UNEASY ALLIANCES   Copyright © 1988 by Robert Lynn Aspnn and Lynn Abbey

Dramatis Personae copyright © 1988 by Face of Chaos, Inc
Introduction copyright © 1988 by Face of Chaos, Inc
"Slave Trade" copyright © 1988 by Robert Lynn Aspnn
"The Best of Fnends" copynght © 1988 by C J Cherryh
"The Power of Kings" copynght © 1988 by Jon DeCles
"Red Light, Love Light" copyright © 1988 by Paradise, Inc
"A Sticky Business" copyright © 1988 by C S Williams
"The Promise of Heaven" copynght © 1988 by Robin W Bailey
"The Vision of Lalo" copyright © 1988 by Diana L Paxson

All rights reserved

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

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

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

Endpaper maps by James R Odbert

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

Printed in the United States of America

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

UNEASY ALLIANCES

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae, Lynn Abbey ..................... 211

Introduction, Lynn Abbey ......................... 217

Slave Trade, Robert Lynn Asprin ..................... 227

The Best of Friends, C. J. Cherryh ................... 238

The Power of Kings, Jon DeCles ..................... 268

Red Light, Love Light, Chris Morris .................. 290

A Sticky Business, C. 5: Williams .................... 307

The Promise of Heaven, Robin Wayne Bailey ............. 331

The Vision of Lalo, Diana L. Paxson .................. 362

UNEASY ALLIANCES

Dramatis Personae

The Townspeople

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

THRODE—An employee at Sly's Place.

CLEYA; JODEERA—The woman Ahdio loves, and who works for
him at Sly's Place. Since she is far too beautiful to travel safely
through the Maze, Ahdio has arranged for her to be protected by
a disguise of ugliness.

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

'!:    GILLA—His indomitable wife.

i

t           GANNER—Their middle son, slain during the False Plague Riots of

the previous winter which signaled the end of severe civil unrest

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

the palace.
WEDEMIR—Their eldest child and son. A member of Walegrin's

guard patrol.

LATILLA—Their youngest daughter.
ALFI—Their infant son.

212 UNEASY ALLIANCES

HAKIEM—Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire.

HORT—Son of a fisherman and Hakiem's apprentice.

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

SALIMAN—His aide and only friend.

MORIA—Once one ofJubal's Hawkmasks, then a servant of Ischade. She
was physically transformed into a Rankan noblewoman before the
magic died, and the transformation endures. She is in hiding with
Stilcho.

MYRTIS—Madam of the Aphrodisia House.

SNAPPER JO—A fiend who survived the destruction of magic in Sanctuary.
Once employed as a bartender in the Vulgar Unicorn.

STILCHO—Once one oflschade's resurrected minions. He was "cured" of
death when magic was purged from Sanctuary.

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

The S'danzo

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

in the False Plague Riots.
DUBRO—Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra.

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

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
The Magicians

213

ILSIGI MAGES:

MARKMOR—A powerful, ambitious, youthful wizard.
MARYPE—His arrogant, yet blundering, apprentice.
MIZRAITH—Marype's father, slain by Markmor shortly after
the Prince arrived in Sanctuary.

RANKAN HAZARDS DWELLING AT THE MAGEGUILD;

RANDAL; WITCHY-EARS—The only mage ever admitted into the
Sacred Band of Stepsons or trusted by them. Now a teacher at
the Mageguild.

Those who adhere to no hierarchy or discipline but their own:

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

ISCHADE—Necromancer and thief. Her curse is passed to her lovers
who die from it. Since the diminution of magic in Sanctuary, she
has been in isolation at her house on the White Foal River.

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

Visitors in Sanctuary

THE SHEPHERD—A figure of considerable mystery. By his panoply he
might be an Ilsigi warrior—but all such men have been dead for years.

The Rankans Living in Sanctuary

CHENAYA; DAUGHTER OF THE sw—A beautiful and powerful young
woman, the Prince's cousin, who is fated never to lose a fight. In her

214 UNEASY ALLIANCES

arrogance and innocence she made more enemies in Sanctuary than
even fate could handle and has left town until her reputation repairs
itself.

DAYRNE—Her companion and trainer.

LEYN, QUIJEN, DISMAS AND GESTUS—Her friends and gladiators
at her father's school.

DAPHNE—Rankan noblewoman and first wife of Prince Kadakithis. Os-
tensibly sent to safety before the arrival of the Beysib, she was actually
kidnapped and sold into slavery on Scavenger's Island where Chenaya
rescued her. She is estranged from her husband.

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

LOWAN VIGELES—Half-brother ofMolin Torchholder, father of Chenaya.
A wealthy aristocrat self-exiled to Sanctuary and hoping to return to the
Rankan capital in triumph someday. He operates a gladiator school at
his Land's End estate and has built a small, temporary arena there.

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

RASHAN; THE EYE OF SAVANKALA—Priest and Judge of Savankala.
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 loyal to
Tempus. Their years in Sanctuary were among the worst in their history
and all but a few of them have gratefully left town.

CRITIAS;CRIT—Longtime mercenary in the company. Tempus left
him in charge of peace-keeping in Sanctuary when everyone else
left. Also the partner of Straton, though that pairing has been in
disarray for some time now.

STRATON; STRAT; ACE—Partner ofCritias. Injured by the PELS at
the start of the False Plague Riots. He has been Ischade's lover

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

215

and though her curse has not killed him, most of his former
associates count him among Sanctuary's damned.

WALEGRIN—Rankan army officer assigned to the Sanctuary garrison
where his father had been slain by the S'danzo many years before. He is
now one of three officers responsible for the peace in Sanctuary. He is
also Illyra 's half-brother.

The Beysib

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

INTRODUCTION

Lynn Abbey

"No! No more blood! Make it stop!"

Shupansea awoke at the sound of her own scream. The nightmare had
propelled her out of bed and to the window of her bedchamber. With a
trembling hand she pulled the casement shut- This wasn't the first time
she'd found herself before an open window; wasn't the first time she shed
a cold sweat wondering what would happen if some night she did not
scream herself awake.

"0 Beysa, forgive my intrusion. I—I heard you scream . . ."

Shupansea turned to the lamplight and faced the frightened eyes of
Kammesin, the woman who had cared for her since infancy. "It was
nothing—a noise in the dark. Nothing at all."

Kammesin did not relax. The old woman's eyes remained wide, round
and steadily unblinking. Mother Bey! Had she been exiled so long among
the fluttering Rankans that her own people looked strange and un-
nerving? Was her soul forgetting that the fixed stare was a gesture of
honesty and transparency as much as it was a measure of uncontrolled
anxiety? And had she, herself, blinked even once since waking from the
nightmare?

"Yes, Kam-sin," she admitted, forcing the membrane to withdraw and
her eyelids to descend. "It was the nightmare, again. But I'm all right
now. Just light my lamp, then you go back to sleep."

The woman gave a shrug that every servant knew. It meant the same
to both Rankans and Beysibs; disbelief and resignation. "As you wish, 0
Beysa." She lit the lamp beside the bed as she left.

A flush of shame burned across the Beysa's face as she heard the door

218 UNEASY ALLIANCES

close. Those folk who believed aristocrats were unaware of their servants
had no understanding of the matter at all. Shupansea felt her old nurse's
censure as a sad, painful twinge in her heart. All her life she had confided
in Kammesin, but now, when she was overflowing with despair, she
could speak to no one.

In point of fact, the Beysa wished to speak to the goddess Bey. She
wanted to know why, after these seasons in Sanctuary, her sleep was
haunted by memories of the final, bloody days of her brief, unsanctified
reign over the Beysin Empire. But it had been more than a year since the
Mother's voice had resounded within her head. Mother Bey, like every-
thing else magical or divine in Sanctuary, had been reduced to shadow
strength.

The town which had been god-ridden was now virtually god-less.
Mother Bey was the merest whisper of empathy in Her avatar's mind. A
calming whisper nonetheless, and it seemed to say that the goddess was
content with exile and did not plan to return home soon.

That's not enough, the Beysa thought loudly enough, she hoped, for
the goddess to hear. / can't stay here and remember the past, too.

The flicker of empathy shifted, resonating love and the smiling face of
Prince Kadakithis. Shupansea grit her teeth and shook the feeling away.
Mother Bey had strengthened every cynic's hand when She tumbled into
a divine infatuation with the wargod, Stormbringer. Half the people in
Sanctuary—if not the known world—had shared hot frustration in their
dreams as the would-be lovers contended with a mismatch of immortal
anatomy.

Such divine emissions had ceased when the magical nouma of Sanctu-
ary was burned away, but Shupansea knew the pair chased each other
still and she was more than slightly embarrassed by her progenitor's lusty
behavior.

Though Shupansea purged the goddess from her thoughts and feeling,
the prince was not so easily removed. Surely it was no coincidence that
the nightmares had started right after they'd announced their intended.
but still unscheduled, marriage. Right after she'd decided to abide by
Rankan standards of acceptable behavior and moved her personal entou-
rage out of Kadakithis's suite.

Love had never been part of Shupansea's emotional vocabulary. In-
deed, no Beysa had ever dared to love—not when her blood was venom
and all her male offspring were condemned to death in her womb. At
home they sacrificed the royal consort, and the Beysa insured her line
with casual, guilt-free affairs.

Could she doubt for one heartbeat that the nightmares—the cold fear

INTRODUCTION                   219

that lived in her belly—were the underside of her love for an unlucky
Rankan prince?

Shupansea shivered from the fear, and the everpresent dampness that
permeated the palace. She shrugged her gown over her shoulders and
looked beside the bed for her slippers. It was no wonder that Rankan
women swaddled themselves in layer upon layer of cloth. Sanctuary was
always damp; it was hot and damp in the summer, then chilly and damp
the rest of the time. Either way you wrapped yourself in soft, absorbent
cloth for comfort.

She opened the door quietly, half expecting to find Kammesin
crouched beside the latch-hole. The corridor was empty, but her lamp-
light caught the final sway of a nearby drapery. Despite her age, Kam-sin
had retreated to her alcove and, after another moment, began snoring
gently.

A faint smile crossed the Beysa's lips as she headed for the sunrise
wing. Twice a year everyone who was anyone changed residence from
one side of the palace to the other—adjusting the social hierarchy in the
process. The best people had sunrise suites in the warmer months and
sunset suites in the dreary winter.

At first Shupansea and her comrades-in-exile had taken all the good
rooms for themselves—winning themselves no friends among the
Rankans. Moving days had been tense, bristly affairs with frequent
brawls between the servants and the occasional duel between the incom-
ing and outgoing residents.

The palace, like the city, had mellowed in the last year. Some of the
Beysibs had moved to renovated estates beyond the walls; some of the
Rankans had as well. Those who remained got along better—as well as
any court in either empire—and Beysibs began mixing with Rankans on
both sides of fortune's wheel.

The man whom Shupansea sought could have had an apartment on the
sunset side, but he chose, for reasons of his own, to live in counterpoint
to both the Beysa and his prince.

"Ambitious people have stronger stories," Hakiem always insisted
when moving day found him marshalling his possessions against the tide.
"And unhappy people have tragic ones."

The Beysa never argued with the storyteller, who was her closest
friend among the natives. Privately she thought he was wrong, at least
about tragedy. She knew her own story, and that of Prince Kadakithis,
and she'd gladly have changed with a sunrise resident whose life was
both comfortable and dull.

Trusted servants slept in alcoves and on pallets beside their masters'
doors. The more alert and reliable managed to be wide-awake as Shupan-

220 UNEASY ALLIANCES

sea walked by with her lamp. Most of the Beysibs kowtowed to her
shadow, some of the Rankans glowered with scant respect—but not as
many as once had done. The Beysa ignored them, which was what they
all expected anyway.

Hakiem's knotted latchstring was drawn to the inside of his door, and
Shupansea was suddenly aware of the late hour. The storyteller said he
was always ready to be her ears—any day, any night—but he wasn't a
young man. Men and women offered themselves to a Beysa or a Prince in
the sublime confidence that their gift would never be called.

Twice Shupansea pulled her knuckles soundlessly back from the door.
The third time she touched the wood, but still there was no sound as the
door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

"Hakiem? Friend?"

The room was empty; the storyteller's pallet was rolled up into a day-
cushion. Shupansea felt awkward and foolish. Hakiem was old enough to
be her father, but that didn't quite make him old. Certainly he was
charming, witty, and—now that he was better groomed and bathed regu-
larly—cut a handsome figure among the court ladies who commonly
complained that men talked only of war and politics. Surely he had offers
—no doubt his assignations were more easily arranged from this side of
the palace.

She resolved to make no mention of her untimely visit and was about
to leave when the lamplight fell on a pile of drawings. She saw her prince
with a bloody sword, and herself with bloody hands—and curiosity got
the better of her good sense.

Lighting Hakiem's lamp from her own, Shupansea settled down to
examine the colored sketches more closely.

Not all of Sanctuary ran on palace time. The Street of Red Lanterns
was ablaze well past midnight. The Maze didn't start to get interesting
until respectable people pulled their shutters in. And a dive like the
Vulgar Unicorn hit its stride a good deal later than that.

Through all Sanctuary's vicissitudes, the Vulgar Unicorn had been a
touchstone of a sort of stability. Its bartenders—human and otherwise—
were uniformly ugly; its wenches were invariably on the downside of
careers that had never looked promising. Its food was uncompromisingly
vile, and the swill they tapped from their kegs . . . The beer at the
Vulgar Unicorn was generally regarded to be the worst of mixing sludge
from the harbor and goat urine; the wine—well, the beer was better than
the wine.

Irony of ironies: Hakiem the Storyteller, who had spent the better part
of his adult life in a drunken stupor, begging coppers to squander on the

INTRODUCTION                  221

vulgar wine, now had enough money to buy the tavern's entire cellar, and
he could no longer drink the bilge. The taste was the same in his mouth,
and it brought back bittersweet memories of a vanished Sanctuary, but he
dared not swallow. Fortunately no one noticed when he hawked the
bloody liquid at the floor.

He was in disguise—that is, he wore the old clothes he'd sworn to
incinerate years ago. Most people knew he'd come up in the world; most
people didn't recognize him when he looked liked his old self. A few even
worried about him and warned him away from the Unicorn now that he
had a few coins in his pouch and access to the palace. Those few were
probably right, but he could no more live without the Vulgar Unicorn
than he could . . . Than he could live in the palace day after day.

Late at night, long after his respectable patrons had shut down their
respectable soirees, Hakiem eased back to the Sanctuary they could not
imagine and harvested another crop of tales. He had an apprentice of
sorts, the fisherman's lad, Hort, who did the first winnowing and prun-
ing, but nothing could replace his own senses. And nothing could replace
the parade of life in the Vulgar Unicorn.

He let his eyes go out of focus—an easy task since his hair had begun
turning white as well as gray—and was struck by a wild insight that
shook him in his shoes: His beloved Unicorn and the palace weren 't so very
different after all. He gulped his mug of wine and blamed his seeping eyes
on it.

But, no, the comparison was in his mind and the similarities would not
go away. The Vulgar Unicorn and the palace were both places where
style was generally more important than substance. They were both
places where you belonged, or you didn't belong—and where you had to
always prove that you still belonged. Both had reputations which ex-
ceeded reality, and—might as well admit it—both were parasites in the
city's lifeblood.

Dark Shalpa knew how many honest men it took to support a thief—
even one who lied as all thieves lie. Hakiem guessed it took about as
many as it took to support an aristocrat.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Hort said cheerfully as he took
the chair opposite his mentor.

Hakiem raised his head to see twins smiling at him. Puttering Nether-
gods! What did these people put in their wine? Old habits, however, died
hard and stood him in good stead as he reestablished conscious control
over his body with slow, deliberate gestures. Old habits, and the fact that
he had drunk no more than half a mug of sour wine.

"You've forgotten everything I've taught you," he said, using drawling
sarcasm to mask the stiffness in his tongue.

222 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"What sort of introduction is that? Make a point, Hort. Get your
audience's attention. Add color. What manner of ghost; what sort of
look—"

They had played this game before. Hort puffed up his chest and spread
his arms wide. "Ye gods, old sot, your eyes are as red as the gutters in
Shambles Cross; you're as pale as a man who's seen his mother's ghost
dancing naked with Vashanka's tent peg!"

Hakiem swallowed hard, and not because of the wine. The boy had
talent; had learned everything he'd been taught. He didn't need a mentor
any longer.

"Better, lad. Much better. You do yourself, and myself, proud. Now,
tell me, what have your pointed little ears heard this week?'*

"Tales of vengeance: brothers for brothers, fathers for sons. Ordinary
folk are confident that the worst is over and are stepping out to settle
their own scores."

Hakiem nodded. He'd sensed as much himself. The Nisibisi-funded
PFLS anarchy was over and there was a sense that the future would not
be like the past. But debts had to be evened before the future was em-
braced.

"What else?"

"A whole new society growing in Shambles where the rousters who
moved Torchholder's stones make their homes. They think the streets of
Sanctuary are paved with gold—or at least the walls are—and, dammit,
if they don't seem to be right. Everybody's swinging a mallet or smooth-
ing mortar, even our Prince, and the common folk think the world's
getting better each day."

"Are there any clouds on our cheerful horizon?"

The young man shed his expansiveness. His eyes grew intense and he
leaned across the table. Still good storytelling, but Hakiem sensed there
was something more in Hort's eagerness.

"Men are vanishing, maybe five or six a week. And they're not turning
up in any of the usual places. Some say it's the Mageguild trying to get
power back, but I've found a blind alley there. Best guess points toward
the harbor."

"You've checked that out?"

Hort drew back a hand's breadth. He was the son of the best fisherman
in town, and, while he had no taste for salt water himself, he had the
confidence of those who did.

"We're taking more trade up and down the coast: stone for the walls
and pretties for Beysib gold. Most goes where it should, but some sails
west and hooks about the Hag Banks—and you know what that means."

It galled a bit, but Hakiem had to shrug and shake his head. He'd

INTRODUCTION                  223

heard of the banks, where the Beysib fisherfolk had taught Hort's people
to set their nets for deep water fish, but he knew nothing more.

Hort's smile deepened. "Catch the current there," he whispered, lean-
ing further across the table. "And you bring up in the lee of Scavenger
Island with a harbor as deep as ours, twice as wide—and no law at all to
interfere with your gold."

The master storyteller twirled a grey tuft of his beard. He knew the
history of Sanctuary better than any other man. These days the Rankans
were the tyrants and the townsfolk pointed with underdog pride to their
Ilsigi ancestry; it hadn't always been that way. Not far beyond the reach
of living memory the Ilsig kings had been the enemy, and Scavenger's
Island had been the sanctuary toward which the oppressed fled.

Scavenger's Island—pirate haven. A place which made Sanctuary at its
worst seem serene and orderly by comparison. Scourge of the seas, Har-
rier of the coast, and, also, a place which had generally regarded Sanctu-
ary as a poor relation and left it alone. But Sanctuary wasn't poor any
longer.

"How does this tie to the missing men?" Hakiem asked, completely
sober now.

Hort shrugged. "Some go willingly as recruits, the rest as galley
slaves."

"And no one else suspects that we're being harvested by pirates?"

"Did you?"

Again Hakiem had to shake his head. Sanctuary had always been
downtrodden—a home to thieves, not the target of pirates. Old habits
died hard, indeed.

"The Old Man," Hort continued, speaking of his father, "says you can
always trust kings and princes to build their walls in the wrong place."

/ suppose you can, Hakiem agreed in silence.

"You'll tell them, won't you?" Hort asked, no longer a storyteller but
simply a young man who was afraid for his home and his life.

Hakiem nodded. He would, of course; nevertheless, a tale like this was
wood-ripe for burning and required special care. There were people in
Sanctuary who could confirm the substance of Hort's suspicions, and few
of them owed an old storyteller a favor. He'd get started tomorrow, but
without Hort. There were some tricks to his trade Hakiem hoped the
younger man would never need to know.

"Anything else, my boy? Scandals, magic, two-headed calves?"

Hort relaxed and began one of many tales, about a love charm gone
remarkably awry.

224 UNEASY ALLIANCES

It was nearly dawn when Hakiem made his way out of the Maze to
West Gate Street. He'd stayed out later than planned, drunk more than
he should, and could practically feel his plump bed beneath his cheeks. A
group of tired guards hailed him as he came through the gate, then
looked the other way as he took a candle from the rack and slipped into
the backways.

The backways were always the fastest, most discreet ways through the
palace. A warren of hidden stairways, corridors and cul-de-sacs had been
built in order to be officially forgotten at the end of each burst of palatial
expansion. Like the Maze and the sewers, they were runwred to be more
mysterious than they actually were. Beneath the Hall of Justice, Hakiem
passed not one but three courtiers scurrying back to their proper beds; he
didn't even try to count the servants.

There was only one protocol along these backways: silence. One might
look, but never see; hear but never speak. Hakiem remembered what he
saw, but unless he saw the same event in a public area it stayed locked
forever within him.

As the storyteller rounded the dusty comer where the backways
merged with the public ways, he was minded again of the similarities
between palace life and criminal survival. There were seeds of an epic tale
sprouting in his mind and no room for other thoughts.

Later on Hakiem would say of those next few moments that he was
neither a kowtowing Beysib nor a stiff-backed Rankan courtier and so he
looked the Beysa straight in the eye as a proud Ilsigi. Truth was, though,
that the sight of Shupansea—with her dark gold hair night-braided, her
soft wool gown and slippers, and her deadly emerald beynit draped
across her shoulder—sitting on his cushions completely unnerved him.

"0—0—0 Bey—" Words failed him as they had never failed before.

The Beysa reacted with more aplomb. She tittered like an apprentice
handmaid and scattered a pile of drawings clear across the floor. Only the
slender serpent retained its dignity; it yawned, showing its ivory fangs
and crimson maw, then wove itself deep into her hair.

Shupansea grabbed the nearest of the drawings. She got to her feet and
held it out as a peace offering. "I'm sorry. Storyteller . . ." Her lamp
was guttering. A swathe of pale light came through the narrow window.
She realized she'd spent the night in his room—with him or without him.
"Oh, I'm really sorry."

Hakiem bent down to pick up another drawing, and to look at some-
thing besides her face. A successful drunk leams that death is not the
likely consequence of embarrassment. He had mastered that lesson years
ago, but the Beysa, obviously, had not. She was redder than her serpent's
mouth.

INTRODUCTION                 225

"Had I known it was you, 0 Beysa," he tried to keep the absurd
amusement from his voice and reached for another drawing. "Had I but
known, I would have come home much sooner."

Time froze for a moment, then thawed as Shupansea exhaled in a long,
trembling sigh. "I—I had nightmares. I thought you might be able to
help . . . If I could think of an ending for the dreams, perhaps they'd go
away. You always seem to know how things should end."

Hakiem shook his head sadly. "That's because stories may end while
the hero—or heroine—is still alive. Life is different, 0 Beysa. But I
would be glad to listen."

"No, I guess I understand that they're my dreams, and I must conquer
them." She crouched down and gathered more of the colorful parchment
scraps. Her fingers paused above a portrait of Prince Kadakithis standing
uneasily beside a corpse. "I think maybe I learned something just looking
at your pictures. It's strange—I've never thought of Ki-this using his
sword. I mean, he's not weak, but I love him because he's gentle. He's
strong and gentle—and someday maybe his people will realize that. But
looking at this—well, I could see it happening. I knew. this man was a
traitor, and that Ki-this had to kill him. He was proud and disgusted
both at the same time—and he grew up that night.

"I'll have to do the same thing—well, maybe not with a sword, but I've
got to grow up if I'm to help him turn Sanctuary into one city for every-
one, You should draw more pictures and put them where everyone can
see them."

Hakiem made a sour grimace and took the scraps from her hand.
*That, I fear, is the general idea. I tell stories while an artist sketches,
and then the Torch—excuse me. Lord Torchholder—intends to have
them painted on his new walls."

Shupansea straightened as if the priest had entered the room. She had
a half-dozen contradictory opinions about the omnipresent bureaucrat.
Not that anyone claimed to understand Molin Torchholder. He was a
black-haired Rankan, a dedicated priest of a vanquished god and the
driving force behind the resurrection of a city he openly loathed.

"It's a good idea. He hasn't mentioned it yet, but he will, and both Ki-
this and I will tell him so. He'll grumble something about doing what's
necessary and walk away under a dark cloud. It must be hard, I think, to
work as hard as Lord Torchholder does, and get so little satisfaction."

"They say hate is as satisfactory a mistress as love."

"I prefer love."

"Lord Torchholder does not."

The last drawing had slipped beneath the cushions. They both saw it at
the same time and Hakiem, who recognized the subject from the visible

226 UNEASY ALLIANCES

corner, dove to retrieve it first. He would have had it, but his sudden
lunge aroused Shupansea's serpent. Discretion was always the better part
of valor, still a lump hardened in his throat as she pulled the sketch out.

Torchholder's orders had been precise: illustrations from Hakiem's sto-
ries of the events that had shaped Sanctuary since the Prince had arrived
as governor. There had been few occasions more momentous than the
afternoon when Kadakithis had handed the Savankh to the Beysa and
her court-in-exile for "safe-keeping." Hakiem liked Shupansea now—the
Prince wanted to make her his wife—but they'd hated her that afternoon
and it showed clearly in Lalo's sketch.

Draped in jewels and cloth-of-gold, hard-eyed, her face and naked
breasts painted an iridescent green, Shupansea had been the archetype of
arrogance. The storyteller seldom connected the young woman he'd
come to know and the alien creature he remembered, but he could not
deny that the Beysib, with their abundant gold and equally abundant
contempt for all non-Beysib things, had been the prime cause of Sanc-
tuary's horrors. The Rankan campaign against the Nisibisi in the north
would scarcely have touched the city—much less divided it—if the
Beysib hadn't riled it first.

"Does he intend to have them all painted?" Shupansea asked in care-
fully measured tones, her gaze never rising from the picture.

"With the Prince's approval, and yours—of course."

The parchment fluttered in her hand. Her eyes went wide and glassy,
the beynit rose from her hair, and Hakiem began to doubt that she had,
in fact, truly changed during the years he'd been advising her. She had
returned the Savankh to the prince's keeping, but not the power behind
it.

"We looked like that, didn't we?" Shupansea whispered as she put the
parchment on top of the pile. "And nothing I ever do will erase that
picture, will it?"

Hakiem caught her hand and squeezed it gently. "I don't tell stories
about the future, you know, but it's my guess that Lord Molin means to
leave the largest space—the space above the main gate—for a commemo-
ration of your wedding with Prince Kadakithis—"

Shupansea sighed and pulled her hand away. "If we marry. Maybe
hate is stronger than love." She stood in the doorway, looking over her
shoulder, waiting for Hakiem to deny what she did not believe could be
denied.

"Hope is the strongest of all," he assured, and watched her walk
slowly down the corridor.

SLAVE TRADE

Robert Lynn Asprin

Saliman did not have to stretch his acting talents-to maintain an air of
disdain as he carefully picked his way through the rows of chained slaves.
He had performed this task hundreds of times before, so though unpleas-
ant, the odor of so many close-packed, unwashed bodies was not new to
him. The fact that he was on board a ship only added a new batch of
musty smells to the proceedings. Pulling his cloak high to keep it from
the filth on the floor would do no good. The air itself would invade the
fabric until it would either have to be thoroughly cleaned or discarded
altogether. One didn't wear one's best clothes to shop for slaves.

No, it was not the distasteful nature of the job that had Saliman in
such a vile mood, but rather the hour. The fact that he had been rousted
from a warm bed shared by an even warmer bed partner to carry out this
mission in the pre-dawn hours virtually guaranteed that he would be less
than generous in his negotiations with the slavers.

"I shouldn't be doing this," the man holding the lantern grumbled
loudly. "I got better things to do, what with the ship to get underway and
all."

This was, of course, the reason for this sudden assignment. The ship
was due to sail on the morning tide, and it was important to carry out
this mission before it left Sanctuary's waters. Still, it gave Saliman a focus
for his irritation.

"Do you want me to tell that to Jubal?" he said, his expression bland.
"I'm sure if I alert him to your inconvenience, he'll be careful to only
bother you with important matters in the future."

The thinly veiled threat was not lost on the slaver.

228 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"No! I ... that won't be necessary."

The slavers had paid well to be sure that Sanctuary's crime lord did
not interfere with their operation, and did not wish to raise that price by
denying his request. Particularly not when Jubal's prices were known to
occasionally include blood as well as money.

"If you could simply speed your selection?" The man was pleading
now. "This is the third time we've been through the rows, and if I don't
set sail soon, I'll miss the morning tide and lose a full day's travel."

Saliman ignored him, not deigning to dignify the whine with a re-
sponse as he peered around the darkness of the ship's hold. Sailing ships
were not noted for their punctuality, not when winds and storms could
affect their schedules by weeks, not just days.

Still, he was secretly in agreement with the slaver. This was taking
much longer than was necessary. Of course, the search was slowed by his
reluctance to admit that he was searching for two particular men rather
than two slaves in general. If he were to impart that piece of information,
the process would be speeded, but the price would doubtless increase
with the implied importance of the individuals in question,

Surprisingly enough, it was the man Saliman only had a description of
who had been the easiest to find. While his features and hair had been
obvious enough, that slave had been rocking back and forth, hugging his
knees and moaning his own name as if trying to cling to his pre-slave
identity. It was the other man, the one Saliman knew on sight, who had
thus far eluded his search.

A movement in the dark caught his eye, and he grasped the slaver's
arm, redirecting the light of the hooded lantern.

"What's that?" he demanded, gesturing toward a large sack, its mouth
secured by ropes.

"That? Oh, that's a special deal we made. A fellow and a couple of his
friends brought that one by ... said they were getting rid of his wife's
lover. They made me promise not to let him out of the bag until we were
at sea."

"You bought a slave without even looking at him?"

"They weren't asking much for him," the slaver shrugged. "If he's
alive, we'll show a profit, and from the way the bag's been jumpin'
around it's pretty safe to say he's alive."

"Well, open the bag and let me see him."

"But I just told you—"

"Yes, yes. You promised. But if you're about to sail, who's to know
whether you opened it early or not?"

The slaver drew a breath to argue, then shrugged and gestured to the
two burly sailors who had been standing by to insure that none of the

SLAVE TRADE

229

slaves attempted either attack or escape while the hold was open. Those
stalwarts seized the bag, kicking aside any slave who happened to be in
their path, and began fumbling with the ropes that secured its mouth.
There were a few underbreath grumbles about landsmen who didn't
know proper knots, then the bag was opened and its contents jerked
upright for display.

The slave was a slim youth, still clothed—which confirmed the slaver's
claim that he had been untouched since being brought aboard. His wrists
were bound and his mouth gagged, and he blinked painfully in the sud-
den light of the lantern's glare.

Saliman knew him instantly, though he was careful not to let any sign
of recognition show on his face. Shadowspawn. One of Sanctuary's
homegrown thieves who had stolen and fought his way to the top of his
profession.

The thief gave no sign of recognizing Saliman, though whether this
was from any cunning on his part or from simple lantern-blindness and
drug-confusion, was hard to tell. Whichever it was, he decided to act
before the scene had a chance to change.

"Well, he's not much . . . but he's the closest I've seen. I'll take
him."

He made a point of turning away before the slaver could even begin the
anticipated protest.

"But ... I can't do that!" came the expected sputter. "I told you, we
weren't even supposed to open the sack until we were at sea! If the ones
who sold him to us see him walking around town—"

". . . You won't care one whit because you'll already be at sea with
your profits," Saliman finished loftily. "Spare me your efforts to wheedle
a higher price. Remember, I'm not some landowner who only buys one
slave a year. I'm too familiar with the trade to be convinced of the worth
of a slaver's word."

"But—"

"I'll give you fifty in gold for him. If that isn't sufficient I'll just have to
review the rest of your stock again. I was trying to be considerate of your
schedule, but if you prefer to spend time haggling I have nothing else to
do before midday."

Faced with logic, an ebbing tide, and a more than generous offer, the
slaver surrendered ... as Saliman had known he would. Still, by the
time the money had changed hands and the slaves hauled out of the hold
and offloaded onto the wharf, the sun had already begun its slow climb
into the heavens.

A wagon was waiting there, and the slaves were put in the load and
covered with a tarp, the thief still secured in his sack. Saliman had a

UNEASY ALLIANCES

230

healthy respect for the youth's talents, and did not wish to return to
Jubal with one slave and a tale of escape. The one called Shadowspawn
would have to wait until they were in more secure quarters before his
bonds were loosened . . . quarters safe not only from escape, but from
prying eyes as well.

Despite his offhand manner with the slaver, Saliman kept a careful
watch until his cargo was covered from sight. The fishermen had already
left for their day's task so the wharf was deserted, but that could only
serve to focus attention on his own activities. Though he had had no
specific instructions for secrecy, he could see no advantage to letting it be
known that the two slaves were still in Sanctuary, and countless disad-
vantages.

The driver clucked to his team and departed without a wave or a
backward glance, leaving Saliman to find his way to the rendezvous on
his own. Again, this was as planned. While it would have been easier to
ride in the wagon, there were too many in town who recognized him on
sight and knew him for Jubal's lieutenant. Shopping and hauling were
not among his normal duties, and his presence on the wagon would have
drawn unwanted attention to the cargo and its destination.

He was not normally awake, much less about at such an early hour,
and as he trudged through the streets Saliman peered about him curi-
ously as the shops and stalls of Sanctuary came to life, preparing for the
day's business. There seemed to be more people in town now, a lot of
strange faces what with the work being done on the walls. Work meant
money in the pockets of the laborers, money which was quickly trans-
ferred to the coffers of shopkeepers, tavern owners and whores. The old
hopelessness of Sanctuary and the more recent fears during the street
wars and magic upheavals seemed to have disappeared in the light of the
new prosperity. There was even a light, mischievous tone to the street
haggling over prices which had never been there during the old days of
desperation.

As he walked and listened. Saliman allowed himself a rare, leisurely
moment of envy. It seemed so simple to earn your living that way . - .
stock and customers, straightforward transactions where the biggest
worry was price-setting and the rent.

How many years had he worked for Jubal now? Did any of these
people appreciate or even suspect the amount of work necessary to main-
tain the crime lord's illusion of omnipresence?

Take this morning's exercise for example. His instructions had been
simple enough: Two slaves of a given description, or rather one of a given
description and the other a specific, known individual, were to be pur-
chased from a ship where they were being held before that ship set sail.

SLAVE TRADE                  231

There had been no explanation as to how Jubal knew of their captivity or
reason given for their rescue, just the instruction to effect their release
and to deliver them to Jubal with a minimum of disruption or attention.

It would have been a simple enough matter, if it weren't for the short
deadline for his work. First, there had been a matter of arranging for
operating capital at an hour when no goldsmith or moneylender was
functioning. Then someone had to be sent to fetch a wagon and driver to
meet him at the ship while he prepared for the visit by learning all he
could about the slaver he was to deal with. Though in this case it had
proved unnecessary, the information that the slaver had a favorite mis-
tress in town could have proved invaluable if he had proved to be difficult
to negotiate with. A timely kidnapping would have given Saliman all the
leverage he would need to effect the rescue . . . and of course, that
contingency had had to be arranged as well. The men standing by near
the mistress's dwelling would have to be paid for their time as well as
their skills, even though the latter had not been called on.

Fortunately Saliman's records on the night shift of the city guard were
up to date, though the recent reorganization had thrown everything into
a cocked hat for a while. He knew who was on duty, what their patrol
patterns were, who was lax and who was bribable, so the return journey
from the wharf could be routed to best avoid interference or questions. It
might seem a minor thing, but the recent rash of slaver kidnappings had
set the watch on edge, and Saliman had no desire to purchase the two
men only to be accused of kidnapping them himself.

Yes, it would be nice to be able to do business openly and simply.
Boring perhaps, but nice. Saliman smiled at the thought, then dismissed
it. The truth was, he enjoyed his work. If anything, his administrative
duties had doubled when Jubal moved his organization underground,
and the challenge and excitement generated by the simplest of tasks, like
the release of two slaves, was payment in itself . . , though his actual
salary was nothing to be ashamed of. Being close to the crime lord meant
not only having an overview of everything that happened in town, but
actually having a hand in shaping events as well. It was a fascinating job.
One Saliman wouldn't give up for the world.

His thoughts amused and occupied him all the way to his destination
... the delivery entrance of The House of Whips and Chains. This
brothel was perhaps the most dubious member of Sanctuary's Street of
Red Lanterns, catering to the most bizarre and jaded tastes of a notori-
ously tasteless town. Even so, it would be strange to have an open wagon
pull up to the front door, and as such the use of the delivery door was a
must. Even here, or, perhaps, especially here, the streets had eyes and it
did not pay to relax one's vigilance.

232 UNEASY ALLIANCES

The thief had been released from his sack and was being held, still
bound and gagged, between two retainers. Saliman noticed that the
youth's eyes were alert and wary, and assumed that whether it was drugs
or seasickness which had caused the earlier dullness, it had since worn
off. There was no sign of the brothel's women; caution or the hour con-
fined them to their rooms. Also, there was no sign of the second slave,
which he assumed meant that Jubal was currently occupied with the
interview. This last assumption, however, turned out to be incorrect.

"He wants you upstairs, third door," one of the retainers greeted him
flatly. "You're to take this one with you."

So Jubal had finished with the other slave already and was waiting
. . . impatiently from the sounds of it.

