  some  who  did  not  care.  He  saw  five  men  with  their arms
outstretched to a foreigner who had come to act as advocate for the people-  for
their people.

"You seek to whelm me, and you succeed. In fact, you quite overwhelm me. I  have
not seen your villa, Izamel, but I accept. Yet we all know that I am nothing  if
I do not  continue to see  anyone and everyone  who comes to  me." He looked  at
Shafralain. "You know pan of the Price I paid, my friend. The other pan is  that
I Care. I must. I Care, unto agony.  This is not always what I have been.  There
was a time when I cared about nothing  save me. I was a swordman. Then I  made a
bargain, and I made the demanded trade, paid the Price." He paused, looked  away
from their eyes. "I may have been happier before.... But there is no going back.
This  is what  I am.  I accept  your offer,  provided you  realize that  I  must
maintain my shop in an accessible area, with my same people."

"We had thought  that you would  move the-the shop  to the villa,  Spellmaster."
That was Renn, moneyhandler.

"No. I am not the toy  of Sanctuary's aristocracy. I am all  people's advocate."
In a low, low voice he added, "I have to be."

Melarshain only glanced  at the others.  "Then we accept  that, Spellmaster. The
chances are excellent that  we insist on, say,  two more bodyguards. You  employ
them; we shall pay them."

"No. I pay my people well. They are loyal to me. I shall not have them loyal  to
you."

Shafralain said, "Still the mistrustful swordsman, Strick?"

"Who am I to dispute the judgment of Noble Shafralain?"

Volmas and Izamel laughed aloud, in chorus.

Strick rose. "The loan will be open-ended. I wish to pay interest; one-half  the
going rate for such men  as you. Prepare the documents.  Renn: I wish one of  my
pearls back. The other goes to Volmas as down payment. And gentlemen,  gentlemen
all: I wish to see the Prince."

Good then, Strick thought as he walked back to his shop. Now it's time to  begin
work toward my true purpose in Sanctuary.

AFTERWORD

C. J. Cherryh

I have two  sayings about Thieves'  World: one of  which is that  we live there.
It's amazing how  the writers, sitting  at one restaurant  table, tend to  sound
like the council-in-the-warehouse.

ASPRIN/JUBALYHAKIEM: Well, I think we have to get a consensus here.

CHERRYH/ISCHADE/STTLCHO:  Look,  I haven't  forgotten  the ten  bodies  that got
dumped  on  my doorstep.  I  can't stand  still  for that.  It's  a question  of
professional pride.

ABBEY/MOUN/ILLYRA/WALEORBM: We want the streets quiet.

MORRIS/TEMPUS/CRIT: Hell, it's just a couple of buildings we want to take out.

OFFUTT/SHADOWSPAWN: Can I take care of Haught?

ASPRIN/JUBAL/HAKIEM/  (as appalled  silence falls  at nearby  table) Hey,  those
people are looking at us.

The other maxim  (one Asprin is  fond of quoting)  is that you  write your first
Thieves' World story for pay. You write your second for revenge.

I got into this  project as a result  of a panel at  a convention, in which  the
remarks from one end and the other of the table ran:

ASPRIN: I asked C. J. here to write for Thieves' World and she turned me down.

CHERRYH: You did not.

ASPRIN: (feigning puzzlement) I didn't?

CHERRYH: You never did.

ASPRIN: (more and more innocent) I thought I did.

CHERRYH: Never.

ASPRIN: (with predatory smile, playing to two hundred witnesses) Hey, C. J., how
would you like to write for Thieves' World?

As neat an ambush  as any in Sanctuary.  Thieves' World was already  a couple of
volumes along, and  dropping in on  a town with  this much going  on in it  is a
ticklish business. So I played  my opening gambit very carefully,  determined to
offend no one.

After alienating the gods of  Ranke and Sanctuary, Shadow-spawn, and  Enas Yorl,
as well as the  clientele of the Vulgar  Unicorn, and discovering there  was war
brewing in  town, all  in my  opening story,  most of  my characters  decided to
withdraw to somewhere less trafficked for the second round. Mradhon Vis went  to
Downwind, where absolutely nothing could go wrong, right?

Wrong. It turns  out Tempus is  moving into this  side of town  and Stepsons are
riding back and forth through Downwind like mad, feuding with the hawkmasks, two
of which, thanks to a gift from Asprin, are mine.

We don't plan these things. We just write our pieces and we try to mind our  own
business until someone drops  a real mess in  our laps, whereupon we  sit in our
living  rooms  like Ischade  ticking  off the  town  madmen on  her  fingers and
deciding that she has quite well had it-

You get the picture. Live and let live  is not quite the motto of the town;  and
any time you become tempted to let a round pass, you realize that no one else is
going to pass,  that your people  are going to  be sitting targets,  and you are
going  to  have to  make  some preemptive  strikes  or discover  yourself  in an
insoluble mess.

Then there are the phone calls.