Saliman fought back the urge to grimace and simply nodded as he
motioned for the thief to precede him up the stairs. Any indication of
difficulty or disunity within Jubal's forces had to be hidden from outsid-
ers. He had worked too hard teaching new recruits the necessity of main-
taining that illusion to shatter it himself.

His charge paused in front of the indicated door, and he reached past
to rap sharply on the door with a knuckle. The particular rhythm he used
signaled that he wasn't alone, but when several moments passed without
a call to wait, he opened the door and ushered the thief inside.

The room was dark, one of the windowless, possibly soundproof cham-
bers of the house. The only light came from a small brazier filled with
glowing embers from which protruded the handle of a branding iron.
There were shackles on the wall, and a low sofa where one could recline
comfortably while watching the branding process.

"Close the door."

JubaTs voice came from one of the comers the light didn't reach.
Saliman obeyed, smiling at his employer's invariable flair for the dra-
matic.

"Remove his bonds.'*

Again Saliman moved to comply, this time twirling a blade from its
hiding place in his sleeve. He made the move deliberately showy. The
thief had a reputation for knives. It wouldn't hurt him to know there
were others in Sanctuary who prided themselves on their blade-handling
ability. As he reached for the gag, however, the youth beat him to it,
ungagging himself with hands that were somehow free from the ropes
that had secured them.

Though Saliman showed no reaction, he knew the thief had won this
particular round of showing off. So did Shadowspawn, who shot him a
mocking glance as he tossed the gag and ropes aside. It seemed doubtful
the two would become fast friends.

SLAVE TRADE                   233

"Hanse . . . sometimes called Shadowspawn," Jubal said, moving
into the light of the brazier. "Do you know who I am, thief?"

The youth folded his arms across his chest, his stance arrogant and
rebellious.

"We've never met, but it's easy to figure who you are. You're Jubal,
right? You're older than I thought."

Saliman winced at the thief's brazen mockery of Jubal's spell-aged
body, but the crime lord seemed to take no offense.

"True, we've never met. In fact, you're one of the few of the local
talent who never approached me for work, or at least to sell information.
I was always curious as to why."

"I work alone," Hanse shrugged. "Besides, I'm choosy about my
friends."

"Not too choosy, if your friends include the likes of Tempus Thales,"
Jubal retorted, his voice hardening. "And as for being your own
man . . ."

He lifted the iron from the brazier.

"... I fear that came to a halt when the slavers took you. You're
mine now. Bought and paid for."

Saliman expected Hanse to flinch, but the thief was uncowed. Though
his eyes followed the iron, his voice was firm and confident.

"You aren't going to brand me," he said, more as a statement than a
defiant challenge.

"I'm not?"

"You don't have to untie me to brand me," Hanse pointed out. "If
anything, the process would be easier if I were still tied. That means you
want to talk. All right. Quit waving that iron around and let's talk. What
is it you want?"

Jubal stared at the thief for long moments before returning the iron to
the brazier. Saliman could understand why. There was nothing in their
record to indicate Hanse possessed the intelligence he was now display-
ing. He wondered if this would mean a change in Jubal's plans.

"You've changed, thief," the crime lord said at last. "What happened
while you were gone to change you?"

For the first time since removing his bonds, Shadowspawn seemed to
falter.

"I ... I'd rather not talk about it."

"Very well," Jubal nodded. "Shall we get down to business?"

Interesting, Saliman thought. The thief doesn't fear the branding iron,
but his recent past makes him uncomfortable. Though Jubal did not look
his way or give any other indication, he knew he was expected to make

234 UNEASY ALLIANCES

note of Shadowspawn's apparent vulnerability and investigate it as soon
as possible.

"How did you know where I was?" Hanse said suddenly.

"I have many sources of information." Jubal waved deprecatingly.
"That particular piece of news came to me from the S'danzo."

"The S'danzo?" the thief frowned. "I didn't know you had any friends
among the S'danzo."

"I don't," the crime lord acknowledged without rancor. "But now at
least a few of them owe me a favor for arranging your freedom. No, the
information came from one of your friends."

"My friends?"

"Two of them, actually," Jubal added, apparently relishing the thief's
surprise. "One of them, the older, sensed your danger and went to the
younger, the blacksmith's wife, to divine your specific location. Hers was
the added price of freeing the other slave as well . . . a favor to another
client, I believe. Anyway, realizing time was short, they passed word to
me, asking for my intervention in your behalf."

Saliman was listening attentively. This was the first he knew of the
source of this morning's exercise. Learning it now, he realized why Jubal
had been so eager to have this mission completed, and completed effi-
ciently. He knew a moment's pride that the crime lord had turned to him
as his first choice for crucial work, then returned to his analysis.

The S'danzo were tight-knit and mutually supportive. Jubal had been
trying for years to find a chink in their armor, and now their desperation
over the welfare of a thief had delivered opportunity into his hands.
Saliman wondered briefly of the price exacted for his work. Had Juba!
demanded guarantees and assurances, or had he risked it all on perform-
ing this favor gratis, preferring to leave the repayment unspecified and
therefore open. Probably the latter. Jubal had gained much of his power
from Just such favors owed in return for his help at key moments.

"Then I'm free to go?" Hanse said uncertainly, glancing again at
Saliman.

"I didn't say that." Jubal smiled.

"But you said the S'danzo paid for you to have me freed."

"What I said was, they asked me to free you from the slavers. That's
been done. However nothing was said about freeing you from me ...
and I happen to have need of your services myself."

"Since when did you need help to steal something," Shadowspawn
sneered, his old arrogance back.

"I don't, thief. At least, not from the likes of you," Jubal replied
coldly. "There is, however, a task you can perform for me in return for
your complete freedom . . . one involving someone who trusts you."

SLAVE TRADE                  235

"I'm a thief, not an assassin," the youth snapped proudly.
The crime lord raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise.
"Reluctant to kill. are you? Strange, I don't recall your showing any
reluctance the night you helped Tempus kill four of my men."
Even in the brazier's glow Saliman could see the thief blanch.

HI___H

"You do remember, don't you? That night outside the Lily Garden? Or
perhaps you thought I didn't know about it."

"They attacked us. It was self-defense,"

Shadowspawn seemed suddenly aware of the hot iron again.

"They were trying to punish Tempus for murdering their comrades
. . . and stop him from continuing his sport of hunting Hawkmasks, of
course," Jubal intoned. "I know you had no choice, however. Otherwise
I wouldn't have left your killings without response."

He paused to study the thief.

"Now, if I thought you had a hand in freeing Tempus from Kurd's, I
might not be so generous in my treatment of you."

Saliman kept a blank expression as he watched the tl]ieftry to hide his
discomfort. It was clear that Hanse was unsure if Jubal was truly igno-
rant of his part in Tempus's escape, or if he was simply being toyed with.
His fear of the crime lord was great enough, however, that he wouldn't
risk Jubal's possible wrath by openly admitting his guilt. Saliman knew,
however, that now that fear was foremost in the thief's mind, they could
get down to business.

"That's all behind us now. Rest assured I don't need you to kill any-
one," Jubal said smoothly, as if reading Saliman's thoughts. "Actually,
all you have to do to win your freedom is to arrange a meeting for me."

"A meeting?"

"Yes. With Prince Kadakithis. I believe he's a friend of yours?"

The thief was clearly off balance now.

"How did you know that?"

Jubal smiled.

"I've been aware of it for some time. I would suggest, however, if you
want it kept secret, that you try to keep the Prince from shouting about it
in public . . . like, from the top of brick piles?"

Hanse flinched at the memory, but gathered himself to rally back.

"Why do you want to meet with him? I'd have to tell him something."

"Probably not. I believe my name is not exactly unknown to him. Still,
if it will ease things, tell him I have a business proposition for him."

"What kind of a proposition?"

Jubal turned back to the brazier and poked at the coals with the iron as
he answered

236 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"There's a civil war coming, thief. Not a local upheaval like we've just
survived, an Empire-wide struggle. Even you should be able to see that.
This town's only hope of success is to rally behind one leader . . . and
right now Kadakithis would seem to be that leader. I plan to offer him
my services . - . mine and my organization's. I believe we can aid him
as an intelligence network, providing information and, if need be, stilling
dissenting voices. I think even Vashanka's priest would admit our value
in that capacity."

The crime lord turned to face the thief.

"All you have to do is arrange the meeting. Unfortunately, my position
makes it difficult, if not impossible, to approach him through normal
channels. Arrange it, and you may go free."

"What if I agree and just keep going?"

"I'll find you," Jubal said calmly. "More important, until you've dis-
charged your obligation to me, you'll be my slave. Legally, bought and
paid for. I don't have to brand you."

The crime lord tossed the iron back into the brazier to illustrate his
point. "You'll know it, and I'll know it. I think that knowing you're not
your own man, that you belong to me, will mark you more than I could
ever do with a branding iron."

Saliman was not so sure, but he had learned to trust Jubal's judgment
when it came to people- Watching the thief ponder the proposal, he began
to believe anew.

"What if the Prince doesn't agree? He's changed since I've been gone.
There's no guarantee I can convince him if he isn't interested in your
offer."

"All I ask is that you try." Jubal grimaced. "If he refuses, then I'll let
you buy your freedom ... for five hundred in gold."

Shadowspawn's head came up.

"Five hundred? That's not enough!"

Jubatlaughed.

"I should think you'd be more likely to argue the price was too high,
especially considering what we paid for you. Still, if it will make you feel
better, I could name a higher figure."

Shadowspawn shook his head. "You could double it ... triple it even
and it would be too low."

"I know," Jubal said solemnly. "The price always sounds low to a
slave. It's because he thinks of his worth as a man, while the buyer and
seller see him only as merchandise."

Saliman could see the crime lord's thoughts turning to his own begin-
nings in the gladiator pens, but then Jubal seemed to shake off the memo-
ries as he continued.

SLAVE TRADE                   237

"The price stands at five hundred," he stated, eyeing the thief.
"Frankly, I'd rather you concentrated on arranging the meeting. That is
priceless to me."

"I'll see what I can do. Can I go now?"

"One more thing. While you belong to me, I feel a certain responsibil-
ity for your safety. Here."

The crime lord produced an oilskin-wrapped package from within his
tunic and tossed it to Shadowspawn. Opening it, the thief found a famil-
iar assortment of knives and throwing stars.

"I wouldn't ask you to walk the streets of Sanctuary unarmed. You'll
probably feel more comfortable with your weapons. In case you're won-
dering, a man named Tarkle was selling them."

"I know," the thief growled, settling the glittering bits of death in their
customary places. "I recognized his voice when they loaded me on the

ship."

Saliman had to hide his smile. Obviously Jubal had planned this sur-
prise as the climax to the interview ... a final demonstration of his
access to secret information. The thief had already known the secret, but
luckily Shadowspawn was so preoccupied with his knives that he didn't
realize how anti-climactic the announcement was.

"Well, whatever you're thinking will have to wait until after you've
seen the Prince," Jubal ordered irritably. "I didn't go to all this trouble to
lose you in an alley brawl. Remember, for the time being at least, you're
not your own man- You're mine."

"Oh, I'll remember. Believe me, I'll remember."

Saliman felt a sudden chill as Shadowspawn met the crime lord's look
with a gaze that was not at all subservient.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

C. J. Cherryh

Morning on the streets of Sanctuary, a cold, knife's edge wind that
rattles at shutters prudently closed in the thief-plagued maze, and drizzle
comes on that wind, to slick the stones and darken the aged wood and
make muck out of the filth that lies in every crack and crevice of the
cobbles.

Citizens stir out, nonetheless. A body has to, who wants to eat. Every-
one goes cloaked and muffled, from the beggars in their grime-colored
rags, to the well-to-do factor on his way to the wharfside warehouses.

Thus Amhan Nas-yeni, an ordinary sort of man, a man with a nobody
face and a nobody shock of dark hair beneath the hood, neither tall nor
short, stout nor thin. Nas-yeni goes at a moderate pace in these streets,
cloaked and muffled, and quite unremarkable among the average Ilsigis
of better than average means, merchants, shopkeepers, traders and
smiths.

In fact he is a tradesman and still solvent, despite the recent chaos that
saw blood, not rainwater, running in the gutters of the town—some
might say, because of that chaos, which needed supply of weapons and
other such illicit things, as well as licit ones, to people who could pay not
always with coin, but sometimes in protection, sometimes in elimination
of threats, sometimes in liberated goods that had the stamp of Rankene
military on them, but there was always a market. There was always a
market, that was what Nas-yeni would say. He walked a careful line, did
Amhan Nas-yeni, and walked it with, in his own estimation, scrupulous
integrity: a man of honor. A man of principles.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               239

A man who loved his son, and who had warned him; at the same time
he understood young idealists, and was proud of him.

"Be sensible," he had told his son. "Trade is the way to power."

And his son Beruth: "Trade! When the Rankene pigs tax us to the
bone and confiscate our shipments!"

"Did I say, compliance?" he had said. "Did I say, stupidity?" Tapping
the side of his head. "Brains, young hothead. Trade is an art of the mind.
Trade is an art of compromise—"

"Compromise! With Rankan pigs?"

"—In which you contrive each time to make a profit. In which you use
your head, young man."

"When they use the sword. No, papa. Not when they can just take
everything. Not when they don't have to play the game. Not with the
sword only in their hands. You fight your way. I'll fight mine- We're both
right."

With that light in his eye and that half-smile that haunted a father's
sleep. Like the way he had found him two days later, where the Rankans
had thrown the body, out on the rubbish heap where birds, in those dark
days, gathered in black, carrion-hunting clouds. Beruth had had no eyes,
then. And what else they had done to him before the birds got to
him . . .

Nas-yeni had fought his war of trade then. Had stripped himself to the
bone, not selling, at the last, but giving away everything that he had to
the rebels, paying out coin and weapons and supply to hire men who
would find Rankans to question, to find out one thing, only one thing:

who.

Who, because the why of it did not matter. He was Ilsigi. He was an
honorable man, the way Ilsigis had been, before Ilsigis tried to trade with
Rankan lords who had a sword, when they did not. He was of a very old
family. He remembered, as many Ilsigis no longer did, the entire tale of
his ancestors and the worth of them.

He remembered, as even he had forgotten for a while, until his son
reminded him, that blood is worth everything in the world; and that once
that debt is made, only blood can pay it.

Their names, he had asked of his informants. Give me their names.

And the answer came back, finally: The Stepsons Critias and Straton.

He began then, to leam everything that he could leam about these two
names. He learned their partnership in the Sacred Band. He learned what
this meant. He learned their wamames and their histories, as much as his
informers could extract from gossip and the talk of Rankan soldiers in
bars and whorehouses.

He wanted more than their deaths. He wanted revenge. He wanted

240 UNEASY ALLIANCES

their ruin, their slow, suffering ruin, of a sort that would erode the soul,
such a soul as such butchers might have; and he wanted them to fear, at
the last, the way their victims had feared them, with a sickening, hopeless
fear.

Therefore he had held his hand from Straton, when his informants told
him Straton's soul was already in pawn—to a witch. Therefore he had
sweated in agony, seeing the Stepsons ride north and Critias ride with
them: therefore he had prayed nightly to the darkest of gods for the
saving of one Stepson from war and from the chances of war—and for
the weaving of spells about the other, spells that should damn him to hell
and bring Critias—the stiff-necked, hard-handed Critias, straight from
war and arriving bloody-minded in a town rife with ensorcelments, a
town Straton commanded—bring Critias back with a vengeance, oh, yes,
the man of war to the man bespelled, his partner, his—lover, doubtless,
in the way of Sacred Band partners: Nas-yeni knew every detail he could
glean of the Sacred Band, studied them, obsessively, the way he had once
studied his rivals in business, and studied, most particularly, this Pair,
their reputations, their manner, the time of their sleeping and eating and
the look on their faces . . . even that, because he had been near them,
oh, often, that he had stood so close to one or the other of them, had
brushed against them in crowds, had looked once in Straton's very eyes
as they collided, unexpected—

—eyes that looked into my son's eyes. eyes that had no pity, eyes looking
out of Hell now, is it, murderer? I could take you. I could slip a knife into
you and watch those eyes go, oh, so shocked and frightened. . . .

But far too quick, far, far too quick. Good day to you, Rankan. Good
day and gods protect you, Rankan, against any chance of the streets.

He had smiled at Straton, friendly as could be. And the Rankan, with
whatever burdened his conscience, whatever hate, whatever distrust of
Ilsigis who smiled at him, had looked confused and angry that an Ilsigi
had touched him.

Perhaps . . . expecting that knife in the gut.

Often, on the street, once Straton settled into pattern, in those dark
days, when only a fool would observe patterns—but Straton went befud-
died in those days, befuddled and more and more hell-ridden—Nas-yeni
would smile at him, that same, secret smile that had everything of obse-
quiousness in it—Hail, our conqueror. How brave of you, to ride among
us, morning and evening, mazy-eyed and bewitched.

Do you know me yet? His mother always said Beruth had my eyes, my
mouth.

But he would not have smiled at you.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS              241

His mother died, do you know. in the winter. Took to her bed. Never
smiled again. Just died. She took all the drugs I bought, one dose.

I owe you so much. Stepson. Truly I do.

They say the Stepsons are coming back to Sanctuary.

Critias . . . is coming home. What will you say to him, my friend?
What will you tell him about this town you rule?

Who will you sleep with. then?

And how will the Riddler deal with you?

Every morning, every evening. One of the crowd.

Part of the crowd when Critias rode in, grim and hard—hard and
soldierly, where Straton had grown fey, and strange.

Where Straton served Her who was whispered about only rarely and in
the lowest of tones among the few Ilsigis who knew they had a Patron, of
sorts-
It confused even Nas-yeni.

But the torment, the absolute hell in Straton's look nowadays—that
satisfied him. So did the rumors of estrangement.

And to help it along, he took to the skills of his youth—set up an
archery butt in the warehouse now largely depleted of goods, but enough
for a man to live on, who did not plan to live forever.

He had been a damned fine shot, in his youth, in the time that he had
spent in the city guard. The hand and the eye remembered. Hate might
make the one tremble. Grief might blur the eye. But purpose—that was
clear and cold. Critias was back. Straton was in ruin already: one of the
Pair was broken, and too difficult to predict.

Eliminate him.

From a rooftop.

In a way that an assassin could escape, and lay guilt upon the other
Partner, and fear on all their company. It was what Beruth would have
done, it was his kind of vengeance; it had sharp, keen savor, the drawing
of that arrow—blue-fletched, Jubal's colors, not because Nas-yeni had
any particular grudge against the ex-slaver, but because it might make
the maximum of trouble-

And the wind being what it was, and Straton's damned horse in the
way—

But it had hit, all the same, and created havoc beyond Nas-yeni's own
imagining—delivered Straton wounded, into the hands of enemies who
had not handled him gently, by all accounts; and crippled him; while
Tempus, displeased with a city block in ruins and with the rise ofwitchly
influences in his ranks, one supposed, demoted him.

And departed, leaving, the gods be thanked, Critias in command of a
city Straton had lusted after, Straton crippled and drinking himself stu-

242 UNEASY ALLIANCES

porous night after night in the Vulgar Unicorn, Straton with so much
witch-sign about him that he was notorious, and even footpads refrained
from cutting his throat on his drunken wanderings to and from the bar-
racks or the bars. They refrained because the word was out in the under-
world of Sanctuary that this man was protected, and that throats would
be cut if this man's was.

Things were altogether as Nas-yeni would have them: one enemy in a
living hell, banished even from the witch's bed, living because no one was
friend enough to kill him; and the other—the other—

There was no more to be done to Straton.

There was Critias . . . safe as yet, newly set into an office that
Tempus had given him, perhaps with a sense that here was the only place
that Straton might stay alive and Critias the only man who might have a
chance to heal him: that much understanding Nas-yeni had of his ene-
mies as he had had of his rivals in trade, canny trader that he had been,
and smuggler, and judge of men. It was a fool who failed to see his enemy
as man like any man, needing the things a man needed, like companion-
ship, like solace, like—the illusions of these things, where the substance
failed. By such things a trader lived and prospered; by such things, the
likes of Straton and Critias worked on their victims, breaking their confi-
dence as they broke the body.

By such things a man could unravel another.

A hunter had to be his own prey. They were locked together in this
hunt, which had achieved a certain intimacy. Nas-yeni who had no fam-
ily, had two men whose every thought he surmised, whose every move he
could now predict; they kept him from loneliness, they kept his heart
beating and the blood moving in his veins; they gave him something to
think about and to look forward to, something which made him very glad
his shots had gone amiss.

First Straton. Now Critias. Critias—who already suffered. He might
simply live and watch Critias, watch the slow embitterment of a man left
to a town which hated him. But he knew this man like a son. He knew
that such embitterment would leach the feeling out of a man like Critias;

knew that some morning Straton would simply turn up dead of drink or
some mischance no bribe could save him from, and Critias would be
sorry and relieved, and the boil would be lanced, that was all, the pain
stopped.

That would never do.

A change in fortunes for Critias, the man facing all directions; and
absolute hell for Straton, the man who had lost his way. The very plan
was an indulgence approaching the sensual for a man who had restrained

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               243

himself so long, so very long, and nightly prayed for his enemies, that
they go on living.

And it was so easy, for a man so like every other man in Sanctuary, to
the eyes of the invaders.

Wind and rain spatter at the eaves, rattle the shutters and bring cold
into the room where Moria dresses, hastily, in the stink and the squalor
of the tenement she shares with Stilcho, late oflschade's service. A gray,
dim light reaches the bed where Stilcho rests, drugged with what krrfshe
can buy him—sleep, peace which she can buy him, who has so little peace
nowadays.

He is so handsome, so very beautiful to her whose beauty a mage gave
her, whose beauty, Rankene-fair, Haught bespelled with stolen magic;

Stilcho's, she had never seen—had been terrified of him, whom Ischade
had raised from the dead; she had dreaded the sight of him, shrunk from
the chance touch of his hand, which in those days had been chill, had
seen only his scars, which the beggar-king had given him, a Stepson, in
the long, long night that he had been the beggar-king's prisoner, and they
had taken out his right eye, and were about to take the other when
Ischade had intervened.

Ischade had claimed him then, since the Stepsons would not have him,
a walking dead; and Ischade, whose curse took the life of her lovers,
(except Strat, gods only knew why but Moria made guesses) had taken
Stilcho in Straton's stead on those terrible nights when the black mood
was on her, and she evaded Straton and drove all her servants from her
presence—except Stilcho, on whom the curse fell with all its force, who
could die, and die, and die, because she had strings on his soul, and could
pull it up again from hell—

Moria had seen him on such mornings, had seen his face and shud-
dered at that look, that bleak terror, that awful intensity with which he
would sit and feel of things, the table, the texture of the cloth, the flesh of
his arm—as if it were precious and all too fragile.

She had heard him scream—had heard him, as no woman should hear
a man, break down in tears and plead with Ischade, not again, not again,
no more—

She had shuddered at the mere sight of him in those days.

But those arms, however chill, had been there to hold her when her
own world came tumbling down. And his goodness, his loyalty, had
touched even Ischade's sense of justice: she had brought him all the way
back. She had set him free—free as a man could be, who had suffered
what he had, and who still waked screaming of nights, seeing hell, and
demons.

UNEASY ALLIANCES

244

Krrf gave him peace. Krrf let him lie safe from his devils—so, so good
to see, his quiet sleep, his face that was always so pale, at rest, the
patched eye and the fall of dark hair, all that was dark about him: the
rest was light, white-washed in the light that, like the chill wind, came
through the shutter slats.

She tied a ragged brown scarf about her blonde hair. And from its
place in the corner, disguised with clay, she took a lump that was heavier
than any rock ought to be, a lump that weighed like sin—or pure gold.

She put it in the ratty basket she had, along with some rags of laundry,
She was very careful going out the door, and left the latchstring inside, so
only he could open it.

He would know, she feared, when he woke. The first thing he would
check would be that comer where they hid the lump she had salvaged
from the Peres house. Last night she had begged him to let her take it to
old Gorthis, who would give her, she argued, fair price for it. He had
fenced for the gangs, back before the war. She knew Gorthis, that he was
an honest fence, at least, he gave the fairest rates in Sanctuary. He need
not suspect that it was Ischade's gold.

No, Stilcho had said, absolute and angry. No!

What do you want? she had cried, too loudly, in this damned tenement
where every sound found other ears. Us to starve?

Better that than some things, he had said, his hands hard on her
shoulders, his voice the lowest of whispers. Moria, Moria, it's too danger-
ous, the damned thing's too big! It's too much! Your fence can't afford a
lump like that, he can't pay you, he'll cheat you or he'll rob you, one or
the other, damn it all, Moria, you can't take that thing through the

streets'

He was close to panic. His grip hurt her shoulders and the fear in him
frightened her, who knew what his panics were like, how bad they were,
how unreasoning and how difficult for her to bear, old nightmares, old
memories (not so many months ago) of Stilcho's voice shrieking terror
through the river house, haunting all their nights. A woman could not
take that, in the man she loved. She did not want to remember that. She
did not want him to break, who was at once so strong and so fragile.

We'll melt it down, he said.

When? she cried at him, and sucked in her breath and bit her lip. They
had been over that territory. It was what he always promised whenever
she talked about selling it- It took a fire bigger than they could raise in
their apartment to melt a lump like that. They could not heat it and
hammer it. The walls would carry every sound. The smell would go
through the cracks and the gaps. There would be outcries: fire was the
eternal terror in the tenements, and neighbors would come hammering

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

245

on the door demanding answers, threatening them with violence, because
they already knew that her man was . . . peculiar, and likely a fugitive
mage: that was the whisper about him that she had heard, a dangerous
kind of whisper, because mages were trouble, and a block of Sanctuary in
ashes had proved it to the town at large.

And so, so easily in a place like this, a rumor could get started that
would damn them both, and have their apartment broken into.

Or their throats cut.

She would go to Gorthis. He would take the tump and set up an
account for her, and there would be no money, except what it took to get
a better place to live, and then the things they needed, and the lease of a
shop—a little shop, that was what she wanted with that gold. A liveli-
hood for herself and her man where he could find the quiet he needed to
forget, and shutters and a stout door she could bar against the dark,
where She walked, and hunted.

Down the stairs, out onto the streets, a woman with a basket of rags, a
woman with a scarf over her head and a heavy shawl and long skirts to
disguise her youth and her looks.

Uptown, like some cleaning woman going to work, for some middling-
well-to-do family not rich enough for servants. She was legion, in the
midtown of Sanctuary: cook or maid, respectable enough and not solicit-
ing, and not a mugger in the town would waste time on her, when there
was richer prey abroad.

Straton slid from the saddle and caught himself, hanging from the
bay's stirrup-leather, a little short of impaling himself on the iron spikes
that thrust up through Ischade's hedge. The bay whickered, swung its
head around and nosed at him with the roughness a big horse could use
—warm, warm, not like Crit said, a dead thing, nor hell-spawned. /;

loved him. He took it for omen. He clung to that omen, that Ischade who
had withdrawn every sign of gentleness toward him, did not take the
horse back, but left it with him, left him one gift of hers, at least, which
had no hidden thom.

He wept against the bay's neck, standing there in the rain, both of
them wet and chilled. He was very drunk. And he knew that he ought to
get back on the horse and ride, quickly-

But he did not. He pushed himself away from the warmth of the horse
and staggered a step to the gate. The cold of the iron burned his hand. A
rose thorn pricked his thumb and he carried his hand unconsciously to
his mouth and sucked at the blood that welled up.

The gate swung inward and the way lay open through the yard, the

UNEASY ALLIANCES

246

maze of hip-high and scraggly weeds, the thornbushes and black, skeletal
trees that all but obscured the little house, the gray stone porch.

He went, staggering a little and desperately trying to balance himself
between the drunkenness it needed to come this far and the sobriety he
had to muster to deal with her.

The thumb still bled, when he looked at it, and he wiped it on his
breeches and looked up again at the door just in front of him, hearing the

give of the hinges.

The sight of her hit him in the gut—so beautiful, all dark and light, her
black dress blowing in the gusts, her square-cut hair flying like smoke
about her face, about dark eyes that seized on his soul and threatened to

uproot it.

"Ischade—" His jaw refused to work without his teeth chattering. He
was cold through. The wind bit like a knife, here so much in the open, on
the high shore of the White Foal. And there was no promise of yielding
in the look she gave him. "Ischade, I hurt, I hurt so damned bad—" He
held his arm, and the pain was there, even through the alcohol, worse, in
the rain and the cold; aching so he could not sleep. "You healed the
damn horse, can't you help me?"

"There are physicians."

"For Vashanka's sake, Ischade—"

"Vashanka didn't help Tempus. I doubt he has power here."

"Damn you!"

"Better men have tried. Leave, Strat. Now."

He stood there, shivering, his teeth chattering and the pain in his
shoulder a dull, bone-deep ache, the way it had been for days and nights
of this weather, the way the pain got into bone and brain, and he wished
he had the courage to kill himself, but he kept holding out some idiot
hope that someone, somewhere made this pain worthwhile. He had had
her. He had had Crit. Neither one was acting sane. Neither one had acted
sane for months. A man who had been loved once and twice in his life—
went on expecting more of it, and believing things could be right again; a
man who had seen the two people he most respected—yes, dammit, re-
spected, for all she was a damn woman—in the whole universe . . . lose
their minds and act like lunatics—kept expecting that they would wake
up one morning with their wits about them and come to him and tell him
they were sorry.

A man couldn't kill himself, whose world was that badly skewed. A
man could not go—wherever he had damned himself to go—with his
whole universe gone crazy and right and wrong all tangled; most of all
with the faith (still) that if he could just hold on, if he could just beat
reason into one of them, that everything would somehow sort itself out.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               247

"Ischade, dammit, I didn't mean what I did! I didn't understand! Is-
chade. dammit, it's enough, it's parking enough, open the damn door!"

That was his voice, cracking and breaking like a teenaged boy's. That
was himself, on his hands and knees in the wet weeds, because the world
had suddenly spun around to the left, and gone black a moment, and he
had landed there, and hurt his shoulder in the process. He nerved himself
to push, and got the arm up against him and one foot and then the other
under him, and turned and walked back to the gate, thinking that was
about as far as he could walk before he fell down and lay there and froze
to death in the rain.

But he did not. He made it to the bay horse, and hung there against its
warmth a while till he could get his breath back-
Take him, why don't you?" he muttered to the hedge, the unnatural
roses, the witch who had his soul in pawn. "You've taken everything else,
Take him and be damned to you."

If she heard him, in her sorcerous ways of being aware of everything
near the wards, she gave no sign. The bay horse stood rock-steady for
him to mount, and bore him away, where it chose:, he did not care
whether it was a shelter or over the cliffs: let it choose. The White Foal,
beyond the trees, was roiled and muddy, and looked friendlier than the
town did.

Ischade sat down, at the table in the house that was somehow larger
inside than outside, and which had more rooms and windows than ap-
peared from outside. She sat in her cluttered living room, where the
cloaks of former lovers, like torn moths' wings, gave riotous color to the
floor, the couch, the chairs, the bed, cloaks and bright cloth and here and
there a trinket which a careless foot might tread upon and break ... of
no interest to her these days, these gray and deadly days-
She rested her elbows on the table and her face within her hands, and
went into that nowhere place which she had learned to find within her-
self, as the Stepson Niko had had it, that inner landscape which in her
case was a maze of many doors, each one with a key and a lock.

The hallway was safe. It had turnings and there were dark places, and
there were doors that rattled ominously and clamored with lost voices,
doors which weakened if she thought of the thing behind them-
So she did not.

But somewhere, somewhere down the hall, there was a door still open.
She knew that there was. She sensed it. And it was in that darkness far
down the hall, where she did not willingly go. She might go up to that
door and try to slip up on it and slam it quickly and lock it. But she was
paralyzed with dread of it, that what was inside would remain tranquil

248 UNEASY ALLIANCES

for years if she did not attempt it. There would be time. There would be
time to gather strength—

There was a room within which was treasure. A blue fragment spun
within that room, power, secret power, filched from the ruin of magic in
Sanctuary. She had hid it within herself, in that place where no other
mage could go without killing her, and she, by the very curse that created
her, could not die.

There was that place far away in the dark, where something waited—
almost she could see it, red-eyed and smiling at her within that room at
the end of the hall.

And there were the doors behind which she had shut away everyone
who trusted her. She held those keys. She kept them in the room with the
fragment of the Globe of Power.

It was her virtue, her sole virtue, that she listened to their rattling and
their clamor at her sanity, when everything in her ached to let them out,
to have them with her, vulnerable to that thing that waited down there,
in the dark.
Especially Straton-

You healed the damn horse, couldn't you help me?
She hurt inside.

Heal him—yes. And prove to him by that, that she had not forsaken
him, that there was hope for him and her.
And after that, after that—

She saw him lying still as all her other lovers, by morning light. It was
the very fact that he loved her, that would damn him. He could not, now,
take his healing as a kindness. No, to him, it would be an absolution. It
would bring him to her as he had been—but more insistent, more him-
self, more violent and more desperate to prove his manhood after what he
had suffered—

—and that was the very thing that would kill him. That was the nature
of her curse.

The thing in the dark snickered filthily. // knew. It was amused by her
helplessness, when she was one who held what it wanted.
Go to Randal, she thought. Seek help in the Mageguild.
But that would precipitate things for which she was not yet ready. She
knew that she was not ready and would not be ready perhaps for years.
She was far too unbalanced now. The tides of need and satiation which
ruled her with the changing moon—were running too high, too violent.
She prowled the Maze and the Downwind and sometimes the high streets
near the palace, and dead happened, happened with more frequency than
made her feel safe with anything she valued.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               249

She needed, that was the unpalatable truth, needed sex the way Strat
needed drink, to deal with the dark and the pain.
And she wanted him—so damnably much.

The thing—was there again. Stilcho saw it, the red eyes glowing in the
murk, the smile like a smug face lit from inside, leaking red light at
nostrils and mouth and blazing behind the eyes like hell itself.

It grinned, and the terror of that waked him with a yell that was still
dying in his ears as he sat up, sweat-drenched and ashamed and expect-
ing Moria's arms to hold him, Moria's voice to bid him hush, hush, and
rest, Moria's lips to kiss him and whisper that he was safe.

"Shut up!" came the yell from somewhere else in the building. "Shut it
up, dammit!"

He propped himself against the wall, blinked and shivered in the draft
against his bare skin, still krrf-fogged and searching dazedly for Moria.

Not there.

She must have gone out to market.

But they were out of money. Flat broke, except— •

Except—

"Ogods."

He scrambled out of bed. He went to the corner and looked amid the
junk and the clutter.

Not there. The gold was gone- So was Moria.

And he knew where.

Gorthis's shop was still shuttered at this hour, but he was stirring
about inside by now, Moria knew his habits. The shop was on the lower
floor of his apartment, in the building that he owned, and Gorthis, being
more than prudent, never left his jewelry downstairs in the shop at night.
He packed everything up and brought it upstairs, where a pair of vicious
dogs guarded the upstairs halls.

In spite of the fact that no thief in Sanctuary tended to prey on a fence,
whose good will was important as sunrise—such precautions were neces-
sary because there was always the disgruntled customer.

Or the rival.

Moria seized the bellpull, of the doorbell in the shape of a smiling
Shipri—better, she thought in the hysterical humor that came of having
gotten this far unmolested with her cargo, that it should be Shalpa, god
of thieves. The bell chimed inside, and she waited, her laundry basket on
the doorstep, herself within the shelter of the alcove, out of the rain.

The little peephole opened. She stood on tiptoe, and back a little.

250 UNEASY ALLIANCES

And suddenly remembered—0 fool!—that she no longer was dark-
haired Moria the thief, Mona the Ilsigi.

It was a beautiful stranger stood on Gorthis's step, her blonde curls
wrapped in rags, but her brows still pale, her eyes blue, and her complex-
ion whiter and fairer than any Ilsigi's could be.

"Gorthis," she said, "let me in."

The peephole stayed opened a damned long while longer than its once-
upon-a-time wont. She sensed the consternation on the other side of the
door-

"Who? What do you want?"

"Gorthis, it's Moria. Moria. You remember me. I bribed this mage—"

It was not the truth, but it was close enough to the truth, and simple
enough to explain through a peephole.

The peephole shut. The door opened, on a fat, huge man who looked
more apt to be a blacksmith than a goldsmith. Not a hair on his head
except a tuft above either ear that stuck out like some brindled monkey's
ruff. He utterly filled the door. His eyes, Ilsigi-dark, were wide and wor-
ried.

"Moria?"

"Makeup," she said, clutching her laundry basket, which had gotten
heavier and heavier from block to block. "Corn' on. Gorthis, f'gawds'-
sake—it's me. Moria. Mor-am's sister."

He hesitated a moment longer, then backed out of the doorway and
held it open for her and her basket, admitting her to the dim interior of
counters and barred doors and barred sections: a goldsmith even in this
section of town and in these days, had to worry, and Gorthis believed in
defense. He always had.

"Shalpa's ass," Moria breathed, setting down the basket and looking
open-mouthed at the maze of bars, "whole Rankan army couldn't make
its way through here."

"Whole Rankan army ner Piffles ner any other damn pack of looters,
girl, ain't nobody going to break into my place! I been respectable, I been
respectable ever since the Troubles started. I ain't doing no more, so you
can take yourself and whatever you got there—"

"This ain't no problem, Gorthis, I swear to you it ain't." She bent and
dived after the lump in the middle of the laundry, held it up in both her
hands, because that was what it took. "This here's gold. Gorthis. You
don't got to fence it, you don't got to tell anybody, you just use it and
gimme an account here—look, look—" She set down the clay-covered
lump and stripped off her headscarf, shaking out blonde curls the sort
that Moria of the streets never had had. "It's still Moria," she said in
purest Rankene accents, "But I've come up in the world, Gorthis, Ipass,

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               251

and I need the money. Do me this favor and I won't forget it when I'm
back in society."

"Magery," Gorthis breathed, wide-eyed. "You been witched."

"Expensive magery. And it lasts." She picked up the lump and held it
toward him. "Lift it. It's a lot of gold. A lot of gold, Gorthis. No plated
rock, you can test it. You'll have it. Like I said, all you have to do is pay
me out a little at a time, in silver I can spend without answering ques-
tions."

"Shalpa and Shipri." Gorthis drew out a handkerchief and mopped his
face. "They said it was you uptown. They said it was you, Mor-am come
in here—trying to pawn this knife, fie said you'd gone uptown."

"Where is my brother?" She did not want to know, she truly did not
want to know. He was still Ischade's creature. He must always be, or
suffer in terrible pain. But not to know whether he was living or dead—
that uncertainty she could not bear.

"Ain't seen him since. I got no idea. Lemme see that thing."

She handed it to him. He hefted it.

"Damn—" he said.

"Told you, that's no rock inside."

He took it over to a work counter, through a barred gateway to a table
where a barred shutter gave a little light. She followed, anxious, biting
her lip as he brought the lump down hard on the table and shattered the
clay around it.

Yellow gold shone in the light, veined with lines of soot.

"This's melted stuff," he said.

"It's not stolen." That was half a lie. She clenched her hands together.
"It came from friends. They died in the riots. But I haven't got a place to
melt it down. I know you're honest, Gorthis, you always were. You take
your old cut, same as you always did, and you pay me out little at a time,
isn't that fair?"

"Wait here. I got to get something." Gorthis hurried back past her to
the cage door and through it.

He slammed it shut, and Moria stared at him open-mouthed in shock.
But Gorthis was a little crazy about security. He always had been. She
was willing to think it was that.

Until he turned the key and took it.

"It's my damned gold, Gorthis, I'm not going to steal it!"

"You ain't going nowhere," Gorthis said, and went and pulled on the
cord that rang a bell somewhere way up on the roof, a thief-bell, that
called the watch.

"What are you doing?" she yelled at him. She shook the bars of the

UNEASY ALLIANCES

252

gate, hopeless, because Gorthis's locks were always sound. "Gorthis,

have you lost your mind?"

"I'm respectable," Gorthis said. "I been respectable ever since the
Troubles started. I ain't getting into it any more, I got too many uptown
clients." Another series of tugs at the bell rope. "Sorry, girl. Truly I am."

"I'll tell them! I'll tell them who you are!"

"Who are they going to believe, huh, girl, when I turn over you an'
that great lump of gold to the watch? No, missy, this is going to be better
fer me than fer you. I prove to 'em I changed my ways, that's what this'll

do."

"I have friends uptown."

"No, you don't. I know what yow friends are, girl, the neighbors done
talked, the neighbors what got burned out around Peres, uptown. They
got a warrant out fer you, hiring mages and all, arson and murder—you
know the law doesn't come down on mages, ain't no way the watch is
going to arrest them. now, is they? But them as hires 'em, now, they're
responsible, ain't they? You go burning the whole town down, come in
here with a lump of witched gold—"

"It ain't witched!"

"It come from the burnin'! Ever'thing up there's witched! And I ain't
makin' no jewelry out of it and sellin' it to my clients' You're goin' to the
watch, girl, an' you can explain to your neighbors 'fore the magistrate
what you done up there on the hill, / ain'tl"

"Let me out of here! Damn you, damn you, I got friends, Gorthis, I got
friends'H fry your insides, you damned snitch! I got wizard friends!"

"No way," Gorthis said, pale-faced and sweating, and still ringing the
bell for all he was worth. "No way you got friends like that, missy, or
they'd melt that there gold for you and not need no furnace- I ain't no
fool! And you're going to hang, that's what's going to happen to you—"

An alarm was ringing in midtown, and Crit stopped the gray to listen.
Not particularly his business: the watch and the guard responded to that
sort of thing, and his own mind was on personal problems—a partner
who had had a run-in with the watch last night, and who had been let go
because the watch did not know what to do with him—and a Prince-
Governor whose orders were getting more and more arbitrary—now the
damned be-curled and perfumed prig wanted a barrel tax and wanted all
the taverns in town to pay a head tax ... per customer. And he was
supposed to break the news to Walegrin, whose men were supposed to

make the thing work.

An alarm was not the kind of thing the city commander took for a
personal responsibility. But he was in a mood to crack heads. He debated

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

253

it a moment, then, set the horse off at a good clip—no run, counting the
slick cobbles, just a businesslike jog that cornered well enough in the
twisting streets, with their ghostly drift of cloaked, hooded figures them-
selves heading toward the trouble—daytime reflexes, the more so that the
watch was surely on the way and folk figured there was some kind of
entertainment to be had, watching the guard putter about after a thief
who had probably run like hell when the bell went, and listening with
delicious smugness to the shopkeeper tearing his hair and wailing ... a
morning's worth of gossip, at least- And more of them would come, when
they saw the city commander involved in it.

Damned busybodies.

He had an idea where the bell-ringing was coming from when he found
the right street, about the time the bell went silent and he had an idea the
watch had gotten there ahead of him. There was a jeweler hereabouts
notorious for his eccentricity—and a shady past; and he saw the crowd
and the waiting horses that said that matters were tolerably well under
control.

He almost turned the gray about to go back about his business, back to
his troubles with Strat and with the Prince-Governor, figuring there was
nothing here that needed intervention.

But the crowd ohhhed and aaaahed to a great deal of shouting, and
pressed close upon the door, where there was evidently something going
on. A guardsman was trying to keep spectators out.

Maybe, he thought, someone had cut the jeweler's throat.

But the place was supposed to be a real obstacle course. So the rumor
ran. Real crazy man.

Curiosity drew him, since the morning's business was not that attrac-
tive. He nosed the gray on through the crowd, figuring the guard could
use a little help—might well be a few neighbors there hoping for free
samples, if there had been some fracas inside and some stuff scattered.

"Get out of here!" the beleaguered guard was yelling, shoving with his
sheathed sword at a clutch of women who wanted to get their noses in
the door. The crowd booed that, and guffawed when a fat man appeared
behind the guard and screamed at them to get out of his door.

"What's going on here?" Crit asked the guardsman, forcing the gray
into service as a living barrier, and its teeth and the stamp of its feet made
a little room.

"Dunno, sir," the guardsman said. "We got a woman and a laundry
basket and a damned great lump of gold old Gorthis says is witched and
stolen and he locked 'er up and called the watch." The guardsman looked
doubtful a second, then: "Woman looks Rankan, sir, and old Gorthis
says she's a thief named Moria who lived in the Peres house, and we got a

UNEASY ALLIANCES

254

warrant out on her. The corporal don't know. We got a lot of warrants.

But she talks uptown."

"Moria. Out ofPeres." Crit drew in a deep breath, all at once awake in
this slow and nuisanceful morning. He slid down and threw the gray's
reins at the guardsman as he ducked under the horse's neck and put his

head into the jeweler's shop.

The damn place looked like the city jail, it had so many bars. And in
the clutches of a trio of guardsmen was a blonde and distraught young
woman, answering questions, shaking her head furiously, no, no, and no.

"Hey," he yelled, interrupting it all. The woman looked at him, and
gods, it was for certain Moria, who had hosted the whole Sacred Band at
the truce-feast in the Peres house.

Before it ended up a pile of blackened sticks and tumbled stone.

"Moria?" he asked. And listened to the whole thing over again, from
the jeweler Gorthis shouting in one ear, the guard corporal shouting at
Gorthis to shut up, the woman sobbing and shouting that she was inno-
cent, that Gorthis was a crook who wanted her gold, which was hers, and
Gorthis her enemy who had lured her here with promises of help.

"Gold might be hers," Crit said slowly. "Ease up a little. Let's just all
be calm, can we? Ma'am, I think you and the gold and Gorthis here
better plan to spend the morning uptown and get this straightened out.
They say there's a warrant out on you- I don't know about that. I know
I've got a few questions. Where are you staying?"

The woman's face might have been a waxen mask. An honest woman
might have answered. There would not have been that desperate dart of
the eyes, like something trapped. Crit had had a lot of experience, judg-
ing reactions like that. He pulled out his kit and rolled himself a smoke,
giving her time to answer, if she would. Then, finally, lighting the smoke

from the lamp by the door.

"Well, sergeant, I think you might as well take the whole damn mess
uptown. You can have Gorthis. Woman goes to my office. Gold goes to
your captain and it damn well better stay accounted for. Hear?"

"Yessir," the sergeant said, and Crit nodded, puffed on his smoke to
calm his nerves and walked as far as the door. He had a rare impulse to
chivalry, and turned back to the sergeant.

"Don'1 take her through the streets like that. Put a wrap on her and
don't bruise her up any, all right?"

"Yessir."

He walked out, collected his horse and climbed up, riding out through
the crowd, paying no attention to the shouted questions and the ohhhs
and ahhhs and the rumors flying thick and fast. Up the street, then,

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               255

where the last few shyer onlookers stood gawking, and around the cor-
ner.

A man fled his path. There was one with reason to avoid him. He was
halfway moved to find out why, but the streets were slick and there was
enough commotion hereabouts. The chance of overtaking the man was
nil, without risk to the gray, and he was not about to take the chance.
Dawn, and there were still some of the night-skulkers out, pickpockets,
for sure, who worked their best in circumstances like the press and com-
motion back there.

Not his business, that. Not a soldier's business at all.

He rode on his way, down the mostly deserted street, at a walk, al-
ready back to the problem of the head tax.

And was halfway startled when a cloaked man came out of the alley
and looked up at him and ran over to him. "Officer—officer—my son,
f'godssakes, my son, they stabbed my son—"

"Who?" He reined in the gray, which was as like to take a piece out of
the man as not. "How many of them?" The whole, damn district watch
was tied down back around the corner, and a purse-cutting that went to
murder was the way of things in this damn town.

"Come on!" the man cried, running back for the alley—merchant, to
look at him. And distraught.

"Hell!" Crit threw down his smoke, gathered up his crossbow from the
saddle-ties and turned the gray down the alley after him. He had wanted
a head or two to crack. He was still in the market.

The iron gate flared blue as Stilcho brought up against it and pushed,
sweating and gasping and desperate. Witchfire stung his hands and ached
in his bones, but the gate gave to his push, and he waited for no other
invitation from the river house. He ran as far as the gray stone steps
before slick stone and his exhaustion betrayed him: he sprawled painfully
against the edge of the steps and lost his wind, fighting even so to pick
himself up.

"Stilcho," Her voice said, and he looked up, heart hammering, at the
face that figured in so many of his bad dreams.

"Stilcho?"

He gathered himself up to his knees and to his feet, hanging onto the
post which supported the roof. He was taller than She was, if he were not
standing beside the porch and She, on it- But Her presence was over-
whelming, so that all the warmth of running leached out of him, and all
the months of hiding seemed useless. He was back. He had never been
free. He had never owned his soul, from the night Ischade drew it back
into him.

256 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"The w-watch has M-Moria," he stammered, while the pain in his ribs
bent him against the post that was the only thing keeping him on his feet.
"They've arrested her—"

"For what?" Ischade asked, a soft voice, precise, and cold.

"Th-the—" 0 gods, there was no lying to Her. There could not be. He
tried for breath and knew what bargain he had come to strike, a bargain
for what She already owned. "The gold from P-Peres house. They say she
stole it."

"She did," Ischade said, that same quiet precision. "From me."

He had no answer for that. It was truth. Claiming it was himself,
claiming anything but what was—might end everything. "You can help
her," he said. "P-Please h-help her."

"She left my employ. She stole from me. Why should I intervene?"

"I'll come b-back." His lips stumbled around the words. His sou! was
cold to the roots, and he met that stare of hers with a vertiginous feeling
that it was already sliding away from him. "1*11 come back to you."

There was long silence. Then:

"You and Moria," Ischade said. "Love does make fools of us, doesn't
it?"

"Please. Get her away from them."

"I thought that Moria would come, long since, wanting her fine things
and her soft bed. I least of all expected you, Stilcho. And for her sake.
How touching."

"My lady—"

"I confess I have missed you, in more ways and for more reasons than
you know." She extended her hand and touched his cheek with the backs
of her fingers, a touch which—he could not help it—made him shuddei;

and She could not but tell that. "A good man. And hers. Why, Stilcho?
Debt of honor? Or do you love her?"

"I 1-1-love her."

"Poor man." She came close and folded her arms about his head, drew
it against her breast. Her breath stirred his hair and he felt her gentle
kiss, felt the unlikely warmth She gave despite the chill of her hands as
She lifted his face. "I will help her. I will take you back. I will keep her
with all the fine things she loves. You as well. And I shall be kinder. You
know that there are times I cannot be."

"I know that—"

"She will be safe enough. I will send a message uptown. We'll do
everything by town law. As the aggrieved party, I give her the gold. See?
Solved. Come inside and I'll give you the paper with my seal on it. You
take it to the Palace and tell them if they have any questions about it,
come to me. Come. I shan't bite. You know better than that."

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               257

They had brought the gray horse in from the streets—no one had
dared steal it, nor any of its gear; it had wreaked havoc on a storefront
and kicked a man in the gut before the watch got a couple of riders to
herd it up the street and one of them was horseman enough to talk it
calm and get the reins without having his fingers taken off or his horse
kicked.

Of Crit there was no sign at all, and Straton found himself coldly,
terribly sober, interviewing everyone in the affair, no one of whom knew
a damned thing, except the horse might have come from a dozen streets,
all of which they were searching door to door; and as many alleys, more
likely, all of which they were searching, down to the rubbish heaps and
the refuse, looking for the body. Crit's bow was missing, not with the
horse and not in any place he would have left it. He must have had it
with him. Must have had reason to have it in hand when trouble came on
him. So he had not been taken utterly off his guard. And they had still
got him. Whoever it was.

There had been some kind of fracas involving a goldsmith and a lot of
crowd in that area. Crit had been there. Had found the woman Moria in
the middle of it and she was in custody, along with the jeweler and a
lump of gold. That, Strat reckoned, had nothing to do with it. Crit had
ridden out of there, the guard swore to that, ridden out of there and
down the street and vanished somewhere within that district, to judge by
where they had first reported the loose horse.

He began to build a scenario in his mind—the crowds, the likelihood
of cutpurses and pickpockets, and Crit maybe spotting something—

—running into trouble and ending up just a corpse someone had to get
rid of, down some sewer, into some basement, under some rubbish heap:

gods, Crit, to end like that, in some damned alley, in a damned police
action, in something that was not his job. because Crit, being Crit, tended
to be all over what he was managing—

—or maybe Crit had seen someone; or someone had seen him, who
had a grudge. Gods knew there were people with grudges. He had a
vision of blood in the streets again, some new set of crazies with an
agenda, murdering any symbol of Authority they could get their sights
on. Sanctuary had seen blood and blood and blood, and it had been quiet
a while, but the same damned lunatics were still in town, those some
other lunatic had not killed.

He felt sick at his stomach, that was what he felt, sick and helpless and
scared, because he had shot his mouth off with Crit and done everything
wrong he could do—

—he had been stinking drunk this morning when Crit had been riding

258 UNEASY ALLIANCES

the streets alone, because he had no partner he could rely on any more.
And he hated himself. He despised himself. He could not figure out how
he had become what he had become. As good as if he had run and left his
partner to face his killers alone. That was what he had done. And if men
shied off from him this morning and if he could not meet their eyes, there
was reason for it.

Oh damn, he wanted his hands on someone.

He wanted Crit alive, he wanted Crit to come walking in that gate all
right and madder than hell; and he would listen to everything Crit had to
say and swear that it was right, and go back to him and make it right if
Crit would have him, that was what he would do. Crit needed him,
needed him in the worst way; and Ischade had thrown him out and
battered his pride for the last time, he swore she had. It was over. Fin-
ished. He had no more intention to go crawling to her a second time.

Gods, if he'd come walking in here—lost his horse, that's all; we'd give
him a hard time, he'd curse us to hell, I'd stand there and maybe he'd
know without my saying a thing, know what hell I've been through—we
could talk, then. Let him swear me to hell and gone, no matter, get him
talking and maybe I could talk to him, the way we used to—way we used
to be—

A man came up on him, a guard sergeant, to report they had a man in
hand, from the gate—"—asking after the woman, the one they arrested,
says he can prove whose the gold is—"

He had told them he wanted to know everything about everyone in-
volved. He had sent a man he trusted to ask Moria if there was anything
she could tell him, though he doubted it. This man was at hand.

Was Stilcho. He saw Ischade's former lover, conspicuous in his shabby
cloak and in the black patch which covered his missing eye. City guards
hastened him along with a firm grip on his arms; and Strat's mind raced
wildly, trying to make connections with facts which did not, no matter
how he pushed and pulled them, fit any pattern he could understand.

And damn it all, Ischade and her household were not what he wanted
to deal with now.

Except Stilcho was no longer Ischade's. Nor was Moria. And some-
how, for some terrible reason, they were here, under this wan gray sky,
with Crit missing, himself and Stilcho who had met often enough in
Ischade's house; and Moria under arrest: that was at least some vestige of
connection in events, but it was on the wrong problem, surely it was the
wrong problem.

"Stilcho," he said, and did not tell the guards to let him go. One of
them handed him the paper.

Ischade's spidery, elaborate hand. Her signet. To Critias, under the

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               259

authority of His Imperial Highness Theron, and His Grace Kadakithis.
Commander of the City: You have arrested one of my servants for posses-
sion of property I gave her, to which she has legal title. The lady Moria is
therefore innocent of wrongdoing. I ask for her immediate release and will
thank you for your prompt and earnest attention to this matter. Under my
personal seal: Ischade, herself.

Straton read it through twice. To Critias.

Critias.

"Let him go," he said sharply, and when the guards did not take their
cue: "Leave him!" And waited until the city guard was out of earshot, the
paper trembling in his hand. "What's this have to do with Critias?"

"To do with—"

"My partner's missing, dammit, missing while the city guard hauled
Moria and that gold out of a jeweler's shop, the last damn place they saw
him! Where is he?"

"I don't know," Stilcho said, bewildered-looking, and was not lying.
Straton's heart sank. the little that that chance Jiad raised it. "I don't
know. Moria got picked up—that's all. Critias was there. I saw him.
Comer of Regent Land and High Street. He was on a gray horse. I didn't
want to get picked up too; I ran and he didn't follow. That's the truth,
Strat. I was one of you. My oath—it's the truth, it's all I know."

"Moria know anything?"

Stilcho shook his head. "I don't think so. I was there because she
sneaked out with the gold, I knew she was going to get in trouble—" It
was too much truth now. Stilcho let his voice trail off, with that desperate
look in his eyes, the look of a man who had committed himself too far to
a man no longer in the same game. "It's in the letter. Her seal."

"Her seal. Dammit to hell, is this her game?"

"No! Gods—no, I don't think so."

She wrote to Critias. She didn't know.

But by the gods, she can find out.

"Sergeant!"

"Sir!"

"Tablet. Fast." He grabbed Stilcho by the arm, pulled him close. "I
thought you'd left her house. Alive."

"I'm g-going b-back." Stilcho pulled to free the arm, desisted when he
did not make it easily. The single eye was desperate, distraught. "N-not
easy b-being on the streets."

"I can slip you into the guard. Call it a favor. You could have come to
me. I owe you one."

"Too Mate." There was all hell in that look. "Too late."

260 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"She's got you." Dead again? In the chill of the wind, there was no
way to tell.

"She's got me. And M-Moria. No help for us. Strat, for godssakes, get
Moria out of there—if you owe me anything, get her out of that hole—"

The sergeant came up with the tablet and a stylus. Straton took it and
wrote: Walegrin—and a long scratch that stood for all the damned proto-
cols. Send the woman Moria to the palace guardstation with this messen-
ger and your order to hold her there until I sign the release. Straton, for
Critias— Another long line, for all Crit's authorizations. He slammed his
ring into the soft wax of the tablet and shut it. "No damn time for an
overseal. Get this to Walegrin at his headquarters and hurry about it."

The sergeant left at a run.

"I'll go with him," Stilcho said, and Strat caught him a second time.

"She's not free."

"Not—"

"If Ischade wants her out, Ischade can find Critias. Come on, man.
We're going to go tell her that."

Stilcho said nothing, only came as fast as he could, exhausted as he
was.

"Horses," Straton yelled, and the horses were waiting at the gate.

Crit moved, tried to pull himself up from the upside-down position in
which he had waked, in which he had already suffered hell, coming to
soaking wet and staring upside down into the face of a lunatic with a
knife.

He had lost consciousness several times, and vomited his gut out along
with a good amount of the water he had swallowed when the Ilsigi who
avowed he wanted to kill him slowly had lowered him upside down into a
rain barrel and waited till he choked. Again. And again. And again. And
in between times had let him down, trussed hand and foot, to lie heaving
and puking on the floor of the basement.

He had screamed before his voice went. He was not proud. He had
hoped to hell a dozen of his men would be searching by then, would hear
the ruckus and come break the door down. But this place, wherever he
was, was down deep, lantern-lit, and with some sort of padded baffle all
round, so that there was precious little sound going to get up to the
streets, if that was even where they were any longer.

This fine, this upstanding citizen with the kid in trouble—had got
behind him and hit him with something that stung like hell in the back of
his neck and then weakened his knees and dropped him helpless as a
baby to the alley cobbles, whereupon this fine citizen had kicked him in

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               261

the groin, in the gut and in the head, and the light had gone out for he
had no idea how long, or through what.

Right now he wanted only to get air past the bubbling of whatever was
in his nose and his throat, and upside down, he could not do that, the
blood was hammering in his neck and his head and his gut hurt too much
to let him get that breath.

The rope paid out suddenly and dropped him onto his arms, his shoul-
ders and the back of his head, driving the breath out of him.

He could not get it in again. He went out,

And came to propped up against something lumpy and solid, and with
the self-same lunatic squatting there with a knife in his hands.

"I'm not going to kill you," the man said. "You'd like to know my
name, but I'm not going to kill you, not going to give you a thing to give
your friends, either. All us Ilsigis look alike—don't we, pig?"

He thought: /'// remember you, Wriggly. But he was not about to ar-
gue. Never argue with a lunatic with a knife.

"What'll you describe? Medium build. Black hair? Do you a lot of
good, pig. I got your partner. Now I have you. Witch has your partner.
Maybe the witch can bring back your eyes. Can she? What would your
partner pay for that? It might be worth it to me, pig—just knowing that."

0 gods. 0 gods. We've got trouble, haven't we?

Hell-bent through the streets, too fast, for the weather, but the bay
horse made it without slipping and the borrowed sorrel made it, some-
how. Strat did not stop to see, reckoning Stilcho would follow as he
could.

And this time he pulled up in front of the river house and slid down to
drop the bay's reins in front of the hedge, he was cold sober and in a
deadly hurry. He shoved at the gate and got a shock, kicked at it then.

"Ischade, dammit! You want that damn girl, you get out here, fast!'"

Stilcho rode in behind and slid down, ran up to the gate and got it open

—him, it did not shock.

For him, Ischade's door opened, and Ischade came out and stood on
her porch, waiting.

"Come on," Stilcho said nervously, and grabbed Strat by the arm.

He needed no pull. He all but beat Stilcho to the porch steps; and held
Stilcho's distance from her, who stood cloaked and dark and ominously
frowning.

"Somebody waylaid my partner," Strat said. "Ischade, I'm asking you

—personal favor, if I've got any credit left. Tell me who and where."
"Where is Moria?"
"Guard custody. She's safe. She'll be fine. I'll let her go when I've got

262 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Crit, hear me? You want a favor out of us, we want one out of you. Fair
trade."

Prolonged silence.

"Fair trade," he yelled at her. "Damn-lit!"

"A remarkable day," she said. "So many people want favors of me.
And magic comes so dear nowadays. You don't want me. You want a
fortune-teller. A finder of lost objects. Surely you can find one down at
the bazaar with the jugglers and the mimes."

"Don't put me off, woman, I'm not in the mood for your jokes!"

"You mistake me. Do you want my help?"

"Yes." Breath came short. "Dammit, I have to have it."

She turned her shoulder and the door opened wide. "Come in."

He mounted the steps, Stilcho treading behind him. Not like old times
in this familiar room that was somehow the same and somehow more
chaotic in its disorder and the litter. He was where he would have given a
great deal to have been this morning. And now there was ice in his gut,
because there was suddenly his partner's life on his hands, and Ischade's
temper to deal with, that he had provoked, he, when it was Crit's life in
the balance.

If Crit was still alive at all.

Ischade took the back of a chair and flung it, shoved the table back,
rumpling a litter of cloaks, and simply sat down cross-legged on the floor,
hands before her. Her eyes rolled back. Her lips parted.

And a light grew between her hands, spinning and spinning in a way
he had seen once and more than once.

Like a small Globe of Power, whirling and staining her hands and her
face and all the room with its cold glow.

He hunkered down with his hands clasped against his lips and waited,
waited, because what she was doing was not the magic he knew in her,
pyromancy and necromancy. This was another thing, a thing that was
not supposed to exist.

"I don't find him on the surface," she murmured—no mummery, ei-
ther; Ischade could talk and wield power at the same time, carry on a
running dialogue while doing what would raise a sweat on many a talent
in the Mageguild. "There's a far-seer over across town. I'll see. She's
erratic. Sometimes she's right."

"For godssake, find him!"

"What—" Her eyes snapped shut and open again, present and
shocked, as she clapped her hands together and smothered the light.

"Aaah!" Stilcho cried, and held his hands over his eyes.

Straton and Ischade exchanged a look then which understood some-
thing Stilcho did not.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

263

"What is it, dammit?"

Ischade bit her lips and drew in her breath. "Nothing. Nothing need
concern you." She gathered her skirts to rise. "I will find him. There's
nothing I can do from here. We'll have to search out the trail. Stilcho."
She gave him her hand, and he helped her to her feet.

"What is it?" Strat asked again.

But Ischade did not answer him. She flung her cloak about her and
walked out the door, which had a disconcerting way ofopeningjust when
it had to.

He was last out, and it shut behind them with a thump, as the gate
swung open. Stilcho's horse shied and pulled at its tether.

The bay simply stood. And when he got there, Ischade was holding the
reins.

"I'll ride behind," she said.

Old habits came back. He had his mouth open, and shut it. Useless,
with Ischade. One did things her way, or one did not, and they might go
to hell for all she cared; he wanted her help in the worst way, with a life
at stake.

He rose to the saddle and cleared the stirrup for her. She rose lightly
up behind and put her arms about him, too damn familiarly.

"Hyyyyaaa!" he yelled at the bay, and it wheeled about and might
have unseated her and him; but not him, and damned well not the likes of
Ischade, no such luck.

No chance of falling on the road, slick as the stone was. He laid his
heels to the bay, and such was the uncertainty of the misty air and the
echo off the buildings, sometimes it seemed like it was only Stilcho's
horse striking the cobbles.

"My son," Nas-yeni said. It was safe to tell him that much. There were
a lot of sons. There had to have been. "You killed my son. Threw him out
like garbage." He sat cross-legged, close to his victim in the lantern light.
"You, I'd like to take to the same place when I'm done with you. Maybe
I will."

The Stepson never had said much, just took in his breath when Nas-
yeni got to work on him, and screamed sometimes, in what voice he had
left, but the vomiting had left him with very little voice for screaming. He
could still see. Nas-yeni had saved the eyes for last. And the tongue, that
last of all. Right now it was the fingernails; and Nas-yeni pulled the
needle, heated, from the little cooking brazier he had full of coals.

"Come here, Critias. Let's try another one."

Critias spat at him and tried to kick him, but there was panic in his

UNEASY ALLIANCES

264

face now, and that kind of hard-breathing sob a man got before he fell
apart. Nas-yeni knew. He had practiced, before this.

There was panic in the attempt to scream, too. It was in the pace of
things. Nas-yeni had studied these matters. Had done this service for
certain of the gangs, who wanted something from one of their own.
Rankans he had never touched. He had never risked himself. His mission
was too holy, his revenge too important, to risk Rankan trouble. Just

internal matters.

Never too hasty. Take one's time. Never let the victim get his defenses
together either, or forget there was worse to come.

"He was seventeen, pig."

Slowly, through the afternoon streets, still in drizzling rain, the shops'
business slow, the citizens who did find reason to be out on the streets
moving about all muffled up in cloaks.

But no few stared at the sight of a Stepson with a black-cloaked
woman riding pillion behind him, slowly and deliberately through street
and street and street; and a one-eyed man beside them, where Stepsons
had searched frantically all day, and rousted citizens and searched ware-
houses.

Perhaps it was the fey, dire feeling about them, that coursed through
Strafs bones and set his teeth on edge.

"Wrong," Stilcho said softly, above the soft clip and clop of hooves on
cobbles. "Wrong—"

"Is it me you see?" Ischade whispered. "Or else?"

"I don't know," Stilcho said hollowly, in a voice which itself could
raise the hair's at a man's nape.

"Hereabouts," Ischade whispered. "Hereabouts. Steady, Straton.
Don't flinch."

He felt something at his back—felt it, like fire and ice, burning through
his armor, into his bones. And suddenly the horse whickered and gave a
thrust of its hindquarters, skittering forward and taking an undirected
turn into an alley, into a maze of balconies and rubbish and discarded
barrels. It was crazed. It headed them up a nook and stopped, facing a
dead end.

"Here," Ischade said.

'Where?" Blank walls surrounded them, windowless, doorless. Strat
looked about them in desperation, and twisted about as Ischade slid
down.

"The horse knows. It has the scent."

He dismounted and dropped the reins, drawing his sword, looking
above them, for some window, any aperture.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               265

The horse pawed the cobbles, put down its head and nosed the rubbish.

Above a hinged iron plate set in the cobbles.

"Damn," Strat said. "Damn."

And dropped to his knees and pulled at it with his fingers. It would not
move.

"Bolted," he said. "Dammitall!" Desperation welled up in him.

Blue fire ran around the opening, down the hinges, dim in daylight.
Metal grated.

"Now," Ischade said.

He pulled and it lifted.

And the sound, the half-human sound that came from somewhere in
the depths, ran right through his nerves.

He did not stop. He saw the steps and he went, writhed his way
through a hole too small for a man to take easily, down into the echoing
dark.

"Stilcho!" he heard Ischade whisper urgently. He heard the slither of
someone behind him, but another such moan wrenched at his gut. He felt
his way down and down, one hand for the sword, one for the wall, his
eyes straining at dark absolute except the little gray light that got
through from the open trap above, and that fitful, with his partners
leaning over it.

He heard laughter echoing through the vault, soft and awful, coming
from everywhere.

And caught himself with his heart in his throat as his foot missed a
step and he saved himself at an unexpected landing. There was a chain
there. He grasped it and felt it to find the steps, descending again, till he
heard the sound in front of him-

He felt ahead of him with his sword, probing the dark till it suddenly
touched stone. He felt either side and found nothing, and, with his bare
hand, in front of him, and felt a wooden door. He put his ear against it.

And pulled it open, carefully, carefully as dim lamplight spilled against
his eye.

". . . friend," he heard.

And a sound hardly human at all.

He saw a light, old columns, watermarked, a pair of figures low to the
ground against a mound of dirt. He eased his way in, flexing his hand on
his sword-hilt, hardly daring to breathe.

The damned hinge creaked. The man looked around.

"Haiiii!" Strat yelled, for what shock could do, and was halfway across
the room before the man jerked Crit up by the hair and brought the point
of a dagger right up under Crit's left eye.

"You want him blinded? Drop it! Drop the sword!"

266 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Cnt tried to say something Fool, probably And arched his back and
struggled as the knife jabbed

"Drop it'"

Strat dropped it, and saw the man drop the knife and snatch two-
handed at something in the straw beside him, but he was already moving,
launched with all his strength and speed across that intervening space—

Crossbow Cut's Firing The bolt tore into him He spun with it,
staggered and kept moving, clawing his way up again, tearing the dagger
from his belt, hurling himself and the weapon missilelike against the man
with the spent bow

He hit the man in the gut, he felt that, felt the rush of blood over his
hand, the tumble of threshing limbs tangled with his as he went down
with the bolt shocked by the fall and the dark closing around him

"I couldn't stop it," Stilcho said "I couldn't reach him—"

Ischade held up her hand, dismissal, absolution—whatever Stilcho
would accept—and looked down at the carnage that spread blood
through the straw

"Witch—" Cnt said, or tried to say, looking at her through the one eye
that still would work It came out a raven's croak And after so much
else, he spat at her

"Gratitude Of course." Straton washer concern She tucked her robes
away from the blood that was everywhere and felt of his back and his
neck, where a pulse still beat The bolt had hit high The bad shoulder
Again.

"Damn you," Cnt whispered, "damn you to hell, let him be."

She touched Strat's face when Stilcho had turned him over He was
bloody everywhere. He was half-conscious, and he tried to say some-
thing, but she touched his lips and his brow and put him to sleep She did
other things too, and bent and kissed him on the brow and on the lips,
bloody as he was

"Let him be, you damned ghoul'"

Somewhere Cntias had found that much voice, and struggled to an
elbow, to try to throw his body into her, if only that

She whirled and stopped him, her hand on his throat, and flung him
back down, spat at again

But she restrained herself "He came after you He came to me for you
But you will not remember that " She held him with her eyes only now,
cut him free with the knife she drew from the dead man, then put her
joined hands to Cnt's face, and let the mage-fire flow, mending the eye,
the hands, everything that might cripple a man "Sleep, Cntias "

It was part of her curse and her talent, that mesmeric talent that could

THE BEST OF FRIENDS               267

erase her very passage from a mind, make seeing eyes blind, create elabo-
rate memories that had never been

Such, largely, had been her affair with Strat      until she began to
take risks, with Stilcho to die his deaths, assuage her needs, fulfill the
curse

"Come," she said to Stilcho, taking him by the hand "We have Mona
to see to Cnt will take care of things "

And drew Stilcho with her, hesitating at the last, bewildered, surely
But she turned his face to her with a touch of her finger, and erased his
memory of this place, before she led him up to the light

It was luck, surely, that a searcher spotted Strat's bay horse m an alley
searchers had been down a dozen times that day, spotted the trap left up,
and investigated, all on a hunch that had come on the man even to go
down that often-searched alley Cnt had run out of strength, dragging
Strat's half-conscious weight toward the stairs, collapsing there in the
dark with Strat damned near bleeding to death and the stairs yet to go.

After that it was horse litters to get them as far as the guard-barracks
infirmary, Cnt more exhausted and bruised and with cracked ribs that
bandages could help, Strat the worse off of the two of them.

Strat, who had come through for him and done what he had done,
before the damned IIsigi lunatic had had time to carve him up Strat, who
had distracted the killer and taken the bolt, knowing he was going to take
it, because that was the only way to get across that distance and knife the
bastard that was going to cut Cnt's throat.

Strat had had enough strength left m him to cut Cnt loose And then
fainted

Cnt ought to have been in his own bed He was not He sat by Strat's,
just holding onto his arm, thinking, damn, he would go to the witch by
riverside, he would go down there and he would beg if that was what it
took The sight of Strat deliberately distracting that bastard, deliberately
taking the shot and still having it in him to aim true and hard—would
haunt him, like the thing Strat had said when he managed, m his pain, to
cut him loose—

"—damn mess, Cnt, damn awful mess How'd you get into this^"

It was Strat the way he had been Strat before the witch had got him.
Strat his partner

And Strat did much the same thing when finally he came to and found
him sitting there, with the candle all but a stub on the bedside table
"What the hell," he said "I must've made it all nght, didn't P"

THE POWER OF KINGS

Jon DeCles

"I am afraid, my dear, that we are going to get into some trouble over
this play," said Glisselrand, picking up another ball of brightly colored
yam and adding its lurid yellow to the dark fuschia with which she had
been working all morning. Her knitting was the one evidence of her past
that she had not dropped along the way, the closest thing to a regret that
she had ever shown in all the years since she had run away from home to
become an actress with the travelling players.

"And why should that be, my sweeting?" asked Feltheryn, going over
the lines of the play before him, intermittently sipping at the tisane in his

cup.

"Well, you may have been too busy to listen to gossip, but the thing
most discussed in this dreadful town is the possible marriage of Prince
Kittycat to the Beysa," Glisselrand replied, her voice just a little more
reedy this morning than Feltheryn liked. "Has it not occurred to you that
this particular play which Molin Torchholder has commissioned us to
perform might be taken as a political statement?"

"How so?" asked Feltheryn, devoting only a part of his mind to the
conversation.

"It depicts an unsuccessful marriage of state, for one thing," said Glis-
selrand. "For another, there is that very powerful scene in which the
High Priest forces the King to his will. One assumes the words were
written originally at a time when the King of some country was overstep-
ping his bounds, and when the magician who wrote it felt it appropriate
to bend the will of the monarch to the wisdom of the temple."