MORRIS/TEMPUS/ROXANE: Look, there's this little matter I couldn't get taken care
of.... Could you get rid of the demon?

DUANE/HARRAN: Can Ischade go to hell?

CHERRYH/ISCHADE: Maybe we could silt in the harbor?

PAXSON/LALO: I don't know, the painting just sort of grew on me.

Writing is a profession practiced in  locked rooms, in manic solitude. At  least
we try, between ringing telephones and solicitors at the door. Rarely do writers
get  the chance  to practice  their art  in groups,  or to  write each   others'
characters, or interfere in each others' plots and plans; so part of the success
of Thieves' World is that  it's a challenge and a  new kind of art form  for the
writers. Asprin and Abbey  have invented an entirely  new literary form, and  an
environment which has regularly  surprised even the seasoned  participants, who,
you would imagine, ought to know what is going on and what turns the story  will
take.

Well,  the honest  truth is  that we  have very  little idea  what will  happen.
Unplanned war breaks out in the streets. It lurches and falters in  settlements,
just the way it does in real life, my friends, because certain people in it have
to get certain  things or believe  there is a  way out, or  they go on fighting.
Feuds break out  between characters and  resolve themselves the  way they do  in
life-with some change  in both characters.  Characters mutate and  grow and turn
out to have apsects that surprise  even their creator. Moria of the  streets has
become Moria the Rankene lady; Mor-am  is in dire straits and may  never recover
-or may, who knows, end up well off?

What snags us into this madness? It's those phone calls which arrive and  inform
you that Ischade has gone to hell, but will be back in time to meet schedule  in
your  section, or  that tell  you there's  something nasty  lying in  your  back
garden, or that  Strat has this  terrible compulsion to  come back to  Ischade's
house even knowing what she is.

We have our peculiar rhythms, too. Morris always moves first; she sends me  what
she's done, and then I know what  I'm going to do. I am occasionally  tempted to
ask her where she gets her ideas, because try as I will to get started,  nothing
happens  for me  until I  hear from  Morris. Duane  and I  occasionally  discuss
things. And Abbey  and Asprin and  I. And Abbey  and Asprin and  everybody else,
some of whom  probably consult with  each other and  don't tell me  or Morris or
Duane. As in real-world politics, we don't know all the alliances that exist  in
this town.

Then  the organization  happens. Abbey  and Asprin  fling themselves  under  the
wheels of the juggernaut, writing last,  bringing the whole scheming mass of  us
to coherency and making it  sound as if we had  always known what we were  doing
and where it was going, all of which is illusion. Usually we know the season  of
the year, and the  situation at the start.  Period. The rest works  by rumor and
inspiration.

Revenge is part of  what makes it work.  And partnerships and pair-ups.  Writers
are a curious lot, with expertise in the eclectic and the esoteric: You want  to
know how Minoan plumbing worked? Ask me. You want to know something medical? Ask
Duane. Hittites?  Ask Morris.  And so  on and  so on.  Together we make quite an
encyclopaedia.  And  remember  -we have  to  write  everyone else's  characters,
sometimes from the inside, with all their opinions and their expertise- soldiers
and wizards and kings and blacksmiths  and thieves, oh, yes, thieves. There  are
only a couple of professions I can think of where you need to know how to pick a
lock  or jimmy  a window:  one is   writing. Likewise  we have  to know  what  a
legislative session sounds  like or what  goes on behind  the closed doors  of a
head of state's  office, or inside  the head of  a painter or  a doctor. All  of
which means that we have to leam  something as we go, because we don't  know who
we may suddenly need to write from  the inside, or when we will need  the skills
of a mountain climber or  a sailor. Some of those  phone calls we make are  fast
exchanges of technical information, whether or not, for instance, Sanctuary  has
a well-developed glass industry, and what technological advances it implies, how
hot a fire has to get, how pure the glass can be, what a glassblower's tools are
made of and whether this might  imply some military development as well  that we
might wish not to let happen-also what oil they bum and where it comes from  and
what trade routes, and how they light their rooms and what provision there is in
town for firefighting.

"Well," I say, looking at the White Foal River, "that looks like a fault line to
me. Has this place ever had earthquakes?"

"Sure looks suspicious," says someone with geological expertise,

"Wait a minute," says Asprin, with the evident feeling that things are  slipping
out of control.

Being The Authority, he informs us that whatever it is, it is quiescent and will
remain that way.

Across the  table, several  writers exchange  thoughtful looks.  Now, none of us
would violate  that rule.  After all.  The Authority  could toss  us out. On the
other hand, recall that this particular assembly of individuals can pick  locks,
plumb Min-oan buildings,  set bones, and  negotiate a ceasefire.  So can Asprin,
who built this place, and who  probably knows more about its underpinnings  than
we do; and Abbey, who has connections  to the gods, is already thinking of  ways
to head this off which are capable of distracting all of us.

Not a good idea, we decide.

Later.