"Well, yes," said Feltheryn, looking up at last from the old parchment

THE POWER OF KINGS               269

text of the play. His blue eyes focused on Giisselrand and he was struck,
as always, by how beautiful she remained, even at - . .—Certainly more
summers than was polite for a man to consider. (At least past fifty.) "But
what has that to do with thee and me?"

"Feltheryn, my darling," Glisselrand said patiently, "you know how
the plays affect people's minds. Has it not occurred to you that Molin
might be attempting to use us to get control of the prince?"

"My darling," said Feltheryn, "the plays are magical, there is no doubt
about that. But their magic is unpredictable. Surely Molin, as a priest,
knows that he cannot depend on a performance of one of our plays to
give him any precise results. The changes that occur in people upon
seeing our plays are subtle, and like as not they will even go unnoticed.
Molin saw the plays in Ranke. He knows they cannot be used, I am sure.
. . . You must think more kindly of this fine man who has been good
enough to arrange a theater for us, hire that charming painter, Lalo, to
paint our scenery, and, most important, see that we are all fed until we
are established in Sanctuary."

"Perhaps," said Glisselrand after a moment. "But-1 do wonder at you,
even after this many years. You are still such an innocefft! I wonder how
you maintain it."

This comment left Feltheryn bewildered so he returned to his memo-
rizing of the text; a very normal reaction, as much of what his beloved
leading lady said to him was beyond his understanding. In a moment he
was absorbed again in the terrible scene in which the king discovers that
his new young wife is in love with his son by a previous marriage.
Feltheryn moved his hand to his brow and ran his fingers through his
bushy white hair in rehearsal of a gesture of anguish. He did not notice
Glisselrand's tender smile as she watched him.

The company had lost many of its treasured articles of production in
its final days in Ranke, and as The Power of Kings was a play replete with
royalty, it behooved Feltheryn to replace certain crowns, sceptres, and
other paraphernalia of rulership. To this end he headed for the bazaar of
Sanctuary, accompanied by Snegelringe, who would play his son Karel in
the play (Feltheryn always reserved the parts of kings for himself and left
the younger, more romantic parts for his junior) and Lempchin, the boy
who acted as factotum to the troupe. They were looking for a blacksmith,
but one who had a certain flair and style about his work; for crowns and
sceptres were a far cry, artistically, from horseshoes and barrel hoops.

It was perhaps inevitable that they catch the attention of those who
frequented the bazaar by day but who made their homes in either the
Downwind or the Maze; for after so many years of being a king upon the
stage Feltheryn moved with the authority of one, if not the wisdom.

UNEASY ALLIANCES

270

Certainly no true king would have been foolish enough to head for the
bazaar with only one guard and a clumsy boy for company.

It was luck, and very good luck, that the first to make an attempt upon
the old actor's person was not one of Sanctuary's better thieves: other-
wise the purse which Molin Torchholder had provided might have been
lost. As it was; the apprentice pickpockets crashed into Feltheryn, the
"master" of the gang (who had attained at least eighteen years despite his
stupidity) rushed in with a knife—and learned quickly that actors must
be as good with their swords in reality as upon the stage.

Snegelringe's blade flew from its overly ornamented scabbard, moved
in an overly flamboyant arc, and the attacking knife flew from a hand
that spurted blood.

The apprentices drew back, their eyes round with surprise as their
master clutched his hand and staggered away with a yowl- They had
clearly not expected Snegelringe, a paunchy man with a receding hair-
line, to have any speed of arms.

"Death to all who ride against the King!" proclaimed Lempchin, in a
voice that was strong enough but not yet deep enough for the stage. Then
the boy spoiled his moment by giggling.

Fortunately the apprentice pickpockets were not versed in the finer
points of stage delivery, and they took Lempchin's statement seriously.
They ran, scattering as thoroughly as the narrow street would allow.

"Well played, my hearty!" said Feltheryn to Snegelringe. "But you,
boy, you must learn never to break character until the curtain is down!
Suppose they had not run? Suppose they had taken our defense as a

joke?"

"Why then," said Lempchin, "Master Snegelringe would have
skewered them all!"

"A pretty move, no doubt," said Feltheryn, and he lowered his deep
voice an octave to where it sounded like the dead oracle from Nodrade.
"But then should we have found ourselves with enemies, and be the
target of every friend those fiends ever had. And one dark night when
you must walk alone, the sharp blade would cut across your throat!"

The boy gulped.

"And we should have to find another boy to take your place emptying
the chamber pots!" added Snegelringe.

Lempchin's discomfort faded and he blushed. He did not really like
Snegelringe, Feltheryn knew, but he respected the actor: in fact, he
wanted to take his place some day, if he could just leam the lines and
arrange an accident.

"Come," said Feltheryn, rumpling the chubby boy's hair. "I see the
place Lalo recommended, across the square ahead. While I talk to the

THE POWER OF KINGS

271

blacksmith perhaps you can persuade his wife to read your palm. They
say these S'danzo women read the future well, and she may see you upon
the boards yet!"

The interview with Dubro, the blacksmith, went well enough, though
he apologized for his lack of expertise in fashioning crowns. The huge
man was not pleased with the way Snegelringe lavished attention on his
wife Illyra, but neither did he move to stop it. Feltheryn supposed the
fellow would have felt foolish exhibiting jealousy over a pudgy actor with
a receding hairline; and he did not feel it appropriate to disabuse the man
of his illusions at just this point. Snegelringe's reputation as a ladies* man
would spread through Sanctuary soon enough, causing the company
problems aplenty. Let that happen later, after people were accustomed to
coming to the plays. Then the troupe would be able to weather the criti-
cism of their morals that even a town as corrupt as Sanctuary felt quali-
fied to heap upon mere actors.

As for the wife, Hlyra: Feltheryn wondered why it was she dressed as
she did, making up her face in such a way that she appeared, to the
untrained eye, like a crone. Was it because of the respect accorded to old
age? (He knew well that such respect was more often an illusion of the
young than a reality- His own years had earned him rather a grudging
tolerance than respect. People did not defer to him, they waited for him
to die so that they could take his place!) Or did she have some secret
distress? She was not responding to Snegelringe's attentions as a woman
might usually. The professional mask of a seeress was set well in place,
but to Feltheryn's equally professional assessment she seemed mildly
puzzled by it all; as if she could not understand why Snegelringe was
flirting with her. Was it possible she did not know that actors used
makeup as skillfully as S'danzo, and for much the same purpose? Was it
possible she did not realize that Snegelringe could see beneath her mask
to the lovely young woman?

Feltheryn let the puzzle go, another observation of the human condi-
tion for his catalogue of character, and finished his business with Dubro.

Lempchin had not found the seeress m a soft enough mood to give him
a reading of the cards for free, so the boy begged for a pastry instead, and
that led to Snegelringe boxing his ears as they left the bazaar to return to
the theater.

The theater itself was still under construction in the shell of a building
that had burned during the plague riots. It was located between West
Side Street and Processional, near enough to the palace that the prince
could come at his convenience yet far enough away for the Rankan lords
to retain their feelings of respectability. Molin had at first proposed hous-
ing the actors at some distance from the actual playhouse, perhaps in

272 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Westside where there was new construction: but Glisselrand had made
clear, with her wannest affectations, that a woman would feel unsafe
going such a great distance alone, and that providing her with a depend-
able escort would cost Molin much more than was reasonable. She had
phrased it in such a way that there was no room, short of acute rudeness,
for the priest to suggest she provide her own escort, or do without. Thus
the theater included an attached residence which, though small, was
better than anything they might find among the workmen's quarters at
Shambles Cross.

The Architect of Vashanka had even taken a personal interest in the
construction, as if the finishing of the walls on which he had so long
labored was somehow not enough to occupy his creativity. He offered
plans for a very lavish performing space and was not in the least offended
when Feltheryn pointed out to him, with grave discretion, the need for a
stage house at the top and dressing rooms below and behind the actual
stage; not to mention space in the wings for the storage of properties to
be brought on.

The rebuilding had gone on apace and now the structure was begin-
ning to look much the way Ranke's theaters looked. There was a prosce-
nium, a thing never seen outside the capital, boxes for important people
who wanted to be seen as much as they wanted to see, and a royal box for
those nights when the prince wished to attend a performance. The the-
ater was, after all, a political tool of some import for those, like the late
Emperor, who knew how to use it.

It was therefore not as great a surprise as it might have been when
Feltheryn entered and found the Beysa Shupansea having tisane with
Glisselrand in the foyer, surrounded by several ladies-in-waiting whose
raiment was so splendid that it paled only before the Beysa herself.

For a moment Feltheryn was awestruck. The cloth in the Beysa's dress
alone could have footed the bill for the whole of the theater. She wore
such riches as Ranke never saw, and she wore them well, her breasts
thrust out voluptuously and yet with dignity, her head held with a pride
that was neither unnatural nor condescending. The gorgeous snake coil-
ing about her throat like a necklace was a priceless piece of theater!

The only woman he had ever seen so queenly was Glisselrand herself,
perhaps in the role of Adriana in Templesmoke: but of course he would
not declare that to the Beysa.

"Does not the day confound the night?" he quoted from The Archmage
by way of greeting, for he had not yet learned her proper title of address.
"Are not the stars but fragments of the light?"

The Beysa smiled and the membranes on her eyes nictitated. She knew

THE POWER OF KINGS               273

flattery, instantly understood why he chose to use it at this moment, and
decided to accept it graciously.

"I have come to see your theater," Shupansea said. "And perhaps to
make my own small contribution to its success, if that would be appropri-
ate and acceptable."

Feltheryn decided he liked her.

"But of course!" he said. "Has my lady shown it to you, or have you
waited for my return?"

"Your lady has shown it," said the Beysa, "and we have discussed my
gift. She asked only that I accept a few sweets, and this lovely hot tisane
she makes, while we awaited your approval."

"If my lady approves it, then so do I," said Feltheryn. "But what is it
that you so kindly offer, if I may ask?"

"The Beysa," said Glisselrand (and her voice held the full rich lustre
that it always did on stage) "has offered to have the royal box flocked
with velvet. Not just the rails but the whole thing, inside and out. I think
that is most kind of her, don't you?"

"Not only kind, but generous," said Feltheryn. "May I assume from
this that . . ." (There was nothing for it, he had to use some title!)". . .
Your Highness plans to attend our humble offerings?"

"It will be a great treat to see such plays as those the Rankans saw,"
said the Beysa. "Especially after so long here in Sanctuary. In my home-
land there were many spectacles provided to amuse us, and I confess to
missing them. I shall be most pleased indeed to come the very night you
first perform."

The irony of her using the past tense when referring to the plays per-
formed in Ranke was not lost on Feltheryn, but he noted it only in
passing. An occupied Royal Box inevitably meant a full house!

Later, that night, Feltheryn had second thoughts about presenting The
Power of Kings. In addition to the King, his son, and the leading lady, the
play required a second young male, the son's best friend. It was the most
sympathetic part in the play, for the friend, Rorem, died by an assassin's
arrow in the last act, even in the midst of swearing his love for the prince,
Karel. It was one of the great and moving scenes of the play, and one of
the most mystical, for it was never explained. Like the events of real life,
nobody ever discovered who killed Rorem, or why.

The problem was that Rounsnouf, the company's comic, was the only
person available to play the part; and Rounsnouf had discovered the
Vulgar Unicom.

To be sure, every town had its share of low dives; but the Vulgar
Unicom (Rounsnouf explained as best he could after much too much to
drink) was special!

274 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"Master Feltheryn, I have never seen so many great character studies!
The place is a treasure house' I could live there, absorbing the little
moves they make, taking in the peculiar touches of their accents! There is
a dark-haired boy who is all bluster and covered with knives, yet who
possesses a wonderful vulnerability; I would not trust him with a grave-
stone, yet he appeals to my heart, . . - There was a young woman,
clearly of the noblest birth, and yet trained as a gladiator! Can you imag-
ine that? I dared to speak with her, and she told me that she chose to
learn to fight! So fascinating! Oh, how I wish you would join me there!"

It was not the wine, nor the ale, that thus gave Feltheryn misgivings: it
was the seductive quality of observation the tavern offered. While all
actors spent much time observing the details of character in their fellow
humans, there was something about Rounsnouf that was like a hunger,
and that fed off other people. He used every observation he made in his
brilliant work in the plays, but when one encountered him backstage, or
away from the theater, it was always disquieting. Glisselrand said she
hated to leave him alone with Lempchm, not because she thought the
comic would bugger the boy but because she wondered if she might come
home and find him in the stewpot.

"How are you coming with your part?" Feltheryn asked, not valuing
the answer of a drunk but trusting to wine to bring out the truth.

"I'll have it by opening," said Rounsnouf. "Never fear! It is only a
small part, after all."

"Yes," said Feltheryn, "but it is an important part, and it is not a
comedy, it is a tragedy. You have played it before with less than glorious
results, I might point out. I would appreciate it if you left off your obser-
vations until we have opened, and concentrated on the work at hand. The
Vulgar Unicorn will not close nearly as soon as our play will."

Rounsnouf sat down on the floor and folded his short, thick fingers
intertwined. He shut his eyes, set too close together, and yawned. Then
he scratched his butterball stomach under his motley tunic.

"I suppose you are right," he said, entirely too agreeably. "I would like
to be able to deliver Rorem's death speech without laughing. Oh thou
whose blood runs in my veins, more closer yet than any brother. Thou,
whose blood I chose against the call of nature ..."

He fell back laughing and his legs stretched out so that his feet, too
small for his body, wiggled in the air-

"It sounds as if he has to use the outhouse!"

Feltheryn held back his own laugh. Taken out of context, the little
comic was right.

"Come, Rounsnouf," Feltheryn said, offering his hand and helping the
little man up. "I think that we had best to bed, else wake the house."

THE POWER OF KINGS               275

"Let me see . . ." the comic said as he gained his feet and shook
himself. "The boy walked thus . . ."

And without any help he mounted the stairs, his body gliding sleekly
in imitation of the shadow-spawned grace of one of the town's most
notable thieves.

Feltheryn sat down and considered: Rounsnouf had twice before be-
come so engrossed in his studies that he had completely missed perfor-
mances. He could not be allowed to do so again, at least not this early in
the game. One could not bind him to the theater, nor yet threaten him.
He only sulked and gave a bad reading if you did that.

What then?

Feltheryn looked in the purse of gold that Molin had given him and
contemplated the best and most necessary uses the money could be put
to. Of these, assuring the performance actually occurred was certainly
one of the best, and so he decided upon visiting the Vulgar Unicorn
himself.

But early the next morning he entertained a visitor who delayed his
visit, a visitor who, of all those denizens of the empire he had entertained,
was surely the most entertaining.

He awoke with the feeling that the room was burning. He started to
cry out where he lay but immediately stopped. He knew too well that
people died from leaping up and breathing in the burning air that accu-
mulated at the top of the room, sometimes not more than a hand's
breadth above the sleeping face. He threw one hand out to anchor Glis-
selrand where she lay next to him, then thrust the other up to see at what
level death hovered.

Two surprises greeted his hands. The first was that Glisselrand was not
there. The bed was empty but for him. The second was that the air above
him was not burning, only warm.

He focused his eyes more clearly, remembering as he always did in the
morning that his eyes were not what they once were.

He was not in his room after all, not in his own comfortable bed. He
was lying, rather, on a chaise lounge of red-brown satin with a damask
coverlet thrown over him. He was still in his long woolen nightshirt, and
the lounge was large enough to accommodate two, but that was the only
resemblance to the situation in which he had fallen asleep.

He was in a low chamber with a black and white checked marble floor.
Thick small carpets were scattered here and there and a huge fireplace
blazed brightly not far away, the source of the heat that had made him
think of fire. The walls of the room were paneled below the wainscoting
with dark wood, but above they were covered with damascene silk of a
dusky rose color. There were framed pictures on the walls, but Feltheryn

276 UNEASY ALLIANCES

found he could not look at them directly and see anything. They simply

blurred.

A blind servant stood next to the hearth, and across from the lounge
on which he lay was an ornate chair, a throne really, in which sat some-
one heavily robed and hooded, a someone whose eyes could be seen
glowing redly out of the darkness of the hood.

"Master Feltheryn," a voice said amiably from under the hood. It was
a young voice, but he could not tell (and that bothered him!) whether the
voice belonged to a man or woman. "You are not really here. I trust you
realize that?"

Feltheryn had not, but he nodded in assent since he seemed to be
expected to not only realize it but understand it.

"Very good," the voice said. "I thought an actor would understand
such an illusion. Such a way of communicating. I am Enas Yorl, a resi-
dent of this town who does not get out much for reasons which I may
later choose to explain. I have chosen to come to you in this manner to
request your help in alleviating my boredom at being so cooped up within
my house."

Now this Feltheryn understood. The way the man shadowed his coun-
tenance with his hood, the discretion he showed in conducting the inter-
view, were symptomatic of many who suffered some deformity.

"You wish me to make some special arrangement at the theater,"
Feltheryn said. "Something in the nature of a draped box, where you may
see without being seen; is that it?"

"Do you then know of me so quickly?" Enas Yorl asked, and his voice
began to change, not as to tone but as to timbre. This fascinated
Feltheryn greatly, for it did not seem to be a deliberate alteration such as
he, himself, would have made.

"No, good sir, only of others who have asked a similar boon. The
effects of a pox upon a beautiful lady, the loss of looks that comes from
war ... It is not such an unusual request. In Ranke we reserved a box
with curtains specifically for such a need. I think perhaps we might make
one here as well, though I had not expected its requirement so soon."

A laugh came from the hood, but even as it bubbled forth the laughing
changed, and when next Enas Yorl spoke it was with a rough and gut-
tural tone like that of an experienced soldier. Feltheryn instantly envied
the man his remarkable ability!

"You do not know of me, that much is plain! And I think that I shall
leave it so, for you have made me laugh by your innocence. Soon enough
shall you leam. But then again, your assessment of my situation is not
incorrect. Return to your rest, Feltheryn Thespian, and consider that you

THE POWER OF KINGS               277

have the best of the bargains a man can make: for you change form at
will, and can take off the masks you assume. Now sleep!"

Feltheryn wanted desperately to pursue the conversation and stay in
the presence of Enas Yorl, for at that moment he observed that his inter-
viewer was not only seeming to change his form somewhat under the
robes, but to change his mass as well; and that was a trick he would
dearly love to leam. Playing Roget the Hunchback was one of the greatest
accomplishments of the stage, not because of the powerful emotion of the
role but because of the difficulty of acting while strapped into the elabo-
rate harness that simulated the deformity. He was about to plead his case
for study with Enas Yorl when darkness intervened and he was awaking
in his own bed, his arm thrown protectively over his lady and the morn-
ing sun pouring through the casement.

He moved his hand gently back, so as not to disturb her beauty rest,
then climbed out of bed and dressed quietly.

He was in the small kitchen heating water for tisane when he heard the
door of the theater open and close. That would be Lalo the Limner, come
to paint the next set of flats and the periactois for the auto-da-fe in Act
Three-
There was certainly nothing more impressive in all the world than the
illusion of fire on stage, and nothing harder to accomplish- Feltheryn had
chosen this time to bring about the miracle through the use of periactois
—three-sided columns with different paintings on each side—which
could be revolved. There would also be ragged strips of cloth dyed like
flames which Lempchin could waggle furiously by means of strings de-
scending from the flies. The strings would not be visible, and in the
flickering light of the onstage torches the effect would be terrifying.

The vision so captured Feltheryn's early morning imagination that he
quite forgot the kettle of boiling water and went to get his script and
notebook, adding several details which he thought would improve the
stage picture. He barely noticed when Glisselrand put the pot of tisane
and a clean cup at his elbow, and with it a plate of freshly scrambled
eggs, cheese, sliced bread from the previous day, and a pot of rare red
jelly made from the legendary oranges of Enlibar; of which they had a
dozen left in trade for seating when (hey had played The Steel Skeleton, a
play which many assumed to have been written by an Enlibrite wizard,
and which the Enlibrites would travel fantastic distances to see.

He was roused from his deep reverie and study of the text when an
unfamiliar voice echoed in the theater, followed by Glisselrand's most
opulent tones.

"I only came to bring Lalo his midday meal," a woman's voice said.
"But I confess I did hope to see if it was you. It's been many years, but

UNEASY ALLIANCES

278

how could I forget? While Lalo was working on the painting that won
my hand there was nothing for me to do, so I came to see the play. I had
seen you do a piece before the tent, so I knew it would be good."

"Why yes," said Glisselrand, and her voice held all the charm and
delight that only an actor can know when remembered after twenty

years. "What play was it that we did?"

"TTie Master Poet," said the woman, whom Feltheryn now took to be
Gilla, Lalo's wife. "It was so personal, at that time, for your situation
was much like my own. When I came away I felt as if my whole outlook
on life had changed. People looked so different! I felt so differently!"

Feltheryn smiled to himself. Yes, the plays worked their magic in
strange and subtle ways. And that play was a comedy of love, a comedy
of love between the generations. But even then he had chosen to play the
older man, the lovable shoemaker who could have the young girl, but
who chose wisely to let her love the younger man, the man of her own

generation.

"I am so pleased that you remember my performance," said Glissel-
rand, and Feltheryn knew that it was true. He tried to hark back in his
mind to that distant day, to remember some trace that would lead him
down the path to a sensual recall of time and place, but it was hopeless.
He had done The Master Poet so many times that one performance
blended into another. The sunlight falling on flowers that his mental
search prompted could have been in any of a hundred small towns. The
play was too universal to attach itself to time and place. Only the first
time he had done it was clear in his memory, and then he had not played
the older man, but Dainis, the apprentice who danced and fought . , .

The King recalled him to the page and Glisselrand and Lalo and Gilla
faded into the paint of the periactois like soft music played behind the
potted palms in the Emperor's palace. His hand shot out into the air,
retreated, his lips moved, and anyone watching might have thought him
in the grip of some seizure as he moved in slight indications of the broad

gestures he would use upon the stage.

It was much later when he came to the realization that he was eating
his supper, not his breakfast, and that he had been absorbed for the whole
of the day. He carefully set the script aside, finished the boiled turnip
with butter that was the last of the food on his plate, and washed it down
with the watered wine that Glisselrand had provided. He was not up to
the full strength stuff anymore. Then he stood and stretched his very tall
frame, forcing air back into the stagnant blood. It was,, he considered,

time to visit the Vulgar Unicorn.

Snegelringe and Rounsnouf were already there, drinking at a table in
the company of a handsome young man with shoulder-length glossy

THE POWER OF KINGS               279

black hair, a man dressed far too fine for the likes of this low dive,
Feltheryn observed as he entered unobtrusively and looked over the
place.

And yet, low though the dive was, it was not without merit. He
thought of the many taverns he had entered over the years and the gen-
eral lack of lustre they displayed, and he decided that perhaps Rounsnouf
was right, the place was a treasure house. There was a certain dark color
that crackled with hidden decisions, a subdued excitement that spoke of
desperation. He spied out the barkeep and headed across the room, then
dodged deftly as a scrawny, heavy-lidded man who feigned sleep at one of
the tables tried to trip him without seeming to.

"It would seem that Hakiem does not like you," the big man behind
the bar said.

Feltheryn had assumed his dodge deft enough that nobody would no-
tice the interchange, but that was clearly not the case. The eyes of
thieves, he reminded himself, were trained in much the same techniques
as those of actors, to see and learn what was not always apparent.

"Now why should that be?" he asked, drawing out a small coin and
putting in down.

"He views you as competition, King of Players," said the barkeep. "He
is a storyteller in the streets. What will you drink?"

"Half water, half wine," said Feltheryn. "That is foolish of him, for he
will be able to tell a thousand tales to each play I perform. And the
stories we offer are different."

"Half water?" the barkeep asked, and his look was of the greatest
contempt.

Feltheryn drew himself up tall, taller than the barkeep though not so
broad or strong: taller than anyone in the room, though probably thinner
than anyone as well.

"I am an old man, in case you have not noticed," he said with dignity.
"My body does not move as quickly as it once did, nor do my guts digest
as well. I will pay you as if the whole cup were wine."

That settled the matter and the barkeep gave him what he wanted.

"I will pay for something else as well," he said after he had taken a
drink. "Something within your proper duties but which might be dis-
tasteful without the gold."

"And what is that?" asked the barkeep suspiciously.

"By now you know Rounsnouf, my comedian," Feltheryn said, ges-
turing toward the table where his actors were so engrossed that they had
not noted his entry. "I fear that he knows this place better now than he
ought, at least for the welfare of my plays. I will pay you a fit sum if on

280 UNEASY ALLIANCES

certain nights, when we are to perform, you will forbid him entry until
the play is done."

"And what's to stop him drinking elsewhere?"

"It is not the drink he values in this place, it's the people. I do not
think he will find such a ripe assortment elsewhere in Sanctuary, and if
he knows that he can come here but for play nights, I do not think he will
feel abused."

The barkeep named a price, Feltheryn dickered it down (though it was
within reason) and the bargain was struck.

"But you must tell him what you've done," the barkeep concluded.

"Just so," said Feltheryn, finishing his drink and gesturing for another.

His cup refilled, he made his way across the room, avoiding the table of
Hakiem, and joined the party. Rounsnouf and Snegelringe introduced
him to their new friend, Hort. then they all swapped stories and poems
for a while. Feltheryn did not tell Rounsnouf what he had done until the
next morning, when the little comedian took it in stride.

"Would that the gods," he said in acceptance, "were so steady of will
as a director!"

The final piece of planning involved extra bodies, for The Power of
Kings was a spectacle play and the effect of spectacle was achieved largely
through filling the stage with elegantly clothed people. Feltheryn had
taught many a young actor the importance of a walk-on role by citing the
case of the handmaiden in The Murder of Queen Ranceta, a part which
gave the young woman playing it but a moment on stage but without
which the play could not exist. (It was the handmaiden who delivered the
tray with the fatal flagon of poisoned wine, and without the poisoning
there was no play!) Now the question was where to hire attractive young
women to don the robes of court ladies, and where to hire young men to
wear the garb of court gentlemen.

Feltheryn asked Lalo, who certainly should be able to ferret out beauty
if anyone could, and Lalo asked his wife Gilla, for he was not confident in
the enterprise. Gilla suggested that Feltheryn talk to Myrtis, the propri-
etrix of the Aphrodisia House, with the admonition that the women who
worked there were above average in looks for their trade; and a vote of
confidence in their honesty to their employer. Feltheryn did as Gilla bid
and was delighted to find that Myrtis could not only supply him with
lovely ladies but knew where to hire young men just as pretty and reliable
to wear the beautiful clothes he promised.

It was not long before the theater neared completion, before the sets
were painted and dried, before Glisselrand had brought in seamstresses
to help her finish the arduous task of building the last of the costumes.

THE POWER OF KINGS               281

Actual rehearsals got under way, the piecemeal chunks of the drama
were glued together into scenes, then acts, then the ladies and gentlemen
of the evening were called in (by day, so that they could continue to work
nights until the opening) and the grand sweep of the drama was stitched
in its final glorious pattern.

Feltheryn ceased to sleep much for even after so many years an open-
ing night excited him. He ran lines in his mind constantly, missed, re-ran
them. He worried over the success of his new theater, he worried over the
nuance of each line in the play, he worried over things that a week before
would have flowed by him like mist in the night. He took to dressing in a
shabby cloak and wandering the streets, hunched over so that his height
would not mark him, and listening to the crowds.

Were they talking about the theater? About the play?

If not, something must be done.

He longed for the days when the mere fact that he and Glisselrand
slept together without benefit of marriage was sufficient to titillate the
masses. In those days there had been no difficulty in drawing a crowd.
The pride of the youthful Rankan Empire had filled the streets of Ranke
with pleasure seekers, and the craving of a young empire for respectabil-
ity had made scandal easy,

Scandal in Sanctuary would be hard work, he thought.

The theater was decorated within with banners and garlands of flowers
made of gayly colored silk, and the night before opening they decorated
the outside as welt. It must be a festive occasion, and it was to be such a
novelty in Sanctuary that all kinds of people offered help. Molin came by
and asked that they move virtually everything movable, to make sure it
would work. Myrtis stopped in—at an hour unknown to a woman other
profession—and assured Glisselrand that she and her ladies would be
bringing trays of sweetmeats for opening night. A wagon pulled up and
unloaded several barrels of excellent wine, courtesy of the as yet unseen
prince. It seemed as if nothing could go wrong.

Feltheryn retired that night with only the slightest anxiety, and sank
immediately into a sleep filled with naming vistas, tragic emotions, and
thunderous applause.

The actors slept late the morning of the opening, as was usual. Days of
rehearsal had now to be traded for nights of performance, and the energy
required for such was enormous, particularly of people who had reached
the ages Feltheryn and Glisselrand had. Lempchin brought them break-
fast in bed, a tradition which they indulged despite the cleaning which
the kitchen would require after the boy's attempt at cooking.

Snegelringe came in and Feltheryn complimented him on his perfor-

282 UNEASY ALLIANCES

mance at the dress rehearsal: '*I think you have the role at last," he said.
"The way you walked was perfect! Just the right balance of nobility and
indolence for KareL"

"I was pleased with that myself," said Snegelringe. "Actually, I owe it
totally to Rounsnouf and his fascination with that tavern. I was casting
about for a model and one of his friends, a dark young woman who fights
as a gladiator, told me she could show me a man very much like Karel if
I would attend her. I did, and we rode to a brief hunt. Out on the hills
she pointed out some noble dandy and his guards, and even from the
distance I could see that he was what I wanted for the part."

"Who was he?" Feltheryn asked, sipping at the tea which Lempchin
had made too strong. He much preferred tisane.

"I've no idea," said Snegelringe. "I asked her, but she laughed and said
it were better I did not know, for he was not the kind of man I would
enjoy knowing."

Feltheryn furrowed his brow. It was not likely to be a source of diffi-
culty, but he preferred to know from what hand all the cards in the game
had been dealt.

"Will she be coming to the play?"

"She says she would not miss it for the world; especially once I had
told her Prince Kadakithis and the Beysa would be there in the newly
flocked box. She said she would be bringing several other ladies as well."

"Ah, good," said Feltheryn. "The more nobility the merrier!"

"The house will glitter like Midwinter Festival in Ranke," said Glissel-
rand nostalgically, and Feltheryn detected just the slightest regret in her
voice. It had been good in Ranke with the Emperor's support.

She threw the covers back dramatically and sat up in the bed.

"And /." she announced, "must glitter twice as bright! Lempchin! Go
out to the herbalist and get me a box of henna, my hair is beginning to
show grey!"

That buzzing, casual time before the opening passed, the afternoon
when there was nothing to do but a thousand tiny things that had to wait,
then had to be done. The blue hour came, the stars began to prick the
sky, and Lempchin lit oil lamps on the front of the theater. The inner
doors were closed and the outer doors were opened, and Lempchin pre-
pared to sell admittance.

Feltheryn headed for his dressing room, stage left, and prepared to put
on his makeup. He did not need as much as he once had. Now the job
was to make him seem young enough for the part of the king. Once it had
been a task to make him seem old enough.

He was part way through when he heard the voice of Hort outside his
door, and with it that of Rounsnouf.

THE POWER OF KINGS               283

"But you could wait," Hort said. "He will still be there later!"

"I could, but I won't!" said Rounsnouf, and the voices moved past the
door to Feltheryn's dressing room, toward the back entrance of the the-
ater.

Feltheryn felt a moment of panic, dropped the sponge with which he
had been applying rouge, and leaped to his feet. He hurried out into the
passage, but it was too late. The door was closing and Rounsnouf and the
storyteller were gone!

"Shipri's Dugs!" Feltheryn swore, and his voice carried like Vashanka's
thunder. The door to the dressing room next to his own opened and
Snegelringe looked out, his facing looking oddly pale with only the base
applied, and no eye or lip color.

"Hold the house!" Feltheryn instructed. "Rounsnouf has fled, and I
must chase him!"

"To the Vulgar Unicorn?" Snegelringe inquired.

"If so, I'll have the hide of the barkeep. I paid him to be sure the
curtain was on time!"

He went back into his dressing room, wiped the makeup from his face
with a wet towel, then pulled on a tunic. Just to be sure he would be
taken seriously he added the belt with the King's sword. He threw a
short cloak over the tunic against the chill, then he left the theater. No
matter that the sword was cheap iron, a hand on the hilt was all it usually
took!

He glanced up the alley from the stage door as he went and noted that
people were already arriving. He would have Rounsnouf's skin for this
escapade, and possibly a bit from Hort as well!

He rushed through the gathering darkness, still running lines in his
mind for the second scene of the first act. In a matter of minutes he was
at the Maze, then within it. He was so angry that he barely noticed the
patter of feet that fell in behind him, forced them in fact from his atten-
tion until they speeded up: until it was apparent that they were running
after him, close and with intent.

The skill most necessary to an actor upon the stage is the ability to
adjust rapidly to changing circumstances. If a door sticks one must be
ready to make it appear a part of the play. If a sword sticks in its scab-
bard one must be ready to dodge a choreographed blow and keep the
action flowing while one gets it free. It was not so much self-preservation
as stagecraft that made Feltheryn whirl upon his assailants at the last
moment and slide his sword free, raising it over his shoulder in the
menacing stance of a broadswordsman ready for the downstroke.

The shadows before him skidded to a halt. There were five of them
(poor odds) and he recognized them at once as the pickpockets who had

UNEASY ALLIANCES

284

tried for his purse that first day in the bazaar. Wicked sharp steel glinted
in the scant starlight, definitely better weapons than the fake sword he

wielded.

The tallest one, the boy whom Snegelringe had wounded, gave a laugh.
"King indeed!" came the young voice. "Nothing but an old player!

One with too much gold on his person at that! And this time with no

pudgy sidekick to defend him!"

The youth was right, Feltheryn observed, but his words showed inac-
curate judgment.

"The gold is all spent," he said, keeping his voice carefully level and
below the middle force. "As to the rest: I am old, but not without skills."
"Skills to be tried!" snarled the boy, and they all came at him.
"Die then!" Feltheryn cried, and this time he let forth the full power of
his voice, a voice trained to reach at least the third balcony of the largest
theater in Ranke. And as he spoke (for he did not have to shout to be
heard from one end of the Maze to the other) he brought the iron sword
down with his full strength and speed, straight at his opponent's head.

One knife caught in his cloak as he swirled it with his left hand.
Another thrust between his ribs, under his descending right arm; but its
force was not sufficient to go all the way in, so startled were the thieves
by the force of his voice. Two of the boys jumped back, terrified. The
leader, primed on his pride, managed to avoid the iron blade descending
toward his head, but not quite enough. The edge was not terribly sharp
but it was moving fast enough to break his collarbone where it struck,
even as his blade sliced across Feltheryn's belly, drawing blood but not
managing to gut him.

It was not unlike the fight in Rakesblade, and Feltheryn, barely feeling
the wounds in the excitement of a performance, delivered his lines with
force enough to rattle their teeth:

"Is this your best, you unborn whoreson snakes?
Is magick then your honorless defense?
See too my holy blade I can enchaunt.
So that its light your rude entrapment breaks!"
The fact that they were not using magic against him quite escaped their
attention at that moment, for the sword in Feltheryn's hand began to
glow a bluish white, spilling its weird light into the shadows and illumi-
nating the scene dramatically. They had no idea that the light from the
blade was all there was to the magic of the spell contained in the play.
They only knew that their leader was once more screaming in agony and
that the man before them was much taller than he had seemed a moment
before: that he seemed unharmed by their attack, and that they were not
winning.

THE POWER OF KINGS               285

"Gralis, forget him!" cried one of the boys to their leader, and then
they all bolted, leaving the wounded Gratis to fend for himself.

Feltheryn stepped forward, brandishing the glowing sword at his ago-
nized enemy.

"Go thou into darkness!" he commanded, from later in the same play.
"Take demons now for playmates if you will, and leave forever, these the
lands of lightF

Through the pain in his ruined shoulder the boy heard these words
and, harking back to the terrors that had so recently reigned in Sanctu-
ary, he lost control of his bladder even as he turned and staggered away,
doing his best to run.

Feltheryn stood triumphant, the light blazing from the sword in an
unnaturally quiet and empty street. He watched the horrified and incom-
petent thief disappear into the shadows, then he realized that something
was wrong.

There was no applause!

The light of the sword fizzled out as if it had been doused with a
bucket of winter cold water, and the pain hit Feltheryn where the two
blades had cut him. He shook himself, took a deep breath, then thrust the
stage sword back into its stage scabbard. He felt the wound across his
belly and determined that it was not going to be fatal, then checked the
piercing between his ribs. That was more serious, and would require a
chirurgeon: after the performance.

He turned and headed for the Vulgar Unicorn, his anger returning full
force.

—But he was not prepared for what awaited him when he slammed
open the door and raked the brown darkness with his steel-blue gaze.

Rounsnouf and Hort were two of three sitting at a table engaged in
animated conversation while the barkeep—a barkeep different from the
one Feltheryn had bribed—poured dark beer in their mugs.

The barkeep registered a look not much different from that of any
other man faced with trouble, but it was the third patron at Rounsnouf's
table who captured and held Feltheryn's attention. A daemon! They were
drinking with a gray-skinned, wart-faced, wall-eyed daemon!
"Oh dear," said Rounsnouf. "I believe I've upset my director."
"Lady of Stars!" exclaimed the young storyteller. "You're wounded!"
"Not so much in the flesh as in my heart!" Feltheryn proclaimed, a
quote from the play he should now be ready to begin.

*'I would not have come just now . . ." Rounsnouf said lamely, and he
gestured to the daemon.

"Snapper Jo's fault?" the daemon queried. "Just a little drink with
friends. Very human thing to do!"

286 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"To the Theater!" Feltheryn proclaimed. And if the habitues of the
Vulgar Unicorn had been familiar with the whole corpus of the sacred
plays they would have seen in the fire of his eyes the conjuration of most
ancient deities from the most ancient dramas.

They were not, but nobody argued.

Still, the night's difficulties were unended.

Bandages, ointments to kill the pain, makeup, costume, light calisthen-
ics to fill his blood with air to support his voice; all these were accom-
plished, and the curtain went up. From the wings Feltheryn listened to
the love scene in the garden between Snegelringe and Glisselrand, run-
ning his lines and clearing his mind of all the nonsense that had slowed
him. It was past, after all, and only the play now existed.

The scene drew to a close and the curtain was drawn, then he and
Rounsnouf and Lempchin, with the aid of the roaring boys provided by
Myrtis, pulled the ropes, moved the panels, and in general changed the
scene to that of the King's study. He took his place on the stage, seated at
the King's great desk, and the curtain went up.

Feltheryn came alive.

There was an audience and he could feel it, feel every living being as a
presence, their eyes upon him, their breathing slowed, their minds in-
volved—their emotions guided as they submitted themselves, for the du-
ration, to the magic of the show. He began the monologue in which the
King voiced his doubts, then Glisselrand entered and he began the part
of the play that was his personal favorite, for it said, better than any
words of his own could ever hope to say, what he felt about her:

"How shall I call you then?

Like some great bird, that though she be my slave can yet take wing?

Like some famed horse, that though I hold the reins can race the wind?

I call you love, and hold you in my arms, and yet you overpower me.

I call you wife, and you must call me lord; and yet I worship at your
shrine!"

He ceased to exist as a separate person and became the tragic king, a
man doomed by circumstance to destroy all that he loved in life, rescued
from the ultimate humiliation only by the intervention of supernatural
forces at the end: forces beyond his comprehension.

The scene changed again and the pain hit him, then he launched back
into his performance and it was gone. Only when the first act was com-
plete did he really understand that he was seriously wounded. Instead of
going out to the little secret passage behind the lobby (Molin had in-
cluded it without question) to listen to the public reaction to the play,
Feltheryn stayed in his dressing room, resting for the forceful and terrible

THE POWER OF KINGS               287

interview with the High Priest, preparing for the cold and terrible act of
burning his enemies at the stake, the auto-da-fe that was the play's most
stunning spectacle.

By the end, however, as the story ground to its inevitable conclusion
with the ghostly figure of the King's dead father dragging his grandson
Karel into the tomb, the pain was pushing past all Feltheryn's defenses.
And there was something else, something that had tugged at him increas-
ingly throughout. As the curtain fell and he dropped the character from
him like a discarded robe, he placed it.

There was no applause.

No more applause than there had been in the alley earlier. Instead
there was a curious buzz, something between anger and amusement, par-
taking of both; as if the audience didn't know what to do.

He had felt it, had known with the back of his mind that something
was wrong, but he had been too much at odds with the pain to pay
attention. Now his mind focused on it with a clarity like sunlight on
springwater.

He started to go through the curtains for a bow, .if not to receive
applause then to gauge the danger, but Glisselrand took his arm and
stopped him.

"I think not," she said, and he saw that there were lines in her face
that age had not put there.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't quite know," she replied, "but I think we shall find out. The
Prince and the Beysa have sent word that they are coming backstage.
Let's get to the green room."

They had taken the precaution of providing their own greens for the
opening, so by the time Prince Kadakithis and the Beysa Shupansea
swept in, Feltheryn and Glisselrand were seated behind a desk amidst
baskets of flowers and fruit with potted palms to either side. It had not
been easy to find potted palms in Sanctuary, but they had grown used to
them in Ranke and they felt it would identify them positively with the
capital in its days of glory.

The effort was apparently wasted.

"How dare you'" accused the prince, and Feltheryn instantly knew
what it was that he had dared, though just how and why he did not
know.

Prince Kadakithis was clearly the young nobleman on whom Snegel-
ringe had modeled his walk and manner! It must have appeared that the
whole play was directly aimed at him, a warning or an insult or ...

"Oh look!" said Snegelringe, entering on the arm of a beautiful young

288 UNEASY ALLIANCES

woman and accompanied by several more. "Here's the young man you
pointed out to me! Kind Sir, you cannot know how grateful—"

Snegelringe stopped.

The whole world seemed to stop for a moment as one of the ladies in
the pudgy actor's retinue stepped forward.

"Daphne!" Prince Kadakithis exclaimed.

"My husband!" said Princess Daphne, and the look she gave him could
have frozen the oceans all the way to the Beysa's homeland. "I heard that
you had made a gracious contribution to the evening, so how could I do
less?"

She stepped past him and drew out a small velvet bag which she
dropped on the table in front of Glisselrand with just enough force to
indicate that it contained metal; from the sound of it, gold. Then she
looked back at the prince.

"I hope that you enjoyed the evening as much as I did. For now you
must excuse me. I have an appointment with Master Rounsnouf, the
estimable actor. Then Masters Snegelringe and Rounsnouf and I will be
going to the Vulgar Unicorn. It is amazing how much of Sanctuary I
never used to see!"

She swept from the room, followed by the other women who had come
in with her.

Snegelringe, perceiving that he had been duped, stood motionless while
the full import of his actions crashed down on him. "I . . ." he started,
but then he stopped, clearly unable to formulate an appropriate apology.

The Beysa laughed.

"Master Snegelringe," she said, "your imitation of the prince was most
enlightening. Only less so than the reason for it which we have just had
revealed. But perhaps you might choose another model for the perfor-
mance you will give tomorrow night."

"Unless," said Feltheryn, the plot of the play before him coming clear,
"Your Highness would consent to see it in another light!"

The Prince and the Beysa turned to him and Glisselrand clutched his
hand.

"While it is true," he continued, "that the role of Karel is tragic, it is
also noble. Karel, like His Highness, spends much of his time in a back-
ward land; so much so that he comes to love its people, even to the point
of standing up for them against his father, the King."

A different tension now came into the room, for the relationship be-
tween Prince Kadakithis and his half-brother the late emperor, was well
known.

"If it were spoken in the palace that the Prince was pleased with our
seeing him in such an heroic light, tonight's performance could not be

THE POWER OF KINGS               289

taken as an insult by anyone, no matter how it was instigated. In fact, I
doubt anyone would believe that it was anything but the best compliment
we poor players could offer. More, it is known that Your Highness has
supported our efforts, so it might seem that it was with Your Highness'
compliance that we performed the play thus."

He did not dare say further. The seeds of the idea were planted, it
would be up to them to keep them watered. The magic in the plays was
subtle, but it might be sufficient to transform the image of the Prince
from that of a "kittycat" into that of a tiger.

The Prince and the Beysa looked at one another. The Beysa's snake
slid out of hiding in her sleeve.

Molin Torchholder stalked into the room, his face full of the lightning
of the god he worshipped, but before he could speak the Beysa turned to
Glisselrand.

"Turn out the pouch the Princess Daphne gave you," she instructed.

"Daphne?" echoed Molin, clearly outraged.

Glisselrand did as she was bid and dumped the sizable pile of gold
coins onto the table.

The Beysa eyed the coins, then reached down to her dress and plucked
off several large jewels. Smiling, she placed them on the table next to the
gold.

"I believe your next play should be The Queen of Tarts, "she said with
consummate modesty, considering that the play was accounted too las-
civious to play in many towns. "In case you do not remember, it is the
one about the noblewoman who sells herself in the marketplace. I have
never seen it, but here, far away from home, I believe I can risk it. These
jewels should serve in earnest of the costs."

"Oh, Your Highness," said Glisselrand, looking at the jewels. "We
could not possibly accept such a gracious donation . . ."

—Now what was she saying? Feltheryn wondered; for at that moment
the pain between his ribs began to blot out his thoughts and he was sure
that he must immediately slip from consciousness. The Prince and the
Beysa might be nobility, but opening night was over and he needed a
physician—

"Not unless," Glisselrand continued, "Your Highness would accept a
small token of our thanks."

Feltheryn understood and plunged back to consciousness, but he was
not quick enough. Before he could intervene Glisselrand had pulled out
the object she had been knitting, a multicolored tea cozy that would have
put the S'danzo to shame for its garishness, and she was proffering it
proudly to the Beysa.

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT

Chris Morris

Sunset gilded Sanctuary's domes and spires as Shawme, the new girl at
Myrtis's Aphrodisia House, sat upright in her backroom bed. Fists
clenched, she took deep breaths, shaking off her bad dream.

Her blue eyes wide, she stared hungrily out the window, at the sunset
to which she woke, at the window frame itself, at the whitewashed walls
of her little room. The room was plain by Aphrodisia House standards,
but not by Shawme's. The room had a real window with glass panes; it
had a feather bed and clean sheets; it had a writing desk cum dressing
table on which were such luxuries as pots of body paint and makeup,
kohl and powdered cowrie shell, even a hair brush made from boar bris-
tles, and a bone comb; it had a closet with clothes in it—clean clothes,
free from holes, dresses of fine sheer silk and even a coat to keep out the
spring chill.

It was a room of unimaginable luxury, high above the street, not like
the room in the dream from which Shawme had awakened to flee. In the
dream, she'd been back in her old Ratfall burrow, shared with five other
orphans, fighting over the raw and bony thigh of a dead cat they'd found
in the street. In that dream, the other kids had teased her that all of this
was a dream. They'd been sure there was no room for her in the
Aphrodisia House, no job among the perfumed women of the evening, no
marvelous future unrolling day by day.

In the dream, Shawme had been back in Ratfall where no one had a
future and no one had a past, not a chance or a hope. Except Zip. And
Zip didn't pay any mind to the youngsters. You couldn't matter to Zip

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT              291

until you weren't a kid anymore . . . until the PFLS found a use for
you.

Shawme unballed her clenched fists and rubbed her eyes with her
hands. As the dream's terror fled, joy filled her and crested into exulta-
tion. She was really here! She'd made it out of Ratfall!

So all of this was true and real—the down coverlet she pulled up
against her naked shoulders, the lavender-scented oil lamp ready to light
by her bed as night came on, the beautiful sunset—because even in Sanc-
tuary, the night could be beautiful when you were safe inside the walls of
a fine house instead of lurking cold and vulnerable on the streets.

And it was all real because of Zip. Zip had noticed her, all right, when
she'd come to him with the treasures she'd found on the Downwind
beach. Zip had looked at her with focused eyes for the first time and
Shawme's heart skipped a beat. You couldn't do any better than Zip. Zip
was the fantasy lover of all the young girls in Ratfall and half of Down-
wind. Zip's power could shield you, Zip's connections could get you
anything, even out.

In front of Zip, Shawme had bitten her lip and pretended she wasn't
about to swoon. She had to be grown up and impress the PFLS leader for
her plan to work. The PFLS—Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanc-
tuary—was working with uptowners now. Zip's connections were legend
in the shanty towns. She'd smiled bravely and said, "I found something
—things you'd want. I'll give them, for a price."

And he'd let her show him, let her tell him, what she'd found—a
bronze rod that turned noble metal to dross, an amulet of uncertain
value, a rusted knife whose edge could be coaxed to life. There'd been one
other thing she hadn't shown him, but that was her secret, still.

And the PFLS leader had seemed to be impressed, and said, "What's
your name, girl, and what do you want for these?"

She'd replied, as cool as if she dealt with handsome rebel leaders every
day, "I want out of Ratfall. I want a room in the Aphrodisia House. I
want to be one of Lady Myrtis's girls and meet a noble lord and marry
well." Her chin was high, to show she knew the ways of the world and
the implications of what she was saying. As she spoke, she ran spread
hands down her bodice and over her hips as she'd seen a whore do once,
when she was uptown in the Maze where men could afford to buy a
woman's favors and women sold themselves for money rather than hav-
ing to give themselves for survival.

Zip's eyes had narrowed, his mouth had twitched. He'd stroked his
stubbled chin and gazed ruminatively at the treasures she'd found. Then
finally he looked up from under his black sweatband and said, "That's
what you want, I'll see what I can do. But leave these with me, or

UNEASY ALLIANCES

292

somebody might take them from you and you'll have nothing to trade but

what you started with."

She'd been suddenly uncomfortable under his stare, a different look
than he'd had on him before- It seemed to go right through her clothes
and she thought, terrified for an instant so that she'd begun to shake, he
was going to ask her to demonstrate her expertise, such charms as could
qualify a girl for Myrtis's, the finest house in all of Sanctuary's red-light

district.

If he had asked, all chance of Shawme's escape to luxury and bright
tomorrows would have been dashed on the spot, for Shawme had no idea
what a man like Zip would want from a woman, let alone a professional

woman.

In point of fact, Shawme had no idea what to do with a man, except
run from them and throw whatever you could at them if they got too
close. If you didn't do that and they grabbed you, the next thing you
knew you were battered, bleeding and pregnant.

But it wasn't that way for the uptown women of the Aphrodisia
House, and ever since she'd found that out, Shawme had wanted to go

there.

So when Zip's voice deepened, she was terrified. If he found out she
knew nothing about the job she'd demanded in exchange for the treasures
she had, he'd never help her. And if she ever was to let Zip do what men
did to women, she'd have to know what she was doing. Or else he'd
laugh.

Men always laughed at virgins.

Shawme's virginity was still a problem now, after a week at Myrtis's.
She'd meant to tell Myrtis, when the time was right. But the time had
never been right. Zip had gotten her the interview, and sent her uptown
with an escort. She hadn't returned to Ratfall again, not for the whole
two weeks since then.

She'd been taught to bathe herself, to deal with her moon flow, to
make herself soft and beautiful, to keep from getting pregnant. But she'd
been taught nothing of how to rid herself of the awful curse of virginity.

Or of how to please a man.

All the other girls—older girls, poised girls, wise girls with gold rings
in their ears and gemstones in their noses—assumed she knew her trade.
They were arch and competitive, and their gossip had teeth. If they found
out, she'd be driven from here, back down to Ratfall. Like in her dream.

But no one had found out, and Shawme was going to go downstairs
this evening, for the first time. Tonight, she would be among those in the
great salon, posturing and fanning themselves, luring men upstairs.

Tonight, Shawme would become the woman she was pretending to be.

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT

293

She'd lied about her age, said she was eighteen, when she was years
younger. But no one had noticed. All the other girls were too busy count-
ing conquests. Who came to see you mattered most here. Who came more
than once, who became your regular, who your regular knew and what
kind of gifts he brought you. It was a different world.

And she was on its threshold. Her heart calmed, she stretched in her
bed, watching the sunset slink into dusk, the colors no more beautiful
than the garments the girls downstairs wore. Myrtis had given her the
smallest room, the plainest clothes, the lowest percentage, but only be-
cause Shawme was the new girl.

"Except for Zip, you wouldn't have this bed at all," Myrtis had told
her, not unkindly. "We've got a waiting list down to the White Foal
Bridge. You'll have to make your way here, make friends, develop regu-
lars. Then you'll have your own money, and we'll settle up what I've
advanced you against a piece of your gross."

Shawme hadn't even known what a "piece of your gross" was, until
she'd gotten up yesterday early and snuck out of the house to meet
Merricat at Promise Park.

Merricat was Shawme's only uptown friend, a girl apprenticing at the
Mageguild because of her shadowy, powerful aunt up north. The two
girls had met on the beach one day, and been fast friends ever since.

When they'd met, Merricat had been crying as she beachcombed, and
Shawme had drawn her knife, ready to protect the other girl if she could.
Merricat's tears, it turned out, were tears of unrequited love for Randal,
the powerful mage who served the Stepsons.

So they'd had something in common, both girls unnoticed by the men
of their dreams. Merricat had confided all about Randal, and Shawme
had told of her hopeless love for Zip.

Then together they'd concocted this scheme, that was supposed to
make Zip notice Shawme, come to the Aphrodisia House some day and
sweep her off her feet. "After," Merricat had said wisely, with a nod of
her prim little chin, "you have mastered the womanly arts better than
anyone else. To make Randal love me, I must become a wondrous ad-
ept."

Merricat had given Shawme a spell to hide her virginity yesterday,
given it with a frown: "I'm not very good at this—yet," she'd cautioned.
"So be careful."

Merricat was shorter, rounder, and fairer than Shawme, with a plump
face and button eyes and all the softness of good breeding. Yesterday
when they met, Merricat had had her peregrine, Dika, with her, the gift
her aunt had sent to qualify Merricat for Mageguild apprenticeship in the
first place.

294 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"I trust you/' Shawme had replied, rubbing her tanned arms because
suddenly she didn't.

"Trust Dika, it's his doing. Lightning and thunder, I hope it works."
Merricat was suddenly solemn. She leaned forward on the park bench:

"And you'll tell me, promise. What it's like. Who it is ... everything.
Or I'll curse you. You wouldn't want that."

As long as Dika didn't curse her too, it probably wouldn't hurt worse
than growing up in Ratfall, Shawme thought. Out loud she said, "Of
course, a soon as ... it ... happens, I'll put the lantern in my win-
dow. But won't you know, by magical means?"

Merricat lived in constant fear of being found wanting, of failing in her
apprenticeship. "I should know," she said, her full lower lip beginning to
tremble, "but I probably won't. I'm not good enough, Shawme," she
said, a whine edging her tone. "I'll never—"

"Shush, bitch," said Shawme sharply, and then regretted the gutter
talk up here where words meant different things. Shawme took Mem-
cat's fine, soft hand and squeezed it hard before letting go. "You're better
than you think. Dika knows it. He's not flying away."

Merricat reached up, onto her shoulder to stroke the peregrine who
perched there. The bird cocked its head at Shawme and opened and
closed its beak once as if in agreement.

"He's right, Merricat. Got to go before I miss breakfast."

"And I miss bedcheck. Good luck with Zip."

"Good luck with Randal."

So the two friends had parted, Shawme armed with a root of dried
mandrake on a thong that was supposed to keep her secret safe from
discovery.

Keep it safe, tonight. Tonight she would lie abed with her first man.
She rubbed her tawny arms, stroking the fine sun-paled hair on them. She
hoped he would be beautiful, bold and not too old. She wanted him to be
just like Zip, with a full head of hair and a lithe young body, with high
cheekbones and the fire of revolution in his eyes . - -

But he could as easily be a fat, greasy-lipped merchant from the Street
of Weavers, or a drover from Caravan Square. There were no gods left
alive in the part of Ratfall that had spawned Shawme from the chance
meeting of an Ilsig matron and a soldier who, from Shawme's blue eyes,
was probably Rankan.

No gods to pray to, but prayers aplenty. Shawme closed her eyes and
chanted. "Red light, love light, first light I see tonight. Wish I may, wish
I might, have the boy I love tonight."

Quick as a spooked cat, she opened her eyes and there, out the win-
dow, she saw the first lights flare along the town's skyline. Against the

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT              295

torpid blue of early evening, they seemed like an omen. Zip would come,
she was sure of it. Come to make sure that Shawme had a customer on
her first night at Myrtis's. Come to make a woman of her.

Sliding out from under her coverlet, she clutched the mandrake root
around her neck on its thong. Thanks be to Merricat's magic, everything
would be all right . . . //she could just decide whether to wear her blue
dress, or her red one.

For a girl who'd never before owned even one dress, but only cast-off
shirts and trousers, beggar's rags, choosing between two new and filmy
dresses with low cut bodices and gilded laces was no small challenge.
When she'd donned the blue one and was padding down the Aphrodisia
House's stairs, male laughter was already rising over the raucous strains
of music from the downstairs saloon.

And tucked beneath that dress, tightly bound with a scarf to her thigh,
was the other thing she'd found on the beach that night, the weapon she
hadn't shown to Zip, the weird artifact from the sea that Merricat had
squinted at, frowned over, and told Shawme that she'd better keep.

The guard was changing in Sanctuary, and nowhere were the winds of
chaos more keenly felt than in the Mageguild.

Even Merricat, who hadn't been an apprentice very long before pillars
of fire uptown had signalled the coming of the New Era, knew that. She
could see it in the faces of the adepts, in the hunched shoulders of the
handsome, mysterious and nameless First Hazard.

She could feel it in her classroom sessions when a real mage was teach-
ing, as Randal was this evening. Usually, when Randal taught the gath-
ered apprentices, Merricat found herself daydreaming. She'd watch
Randal's freckled face and envision it gazing fondly on her in some se-
cluded bower to which he'd whisked her for private lessons. She'd stare
at his prodigious ears and taste what it would be like to nibble them.
She'd meditate on the strong arms of the warrior-mage in his adept's
robes and wonder what it would be like to feel them around her.

But not tonight. Tonight even Randal—who always made Merricat
feel calm and safe and less afraid of being exposed as an untalented
imposter among the students—even Randal seemed tense and wan.

The lesson was in progress, though, and Merricat tried hard to concen-
trate.

". . . go to your trances, and then we'll start adventuring up among
the planes. On each plane we visit, you'll have time to look around, meet
denizens. When you meet a denizen, be sure to remember its name. The
eventual object of this lesson," Randal said in a sharp voice that forced
Merricat's attention away from daydreams, away from schemes to get

296 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Randal alone on pretext of discussing Shawme's plight, away from every-
thing . . .

". . . the object is, eventually, to reach the twelfth plane, where you
will encounter a spirit guide, a connection to help you negotiate among
netherworld powers. This is magic of the most potent sort, magic of the
kind that will stay with you lifelong and determine even your afterlife. It
has nothing to do with mundane spells failing, with irate harridans com-
plaining about inefficacious love potions—"

The score of students tittered.

Randal continued. "This is profound business. Some of you will make
this journey slowly, in stages. Some will only partly complete it during
this term. But to be truly an adept, you must in your lifetime journey to
the twelfth plane, conquer all that stands in your way to do so, and there
meet your guide face to face. Your guide is your representative where feet
cannot tread. It is privy to knowledge you otherwise cannot tap, to power
you'll never wield on your own."

A hush fell over the students. Randal's voice had deepened even fur-
ther. In his fighter's tunic and dark pants, he was the picture of a field
mage, so much more suited to this lesson than some soft adept in a
festooned robe of power. When Randal leaned forward, his neck out-
thrust, his eyes raking their ranks, no one even shifted in surprise at the
words he spoke next.

"Class," Randal said in a suddenly softened voice that signalled his
most intense concern for their welfare. "This is a lesson not without its
dangers. Afterwards, there will be no teasing among you, no bravado
from those who proceed faster toward those who go slowly. All of you
are about to risk your sanity and mortal persons among the planes. Go
cautiously, go with determination, and go with my blessing." He straight-
ened up.

A murmur ran through the students.

When it subsided, Randal said, "And now, if you'll all put your feet
flat on the floor, hands flat on your thighs, I'm going to guide your
trances."

As Randal ran through the relaxation litany, Merricat let his voice be
her beacon. When he instructed her right hand to rise, of its own accord,
from her lap and hover before her face, it seemed that her hand was
indeed weightless. And when he told her to open her eyes and behold the
manna of her person, she was unsurprised to see a green nimbus sur-
rounding her fingers, to see the bones beneath the skin, and to see blue
lightning spurting from her fingertips.

When she was instructed to close her eyes again, they closed without
her volition. When she was told that her hand would now fall to her

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT               297

thigh and when it did, she would open her eyes and see the first plane
around her, she was not afraid.

Until her hand hit her thigh. Then Merricat was plunged into vertigo
and if she could, she would have grabbed onto her chair. But she could
not. Her body was under RandaFs control, not her own. When the snap
of his fingers caused her eyes to open, she beheld a landscape wind-
whipped and strange, stretching forever in all directions, where hills had
crests like frozen waves and trees were perfect spheres. Beneath those
trees were others and she knew (without knowing how she knew) that
some of those others were her fellow students.

She knew because she was under one such tree and beside her were
creatures part human, part not. One creature came toward her in wide
strides, staring at her through one burning round eye, cocking the head
of a falcon and saying through the beak of a bird: "Welcome, Merricat, to
the first plane. What is it you seek here?"

"Knowledge," said Merricat as she'd been coached in RandaFs lesson.
"Friends. Power of mind.'*

The beak of the bird grew large and from it came the words, "There
are no friends for you on the first plane, as there are no friends for you at
Aphrodisia House. You must seek higher. Here, as there, you will find
only tools."

"Give me one, then," she heard her own voice say, and was appalled at
her temerity,

The bird head nodded and the bird beak came close.

She wanted to shy away from the sharp beak but she could not. Her
palm extended and the beak neared the soft offering of her flesh. And into
her palm it dropped an insect, like a wasp. The insect tickled her palm
and on her flesh, with many legs, it danced. And as it danced, a wasp's
nest came into being and into it, the wasp soon crawled.

Then Merricat's hand became very heavy and the next thing she knew,
it had fallen to her lap, for Randal's voice was saying, "•• . . at the count
of three, your spirit will return to your body and your eyes will open and
you will be in your seat beside your fellow students."

It was as if the adept spoke only to her. She listened only to his voice as
again dizziness overcame her. She was flying through clouds of many
colors, among ancient seas, and farther.

When she found her body, she felt absolutely sucked into it and her
spirit came to rest in its prison with a thud that was her hand hitting her
thigh.

Her eyes opened. She blinked. The students around her were all pale-
faced, white-lipped, and silent. No one looked at anyone else. But Merri-
cat looked at her hand on her thigh.

298 UNEASY ALLIANCES

In the palm of her hand was a red blotch about the size of the small
wasp's nest. The hair rose all over her body. Surely this must mean
something, or else she'd done it all wrong . . , What connection could
the first plane have to Shawme's plight and the thing she'd told her friend
to keep secret?

She was shaking, trembling all over. Her skin was blotchy, red and
fishy white.

She didn't hear the rest of the lesson, she just heard Randal's voice, the
only comfort in her universe which now was no comfort at all.

She had to tell the adept what she'd done, how she'd failed, and find
out what the omen meant. She had to.

When the class filed out, her throat constricted: what if Randal left
before the last of the students were gone? She couldn't chase him down
the halls, or sortie to his private chamber where real magic was always
under way. She just couldn't.

But Randal was surrounded by other questioners, excited voices asking
about what they'd seen on the first plane. Merricat waited until all but
two of them were gone and then walked slowly up the row toward the
front of the study hall.

As she did, she felt the mage's eyes on her. And met them to see
concern there, and recognition.

For what she was sure was the first time, Randal had noticed her—not
just because she was giving a dinner menu to the First Hazard and he
happened to be in the room, either. But noticed her with his whole
attention.

If she hadn't been so frightened, she'd have blushed red as a beet. As it
was, her gait stiffened and her steps slowed.

Then Merricat stopped. She held back, watching, miserable. She didn't
have the courage to walk brassily up to the mage, who was pestered with
unending questions from other students. No matter the meaning of the
omen, she'd go to Shawme by herself. They'd figure it out together. She
couldn't, just couldn't, bother Randal with her insignificant problems,
not when the whole Mageguild was reeling from the magical recession
taking place in Sanctuary; not while teaching a new generation must
seem so futile . . .

Randal winked at her. Her hand flew to her mouth. She must have
imagined it. Two students were much closer than she, prattling away.
She clutched her tablet, on which she'd taken not a single note tonight, to
her bosom.

He winked again, and she heard him say to the two fawning appren-
tices, "You two compare experiences, it will do you both good. Right
now, I have an appointment with this young lady, whom I can't keep

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT              299

waiting any longer. Go practice first plane access. Tomorrow we do the
second plane. Go on, now."

Both students looked over their shoulders at her with resentful, jealous
eyes that changed visibly when they saw what "young lady" Randal
meant. She glimpsed surprise and a new respect and something nastier in
their backward glances as they left, whispering together.

With their passing, she and Randal were alone. She drew back a step.
He didn't follow but stood unmoving, hands hooked in his fighter's belt,
a slow smile on his freckled face.

He was so bold, so handsome, so brave. He was the Stepsons' chosen
mage, a fighting magician who'd battled in the Wizard Wars. He was the
most romantic single figure in the beleaguered Sanctuary Mageguild and
Merricat wished miserably that she could disappear, sink through the
floorboards, and be gone.

What did he care of her troubles, her doubts, her questions? She
wished Dika was here, a comforting weight on her shoulder. Sometimes
Dika seemed to speak for her, lend her courage. Butnot tonight. Falcons
weren't welcome in Mageguild study halls.

Neither was she. It was obvious that the keen eyes of Randal were
reading her soul. She trembled, went up on tiptoes, and eyed the doors
through which the others had gone. Still time to run.

"Well, Merricat, how was your trip to the first plane?" said Randal
gently as at last he came toward her.

He knew her name! She could hardly believe it. She said hastily, "Well,
it's fine, there was a blird who spook weirds to me, and round trees."
Damned and tongue-tied, she wanted to die. She closed her eyes-

And heard a voice so close she nearly fainted, "I saw something or
other of that, I must admit. Would you like to talk about it over a drink?"
and felt the mage touch her arm lightly, oh so lightly.

Saw something? What a mage he was! Talk about it over a drink? She
took deep breaths and opened her eyes and said fervently, "Oh yes you,
bless!" And, mortified, put her hand to her mouth again. If she could just
calm down, her words wouldn't get scrambled. Blird who spooked weirds.
She cringed inwardly.

The mage's fingers covered hers and drew her hand away from her
lips. Then he was examining her palm, where the wasp nest's mark still
could be seen.

When he looked up, his brow was furrowed. "What's here means more
to me than you'd understand. It would be a favor if you'd share your
experience with me, and anything else that might be relevant that's hap-
pened to you lately. Wasps and I have a ... special understanding."

300 UNEASY ALLIANCES

The hand that wasn't holding Merricat's went to his waist, where a
wavy sword, short and foreign-looking, hung in a tooled scabbard.

Miserably, afraid to trust her traitorous voice, Merricat nodded. How
to tell him about it all? About the wasp on the first plane, and the weapon
her friend Shawme had found, that silver tube that shot tiny wasplike
pieces of metal when you blew through it—the weapon Merricat was
certain that Dika had wanted Shawme to keep?

In fact, how to tell Randal anything at all, with her tongue tied in
knots and her heart pounding? How indeed, while she was sure to the
very depths of her soul that she'd done something wrong in helping
Shawme, and in coming to the Mageguild, and in falling hopelessly in
love with the famed and fearsome mage Randal in the first place?

Shawme was trembling uncontrollably and afraid someone would no-
tice her, making herself small in a comer among the other girls in Myr-
tis's saloon.

And someone had. One of the musicians, a percussionist who pounded
drums and shook bells and crashed cymbals, kept watching her as he
played.

The attention of the musician made things worse. As did every man
who came ducking in through Myrtis's beaded curtains, who stalked
around the room, drink and smoke in hand, and touched this girl or that
before making up his mind and escorting his chosen up the back stairs to
the girl's room.

Worse, because none of them so much as ogled Shawme. She might as
well have stayed upstairs. Worse too, because if a man did approach her,
she was sure she'd break and run- Unless, of course, that man was Zip.

After a while she closed her eyes, secure in her comer with stout red-
frescoed walls against her back, certain she'd get through this whole
night unnoticed. As much trouble as that might cause with Myrtis, she
knew she could handle that. Other girls must have failed to make con-
quests on their first night here. Most of those who'd gone upstairs al-
ready, went with men they obviously knew quite well, men who took
them boldly in strong arms and crushed silken bodies against armored
chests with no preamble.

Shawme didn't know anyone like those soldiers, any more than she
knew the sort of brocaded nobles who came in groups of twos and threes,
smelling of perfume like the women, and gathered up giggling ladies by
the armload.

The only man who noticed her was the musician, a youngster with
barely a beard and naked, sweaty arms. Her son. From undistinguished
beginnings Eking out a living among his betters and here to please. The

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT             301

more he watched her, the more Shawme felt a kinship. She began won-
dering if, when his music was done, the youth would come toward her.

But it didn't work out that way.

She was studying the frescoes in the saloon through a growing fog of
smoke, finally realizing how instructive they were to an ignorant girl. On
them men were portrayed doing what she'd seen dogs do in the street.
And women knelt before them, doing mysterious things that involved
kissing. Shawme was trying to guess at what that would be like, feeling
her mouth grow dry and her heart pound as each successive man took
someone else and the crowd of women thinned while she tried not to
notice and prayed that Myrtis wouldn't come down tonight to find
Shawme the only unclaimed girl, the only one who hadn't made a cop-
per's worth of profit for the house . . .

So she didn't notice the newcomers until the beaded curtain rattled,
and then she quickly lowered her eyes.

Three men had come in together, laughing, arm in arm, with a fourth
behind them, taciturn. The three were military men, highly ranked since
they'd been allowed to wear their weapons in here. The fourth was armed
as well, and unsmiling. His glance caught hers before she looked away.

In front of Shawme's corner was a couch on which three older girls
reclined, each showing thigh or bare perfumed shoulder or a hint of rosy
breast. The three jolly soldiers, unmistakably a little drunk, came their
way. The tallest one was blond with braids in his hair and a goblet in his
hand.

He stared directly at Shawme for three heartbeats, and on the fourth
her heart threatened to stop entirely. That look was a look of recognition,
but she couldn't remember ever meeting such a soldier. She was sure he
was coming for her.

She shrank back in the corner, trying to push her way through the
frescoed walls; trying to get breath into her lungs, enough breath for
flight if he held out a hand to her as she'd seen men do here.

She would run right past him, duck under his arm and fly out through
the curtained doorway, into the street, back to Ratfall. She'd run and run
until her heart burst.

But the blond man looked away then, at the girls on the couch between
Shawme and his soldier friends, and held out a hand to one of them, who
squealed, "Oh, Walegrin, you're looking fit tonight," and giggled.

In relief, Shawme squeezed her eyes shut. In that solitary darkness, her
relief was eaten up by chagrin. Then came embarrassment and mortifica-
tion, shame and despair. No man was going to choose her. She was going
to fail. All the other girls would laugh at her.

She thought to herself, Perhaps it's the mandrake. Perhaps it's ugly.

302 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Perhaps it's working too well and keeping the men away So she reached
up behind her neck, eyes still shut, and undid the thong that held it there

When the thong came undone, she opened her eyes and surreptitiously
pulled the mandrake from between her breasts, hiding it behind her,
under the cushions of the bench against the wall

When she straightened up, a shadow fell on her She looked up And
up Standing directly in front of her was the fourth man, the one who'd
come in alone.

She thought wildly. He's not here for me, he's going to ask one of the
girls on the couch. But all of them were gone While she'd had her eyes
shut, they'd left with the blond soldier and his friends

There was no one else in this comer, darkened by the big man's
shadow, but Shawme She craned her neck, unable to nse as a girl
should, her knees like water

He seemed gigantic, all dark cloth and leather She looked up past his
weapons belt at eye level, and could hardly see his face, just the dark
shadow of new beard and a hand that came suddenly toward her.

"Young lady," his deep voice said, "what's your name9"

"Sh-Shawme," she quavered and hated herself His hand was waiting
Somehow, she lifted hers. Then, with his help, she was standing

"Your room, if you please," said the voice and still she had no clear
impression of his face Her gaze was level with his broad chest, and his
eyes beat down on her with such fire in them—as only those of Dika the
peregnne had ever done before

Too late to run, the deed all but done, she remembered her training
"A dnnk, kind sir, or something stronger9" Drugs were purveyed at
Myrtis's—drugs to embolden, drugs to give stamina, drugs to make up
for whatever needed making up for, so Myrtis had told her

"I'm known as Shepherd, little lamb," he said and she knew from that
he wanted no dnnk or anything at all but her

At the last minute, while his hand inexorably drew her from the corner
toward the stairs, she remembered the charm that Merncat had given
her, her mandrake root, without which this man was soon going to know
she was a virgin.

Anguished, she halted, their arms stretched out between them, without
the strength to pull away His big head turned questioningly and she saw
his profile for the first time a grown man's profile, hard and seasoned, a
bold nose and lips trying hard not to laugh above a stubbled chin This
was a stark man, a man from whom you ran on the streets because such
men took what they wanted There was no fooling such a man as he

"I—I forgot something, left something on the bench "

"You don't need that, not with me," he said with such authority that

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT               303

Shawme could do nothing but obey the pressure of his tug, which pulled
her in and under the circle of his arm

Up the stairs they went the big man's right arm crooked around her
neck, her right hand pressed against her collarbone by his grip, his fingers
against her throat She hadn't remembered the stairs being so many, or
the trek to her backroom bed so long His breath in her hair was hot and
the things he said were a matter of tone, not words

The tone said. You're mine, I'm in control Relax and you'll be fine.
The words said whatever Shepherd thought she should hear, but she
heard only an end to her childhood in them

It didn't matter what the words were, it didn't matter that she took
moisture from his lips to wet her own It didn't matter that he wasn't
Zip, even It only mattered that she not fail, that he not be angry when
her virgin blood was spilled, when her lack of expertise was on display

When they got to her room, Shepherd wanted no help with his leathers
or his weapons Help with his boots was something any fool could give
And then he helped her, wordless and with a strange look on a face that
seemed unaccustomed to humor or kindness but displayed both in red-
brown, fiery eyes, eyes so much like Dika's

When it became clear to him that she was unworthy of the job she
held, ignorant and ill-prepared, an imposter, she was sure he'd leave her,
go straight to Myrtis and complain. But he did none of those

He treated her like fragile glass, like the musicians below m the saloon
treated their instruments And soon enough she was learning, under his
hands, why the other girls went to work smiling each evening.

She learned enough so that, when the moment came for her skirts to
come off, she was forgetful of everything what he must soon find out,
how disappointment and disgust would oversweep him, even of what
form his wrath might take.

And then it happened Shepherd sat back on her bed, his diaphragm
with its line of dark hair quivering, and said, "Take that off" His voice
was very harsh "Put it on the table Now'"

"It9" She was breathless, her voice a fear-constncted squeak How
could she take off her virginity9 How could he even see it9 He'd just this
moment glimpsed her unclothed form

Then she followed the big man's pointing finger, and relief flooded her
The silver tube was what he meant The sea-gift, the one Memcat had
advised her to keep "This9" she said with fake aplomb. "I always wear
it"

"Not with me, you don't." He rose up, off the bed, and she saw his
body start to change Chest heaving, she blurted, "Please, don't go I'll
take it off"

304 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Hands on hips, he waited until she had. Then he took her in his arms
and, his lips against her breast, said, "The rest of it, I can handle. Just

trust me, lamb."

And somehow, she whispered to him, "But I don't know . . . I've
never ... I don't have anything to offer you, no tricks, no skill—"

"You have something none of those others could offer, lamb," he re-
plied in a rumble that made her legs weak. "Something only you can
give. And for it, I'm going to give you a lesson in love as has never been
taught in Sanctuary."

And then she knew that Shepherd knew, somehow, and that he wasn't
going to be angry no matter if she bled all night. What she didn't know,
until he tapped her on the mouth with a reddened finger, was that it
didn't have to hurt to become a woman.

Anymore than she'd known anything about the joys of womanhood
that lay beyond her body's barrier, all of which the man called Shepherd
showed her before, while she dozed, he slipped away, leaving a piece of
gold upon her pillow.

"Wake up, wake up!" said Merricat, shaking Shawme's shoulder. Be-
hind Merricat, Randal hovered in the doorway, with Myrtis beside her.
And Myrtis was wringing her veiny hands, saying, ", . . this is highly
irregular, mage, and the least you can do for me, since I allowed it, is
make our weather-control spell your first priority."

"Later, Madame," said Randal. "Now leave us, if you please."

Shawme was rubbing her eyes and stretching widely, still unaware that
there was a man in the open doorway behind Merricat.

"Merri!" Shawme smiled with delight. "What are you doing here?
Never mind, I've got so much to tell—" Shawme saw Randal and
stopped speaking. She pulled her coverlet up around her neck and
hunched in her bed.

"Shawme, this is important," Merricat said quickly in a low voice.
"That's Randal the mage. He wants to talk to you. About thai." Merricat
pointed to the silver tube on the table beside Shawme's bed.

"That?" Puzzlement crossed Shawme's face. "It doesn't matter. Thank
you for the mandrake, Merricat. Thank Dika. I had the most wonder-
ful—"

Randal crossed the room in quick strides. "Pardon the intrusion, miss,
but did you—?" Randal stopped and looked at Merricat imploringly.

"Shawme," Merricat demanded, leaning over the other girl stiff-armed
and reaching for something glinting gold on the pillow with her other
hand. "Does this mean what I think?" She fingered the gold soldat.

"Oh, yes, and it was wonderful! I can't tell you how wond—"

RED LIGHT, LOVE LIGHT

305

Merricat's face fell; she blinked back tears. If it hadn't happened yet,
Randal had promised that he'd sponsor Shawme for Mageguild appren-
ticeship, to get her out of Aphrodisia House. Now . . . Merricat turned
an imploring face to Randal. "Too late," she whispered.

"I thought it might be," said Randal, and Merricat saw Shawme's eyes
dart from face to face as the others spoke. "Shawme, if you will cede this
instrument," he ignored the coin that Merricat held, and tapped the table
on which the silver tube rested, "to the Mageguild, you'll have my undy-
ing gratitude, enough money to move out of here into your own house,
and favors to be claimed from Merricat and myself whenever you need
them- Such favors as a mage can grant."

"What? Why? I—"

Merricat sat back, beaming now, looking fondly upon her friend, who
was saved after all by the fine auspices of Randal, the most wonderful
mage who ever lived.

Randal replied, "It's too long to explain. I have an affinity for wasps,
let's say. So does Merricat. This washed up on the beach, I was told?"
The mage stood over her, beginning to voice his questions.

Shawme nodded and answered every one, while Merricat held her
friend's hand, until Randal asked, "And will you tell me who you went
with tonight? Who came up here with you, and what happened then?"

Shawme's jaw set. Her eyes seemed to go cold. She said, "You want the
pea-shooter, take it. My client didn't like it anyway."

"And your client . . . ?" Randal blushed and Merricat thrilled with
love. "Did he, ah, was there blood spilled here tonight?" Randal pressed.

"What is this?" Shawme demanded, bolt upright now. "You told him,
Merricat! How could you? It was our secret. Get out of—"

"Shawme, I had to; it's important. Did it happen, the spilling of
blood?" Merricat's grip tightened on Shawme as the other girl tried to
shake it off.

"Of course it did, and it was wonderful!" Shawme's anger blazed.
"Now get out of here, Merricat. I'm never going to forgive you for this.
My business, bitch, is with this here mage, not the lies of you."

Merricat stood up uncertainly, head hanging. Randal put a comforting
hand on her arm, a reassuring touch that told Merricat she'd done the
right thing, no matter what Shawme thought.

Randal stepped forward then, saying to both girls, "Shawme, Merricat,
friends are too few to fall out over something like this. Shawme, Merricat
was brave and tireless in your behalf- Merricat, your friend needs your
understanding. Blood shed in this way, right now in Sanctuary, is impor-
tant. All of what I've promised you, Shawme, is still yours—money,
favors for the asking—even if you won't answer me. But as a favor to me,

306 UNEASY ALLIANCES

we need to know if the man who gave you this coin is anyone we know,
whether he's friendly or inimical to us."

Shawme blinked like a startled alleycat. Merricat was afraid her friend
would ask Randal just who the mage meant by "we," but Shawme didn't.

She didn't say anything at all. She threw back the coverlet hiding her
nakedness and vaulted from the bed. There, on the linen, was proof of the
act, and of Shawme's boldness.

Merricat's friend reached languorously for her robe, head high, a
proud look on her face. And Merricat was beginning to think it must
have been Zip who'd come to Shawme and made her a woman when the
Ratfall girl said, "He calls himself the Shepherd, or something like that,"
and, shrugging into her robe, snatched the gold coin from Merricat's
fingers. "He gave me this, and more." Her eyes burned.

Merricat got up from the bed and backed right into Randal, her own
body feeling wooden and numb. Peering into the mage's face desperately,
Merricat strove for comfort and found none.

Randal shook his head infinitesimally as Shawme flounced by, an-
nouncing her intention of "going back downstairs, where there's food
and drink for celebration."

Left alone in the courtesan's room. Randal said only, "Shepherd, by
the Writ." He sighed deeply. "The only good in this came from you,
Merricat. And will have to come from you, henceforth. You must help
your friend, even if she doesn't understand anything about why you're
doing it. And you'll need all your powers, as well as my help. Are you up
to it?"

Powers. Merricat had no powers, but Randal did. And Shawme
needed her. The blood spilled tonight was spilled in sacrifice, an Ilsigi rite
that Shawme hadn't understood, but was now inextricably bound up in.
And in a way, it was all Merricat's fault.

She saw Randal pick up the silver tube and fondle it, then look back at
her and offer his arm.

She'd done something right. "Of course I'll help Shawme. Even if I
didn't want to, an apprentice always obeys the Adept who is her instruc-
tor. Have no fear, dear Mage. I shall do whatever you say."

And she took Randal's offered arm and let him escort her out of the
Aphrodisia House and back to the Mageguild, where she belonged.

A STICKY BUSINESS

C S. Williams

The Serpentine is a partially cobbled street that zigzags its way like a
snake through the Maze. At one end stands the sleaziest, skungiest, most
disreputable dive in all of Sanctuary: Sly's Place. Since Sly's death several
years ago no one knows who owns the place, but it is run by a huge man
in a mailed vest. His name is Ahdio. His origin is questionable, but in this
neighborhood so is everyone else's,

To the right of Sly's Place is a dark, narrow, dirty, uninviting lane
known as Odd Dirt's Dodge. Nobody lives there, or will admit they do.
The wider street to the left of Sly's is the Street of Tanners. The stench
there on a hot day can make even a Downwinder nauseous.

Three blocks down Tanners is the location of Zandulas's Tannery.
Zandulas is a friendly enough fellow, if he would ever bathe.

Zandulas's supplies Chollandar's Glue Shop next door. The proprietor,
called Cholly by his friends, makes the finest glues and pastes in town. He
uses only the best ingredients: tree sap, inedible fish, hooves and unusable
hides, flour, acids and other compounds from the chemists, and people.

Each night in Thieves' World people meet violent ends. Some die by
accident, others by "accident," others by design. Most are left where they
lie or dropped in some dark alley. Many of them have led useless lives
and belong to a social class deemed worthless. No matter what his life
had been, in death no man is worthless to the gluemaker. Under license
from the Governor he and an apprentice go out with a wagon every
morning and pick up the remains from the previous night's mayhem as a
social service. Cholly will not, however, pick up a corpse that has appar-
ently died of disease. Those he leaves for the Charnel House wagon.

308 UNEASY ALLIANCES

For a substantial fee he also makes house calls.

The bodies are stripped and dismembered and the goods sorted. Scalps
go to a wigmaker, clothes and leather goods and weapons to used goods
dealers in those items, gold teeth and jewelry to jewelers. The rendered
tallow is ladled off and sold to a soapmaker. The bones are dried and
used to help fuel the fires under the great iron pots. Yet all these are
bonuses, for the primary product is glue. Nothing is ever wasted at Chol-
landar's.

Cholly awoke from an elbow nudged into his amply padded ribs. He
grumbled and rolled over, snuggling deeper beneath the woolen blanket.
The elbow returned with greater force.

"Get up. It's time you left for work."

"Yes, Pet," he groaned.

A small tortoise-shell calico named Crumpet was sitting on his hip,
purring loudly. She was a smearing of orange and black with a white
chin, feet, and belly. The gluemaker often called her—lovingly—the ugli-
est cat in Sanctuary. He picked her up and gently placed her at the foot
of the bed before crawling out from beneath the covers-
He pulled on a faded black tunic and belted it with his weapons belt.
On the belt were a dagger, an Ilbarsi knife, and the axe he used for
dismembering corpses and chopping firewood. Onto bare legs he drew
soft-soled knee boots. A knife was sheathed in the top of the right one.
Finally he wriggled into his vest, heavy leather covered with iron rings,
and slid his wax-boiled vambraces onto his forearms. He did all of this in
the dark so Ineedra could go back to sleep. He kissed her and went
downstairs to the kitchen.

"Oh, all right, nuisance," he gently chided the cat nibbing against his
leg and purring. "You know, most cats have to find their own food.'*

He fed the puss some chopped meat and fixed himself a thick slice of
hard sausage and a wedge of cheese between two pieces of black bread.
He washed it down with watered wine. Crumpet finished eating before he
did and began preening herself, ignoring him with that aloofness only
felines are capable of.

It was a miserable morning. Usually Cholly took his time to walk to
the shop, but not in this downpour. The cobblestones were slippery and
unpaved streets were slimy bogs. Twice he had to backtrack and take a
different street. At least his greased boots and oilcloth cloak kept him
relatively dry.

He opened the big brass lock and replaced the key in his pouch. The
front portion of the shop consisted of row upon row of shelves full of clay
jars, each jar marked with a symbol that told him what compound the

A STICKY BUSINESS                  309

pot contained. At the rear, in front of a curtained doorway, stood a large
wooden counter.

He slapped his hand onto the counter and was answered by a yelp.
"Aram, get up. It's time to get started. Go wake up Sambar."

A tall, lanky youth of perhaps sixteen years crawled sleepily out from
beneath the counter, yawning widely. He stood and stretched, scratched,
and ran one hand through a shaggy mop of blond curls.

"Morning, master," he yawned.

Aram went through the curtained doorway and crossed the brick floor
of the rendering room with its four huge iron pots, firewood and dry
bones in the rack, and shelves and bins of ingredients. On one side was a
butcher's beam and a water pump. A second curtained door, wider than
the first, opened onto the stable.

Enkidu and Eshi, two grays with hooves the size of dinner plates, were
in their stalls. In one comer of Enkidu's stall a pudgy boy witli olive skin
snored beneath a coarse wool blanket-

"Get up, Lazybones. Old Baldpate's here. Rise and shine," Aram an-
nounced, giving the fourteen-year-old a kick.

"Already?" Sambar stood and shook the straw from his blanket, folded
it, and hung it across the stall divider. Satisfied, he brushed the straw
from his tunic and began picking pieces from his blue-black straight hair.

By the time the boys had had a bite of bread and cheese and gotten the
horses harnessed, the rising sun had barely lightened the tenebrous
clouds to putrescent gray. Thunder rumbled like an empty barrel rolling
down a cobbled street. Instead of forked streaks, lightning flashed in
weak patches scattered randomly on the face of the thunderhead. The
White Foal would overflow again and uncover the trench graves of the
unnamed flood and fire victims.

Rain cascaded off their oilskins in icy torrents. Enkidu was prancing,
ignoring the weather and enjoying his work. Eshi sulked, wanting to
return to her nice warm dry stable. Aram was walking ahead because
visibility was so poor. They had just turned onto Odd Birt's Dodge.

"I see one, back of Sly's."

Gray water splashed at every step of Aram's greased buskins.

"Father Us' beard! He's still bleeding!"

"Can we help him? Is he still alive?"

"No, Cholly. His head's nearly cut off."

"Do you see anybody? The killer may still be around close."

Aram drew his dagger. Cholly climbed down from the driver's seat
and unsheathed the Ilbarsi long knife. There was no one to be found. The
door to Sly's Place was securely barred and a search of the area revealed
no one hiding. No one had gone past them-

310 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"I don't understand. It would take a magician to get out of here with-
out us seeing him," Aram said.

"Anything is possible," Cholly replied.

Aram jumped down and ran to open the stable doors, jumping over the
bigger puddles. The double doors swung open easily. Cholly backed the
wagon inside. Aram unhitched the team, wiped them down, covered
them with dry blankets, and gave them food and water. Only then did he
stop to remove his rain gear. He replaced his wet leather gloves and
apron with dry ones.

Cholly was smoking a pipe while he inspected the pots Sambar had
been left to clean and fill. It was a minor vice, but one to which his wife
objected, ". . . because it stinks up the entire house. Even my hair
smells like smoke,"

There was nothing in Sanctuary that he feared, that he was not mar-
ried to. Neither wizard nor demon, man nor god, living or dead. When
the night was filled with the undead of Ischade and Roxane, he had
dispatched several of the poor wights, beheading them so they might
return to the hell they had been called back from.

Not all of them were eager to go. One, a former Stepson, had argued
for over an hour that it was not dead. It even had the gall to draw a
shortsword and threaten the gluemaker. Fortunately the expression "the
quick and the dead" was inappropriate. Cholly hacked the zombie to
pieces with his axe to prove his point. Sure enough, the Stepson was dead.

Over a dozen bodies were stacked in the wagon. Five had come from
Red Lanterns or nearby, indicating it had been a busy night. Three bod-
ies were female. One had even been pretty, in a cheap way.

"You see," Sambar chided while he and Aram began unloading the
wagon, "this is what happens to people who spend all their money at the
Slippery Lily."

"I hope they had at least finished their business and were leaving. It
would be a shame to die without gettin' what they came there for," Aram
chuckled.

"One of these Moonday mornings you may come in with the load as a
client, not a passenger."

"I can take care of myself."

"The least you'll get is Eshi's measles."

"I haven't had a dose yet. Besides, it isn't fattening like your candy. In
another year your taste will run to sweets of another sort. Mark my
words."

A STICKY BUSINESS

311

"Idiot!" Markmor shrieked- "Fool of a fool!"

The young man with flowing silver hair trembled at the tirade, staring
at the floor lest the most powerful mage in Sanctuary look him in the eye.
Until a few years ago the apprentice wizard's father, Mizraith, had been
the chief of those mages not bound by the Rankan Mageguild's hazard-
ous rites. Markmor had been a brash upstart, scarcely more than a child
by sorcerous or any other standards. Yet he had slain Mizraith fairly in a
wizard's duel and thereby proved himself supreme among those who held
to the magical traditions of Ilsig. He'd had to lie low a while—feigning
death, abandoning his skein of spells lest he be drawn into the mage-
killing and god-killing that had beset Sanctuary these last few years. But
he'd survived, and returned, and meant to recapture everything he'd lost,
with interest.

"Th-there wasn't time, Master," Marype stammered. "I was just slit-
ting the messenger's throat when I heard horses. I vanished for just a
moment, hoping whoever it was would pass by. When I returned the
body was gone."

"All you had to do was take the amulet and run. You didn't even have
to kill him. A blow on the head would have done the job-' How could it be
so difficult?"

Markmor's robes of shiny vermilion silk brushed the polished marble
floor as he paced angrily. His short hair and pointed beard were as black
as his soul. Beneath a single shaggy brow his amethyst eyes were blazing
with rage.

Several moments of threatening silence passed before he continued,
"Do you have any idea how valuable that bauble is? Not only to me, but
to all of us who stand outside the Guild? Much less what could happen if
it ever reaches the first Hazard as it was supposed to? Do you see the
danger your bungling has placed us in? Do you? Do you?"

"I think so, Master." Marype cringed.

"No, that's your trouble, Marype. You don't think. If you had you
wouldn't have left the amulet behind. There are times when I wonder
why I took you into my service. I really do.

"Now tell me again—from the beginning—exactly what happened. If
the person who has the amulet has not yet discovered its powers we may
not be too late."

"I had been following him from bar to bar. By Argash's bloody nails
that man could drink! Eventually he wandered down the Serpentine to
Sly's Place, but it was closed. Despite all I had seen him drink he wasn't
staggering, so I hung back at a short distance to await an opportunity. As
luck would have it ... AAAHCHOOO!—Sorry, I may have caught a
cold in the rain last night—he stopped to relieve himself. I transported

312 UNEASY ALLIANCES

myself to a spot right behind him. Even as I slashed his throat I heard the
clatter of hoofbeats and at least two men talking. They sounded very
close, and coming closer. I knew that the amulet would have made escape
impossible, so I gambled that the amulet would look too cheap to be
worth stealing. I vanished for just a moment. When I returned the entire
body was gone."

"Did you see anyone about? Anyone at all?"

"It was pouring. Even the beggars were hiding somewhere. He was
gone without a trace. I searched and searched. AACHOO!"

"Marype, you surprise me. You really do. You left the amulet on him
in the hopes it would look too worthless to steal. Correct? Every child
knows that Mazers and Downwinders steal anything that is not nailed
down too securely to pry up. If you didn't have your father's talent in
your blood I wouldn't put up with you. Such talent deserves training, but
you severely try my patience,

"Still, all is not lost. Perhaps we can scry its location."

The day's first customer was small, with delicate bones and a slender
figure. Her face was veiled and a scarf almost hid her mane of chestnut
hair. Although she dressed as a lady's maid, her bearing was more suited
to giving orders than taking them. She looked around nervously, making
sure no other customer was about. At last: "You are Chollandar?"

He nodded. "How may this humble gluemaker serve you. Milady?"

"I was told you will pick up ... uh-uh-uh . . ."

"Raw materials, Ma'am. Raw materials. For a fee we will pick up that
which you no longer desire, and turn it into a variety of useful products.
We do stipulate, however, that the goods must be ready to use without
further treatment. Do you understand?"

"Yes. You mentioned a fee. You will do it, then?"

"Certainly, Beautiful Lady. For ten soldats we will remove your raw
materials from any address you name—which we promptly forget. For
this reason we ask for advance payment. Otherwise we might remember
and send a bill. Does this pose some problem?"

To his surprise she did not haggle.

/ should've asked for more, he thought.

She gave him the address and turned to leave.

"A moment. Milady."

Cholly held out a clay jar. She looked at him in puzzlement, then took
the jar.

"This is a glue shop. If you leave with one of my Jars anyone who sees
you will see why you have come and notice nothing else."

Her veiled face whitened. "I hadn't thought of that."

A STICKY BUSINESS

313

"By the way, this variety is made especially for porcelain and ceramics.
It does wonders on broken dishes."

After she had hurried away, the clay jar held where it could be seen,
Sambar came through the curtained doorway. "Master, why do you al-
ways insist that the pickup be dead? Wouldn't they pay more if you did it
for them?"

"They would, but I will not take blood money. See, I deal in death
every day without adding to it. If people want to kill each other, I can't
stop 'em. But I'll be damned if I'll do it for 'em."

With the work on the city walls and the repairs from the aftermath of
the witches' fire and flood, business was brisk. Kadakithis's workmen had
bought an entire wagonload of mixed varieties. The new tax was at least
being spent for the purpose it was collected for, rather than lining the
Prince-Governor's purse.

Privately Cholly had no use for magicians, but that did not prevent
him from doing business with them. One came in seeking a human skull.
Another, a lanky fellow with graying hair and beard and an unusually
dynamic voice, came seeking fingerbones. These gentlemen never knew
that their treasures came from his fuel pile of dried leftover bones.

A third aspiring thaumaturge sought a hand of glory. Cholly went
back into the rendering room once more. There was a chunking sound. A
moment later he returned with a severed human left hand.

One last minor magician—the truly powerful ones needed no such
props—requested an entire human skin. He was sent next door. Zandulas
would pay him a referral fee later.

When business slowed down enough for him to check on the boys,
Cholly saw that they had been busy indeed. The bodies had all been
stripped and the belongings sorted into neat piles, according to type. The
smallest pile by far was money. They were honest enough lads, but he
knew they kept a few coppers, even as he had done when he was appren-
ticed to old Shi Han Two-Fingers.

He sent Sambar to the front counter while he and Aram scalped, bled,
and dismembered the remaining corpses. Once the bodies and the proper
additives were mixed into the scalding water to his satisfaction he told
Aram, "When you get time, take those barrels of tallow across the alley
to Reh Shing the Soapmaker. It's time I started my rounds."

Chollandar scratched the back of his neck. For a moment it itched like
someone was staring at him.

He always began his trading at Shamara's Wig Shop. In her youth
Shamara had been striking. Her present beauty was of a different sort, a
warmth that radiated from her sweet soul. They dickered for a bit,

UNEASY ALLIANCES

314

Shamara fingering the scalps for quality and texture. At last they settled
upon three silver bits, eight coppers, and a kiss.

"The things I do for business," Shamara laughed before pressing her
lips beneath his moustache. There was no lustful passion there, but there
was something undefinable. "Enough. You make me feel like a girl, and

I've survived that nonsense already."

He whistled a happy tune all the way to Marc's Weapons Shop. Most
of Marc's goods were shoddy, but so were the weapons Cholly sold him.
The really good stuff he sold separately. Some special blades he kept for
himself. Even so, he sometimes ran across an interesting piece in Marc's

stock.

Cholly regularly had lunch with Furtwan Coinpinch while Hazen,
Furtwan's nephew, watched the shop and kept an eye on the gluemaker's
wagon. Today they decided on beef, so they found themselves a quiet
table at the Man in Motley, where a joint was always skewered to the

carving board.

"Anything interesting happen last night?" Furtwan asked between

swallows of True Brew.

Cholly did not answer right away. He felt the feeling return that he
was being watched. By whom and for what reason he had no idea. He

scratched his neck again.

No one seemed to be looking in his direction, but he knew damned
well someone was spying on him. The itch was stronger. He slid his right
hand under the table, pretending to scratch his bare calf. He assured
himself the extra knife was in place in his boot. Good.

The two men gossiped spiritedly for an hour. When Cholly left the
shop the itch returned. If anything, it was stronger. The most unsettling
part was that he could spot no sign of anyone following him, yet he knew
they were there. But who? And why?

He missed the friendly greetings he used to get from Ganner, Lalo's
son who was slain by the mobs in the False Plague riots. He had enjoyed
the brief chats they used to have. Instead of Ganner it was Herwick
himself who met him at the door. The jeweler still wore the symbolic torn
collar and black armband of mourning.

"Good to see you, Cholly. Are you here to buy or sell? I believe
Ineedra has a birthday coming up. Next week maybe?"

"Next Eshday. The trouble is she still hasn't given me a hint what she
wants like she usually does, or else for once she's been so subtle I missed

it."

"You can't go wrong with good jewelry. I've got some nice new pieces.

Take a look. I could make you such a deal . . -"

A STICKY BUSINESS

315

"Not today, I've got a few days yet in case she drops a hint. In the
meantime 1 did bring you a few trinkets to examine."

He fished a folded square of cloth from his tunic. Unfolding it upon the
counter, he displayed a jumble of glittering ornaments. Most were cheap
junk, worth a copper or two apiece. A few were good quality paste and
worth a bit more. Two pins were set in real gold and sparkling gem-
stones. Finally there was a solid gold pendant covered with strange mark-
ings.

"Where did you get this? I've never seen this type of workmanship
before. Most unusual. And raw gold! I can't read it; it isn't Rankan or
Ilsigi. It isn't Beysib—I've had too many Fisheyes in here not to recog-
nize it when I see it. If it was older I might guess it might be Enlibaran."

"Now that I've had a good look at it, I think I'll keep it for the time
being. It's sort of interesting. Can you think of anybody who might be
able to tell me what it says?"

"Try Synab. If anyone can tell you, he can."

His next stop was Synab's artifact and curio shop just down the street.
The daub of blue paint smeared on the door meant the pwner was paying
protection to someone. Cholly himself had never paid anyone for "pro-
tection" and he vowed he never would. A bell jingled when he entered.

The white-haired man in green linen said, "I haven't seen you lately. I
trust you have something of interest for me?"

"Maybe. I found this medallion in this morning's goods. Can you
decipher the writing?"

The little man's bushy eyebrows raised. His sallow face turned ashen.
His gnarled hands trembled, dropping the bauble onto the counter as if it
had suddenly become hot.

After a moment he said, "Do me a favor, Cholly. Go. Get that thing
out of here. Please."

"Why? Mother Bey's balls, man, at least tell me what's wrong."

"I guess I owe you that much. I can't read it, but I've seen enough
relics to recognize it. There is one word here I do know: the name
Theba."

"Isn't she some sort of death goddess?"

"Yes. Anything connected with her has to mean trouble. If I were you,
I'd get rid of it as quickly as I could."

Cholly thanked him and left.

His unseen stalker was still there. The tingle was so strong it was
becoming painful. Hopefully whoever it was would not make his move
until after Cholly reached Renn, his banker.

Renn was one of the few men in Sanctuary he completely trusted. Due
to the armed men at the door and some less obvious defenses, no one had

316 UNEASY ALLIANCES

ever robbed Renn's bank and lived to reach the door. Thieves had gotten
the message and stayed away.

The gluemaker deposited most of his cash and got a receipt, keeping
out enough to pay the boys, take Ineedra out to a nice dinner, and
enough left over to go to the games at Land's End and have a few coppers
to bet. Compared to what he had been carrying it was spare change.
Unfortunately his tracker didn't seem interested in money.

Upon his return to the Street of Money the feeling intensified. Damn!
He wished whoever it was would make his move. This cat-and-mouse
ploy was making him angry. Maybe he could shake them up a bit.

He turned Enkidu and Eshi onto Olive Branch, sped down to Saddlers
and turned left, leaping off the wagon as soon as he thought his pursuer
could not see him for a moment. He stepped through the doorway of a
tack shop and waited.

Two thugs came running around the comer. One was of average size;

the other was short and round, like a beer keg with legs. They were
trotting to keep the wagon in sight.

For a middle-aged fat man in a ring-mailed vest, he moved quietly.
And quickly. Any sound made by his soft-soled knee boots was masked
by the din of street noises: beggars asking alms, shopkeepers and custom-
ers haggling, the clop of horseshoes on cobblestones, children shouting
and playing.

The shorter man was lagging a few steps behind his partner, panting.
He never heard anything suspicious.

The taller man glanced over his shoulder in time to see the barrel-man
topple from the flat of Cholly's axe. Before he could break away a large
hand extending from a wax-boiled vambrace had grabbed a handful of
his tunic and slammed him against a brick wall, driving the air from his
lungs. His head bounced against the bricks, painfully but not far. He
became acutely aware of the axe haft pressed against his throat when he
struggled to inhale. A melon-sized knee pressing into his stones also
caught his attention-

Cholly's normally merry hazel eyes were narrow slits of cold green.
His voice was calm, even, almost a whisper.

"Why are you following me?"

"I wasn't. (Cough)"

Cholly towered his knee slightly, then snapped it upward. "Don't lie to
me or you'll sing soprano. Let's start again. You were about to tell me
why you followed me."

Tears filled the tall man's eyes. "I swear I wasn't following you."

He would've screamed when the knee drove into his crotch if it weren't
for the wooden haft flattening his gullet.

A STICKY BUSINESS                 317

"Let's try again, shall we? I ask you a question, you answer it. Hon-
estly. For the last time, why were you tailing me?"

"All right," he whimpered. "We was paid a silver bit apiece to rob
you." Tears rolled down his dirty unshaven cheeks.

"Fool. If it was money you wanted you would have jumped me before I
reached my banker. You didn't make your move, although you've been
chasing me all afternoon. So what are you after that is worth dying for?"

"The medallion."

"What makes it so valuable?" Cholly demanded.

"Don't know. He didn't tell us. He just paid us to get it."

"Who paid you?"

"He didn't give us a name. He was dressed in magician's robes."

"What did he look like?"

"Silver hair—"

The knife just missed Cholly's ear before burying itself in the tall man's
eye. Blood and clear liquid gushed out of the wound. The dying man
jerked once and went limp. Cholly released his hold. The body slid down
the wall, the stubby knife handle still protruding from the eye socket.

The barrel-man was just vanishing into an alley.

"I should've hit him harder," the gluemaker muttered.

He gave a shrill whistle and Enkidu and Eshi backed up. Business was
business. He loaded the dead man into his wagon and covered him with
canvas. No one thought it unusual for him to be picking up somebody
this early. There were accident victims all the time. It was common
practice to mind one's own business.

Babbo shifted his weight from foot to foot while wringing his un-
washed hands. His gaze never left the floor. The room was cool, but the
hireling's stained homespun tunic was damp with sweat.

"What in the Shadowed One's name are you saying? How could he get
away? There were two of you! Both armed! Do you mean to tell me two
of the best muggers in the Maze were bested by a bald old shopkeeper?"
Marype raged.

"He was good," Babbo said defensively. "Dorien was one of the best
men I knew in a brawl. When I came to—I never heard him coming
before he busted my head—he had poor Dorien pinned against the wall
with an axe handle and a knee pushing Dor's balls up to his belly button.
Believe me, the man is good. How do you think he got that old? Only
way I could shut Dor up was to spike 'im."

"Why didn't you knife the gluemaker instead?"

"Look, I didn't have a lot of time, you know? I wasn't in no shape to
tangle with the man. Maybe I just throwed amongst 'em and ran. Be-

318 UNEASY ALLIANCES

sides, you're the magician; why didn't you do something? Turn fatso into
something?"

"As long as he has the amulet, magic doesn't work on him. Why else
would I hire you two bunglers?"

"Big hotshot magician," Babbo retorted. "You can't do the job with
your spells, so you hire us. Then you got the balls to come down on me
'cause I didn't get him neither. Far as I'm concerned you can go diddle
yourself. See ya around. Cotton-top," he snorted, his fear replaced by
contempt.

It was crowded in the stands Lowan Vigeles had built at his Land's
End estate and the stone benches were uncomfortable. The spectators
had already swilled down enough Red Gold to be rowdy. Zandulas and
Cholly were hooting and hollering with the rest. The early rounds had
been condemned criminals pitted against each other. Not much skill
there; mostly brute strength. Chollandar preferred the chariot races.

He was picking them well. The fourth race had just ended, and for the
third time he was collecting his winnings. Zandulas, who was zero for
four, got to his feet with a sour grin.

"I'm getting a brew before the final heat. Want one?"

"No thanks, Zan. Want me to place any bets for you?"

"Neh. Oh all right. If I'm not back in time, just put two coppers on
whoever you pick."

Cholly's favorite driver was Borak. Behind his three chestnut geldings
Borak's long oily whip moved like a living creature, while he used the
bladed wheel hubs better than most men wield a sword.

The other drivers in today's final race were Magyar driving whites,
Atticus with dappled grays, and Crispen with a second team of whites.
No second-raters there.

Everywhere were shouts of "Six coppers on Atticus," "Two on Mag-
yar," "Four on Atticus," "Eight on Crispen,"

Caught up in the betting, Cholly shouted, "Two silver on Borak!"

"Take 'em all. I'll cover the balance," Zandulas whispered, returning.
"I'd have taken Atticus, but then I haven't been right all afternoon and
you're on a hot streak. I just hope it holds."

The big money bets were in the box seats, stacks of golden soldats. The
difference was that those in the boxes could usually afford to lose. The
simple townsfolk in the cheap seats were hard pressed if they lost a
handful of coppers.

The tingle was back. Someone was watching him again.

Four teams entered the track, having drawn lots for position. Cholly
frowned. Borak was on the outside. Next to Borak came Crispen, then

A STICKY BUSINESS                 319

Magyar, and finally Atticus at the advantageous inside spot. The games
master dipped the flag and they were off. Horses crowded each other.
Sharpened steel zinged each time the wheels whirred close together.
Crispen forced Borak into the wall, but the wily veteran kept control.
Dust flew as his blades gouged the masonry. To even the score he flicked
his whip, welting the closest white racer's hindquarters. The horse broke
stride. It took only a moment to get back in sync, but that was enough.

Cholly looked around. Was that a flash of silver hair in the crowd
behind him? Maybe it was a woman who had joined in the fad. Maybe
not. His left hand rested upon the hilt of the Ilbarsi knife.

A white stallion screamed when it was hit by a blade, chewing his rear
leg off at the gaskin. The crowd roared. The animal's fall yanked the
singletree to one side, causing the rest of the team to wheel, overturning
the chariot. Magyar's hand was caught in the reins and he was dragged
along beneath.

The silver hair was out of sight, but not gone. Cholly could feel it.

Zandulas was shouting, "Did you see that?"

By the last lap Borak was ahead of Atticus by half a length. Crispen
had gotten tangled in Magyar's wreck and lost too much time to make it
up.

"Collect my winnings," he told Zandulas.

"Why? Where're you going?"

"Must be the Red Gold. I'm not feeling so good," Cholly lied.

He could hear the crowd shouting Borak's name as he hurried down
the steps. A knife darted at him but was deflected by the iron and leather
vest he wore. He was lucky, and knew it.

Once out of the estate, Cholly ran as fast as his thick legs could carry
him through the construction gangs working on the walls, through a gap
in the emerging wall itself, then darted down twisting alleys and taking
random turns. Few others knew the streets as well as this man who
traveled them each morning. Soon he would reach the docks. He saw no
sign of pursuit, but the feeling remained.

The Winebarrel catered to fishermen. Most of the clientele knew
Cholly. They bought glue from him to use on their boats. He, in turn, or
his apprentices, bought unsold or inedible fish from them. He was made
welcome.

Of all the folk in Sanctuary, only the fishers had truly accepted the
Beysib—at least the Setmur clan of Beysib—because the newcomers were
hard workers, honest and good sailors. Inside the net-hung walls of the
Winebarrel, all seamen were brothers, comrades-in-arms in the endless
battle to eke a living from the merciless sea.

It was not surprising then that the one-armed Ilsigi should be sharing

320 UNEASY ALLIANCES

his table with a small, quiet fish-eyed man. Cholly walked over and
joined them- For a moment the tingle was gone, or else so weak he did
not notice it.

Omat, the Ilsigi fisherman, gestured with his glass. "You're getting
thinner on top and thicker in the middle. And you look like you could
use a drink. Pull up a stool and let me buy you one. You know Monkel
Setmur, don't you? Monkel, Cholly here makes the best damned glue you
can buy—"

"—Or get in trade. What fisherman doesn't know Cholly?" the small
man said, smiling sincerely and extending his hand. "What brings you to
the Winebarrel?"

"I'm in a real fix. Somebody's trying to kill me. I found this medallion
in the stuff I took in this morning. Ever since then, someone's been on my
tail. Two gutter rats tried to waylay me, but I caught 'em off guard. I
conked one on the head and put the other up against the wall. That's how
I found out the connection with the medallion I'd found, and that they'd
been hired by a wizard-type with silver hair. But, I hadn't hit the first one
hard enough, and he knifed his partner through the eye before I got any
more.

"Just a little while ago I was out at Land's End. I saw someone with
silver hair in the crowd near me, so I decided to get out of there. He
followed me long enough to throw a knife, only he didn't take this vest
into account."

"Can we do anything to help, Cholly?" Omat asked.

"Run me around to White Foal Bridge by water. That should get him
off me for a while."

"I could use a bit of fresh air. Coming with us, Monkel?"

The little fellow nodded.

The dying sun was streaking the western sky with its blood when
Cholly parted the thirty-one cords with their thirty-one knots.

"You're early today," Ahdio commented. "Anything wrong? You look
upset."

"You might say that. I need a brew—the good stuff. Say, what hap-
pened to Cleya? I see the pretty one is back. Jodeera? Isn't that her
name?"

Ahdio looked down into the other man's eyes—not too far down, for
he was only an inch or so taller—and paled slightly.

"What did you say? That's Cleya right there."

"Quit kidding. I'm looking right at her."

Ahdio stood silent for a moment then said, "Would you mind stepping
into the back with me a moment where we can talk?"

A STICKY BUSINESS                  321

The two men walked back to the stockroom. Ahdio closed the door
and turned to face Cholly. He looked worried.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That Cleya and Jodeera are the same."

"Oh, come on. Cleya is a sweet girl, but she is skinny and sort of
homely, like a stray cat. Not that I don't like her, but she isn't even in the
same league with that lovely creature."

"They are the same. I'm going to trust you because I like you. See,
when Jodeera first came to work here there was trouble. Remember?"

The gluemaker nodded, paying close attention.

"It wasn't her fault she was so pretty, but it did make the boys rowdy,
trying to outdo each other. I didn't want to send her away. I love her.
What could I do? I had a spell put on her to hide her beauty from all eyes
but mine. How'd you see through it?"

"Maybe this had something to do with it." He fished the gold medal-
lion from inside his tunic.

"Take it off. I'll hold it. You go back and look. Tell me if you see Cleya
or Jodeera."

He returned a moment later. "Cleya. It was the medallion."

"Where did you get it?"

Cholly told his story again. Ahdio stroked his chin glaring from his
friend, to the medallion then at the door to the taproom. "You got trou-
ble here," he said, returning the medallion. "Bad cess. Look, I have this
old war buddy named Strick. He's a magician. Hold on, he's not like the
ones you've seen. He's strictly a white mage . . . literally can't use his
powers for evil. Take my word, he's one of the good guys. Tell him I sent
you."

"Where do I find him?"

"You mean to tell me you lost him again?!" Markmor screamed, his
face almost as livid as his robes.

"I almost got him at Land's End. How was I to know the knife would
bounce off his vest?" Marype cowered.

"Then what happened?"

"I followed him to the docks. It wasn't easy. He must know every twist
and turn of every alley in town. He went into a place called the Winebar-
rel, and when he came out he was with two other men. One was a fish-
face, and the other had one arm. They got into a boat and rowed away. I
had to be careful. People tend to notice when you appear and disappear
in public. Besides, as long as he has the amulet not even you can trace
him by magic."

322 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"You insolent pup, you brainless piece of dung, do you dare to ques-
tion my powers?" the would-be greatest magician in Sanctuary roared.

Marype cringed even more. "I don't doubt your power, Master, but
did not you yourself tell me that the gods themselves have no power over
the one who wields the talisman?"

"Precisely, imbecile. That is how we shall find him."

"I don't understand."

"I didn't think you would- By Argash, if I want something done right,
I'd best do it myself. Pay attention and you may learn something. First
we cast the Net of All-Seeing over the city in the name of Father Us."

"What good will that do, Master? We still can't see him."

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you. Tell me, do you
ever use your head for something besides growing hair? Think! With this
spell we can see the entire city at once except for one blind spot. Wherever
that blind spot is, there we shall find the ine who has the medallion."

He was bigger than Ahdio, but only slightly so. He moved like a
swordsman, keeping his weight evenly distributed and his gaze unfixed,
looking at nothing yet seeing everything. It seemed odd that he wore no
weapon, not even a dagger. He was dressed all in blue from boots to skull

cap.

"My niece says that you would not tell her your problem. You would
tell her only that Ahdio sent you. You confuse me. I see a spell about you
that is not a spell, something that is not magic yet very powerful. Is this
the problem you wish to consult me about?"

Cholly removed the chain from his neck and handed the medallion to
Strick.

"I am a simple gluemaker- Each morning my apprentice and I take a
wagon through town to pick up the bodies left from the night before. I
make glue from them. It's all legal; I have a charter giving me the right to
pick them up and dispose of them for the city. This medallion was on one
of the ones we took in this morning. Since then I have had two attempts
on my life, I have been followed every step I take, and I have discovered
that when 1 wear it I can see through a magic spell. What I want to know
is: just what is it, really?"

Strick handed back the medallion. "Do you know of the goddess
Theba? According to legend she declared that nothing, not even gods,
should be immortal. Gods, you see, live on many planes at once. If they
die they still live on all the other planes. That's what happened to
Vashanka—gone from here, but not dead. Now it seems Theba was ambi-
tious and didn't want to pursue her rivals through the infinite planes, so
one night she called down a star from the sky. It fell like a blazing comet,

A STICKY BUSINESS

323

and in its heart was a lump of unearthly gold. Theba took the white hot
nugget in her bare hands, she shaped the medallion, then inscribed it
with her fingernail, and quenched it in the blood of a virgin."

"Sounds like a real sweetheart."

"That, says legend, is how the Spell of No Spells was cast, a spell that
cancels all magic. Perhaps antimagic is the proper term. Its power nulli-
fies all spells and powers. It is the supreme defense against magic. There
is one catch. It also cancels any magic the wearer possesses. Spells, bless-
ings, curses; all are useless."

"Let me see if I can take it from there. Immortality is a supernatural
gift, right? So, if a god had the medallion, he's no longer a god; he's
mortal, and can die like anybody else. Right?"

"Yes, but even Theba was appalled when She felt her rival die the one,
true death. She threw Her tnnket away, and 't fell into mortal hands.
Most mages—including myself—want nothing to do with it: Its risks
outweigh any possible rewards. But there are always a few like Theba,
caught in the blind throes of ambition, greed or jealousy.

"Be careful, Cholly. At least one mage, maybe more, wants Theba's
medallion and knows you have it. Because of what it is, because of what
he is to want it in the first place, and because as long as you wear it no
one can tell for certain if you're a powerful wizard or an ordinary
gluemaker—because of these, you're a marked man, my friend."

"Thanks for the information. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing. I could not help you with your problem, and I charge only
for services rendered."

"Well, I feel I owe you something for telling me about the talisman. I'll
tell you what: the next time you need to mend anything, send word to me
what you are working on, and I'll send over the right compound for the
job with my compliments. How about that?"

"You are a fair man, gluemaker. I have enjoyed meeting you, and I
hope you solve your problem."

Cholly stopped by the shop and paid the boys their weekly bit of
copper. Sambar would spend all his at the bakery and sweets shop. Give
him another year or two and he'd be paying for sweets of the same sort as
Aram. Father Us but that lad was randy! It was only blind luck the boy
hadn't yet contracted a dose- Ah, youth!

Before he left in his best clothes Aram said, "Some fellow was in here
looking for you. The first time was the middle of the afternoon, then he
came back a little while ago. He didn't say what he wanted, just that he
wanted to speak to you. Special pickup, I guess."

"Did he leave a name? What did he look like?"

324 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"No name, but he's easy to recognize. He's got all this silvery hair and
he dresses like a magician. Know him?"

"In a way. I think I've seen him. How would you like a bit of extra
pocket money?"

Aram's eyes lit up.

"Go run ahead to Ahdio, at Sly's Place, and tell him I'm going to need
his backroom for a while. And tell him to ask his friend Strick to join us-
Do that and I'll give you an extra week's pay."

Aram was gone like an arrow. Cholly walked down the rows and
picked out jars of glue and solvent. From beneath the counter he took a
satchel of several brushes.

He hoped this wouldn't take long. He was already late, and Ineedra
would have his head on a salver. He'd better take her to Hari's or the
Golden Oasis to unruffle her feathers once this business was over with.

Ahdio didn't recognize any of the trio who strutted into the crowded
tavern, and he usually remembered faces. One of them, the youngest, did
have a flowing silver mane, so these must be the ones he was watching

for.

The squat, broad red-faced one asked Throde, "Hey, Gimp' You seen
Cholly da Gluemaker in here? We was s'posed to meet up wit' 'im."

"Not that I recall, but we've been pretty busy. Ask Ahdio," Throde
replied, nodding at the mountainous man in the mail vest. He smiled and
hobbled away to deliver his tray of beers, giving Ahdio a wink in passing.

Again it was the toadish one who spoke. "You Ahdio?"

Ahdio smiled. "What will you have, gentlemen?"

"You seen Cholly da Gluemaker? We'll make it worth ya while. We got
bidness wit' 'im, see?" said the red-faced man, bouncing a coin on his
palm.

Ahdio held out his hand. "Maybe."

The man tossed the coin onto Ahdio's broad palm. Ahdio neither
spoke nor moved his hand until several copper coins were stacked there.

"He's in the back room. Follow me."

Cholly was watching the door. He noticed the argent hair at once, then
he stared at the others. The dark one in red damask silk was the obvious
leader, a man accustomed to power as his due.

"What the hell is that?" he wondered, seeing the last of the trio enter
through the doorway.

It was shaped sort of like one of the rendering pots in the shop, squat
and rotund with thick stubby legs ending in homed, splayed, webbed
three-toed feet. It had ears like a donkey, little beady rat's eyes, and a

A STICKY BUSINESS                  325

wide froggish mouth full of long yellow-green teeth. Its thick muscular
arms hung down so low its knobby knuckles dragged the ground. Its
matted, scraggly feathers were the color of iron rust. Topping it all off
was something resembling a coxcomb. It had no head or neck per se.

It was ugly.

He gestured for the two men to sit opposite him in the booth. He asked
Ahdio to bring a chair and three large beers for his guests.

"Nothing personal, you understand. I'd just rather not sit where I'm
hemmed in. We haven't been introduced. My name is Chollandar. And
you?" He spoke to the black-bearded man.

"No offense taken. I am called Markmor. This young fool is my ap-
prentice, Marype."

"Does the demon have a name?"

"I'd forgotten you can see his true form. I'm afraid I can't tell you his
real name. He does answer, however, to 'Rubigo.'"

"Rubigo it is then." He took a sip of his Baladach wine.

"How much will you take for it?" Marype asked,.

Markmor glared at him. Rubigo snickered at such a breach of man-
ners. Even he knew better.

"I never discuss business until after a sociable drink. I wouldn't think
of doing business with a man who won't have a friendly drink with me
first. You seem to have some breeding, Markmor. Surely you understand.
Perhaps in time your impatient apprentice will learn. If he's like my two,
it may take a while."

After what seemed an eternity with the demon standing sullenly by the
door, Ahdio returned with a chair. Throde followed with a serving tray.
Upon the tray were three pitcher-sized tankards holding perhaps a half
gallon of Red Gold each, possibly more. Rubigo plopped down and
hoisted a pewter tankard, chugging it into his mouth with hedonistic
glee. Throde set the tray down and left.

Cholly sipped his wine and asked, "Is beer all right? It's the best brand
he carries. I forgot to ask."

'This is fine," Markmor answered, taking a tankard in both hands.
Marype did likewise.

Rubigo drained his in one long, gurgling, slurping pull. When he went
to set the tankard down he made a startling discovery—the tankard was
stuck to his lips and hands. He squealed in anger. When he tried to rise
he found his feathers glued to the chair.

Markmor and Marype realized the trap too late. They too were stuck.
Their mouths and hands stuck to the tankards and their robes stuck to
the booth. Even their shoes were stuck to the floor. The master wizard's

326 UNEASY ALLIANCES

eyes seemed twin flames of amethyst. A growl of rage rumbled in his
throat.

There was a puff of sulfurous smoke and Rubigo's tankard clattered
onto the wooden floor. An instant later the smoke cleared, revealing the
demon standing in the center of the room.

"Nice try, Fat Man. Too bad you didn't know us demons could jump
planes just by thinkin' 'bout it. Haw-haw! Didn't nobody never tell ya not
to go messin' wit' us? Now you gonna die, boy."

"Are you sure? It seems to me that as long as I have the Theban
Talisman you can't touch me. Suppose I used this axe of mine on you.
How do you know it wouldn't kill you?"

Rubigo paused a moment. Cholly eased out of his chair and slid his
dismembering axe from its iron ring on his belt. He drew the Ilbarsi knife
with his left hand. He waited, smiling.

"One way to find out," Rubigo growled, swinging a long arm around
to slash at Cholly with green adamantine claws. The hand had three
webbed fingers plus a thumb. Cholly ducked easily. The demon was slow.
Cholly hacked with the axe.

Rubigo's hand fell to the floor. For a moment it lay wriggling. It
vanished. The demon's wrist stopped oozing brackish fluid from the sev-
ered stump because the hand was back. He had an ugly laugh.
Uh-oh, Chollander thought.

Chortling and drooling, Rubigo circled, intending to play with Cholly
for a while before killing him. He lashed out with either hand, his claws
raking the air around Cholly but not making contact. The gluemaker
stayed calm, ducking and blocking, chopping and slashing at every open-
ing. Once he darted in and managed to plant the axe deeply into Rubigo's
chest, only to see the wound heal as soon as he removed the weapon.

Markmor and Marype watched every move of man and monster over
the tankard rims.

The hellspawn was wearing the gluemaker down. He was untouched,
but he was getting tired and winded. Sweat trickled into his eyes and the
salt stung. He slid the Ilbarsi knife into its sheath and shifted the axe to a
two-handed grip. He blinked and continued to block and counter and
attack. He knew he would have to change tactics before exhaustion
caused him to err.

Damn, he thought. I've given him enough blows to kill a squad of men.
but his fiendish magic heals him every time. If he was mortal I could take
him apart.
Cholly smiled.

Changing back to a one-hand grip on the axe, he used his free hand to
reach for the talisman. Yanking the chain over his head he said, "That's

A STICKY BUSINESS                  327

enough. This is what you're after. Take it. I can't fight any more. Just
take the damned thing and leave me alone. I know when I'm beat."

"That's more like it, Fatso. Youse is good, butcha ain't no match for da
ol' demon. Now gimme."

He caught the medallion in the palm of his webbed hand. Now he was
going to kill the fat bald man, since there was nothing to restrain him. He
looked over to the wizard and apprentice wizard, holding the bauble aloft
and smiling. He looked back just in time to catch a sparkle of light
reflecting from the gleaming blade descending. Realization flashed in his
beady little eyes just before they rolled back into his head.

Cholly picked up the medallion from the lifeless fingers, returning it
back around his neck. Next he placed a foot upon the fiend's face and
worked his axe free from the skull. Slipping the haft through its ring, he
sat back down at the table.

"That was thirsty work." He drew his long knife and placed it between
himself and the magicians. He poured himself another goblet of wine and
sipped it. He paused long enough to get out his pipe, fill it, and light it
from the candle on the table.

He took his time, seemingly ignoring the two prisoners. He would take
a puff or two, blow a few smoke rings, and sip at his wine. All the while
he kept smiling, sometimes idly playing with the Ilbarsi blade.

"What am I going to do with you?" he said, breaking the tense silence.
"If I let you go we'll be right back where we started, except I'll know
who you are. I've got better things to do than play hide-and-seek with
your hired flunkies and conjurings. I have to work for my living.

"Have you ever seen glue being made? We start with a body. First we
strip it naked and inspect for obvious disease. Next we lop off the hands
and cut the throat and hang the body head-down to drain the blood. Are
you following this? Oh yes, if the client has a nice head of hair—yours
would fetch a pretty price, Marype—we scalp it before we hang it up."

He paused to pour himself another serving of wine. Markmor looked
nervous and Marype was quite pale.

"Then we hack off the arms and legs and dump 'em in a big kettle of
scalding water and render them down. We sell the fat to make soap, and
dry the bones for firewood."

Markmor looked nauseous and Marype's countenance was paler than
his hair.

Cholly sipped at his wine, inwardly smiling at achieving the desired
reaction. He continued, "Look at it from my point of view. The only way
to be sure I'm safe is to get rid of you. My way you can not only remain
dead, but serve a useful purpose. I guess you know I don't like magicians
much.

328 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"On the other hand, I could spare your lives. The problem is: how do I
know you won't attack me again? I suppose I could chop off your hands
and cut out your tongues. Feet too, so you can't leam to use them for
hands like a beggar I once saw. The eyes, naturally would have to go.
Can either of you wiggle your ears? No? I'll leave them, then."

Markmor stared at the man, unsure whether he was bluffing. If it were
the other way around he knew what he would do.

A combination of beer and fear finally took its toll upon Marype's
bladder. Markmor turned to glance at his apprentice with disgust.

Setting down his goblet, Cholly smiled. "Look on the bright side.
You'll get to wear the Theban Talisman—for a few minutes at least. Isn't
that what you wanted? Look at it from my point of view. Silverlocks here
—acting on your behalf—has tried to kill me already. He did kill the
fellow who had it before me. This chunk of gold is too powerful to give to
the likes of you, and at the same time I have a living to make. I have to
have some assurance you won't bother me again."

Cholly knocked the dottle from his pipe, refilled it, and took another
light from the candle while Markmor reflected upon what he had said.

"Nature calls," he told his prisoners. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't
go anywhere," he snickered, sliding out of the booth. He sheathed the
Ilbarsi knife and stepped across Rubigo's carcass.

Cholly returned several minutes later. Behind him came the big bar-
tender, and behind him a bearded man even bigger, carrying a staff. The
last man, largest of the three, was dressed in blue and seemed to radiate
power.

The wizards were trying unsuccessfully to escape.

"Nicely done, Cholly. What are you going to do with them?" Strick
asked, chuckling,

"I haven't figured that one out yet. I can't let them go, but I'd rather
not kill them unless I have to. Any ideas?"

"There are a couple of things that could work. First, to a mage know-
ing someone's true name gives you power over him."

"That's why he wouldn't tell me the demon's name."

"Right. Second, there is only one oath he cannot break: one sworn on
his powers. All you have to do is make him tell you his true name and
make him swear by it and on his powers to leave you alone. If he breaks
that vow, at the very least his powers shall be forfeit for eternity."

Markmor stared at the stranger. Only a magician could have spoken so
certainly, yet this man was not known to him. He knew the few remain-
ing Ilsigi mages, and the ones in the Mageguild, and the outsiders like
Enas Yorl and Ischade. Whoever this upstart was, there would be a score
to settle later.

A STICKY BUSINESS

329

Ahdio spoke up. "How do you know if he is telling the truth?
Wouldn't it be more likely he'd lie?"

"A good point, my friend. I can be of some assistance there. This staff I
carry is not just a walking stick. It is a Staff of Truth. Whoever touches it
may not lie and live."

Cholly puffed at his pipe, weighing the idea. Finally he asked, "What
will it be, gentlemen? Will you take a vow to stop seeking the medallion
and to leave me in peace?"

Strick touched the staff to Markmor's head. He nodded. When it
touched Marype's head he too nodded. Markmor growled into his tan-
kard.

"I'm going to free Markmor first. This will taste awful, and it will
sting, but it will free your lips in a couple of minutes."

Cholly reached under the table and withdrew a leather satchel. From it
he removed a stoppered bottle and a brush. He kept brushing the liquid
from the bottle onto the sorcerer's lips until they were freed from the
tankard. The Staff of Truth rested upon his head.

"Faugh! What was that unholy liquid?" he sputtered.

"Trade secret. Just be glad it worked. Are you ready'to give me your
name?"

"Yes, damn you." Markmor gave his secret name.

"Now, do you swear, upon that name you have just spoken and by
your powers, to never again seek the Theban Talisman and to leave me
and mine forever in peace?"

"I so swear."

"Say it, all of it."

He said his name once more and swore on it and his powers.

Marype was more difficult, mainly because he had drained his tankard
and was not entirely sober.

Finally Markmor growled, "Oh, for Anen's sake, take his bloody oath
so we can get the hell out of here!"

Cholly freed the younger man and received his vow and name.

"May we leave now?" Markmor asked impatiently.

"In a minute. I just thought you ought to know that if your fair-haired
boy there had simply come to me this morning and made me a reasonable
cash offer before I found out what it could do, you could have bought the
talisman outright. Too bad you didn't try straight dealing, because when
somebody tries to push me around I have this tendency to push back.
You can go."

Markmor's face was almost as scarlet as his silks. "You mean you
never made the man an offer?! You mindless dungheap, where was your
brain? You were dealing with a businessman. What do you think he does?

330 UNEASY ALLIANCES

He buys and sells things, that's what he does. At times like this I could
almost justify destroying you, talented or not. Brain damaged is what you
are. Brain damaged . . ."

He was still ranting as he and Marype faded from view, leaving their
clothing still glued to the booth.

Tears were trickling down Ahdio's red cheeks and Strick was gasping
for breath. Three big bellies jiggled with uncontrollable laughter.

Ahdio was able to speak first. "I haven't laughed so hard in ages. Did
you see the look on his face when he found out he could've bought it for a
few soldats?"

"Yes, and when he sobers up the silver-haired one is going to catch
seventeen hells," Strick added.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow," Cholly giggled.

"I have a special bottle of wine I've been saving for a special occasion.
Share it with me. This calls for a celebration," Ahdio declared.

Strick asked Cholly, "If they hadn't agreed, would you have killed
them?"

"No, but there was no way they could know that. I let them worry
once I brought up the possibility. As soon as Markmor put himself in my
place he was convinced I would kill them both. It's only human to think
other people would act the same way you would in the same situation.
Since Markmor would kill me without a second thought, of course he
believed I would do it, just more reluctantly. After all, he had already
seen me split his pet demon's skull."

"So it was all a bluff," Strick marvelled. "What if he called you on it?"

"I'd have waited him out. He wasn't going anywhere. Sooner or later
he would have to give in. That's lot of beer in those mugs," Cholly
chuckled.

"Remind me never to gamble with you."

Three large bellies began shaking with laughter.

Eventually the gluemaker asked, "Is that Staff of Truth for real, or was
it a bluff too?"

"Does it matter? Markmor believed it was real."

"How am I going to clean up this mess?" Ahdio wondered aloud.

'There's several bottles of solvent in my satchel. We can toss the de-
mon out the back door and I'll pick him up in the morning. I wonder
how good a glue he'll make."

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN

Robin Wayne Bailey

Tiana struck a brazen pose, turning her back to the small bust of the
Rankan goddess Sabellia on its stone pedestal. The full moon shone over-
head through a break in the trees, filling the small garden niche with a
sublime light that revealed her full, pale breasts as they strained against
the too-tight fabric of her green dress; a light bright enough, she also
hoped, to lend luster to her deep green eyes so carefully kohled and her
lovely red tresses.

She rumpled her hair with one hand and thrust her hip a bit further to
the side, feeling the perfect vixen. She stretched, lifting her arms until the
material of her bodice threatened to rip. She faked a yawn and dared
another glance down the white-pebbled pathway that snaked through the
Promise.

The man still stood there. She knew he'd seen her. What was wrong
with him, anyway? Didn't he like women? Maybe he was one of those
Stepsons, there were a few left in town; that would be just her luck.

She stepped back into the niche out of his sight and bit a fingernail.
Perhaps she should have chosen a darker spot tonight. With the moon so
full maybe he could see how faded her dress realty was, how the rose in
her cheeks was only rouge, how skinny and bone-rough she'd become,
despite the size of her juggles. Curse the fates that had brought her to this
miserable town, and curse the lying, womanizing stonemason who had
lured her here with his promises and sweet words, only to throw her into
the streets the moment he found someone prettier.

She had no experience at this kind of work. She had to eat, though,
and desperation emboldened her. This stranger down the path seemed to

332 UNEASY ALLIANCES

be the only man in the park tonight. He'd better have coins, though. Just
last evening some wine-soaked fool had offered her a bundle of smelly
hides for her service. What was she supposed to do with hides?

Tiana stepped onto the path again. The pebbles were smooth and cold
under her bare feet. The air felt crisp; she would have to earn enough for
shoes and a cloak, and soon. Food, too. She couldn't afford to let this
man get away. Feigning an expression of boredom she rubbed her right
breast, teasing the nipple. Then, she looked down the path.

Damn, damn, damn! He was gone' Into the bushes with some other
woman? Her shoulders slumped, and tears welled in the comers of her
eyes. She looked down at her toes, pushed a few of the milky stones
around. Hadn't he liked her looks? Maybe she'd acted a little too whor-
ish.

But gods, she was so hungry! How did the other women in the park do
it? What was the knack she lacked? A whole week in this sad, silly place,
and she had yet to break into the ranks of the professionals!

Tiana squeezed her stomach, trying to ease the emptiness as she leaned
against Sabellia's pedestal and slowly sank down to sit on the grass at its
base. Pressing her back to the fluted stone, she drew her knees close and
hugged them.

She feared the night. The quiet solitude seemed like a menacing thing.
The darkness engulfed her, swallowed her in a black maw, chewed and
choked her down all in a preternatural silence. Even the gods whose
busts and statues lined the walkways held their tongues in this unfortu-
nate park.

She looked up into Sabellia's face. The moon itself seemed a weak and
helpless emberglow in the vaster dark.

Tiana felt small and alone. She wanted to go home, but that, too, took
money. She thought again other stonemason lover who had lured her so
far from Ranke, He had treated her kindly and promised her heaven.

Well, he'd given it to her. That was what the locals called this park
where she now tried to ply her charms: the Promise of Heaven.

She rested her head back against the pedestal and at last let go the
tears she'd held in check for so long. Each one seemed a precious thing to
her, a fragment of her heart. She caught one on her finger and held it up
to see. It gleamed like a tiny crystalline moon, a very piece of her god-
dess.

Even through her fear she felt the shadow fall over her. She sniffed
once, then quickly wiped the moisture from her face, giving no thought
to the rouge and kohl that turned to a smear. She scrambled to her feet as
fast as her dress allowed and faked her best smile.

It was the same man. Same height and build, same dark garments. The

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN            333

moon touched his features. He was young, she thought. Only a little
older than herself. Not bad looking, either, despite a peculiar edge, a
hardness, in his gaze. She took a deep breath, swelling her favorite assets.

Then, suddenly she dropped her pose and brightened. "I know you,"
she said. "You came down with the workers* caravan—"

"I need you," he interrupted throatily.

She met his gaze. He had beautiful eyes full of warmth and charm. "Of
course," she answered, remembering why she was there, why he was
there. Yet, there was more hope in her voice than seduction. She thought
briefly of the meal she would buy come morning, and maybe an apart-
ment. She hated sleeping in the alleys, constantly afraid. All she had to
do was please him, and that shouldn't be hard to do.

He had such beautiful eyes'

"Come with me," he said softly, holding out a hand.

She took it. His touch warmed her; his hand felt soft and uncalloused.
That puzzled her. If he was one of the workers sent to rebuild the wall
around Sanctuary his hand should have been rough. Yet, it pleased her
that it wasn't, and she pushed that concern aside. There was something
else she was supposed to think about, something she should say. What
was it?

"The cost . . ." she hesitated awkwardly, unsure of the usual charge.
"I mean. well, a sheboozh?" Oh, damn, she thought. That's far too much
for a common street whore. A whole gold coin!

But he moved his other hand close to her face. She caught just the flash
of the requested payment before he made a fist and the money disap-
peared,

Tiana couldn't believe her good fortune. Gold and beautiful eyes. The
gods were with her this night after all. He really did have the most
incredible gaze, full of oceans and full of darkness, full of promises.

"Come with me," he said again. His voice was the high wind, and
when he spoke no more she still heard his words. He was the sound of the
night.

She looked into his eyes. Hand in hand, they stepped from Sabellia's
garden niche and onto the pathway. Out of respect for the silence that
shrouded the park the gravel refused to crunch beneath their tread.

Unable to help herself, Tiana smiled.

The moonlight continued to shine on the small bust in the Promise of
Heaven.

Over the rest of Sanctuary, Darkness began to chew.

The full moon poured its radiance perfectly through the skylight above
Sabellia's altar, lending an opalescent sheen to the graceful sculpture of

UNEASY ALLIANCES

334

the goddess. Her flawless marble features shimmered as the smoke of
incense swirled upward from a score of braziers set in the floor at the
hem other skirts. It rose higher and higher like a wizards-weather mist,
caressed her sensuous curves, curled toward the silver disc and out into

the night.

Dayme looked up, seeking Sabellia's shadowed gaze. He knew she was
with him, present in this first full moonlight of autumn as it illumined her
altar. He felt her power, felt her touch upon his heart.

"Cheyne," he murmured as he knelt. "My Cheyne." He prayed no
other words aloud. He didn't need to. Sabellia knew him well. The god-
dess had set her mark upon his soul.

He reached inside his tunic and extracted a small bundle of white silk.
Carefully, he unrolled it. Several strands of fine blond hair gleamed in the
moonlight. A silver thread bound them into a delicate lock. How long
had he carried them in secret, those hairs stolen from her brush? Three

years? Four?

He laid his small offering on Sabellia's altar. It was not a gift of great

value, but it was very dear to him. The goddess asked no more.
Dayrne bowed his head. But suddenly prayers would not come.
Where had she gone, his Cheyne? Why hadn't she waited for him to

return with the One Hundred? He closed his eyes; it was easy to picture

her face when he closed his eyes. In the silent sanctity of the Rankan

temple he whispered her name.

Chenaya.

But in his heart he called her Cheyne, It was one of the names the
gladiators had given her in the Rankan arenas. Hard as metal they had
said of her. That wasn't true. She was tough, yes, but he had seen the
softness buried deep in her soul, the piece of her she kept hidden from the
world and from her father.

She was a child, sometimes. A spoiled child. Yet he loved her. Cheyne,
he thought. My Chain. Chain that binds me beyond reason. He shook his
head in a moment that was a mixture of pity and joy. Let me never be
free. He looked up at Sabellia's face. She seemed almost to mock him as
she peered down through the swirling incense, and he knew that was one
prayer the goddess had already answered.

But where had Chenaya gone?

He thought again of that strange portrait hanging in her room. The
power of it was startling, but though he admired the artistry, each time
he looked upon it a subtle fear tingled through his spine. Unmistakably,
it was Lalo's work. But when had she posed for it? Lowan Vigeles said
she had brought it home one night, shut herself in her room until dawn,

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN

335

and departed with the morning, saying nothing to anyone. Not even her
father knew more.

Dayrne suspected, however, that Rashan did. The old priest had made
a habit lately of going to Cheyne's room and staring at the portrait with
that queer smile of his, peering through half-closed lids at Chenaya's face
and the resplendent sun that framed her, seemed to caress her, an effect
that went far beyond mere paint and craftsmanship. Her hair flew into
fire and light; her eyes shone like tiny suns. Chenaya was beautiful be-
yond any woman he had ever known, but not even she was so glorious as
Lalo had rendered her.

Strange as those things were, though, there was something else that
stirred terror into his blood. The painting radiated a tangible warmth.

Could it be true what Rashan claimed? Was his Cheyne truly the
Daughter of the Sun? Or was it all some trick?

He turned his gaze back to Sabellia, who governed matters of the
heart. If Cheyne was a goddess or some avatar of Father Savankala, then
what hope could there be for any love between them?

He touched the few strands of hair he had placed on the altar- They
belonged to the goddess now. He bowed his head, uttered one last prayer,
and slowly rose to his feet.

The Temple of the Rankan Gods was quiet and dark. He shook his
head, feeling shame for his people. The construction of the temple had
never quite been completed. The outer shrines with altars for Savankala,
Sabellia, and Vashanka had been finished, but many of the inner ritual
chambers and priests' quarters were still in various stages of completion.
There should have been a festival in Sabellia's honor this night of nights.
Rashan had elected, instead, to take his priests and hold the ceremonies
at the smaller, private temple at Land's End which was not only com-
pleted, but sanctified. It didn't seem proper to Dayme, though. That
temple was Savankala's hallowed ground. This hour should belong only
to Sabellia.

Well, he was just a gladiator. What did he know of priestly affairs?

He walked through the temple, his sandals ringing softly on the
smooth stone floor. Lonely, troubled, he made his way outside, down the
high steps, and into the avenue.

The street appeared empty. It would be foolish, though, to rely on
appearances. Even with the street gangs smashed, there was still danger
in the Sanctuary nights. There were too damn many alleys and shadows
in this town. Sanctuary. He smirked, considering the name. As if a man
was safe from anything at this end of the empire.

He wrapped a lightweight cloak about his shoulders and moved sound-
lessly down the street. Like the rest of Sanctuary's citizens he, too, knew

336 UNEASY ALLIANCES

how to turn invisible, to become a shade or wraith, as he wandered the
darkness of Uptown. Cheyne would have mocked and teased him. She
would have strode brazenly down the center of the road. Unlike his
mistress, though, Dayme had no taste for confrontations.

He bit his lip and cursed her silently for leaving him behind. Where the
hell are you, Chenaya, he wondered bitterly. Then, thinking of Lalo's
painting. Who the hell are you?

Worry and confusion gnawed at his insides. Rashan, he thought, fur-
rowing his brow. He owed himself a long talk with that sunstruck priest.

Daphne worked the training machine with only the moon and a single
torch to see by. She leaped and dodged as four spinning wooden arms
swung at her head and knees. Sweat gleamed on her body, ran in free
rivulets down her throat and chest, down her arms into the hand that
held an immense sword. Once, the sword had been too heavy for her. No
longer.

For a time her mind was utterly free, devoid of thought or concern.
The smooth working of muscle, the stretch of tendon, the pulse of her
blood, the heat in her flesh—these were the only things that existed for
her. She breathed the cool air of night, felt the crunch of sand beneath
her sandals, listened to the rhythmic whoosh of the whirling machine.
Nothing else mattered for her.

But when the arms began to slow she stepped clear and drew a deep,
frustrated breath. Then, she leaned on her sword and looked around,
strangely aware of the silence and her aloneness. She would not have
called it loneliness.

A few lamps burned in the windows of the estate. In the opposite
direction a few more lights showed distantly where the new barracks had
been built at the easternmost wall of Land's End. Beyond the wall the sky
glowed redly with the bonfires that Rashan and his priests had made,
where they celebrated by Chenaya's temple on the shores of the Red
Foal.

She was alone as usual, on the outside looking in again. But it didn't
bother her. Practice was what mattered, and training and hard work.
Dayme would be angry if he knew she was out here so late, but she didn't
care. He was only her trainer, nothing more. He'd made that abundantly
clear. Her hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of her sword,
though, when she thought of him.

She didn't care, she didn't care at all. But she raised her weapon sud-
denly and carved a great chunk out of one of the machine's arms. The
breath hissed from her as she struck. Then, she stood for a moment and

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             337

trembled. It was not Dayrne, she told herself. It had nothing to do with
him.

It was that damned husband of hers.

Kadakithis had summoned her to the palace again. Again, he had
begged her for a divorce. Begged! A prince of Ranke! No matter that
divorce was forbidden among the Royal Family. Hell, he'd practically
crawled on his knees to convince her.

What had she ever seen in that man that had made her consent to
marriage? It certainly hadn't been his thin, spindly body or his face with
a chin that could stitch sailcloth, or that armor-piercing nose. It certainly
hadn't been the execrable poetry he once had written, or his mediocre
talent on the harp.

It sure as the gods hadn't been his fidelity. Why, the bastard had
stocked his larder with fresh meat almost before their wedding bed had
cooled. And when the Raggah kidnapped and sold her into slavery, did
Kadakithis come to rescue her? Hell and damnation, no! He'd curled up,
instead, with his pet fish, and left that task to Chenaya.

She carved two more chunks from the training-machine, uttering a
curse with each stroke. Damn it. Chenaya! (Thunk!) Why didn 't you lake
me. (Thunk!) with you, damn it!

It didn't matter that Dayme loved Chenaya, it really didn't. She
missed the blonde-haired little bitch. With all the new faces around
Land's End, all the recruits for Lowan's new school, Daphne wished for
someone to talk to. Chenaya was always best for that, though they usu-
ally only traded insults and catty comments. Still, there was a commu-
nion in that. Chenaya understood her, and as much as anyone could, she
thought she understood Chenaya. Everyone else was too much in awe of
Lowan's daughter. But not Daphne. Too often they'd looked each other
straight in the eye and muttered, "slut," or some such.

That made her smile.

That business with Zip, though, that hadn't gone down well for
Chenaya. She suspected that in the process of ridding Sanctuary of that
verminous street gang (laughingly called the Popular Front for the Liber-
ation of Sanctuary) Chenaya had lost part of her heart to the cutthroat
little back-stabber who called himself its leader. Just like her, Daphne
thought, to ignore a real man like Dayrne who cared for her and to fall
for a piece of puke.

Still, it was a damn good thing Chenaya had left town so soon after the
palace ambush. If she knew that Zip had been set free, or that her own
husband, that splinter of manhood, had elevated him to a position of
authority . . . Hell, even she burned when she thought about that.

How, she wondered, could Shupansea allow it? If she'd hated that

UNEASY ALLIANCES

338

carp-face before, Daphne had nothing but contempt remaining for the
Beysa. Her own people had suffered worst of all at Zip's hands. Daphne
remembered the massacre of so many Beysib near the Vulgar Unicorn.
Why didn't Shupansea? Wasn't she the real ruler of this city? How could
she allow Zip to live when Chenaya had practically poured his blood into
a cup for her to drink?

Daphne leaned on the machine and stared toward the red haze that
flickered against the vast eastern darkness. The noise ofRashan's celebra-
tion barely touched her ears.

Only days after that incident Chenaya had vanished. Reyk, her falcon,
rattled listlessly in his cage. Her father, Lowan, rattled around the halls
and corridors of Land's End, himself, like a caged bird, fretting in his
own quiet way.

Fortunately, he had matters to occupy his mind: the arrival of one
hundred of the empire's finest gladiators, the opening of his new school,
the construction of suitable barracks on the estate's northeast section,
with lumber transported all the way from Bhokar. And there were his
plans for the upcoming Festival of Man. All that kept him from worrying
too much about his daughter, and it gave him no time at all to visit the

palace.

But Daphne had been to the palace on three occasions of late. It galled
her to listen to Molin Torchholder and Tempus's crag-browed flunky—
What was his name, anyway? Shit or Spit or something like that—mut-
tering about Chenaya's treachery and Chenaya's scheming and
Chenaya's this or that.

Not that the two had seen her. Woe to any woman raised in a royal
household that never learned to listen at a keyhole or from behind an
arras, or that never learned to carry on one conversation while overhear-
ing another. Daphne had learned a lot on her three visits, and she swore
to leam more when she answered Kadakithis's latest summons.

Divorce was all he had on his mind these days.

Treachery. That's all Daphne had on hers. There was another traitor
that everyone seemed to conveniently overlook, a man who'd befriended
Chenaya, pretended to love her- He'd helped her shape the trap that had
netted Zip that night, and he'd killed piffles right at her mistress's side.

Then, he'd let Zip go, freed the piece of offal that—more than any man
in the world—he had reason to hate, cause to kill.

It made Daphne mad.

She reached out and gave the uppermost arm of the machine a push to
set it spinning. Gears began to whir, moving the lower arms in a timed
counter-rhythm. Daphne gripped her sword tightly, barely repressing a

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             339

curse. She prepared to leap into her practice again, then stopped. As a
perverse afterthought, she extinguished her torch in the sand.

She would try it without the light. She didn't need it anymore, she was
sure. She was better than her trainer realized, and getting better still. She
listened to the gears, to the whoosh of the arms. It was more of a chal-
lenge this way, but not much more. The moon was too full.

Leap and dodge, leap and dodge.

For a time, she abandoned thoughts of treachery and vengeance and
found calmness in the smooth mindkssness of motion.

But only for a time.

Dayrne crept across the Governor's Walk and proceeded up the Ave-
nue of Temples. Though a few lights burned in the windows of some of
the greater edifices he walked the streets alone. Or, if he was not alone,
then whoever else walked abroad moved as silently as he. In Sanctuary,
he was willing to concede that possibility.

He had planned to go straight home to Land's End. There was so
much to do these days with the One Hundred to organize and train. They
were good men. He'd personally handpicked every one of them. Their
first task upon arriving in Sanctuary had been to construct their own
barracks with the lumber Dayrne had purchased in Bhokar. That done,
he'd given them one day of rest in honor ofSabellia's celebration. Tomor-
row morning would be their first full workouts. He would supervise the
session himself.

Tonight, however, he wanted a good sleep.

Nevertheless, he slowed when he approached the eastern entrance to
the Promise of Heaven. Two stone pedestals high as his waist stood on
either side of the wide white-pebbled pathway. He hesitated, then moved
toward them and frowned. In Sabellia's blessed light he spied a flat black
stone upon the left post. Such stones washed up only on the banks of the
White Foal on the farther side of town.

It was a signal. He palmed the small bit of rock and walked stealthily
down the graveled path. He had gone less than ten paces when the smell
of a very cheap, but very potent, perfume brought him to a cautious halt.

A woman stepped out of the bushes that lined the pathway. She was
much too old for her chosen trade; only here in the Promise of Heaven
could she hope to make a living with what remained of her physical
charms. Men didn't come here for porcelain beauty, but for a few quick
grunts in the foliage. Still, she did the best with what she had.
Goldenwash made her hair too blond, and rouge made her cheeks far too
rosy. More rouge colored her breasts, and kohl darkened her lids in a
manner that was almost seductive.

UNEASY ALLIANCES

340

Her white dress floated about her as she moved forward. In the pale
moonlight it was nearly impossible to discern just how threadbare and
worn it really was. There was a certain sad beauty to it and to its wearer.

"Evening, Asphodel," Dayme said softly. "That perfume. I smelled
you before I saw you."

She approached him, grinning, and suddenly she didn't look quite so
old. The smile brightened her face, lent it youth. "Sarome's Night," she
informed him. "It's in my price range, and it comes by the keg." She ran
her fingertips lightly over the jerkin that covered his chest. "If it offends
your nostrils, my young friend, then buy me something more expensive."

He caught her wrist, held it for a moment, then lifted her hand to his
lips and kissed it. She giggled like a little girl, then pulled away. She
touched her own lips to the place where he had kissed, then turned her
hand over, opened her palm and exposed the black stone he had pressed
upon her.

"You wanted to see me," he reminded her gently.

Whore or not, Dayrne liked the old woman. He'd liked her since the
first time he'd caught her placing flowers against the main gate at Land's
End. Lots of the townsfolk had left flowers and small gifts there since
Cheyne smashed the PFLS. Especially, Dayme suspected, the prostitutes
whose trade that group had nearly ruined by their terrorizing of the

streets.

Asphodel, however, had brought more than just flowers to show her
gratitude. "Walegrin didn't take that bastard. Zip, to prison at all," she'd
revealed in her best conspiratorial whisper. "He let him go." It was the
first Dayme had heard ofWalegrin's betrayal, but he'd only just returned
to Sanctuary that same day with a hundred men and a missing Chenaya
to occupy his time. He'd thanked her for the information, but had taken
no other action.

A few nights later. Asphodel had sought him again outside the gate.
"There's a plot brewing in the palace," she'd reported. "Nothing is set,
yet, and the Prince isn't involved. But some high people want Rashan
dead real quick. They don't like his talk about the Lady Chenaya being a
goddess. Lots of folks are ready to believe it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dayme had asked suspiciously. "How
does a Promise Park whore come by such palace gossip?"

That was the first time he'd seen her smile. She'd leaned back against
the gate and struck a pose that might have tempted him had she been
twenty years younger.

"The ladies who work the park owe much to your Lady," Asphodel
had answered. "While Zip and his bloody little boys ran this end of town
our customers were afraid to venture out at night. But some of us have

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             341

children and families to feed. Without the coins we earn in the park we
couldn't afford food. Zip starved us as surely as if he stole the bread from
our mouths."

She struck another pose. Dayme realized with a faint grin that she
wasn't trying to seduce him at all. Her postures were, instead, matters of
long habit, totally unconscious. Long ago, this woman must have been
something very special, perhaps madam of her own house. Sadly, times
changed for everyone.

"There've been other things she's done. too," Asphodel had continued.
"Little things. Many a time your Chenaya has cut through the Promise
and scattered a few coins on the path. Oh, she always had a haughty air
about her, but those coins sometimes made the difference between a good
meal or none at all for someone's baby. We're a close-knit club, we
women who work the Promise, and we don't forget favors. Even if people
don't know they're doing us favors."

Dayme wished Chenaya could have heard those words, but she'd left
town too soon. "Such information . . ." he'd started to ask.

Asphodel smiled again and rumpled her hair absentmindedly. "How
does a common street whore come by such news?" She raised one finely
penciled eyebrow. "Sir, it would surprise you the kind of men who seek
us out. A fine, soft bed is, of course, a good thing." Her smile turned
mischievous, "But a tumble in the bushes, in the open air with the stars
overhead and the leaves rustling, a body with no discernible face, and the
wind in the crack of your ass. That's more than mere sex, Sir. That's an
adventure. And men both highborn and low sometimes find their lives
turning a bit stodgy. That's when they seek us out."

"And they talk?" Dayrne suggested, gleaning her subtleties.

Her smile faded only a little, replaced by an expression of wisdom and
the barest hint of regret. "Ever meet a man who didn't want the woman
he topped to know how important he was?"

They'd continued to talk through the night. As the first clouds of
morning caught fire in the east they'd parted, her with a full purse in her
bodice. She'd tried to refuse it, but Dayrne had insisted. They'd made a
pledge to help each other, and it came as no surprise to learn a few nights
later that she'd distributed his coins among all the women of the Prom-
ise.

The leather purse, though, that she'd kept for herself. She wore it on a
thong about her ample waist. As he watched, she opened it and deposited
the small black stone that was her means of summoning him. That stone
was the only clue Dayrne had as to where Asphodel spent her daylight
hours, and he guessed she lived close to the White Foal, perhaps in
Downwind.

342 UNEASY ALLIANCES

"Has Lady Chenaya returned home, yet?" Asphodel asked with genu-
ine concern.

Dayrne shook his head. "No word from her, either."

The old whore bit her lip. The gesture touched Dayrne, drew him even
closer to his new, unlikely friend.

He glanced up and down the walkway, making sure they were quite
alone. Then, he pulled her gently into the bushes. To his surprise, she
didn't make the expected suggestive remark. That told him something
was wrong.

"There's trouble?" he whispered, his hand still upon her arm.

She stared at his hand, then away into the dark. "I'm not sure," she
said at last. "Maybe I shouldn't bother you with it."

He let go a sigh. If she didn't want to bother him, then it didn't
concern Chenaya or Land's End. Still, he owed her. She had done
enough for him and those he cared for.

"Bother me," he answered, another suggestive opening that she let
pass. So it was big trouble.

Asphodel started to bite her nail, then pulled her finger away from her
mouth and folded her hands together. "Some of the ladies have disap-
peared," she murmured almost too faintly to be heard. Then, her voice
grew stronger. "One a night for over a week. And tonight . . ." she
hesitated and started to bite the nail again. Again, she caught herself. "A
new girl vanished. Sweet child, but a real novice. Her name was Tiana."

"Maybe she went home with a customer," Dayme suggested.

Asphodel shook her head. "Not likely. We're kind of a family here. We
adopt newcomers like Tiana and try to keep an eye on them." Uncon-
sciously, she raised a finger to her lips, inserted it, and bit the nail quite
through. She frowned, shook the finger and let go a sigh. "One moment,
she was working by the bust of Sabellia. The next, she was gone. Nobody
saw her leave. In fact, the park has been nearly deserted all night." She
pointed to the sky. "Full moon," she explained. "The brightness keeps
the customers away."

Dayrne rubbed his chin. "Are you sure they've disappeared? Maybe
they've found . . ." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "better
work. Or, maybe they're sick." He tried to think of other reasons a
prostitute might take a night off.

"I told you we're close as family," she repeated. "I went to their
homes, myself. Two of the ladies had children. Those little ones were all
alone. One was a babe, a half-starved suckling. I had to find places for
them all."

"Have you taken this matter to the garrison?"

She stared him right in the eye. It was a long, uncomfortable moment.

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN

343

"We're whores," she said at last. "This is the Promise." She didn't have
to say more than that.

Raggahs, he thought. Could they be back in the slave trade? He re-
membered Daphne's experience at their hands, how those desert bandits
had kidnapped and sold her into prostitution on Scavenger's Isle. The
Promise of Heaven would be easy pickings if those bastards had decided
to resume business.

If it was the Raggahs, though, then he had a personal stake in this.
Daphne was his pupil. An affront visited upon her was visited upon him
as well.

"Have any . . ." he searched for a delicate word, then shrugged help-
lessly, "bodies turned up?"

"No," she answered- "No traces at all. They simply vanished. Easy
enough to do in Sanctuary, and if it was just one or two girls I wouldn't
question. But one a night for more than a week?" She gazed around as if
she could see through the shrubs and bushes into every corner of the
park. Then, she raised the hem of her dress to reveal a small dagger
thrust through a garter on her right thigh. "My ladie? are scared. I'm
scared."

"I'll see what I can leam," he promised, unsure of what exactly to do.
He pursed his lips, then drew a deep breath. "Anything else?"

She also took a breath and let it out slowly. "Just gossip. All those
workers who've moved into Shambles' Cross are causing quite a stir.
Trouble-making bunch of misfits, all seeking a quick fortune. They like to
rough a lady up a bit, you know9 They try it up here, and they'll be
sorrier than hell." She patted her weapon through the thin dress.

"Doesn't that scare away your customers?" he wondered, amused.

"Easy enough to hide it in this darkness," she answered, grinning
weakly. "But it's always within reach."

They stepped out of the foliage and onto the walkway. Once more,
Dayme caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. "I'll try to
help," he promised again before he turned away. He glanced over his
shoulder, but she didn't follow. When he turned a second time she was
gone. Asphodel knew the park far better than he did.

Sanctuary, he thought. The Promise of Heaven. So many funny names
for a town with no sense of humor.

Sunlight shimmered around Daphne as she stepped from her silk pa-
lanquin at the Processional Gate. She had prepared for this meeting,
dressing in her favorite gown of exquisite blue. It split enticingly to her
right hip and draped low, just covering her breasts, leaving both arms
bare. She had spent much of the morning piling her hair upon her head,

344 UNEASY ALLIANCES

pinning it in place with pins of gold and polished oyster shell. Small silver
sandals adorned her feet. A perfume of rare citrus floated about her.

She was not so stunning as Chenaya, but she was beautiful. And before
she granted him any divorce, Kadakithis would acknowledge that. So
would Shupansea, the woman who wanted her place at his side.

She turned to Leyn and Ouijen who manned the front poles of her
transport. "Thank you, brothers," she said formally to the two gladia-
tors. They had helped often with her training, and she bore them great
respect. It delighted her heart that they had volunteered to bear her
today. The two at the rear poles were new men. She didn't know their
names, but if Dayme had chosen them they also deserved her respect.
She made a short bow. "Thank you for this honor you've done me."

"We'll wait here," Leyn said. Then, he put on a grin. "Give 'em a taste
of hell."

He was a beautiful man, blessed by Savankala with the same golden
hair as Chenaya, tall and strong with the classically sculpted body that
only a gladiator's training seemed to give. She looked into his richly blue
eyes and smiled half-sadly. Why was it not Leyn she loved?

"I'll try not to leave you long in this sun," she answered. "And a taste
of hell? I'll serve them a gods-damned banquet." She made an ugly face
that instantly transformed to an expression of innocence. "Of course, I'm
just a sweet, boring little princess of Ranke." But as she said it, she drew
a finger across her throat and turned thumbs down with the other hand.

They laughed together, startling passersby who moved along the Pro-
cessional on their morning business. Then, Daphne passed alone through
the gate, crossed Vashanka's Square, and entered the Hall of Justice.

The hall was empty. Kadakithis had given up any real pretense of
governing the city, himself- He rarely held court at all- She paused at the
bottom step of a high dais. At its top rested the throne from which the
prince once had delivered his judgments.

For a moment her resolve faltered. She sank down on one knee, staring
upward, recalling how she had first arrived in this gods-cursed city with
her husband. Kadakithis had been so full of ideals then—almost bloated
with plans and schemes to improve this filthy city his halfbrother, the
emperor Abakithis, had given into his care. She had loved him at that
time, even forgiven him for the harem he had brought along from Ranke.
And she, too, had shared his ideals and dreams. Most of all, she had
rejoiced at the changes that command had seemed to make in him.

But none of it had lasted. The ideals were shattered and scattered into
dust. Kadakithis had so easily relinquished his command, first to
Shupansea and her Beysibs, and then to Molin Torchholder and his cro-

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             345

nies. She grieved for the Kadakithis that had journeyed—an enthusiastic
boy-man—to this city. She despised the Kadakithis he had become.

It was not his fault, of course. It was the city. Sanctuary corrupted
from the inside out. First, it shattered your ideals, then it ground your
face against the broken edges, held you down with its foot on your neck
until you no longer felt the pain. Until you were just numb.

She was proof of that. A once-delicate princess who lived, ate, slept
like a gladiator, who cursed like a street whore, who had killed and
reveled in the flow of blood. Oh, Sanctuary had worked its brutal magic
on her.

Daphne rose from the step, passed through the rearmost door meant
only for the prince and his entourage, and into the palace proper. She did
not see Lu-Broca, the major domo, anywhere, so she grabbed the arm of
the first guard that crossed her path. "There are four good men outside
the Processional Gate." She saw by the gleam in his eyes that even a mere
palace guard knew who she was, and she smiled inwardly- Intimidation
came so easily to her these days. "You, personally, will take them the best
goblets and the finest vintage wine you can beg, borrow, or steal from the
kitchens. Fail me in this—" She patted his shoulder and winked, "Well,
don't fail me." She had his dagger from his belt sheath and under his chin
before he could draw a breath. "Oops!" she said, passing it back by the
point. "You nearly dropped this."

She walked serenely down the corridor, leaving him. Neither Rankan
guard nor Beysib dared to bar her way. They knew her. Princess Daphne,
who once had dared to call their Beysa a whore to her face and laughed
about it before all the city's gathered nobility. They hated her, but they
accorded her a measure of awe, perhaps because not even their fish-
goddess, Mother Bey, had dared to strike her down.

Or, perhaps that was only her imagination. Sometimes her mind ran
away with her. She couldn't really guess what they thought other, Beysib
or Rankan. Nor did she care. It was Chenaya she strove to please, and
Dayme and Lowan Vigeles. And herself. Beyond that, she no longer gave
a damn about Ranke or the Beysibs or Kadakithis.

Her loyalty was to Land's End. Chenaya had rescued her from Scaven-
gers' Isle, and Lowan had offered her a home. Dayme and his gladiators
had put strength in her arm, courage in her heart, and a sword in her
hand. To them she owed loyalty and love. Anyone else was less than the
dirt under her sandaled feet.

She found Kadakithis in his private quarters. It amused her that he
thought such intimate surroundings could sway her decision. Well, let
him keep his littie vanities a while longer. A guard stood by his door,

346 UNEASY ALLIANCES

opened it for her, and remained at her side until the Prince stepped
through a curtained archway.

Kadakithis smiled his most reasonable smile.

Daphne stifled a sigh. He was still in so many ways the boy she had
once loved. He had the same babyish face, the same hair, same thin and
spotty beard that probably would never become a man's full mane. He
was too scrawny, a mere stick beside Dayrne or Leyn. Yet, she had truly
loved him.

No more, though. He had killed that love when the Raggah kidnapped
her. Kadakithis hadn't even bothered to look for her or to wonder about
her fate. And when she did return—thanks to Chenaya—she had found
him with another woman. Hardly a woman at all, but a fish-eyed carp.

She didn't know if she hated him. But he had hurt her. She wanted to
hurt him back.

"Daphne!" Kadakithis exclaimed. "You look positively radiant."

She folded her arms and waited for him to come to her. "Flatter me
some more, Kitty-Kat," she encouraged him coldly. "Maybe it'll make
me more pliant, and I'll give you what we both know you want."

He reached out to her, and she suffered his touch. His fingers brushed
over her bicep. "By the Golden Crown of Savankala," he whispered in
his best chiding tone, "if your father knew you were working out with a
bunch of gladiators!" He squeezed her muscle. "Why it's bigger than
mine!"

"Yours was never very big, husband," she answered caustically. "But
we both pretended." She changed the subject. "Is Shu-sea hiding behind
that curtain?"

The Prince paled briefly and looked back over his shoulder to the
archway. "Of course not. We're completely alone."

He never had been much of a liar, not to her, anyway. "Too bad," she
said and paced away from him to the far side of the room. "Because I
know she'd like to hear my news. I've decided to give you the divorce
you've been begging for."

If she hadn't hated him before, that changed instantly. His face bright-
ened; the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile, and he almost
clapped his hands together for joy. Then, he caught himself.

"It's against Rankan Law," she reminded him. "We're both of Royal
Families. But let's admit it, my love, we're so far outside Rankan tradi-
tion that it doesn't matter spit or blood what we do. The throne belongs
to a usurper now, damn Theron's soul. Your loyalty is to your Beysib
allies, and mine is to Chenaya and Land's End. You're no more a Pankan
prince than I am a princess. I'm a gladiator now, an auctorata.

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             347

You . . ." she hesitated, then gave him her most withering look. "You're
a plaything for Shupansea and a puppet for Molin Torchholder."

Kadakithis came toward her, his arms outstretched. "Daphne, I'm
sorry. I never expected—"

She waved him off, and again crossed to the farthest side of the room
away from him. "Spare me any more of your winnings, Kitty-Kat." She
knew how he hated that name. "You never expected me to be so reason-
able? So generous as to give you the divorce? Or such a bitch?" She threw
back her head and laughed, pleased by the effect it had on her weakling
mate. "Well, I don't intend to disappoint you, darling." She felt the heat
rise in her cheeks, though she tried to smother her anger. "I'm not going
to be reasonable or generous. I am going to show you what a bitch I
really can be."

He stared, apparently at a loss for words. She found him funny as he
stood there, mouth agape. He persisted in thinking of her as the sweet,
demure child he had taken for his bride, the child who'd loved and
obeyed him and had never said a word about his philandering or his
spineless scraping before his brother, Abakithis.

That Daphne was dead. The Raggah and the filth who lived on Scav-
engers* Isle had killed her.

"You want your divorce? You want to marry your fish-faced lover?"
She laughed again. "You can, my Kitty-Kat." She pointed a trembling
finger and released emotions too long held inside her. The bastard! He
hadn't even tried to find her! "But there's a price to pay, first." Her lips
curled ferally. "There's always a price."

"Anything!" Kadakithis stuttered. "Just tell me—"

She interrupted him. "Oh, you'll regret that word. But not so fast,
former love of my life. This is my last grandstand as your wife, and I
want a handpicked audience. Only then will you leam the terms of our
divorce."

Kadakithis's face turned stony. He glared at her. "Is this another game
you're playing?"

If she'd had something close at hand she'd have thrown it at him. In
fact, she wondered now if he'd had the room cleared just to avoid such an
incident. It was remarkably bare of small objects. "Of course, it's a
game," she answered, recovering a measure of calm. "You poor boy. Will
you ever grow up and open your eyes? It's all a gods-damned game.
You'd better learn to play, instead of hiding here behind your nice safe
walls. As it is, you're nothing but a pawn for Shupansea and Molin. Be a
player, damn you! For once in your innocent, naive life open your eyes
and be a man! Until you manage that nothing here will ever truly be
yours. Not this city, not Shu-sea, nothing."

348 UNEASY ALLIANCES

He trembled visibly. She saw that from across the room, but strangely
she found little joy in her triumph. She knew few people had ever dared
to talk to him that way, or dared to tell him such a truth.

"Your audience," he reminded her. He could barely get out the words;

his lips made a thin, taut line, and his eyes were narrowed slits.

Daphne drew a slow breath, her anger finally spent. She had not real-
ized the depth of the bitterness she'd harbored against her husband. But
that was suddenly gone, at least for the moment. There was still the
purpose though—the reason she'd decided to grant the divorce.

"You," she said softly, "and Shupansea, and Molin." She raised a
finger for each name. Lastly she lifted the little finger of her right hand.
"But most importantly, our dear garrison commander."

The Prince raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Walegrin?"

She allowed a small, cruel smile. "His fame precedes him, does it not?
My terms will be of special interest to sweet Walegrin."

There was no love in the look he gave her, no regret. A shared past,
shared dreams and ideals, they meant nothing to him anymore. He
wanted only his divorce, and as quickly as possible, she saw that in his
gaze. The chill in his voice made even Savankala turn his head away, and
the room grew darker as, beyond the window, a cloud passed over the
sun. "When and where do we play your game?" he said.

There was only one place. "The Hall of Justice," she answered. "To-
morrow. You can sweat for a while wondering what I'm planning."

Kadakithis folded his arms over his chest. "Then the gods be with us
all."

She spat on his lovely, marbled floor. "Don't blaspheme," she advised
acidly. "The gods have nothing to do with this business."

She left him then, passing within a hand's breadth of him on her way
to the door. She smelled his essence and the clean crispness of his gar-
ments. She felt the warmth of him they passed so closely. But she gave
him not another glance. She was numb, she told herself, numb.

In a strange kind of serenity she walked through the palace, through
the Hall of Justice, and across Vashanka's Square. Her palanquin and her
friends waited at the Processional Gate. They hailed her as she joined
them. Each man held a fine silver goblet.

"We sent the wine back," Leyn informed her, "and requested water,
instead. There's still a day's training ahead of us when we get back to
Land's End."

She didn't have it in her to smile. She parted the curtains of her trans-
port and climbed inside. "Take me home, Leyn," she whispered. "Please
take me home." She let the drape fall between her and the rest of the
world and did her best to smother the sounds of her tears.

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN              349

Dayrne fed scraps of freshly killed meat to Chenaya's falcon. Reyk was
reluctant to feed, however. The bird took the bits, chewed them briefly,
and dropped them to the bottom of his cage. He emitted a long, shrill
call, spread his wings to their fullest, then folded them again. He crawled
into one comer, finally, and turned away from his feeder.

Dayrne gave up. He set the bowl inside the cage where Reyk could
reach it if he changed his mind.

"He misses Chenaya."

Dayrne looked around. He hadn't even heard Daphne approach. A
frown creased his lips. Didn't she ever wear anything but her training
garb anymore?

"You're armed," she noticed. "Going out?"

He glanced at the sky. Twilight crept slowly over the heavens. It would
be dark soon. Asphodel would be in the Promise like a mother hen
protecting her clutch. He remembered the small dagger she wore in her
garter and smiled grimly. If the Raggah were involved, she'd need a hell
of a lot more than that.

"Personal business," he told Daphne. He turned and walked through
the aviary, paying no attention to the other falcons in their cages. Birds
were Lowan's hobby, not his.

Daphne kept pace beside him as he headed for the estate. "Let me
help," she offered.

Dayme paused. If there were Raggah to hunt, didn't Daphne have the
right to join him? He shook his head. Despite all her training and skill,
she was a princess of Ranke. He had no right to risk her safety. Besides,
he had no proof that the Raggah were his prey. Only a suspicion.

"Personal," he repeated. He increased the length of his stride, leaving
her behind. She didn't try to keep up, but stopped instead and glared. He
could feel the power of her anger at his back.

The twelve original gladiators who had accompanied Lowan Vigeles to
Sanctuary had all been quartered within the estate. Two were dead; they
were only ten now, but his grief was eased by the knowledge that his
brothers had died bringing an end to Zip's tyranny. There was honor in
that, so their deaths were good-
He sought Dismas and Gestus in the rooms they shared. Dismas was
curled on the edge of the bed with a book of poems. His lover, Gestus,
busied himself with a whetstone and a favored dagger. They looked up
when Dayme entered.

"I'll be gone most of the night," he said softly. "Perhaps for the next

UNEASY ALLIANCES

350

few nights as well. I'd like it if the two of you took charge of the watch
tonight. Double the guards on all the other gates, too."

Dismas closed his book. "Expecting trouble?"

"In this town?" He didn't need to say more. His comrades set aside
their diversions and rose to follow him out.

"I won't ask your business," Dismas said as they closed the door
behind them. "But do you need any help?"

"Personal," Dayme answered as he had to Daphne. Among the ten no
other explanation was ever necessary. They were all auctorati, free fight-
ers, at liberty to come and go as they pleased.

He left them, strode through the estate and out to the main gates. Leyn
and a dark-haired giant named Dendur, one of the new recruits, stood
duty. He exchanged a few words, then passed into the street.

The entrance to the Promise was as dark as ever. There was no stone
waiting on the pillar for him, though. It didn't matter; he didn't plan to
let Asphodel know he was here. He stole into the bushes and glanced at
the sky again. One night past full moon, Sabellia still filled the world with
her pleasure.

Light enough to see by—enough light to be seen.

He crouched lower and began to move.

The Promise of Heaven was a large park, triangular in shape. Three
entrances and three main walkways welcomed visitors, but dozens of
smaller trails snaked among the trees and foliage. All along these trails in
small, secluded niches stood pillared busts and statues, little shrines to all
the various gods and goddesses that had ever been worshipped in Sanctu-
ary, each cared for by their various priests.

By daytime, the park was the shaded haunt of those priests and their
acolytes, of philosophers and their students. It was a school where
learned men met to share discourse, where supplicants sometimes came

to pray.
By night, however, the niches belonged to the prostitutes—and to their

supplicants who came to play.

Or prey, Dayme reminded himself as he crept from place to place.
Here and there, a giggle rose on the breeze. Here and there, the sounds of
quick and furtive lovemaking. Dayrne was above embarrassment. He
went about his search with a singleness of mind.
Sabellia sailed serenely through the night, marking the time.
He wasn't sure when he first felt eyes upon his back. He realized only
that someone watched him, someone as quiet and subtle as he. He moved
to his right, and they moved with him. He circled left, and they followed.
Oh, they were good, indeed! Whoever his companion was, he couldn't
spot him. But he knew someone was there.

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             351

He headed for the idol of the Ilsigi goddess, Shipri. A large niche, he
remembered. There would be plenty of moonlight. If he was clever, he
might lure his tag-a-long into that brightness. He fingered the pommel of
his sword and pressed on.

Then, he cursed. There were voices in the niche. Of course, there
would be! Shipri was a goddess of love and motherhood. What better
place for a prostitute to set up shop? He parted the bushes for a look.

The voices stopped suddenly. At first, he feared he had been seen. But
neither the man nor the woman there turned his way. Indeed, their eyes
never seemed to move at all. After a moment, the man resumed the
conversation, but the woman gave no answer. She didn't speak a word.
Neither did her gaze leave her partner's face.

An alarm jangled in Dayrne's head. He peered closer at the black-
cloaked man, unable to tell much about him save his height. A hood
concealed his features, also any weapons he bore. But he was tall, much
too tall for a Raggah. And he spoke Rankene.

"Come with me," the man said, crooking his finger. The prostitute
smiled and fell into step beside her suitor. They left the niche and walked
down the pebbled path.

Their tread made no sound!

Almost, Dayrne leaped from his hiding place, drawing his sword. Sor-
cery! If he struck swiftly, the fiend might not have time to react. A clean
stroke through the neck—separate the head from the body—that was the
best way to kill a wizard.

But he stopped himself. That might save this lady, but what of the
other missing whores? He owed it to Asphodel to try and find them. He
didn't relish the task, and he cursed his own sense of loyalty. Still, he
owed. There was no more to be said about it. Of one thing he was sure,
though. This villain was no Raggah.

Dayrne followed the pair. Apparently, the wizard knew the park well.
Shipri's grove was isolated in a little-traveled area of the Promise. The
walkways were empty. They wove a careful course toward the high wall
at the southeast corner. Dayrne rubbed his chin. He'd expected them to
make for one of the entrances. Where could they be going?

In the very corner where the two walls joined stood one of the tallest of
the park's god-sculptures. Dayrne ducked behind a shrub while the wiz-
ard and his catch approached the Father of the Ilsigi pantheon, mighty
Us.

The wizard left the prostitute in the god's shadow while he went to the
jointure of the walls. He put his left hand on a certain brick about shoul-
der high in the east face. His right found another brick in the south face

UNEASY ALLIANCES

352

at belly level. The two bricks were barely within his reach, and he
strained to press them inward.

Dayme heard a grinding of stone against stone as the statue of Us
moved on its base.

The wizard crooked a finger, and the prostitute went to his side. He led
her down into a black crack at the idol's feet and the darkness swallowed
them. Dayrne bit his lip. She'd gone like a sheep to slaughter, without
protest, smiling as if she'd smoked a whole bag of krrff.

Again came that grating sound, and the pit suddenly sealed. Dayrne
leaped out of his concealment and raced to the wall. Which were the
right stones? He strove to remember. He was taller than the wizard, and
his arms were longer. He chose a pair and pressed. Nothing happened.
He tried again. Still nothing. He was sure he had the correct left-hand
brick. But which was the right?

Suddenly, Us moved. Dayme thanked his own gods, stepped to the
edge of the opening and looked down. A set of stone steps descended into
utter blackness. He spent only an instant wishing for a lamp or a torch,
then took the first step.

The air was oppressive and stale. He glanced back upward at the
square of moonlight and drew a final fresh breath. He didn't take time to
search for the closing mechanism, but drew his sword and began to feel
his way forward, brushing one hand along the slime-slicked wall.

The tunnel led in only one direction. He'd heard rumors of such tun-
nels, but all reports had confined them to the Maze. Apparently the
reports were wrong.

The darkness made him pause. It was worse than being blind because
he knew that he could see. His eyes were wide open, shifting from side to
side, straining for some object or bit of light to fasten onto. His heart
thundered in his ribs. Still, he pushed on, mindful of the promise he'd
made to Asphodel.

A web draped over his head. He opened his mouth, a shout rising in
his throat. Barely, he choked it back, and he rubbed his sleeve over his
face in a frantic haste to free himself from the sticky strands.

Now, how in hell had that damn wizard dodged that?

He crept on, all too aware of the closeness of the walls, of the weight of
the earth over his head.

Then—was that a light?

He moved a little faster, careful still to make no sound. The tiny spot
of light became a flame in the distance, then a sconced lamp with another
just beyond it. Dayme hovered at the edge of the darkness and listened.

A low voice rode on the stagnant air. Impossible to distirguish the
words, but by the rhythms and stresses, Dayme thought it some kind of

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN            353

chant. He saw nothing ahead, though, so pressing against the wall, he
ventured on into the light.

He stopped again. A too-familiar scent wafted through the tunnel.
Dayme sniffed. His brows knitted together for an instant, and he
clenched the hilt of his sword.

A death smell hung in the air, the unmistakable odor of rotting flesh.
Too many years in the Rankan arenas as a slave and as an auctoratus had
made him familiar with that stench. Gritting his teeth, trying not to
breathe too often or too deeply, he followed the scent and the voice.

A shriek ripped through the tunnel. The fine hairs on Dayme's neck
rose straight up. A woman's voice! Another cry echoed after the first,
then a pause, and a long series of screams and broken sobbings.

Dayme abandoned stealth and ran forward. The chant had risen to
match the intensity of the screams. A mad cacophony of sound swirled
around him. He ran wide-eyed and fearful, yet the fear did not stop him.
It drew him, instead, until he found the entrance to a side room off the
tunnel.

He realized at once the tunnel's original purpose. He was surely close
to the palace by now, and this was an old escape route used in times of
emergency, built by the Ilsigs, perhaps still unknown to the current
Rankan occupants. The side room was full of empty weapon racks where
fleeing men might once had grabbed swords before emerging above-
ground in the Promise.

But not all his arena experience had prepared him for the rest of the
sight.

In the light of a dozen oil lamps Dayme saw the bodies of Asphodel's
missing prostitutes. They hung by their necks from metal spikes driven
deep into the walls, twisted ropes biting through the bloated flesh of their
throats. Plainly, though, they had been killed before they were hanged.

The first few women had merely been stabbed through the hearts. The
purpled, crusted wounds showed visibly on their bare breasts. The next
one had been disemboweled; the flesh of her belly had been peeled back
to reveal emptiness; she looked like nothing more than a gutted fish. The
mutilations grew progressively more cruel. The skin and muscle had been
sliced from one, leaving the organs in full view. Another had been left
relatively intact with only dark holes showing where the organs had been
removed. On yet another body the visible veins and arteries had been
precisely, surgically opened, making a strange and gruesome mapwork.

Blood had stained the wall a nauseating color where the corpses hung.
Old puddles and rivulets of blood had dried and crusted on the floor
beneath them.

Dayme reeled at the insanity of it.

354 UNEASY ALLIANCES

He fixed his eyes on the center of the room. Bound upon a cross-
shaped altar a woman screamed again, her terror filling the chamber and
the tunnel beyond. It was the whore he'd followed from Shipri's niche.
Whatever entrancement her captor had placed upon her had faded. Her
feet and wrists bled as she struggled in her ropes.

At her head stood her captor. The wizard's eyes snapped open and
fixed suddenly on Dayrne. The chant died in his throat. The gleaming
knife he'd brandished over the prostitute turned point first toward the
gladiator, and he snatched a second dagger from a table of instruments
close at hand.

Outrage smothered any thought of fear. Dayrne started across the
room, raising his sword. The wizard stepped swiftly to the altar's far side,
putting his victim between himself and his unexpected attacker. As he
moved he brought the points of his two blades together and barked a
short command in a language Dayrne didn't know.

A pain stabbed the gladiator's heart. The breath rushed from him, and
he clenched his teeth. Still he forced another step forward, fighting the
sudden agony. The pain struck him again, and as he took another step,
yet again stronger than ever. His knees buckled; the arcane fire in his
chest consumed his strength. A red tide flooded his vision. His fingers
trembled with seizure on the hilt of his sword.

He forced his head up, expecting a death stroke from one of the dag-
gers. The wizard had felled him easily; Dayrne was helpless at that mo-
ment. Yet, his foe kept his place behind the altar and his victim.

Then, Dayrne saw fear, not triumph, on his foe's face.

Fighting the pain, he crawled back toward the entrance. With each
retreating step the pressure on his heart lessened. He leaned on the jamb
and slowly pulled himself to his feet, gasping for one good breath.

The wizard lowered his blades. A fine sweat sheened on his brow, and
the glow of the oil lamps lent him a strange countenance.

Still, the fear was unmistakable; Dayrne saw it in those dark. deep-set
eyes.

The prostitute cried piteously. "Help me'" she begged Dayrne. "Don't
let him kill me, I'm with child!"

Dayrne stayed by the door. He needed a moment to recover his
strength and to think. For all the wizard's apparent power, he feared
Dayrne. Why?

"Don't just stand there like a worthless eunuch!" the whore shouted
when her rescuer didn't move. "He's going to—"

The wizard frowned and touched her temple with one finger. Her head
sagged back before she could say another word. Her eyes fluttered shut.
She sighed, then went limp.

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             355

But almost instantly, her lids snapped open again. She screamed and
cowered away from the wizard's hand as far as her bonds allowed.

The wizard roared in frustration, grasped both his blades in his right
hand, and seized the woman's hair in his left- He jerked her head up then
sharply down on the altar. She let go a short gasp as her eyes rolled and
closed. A fine trickle of blood oozed down the cross under her head and
dripped to the floor.

"I get so tired of the noise," the wizard said in exasperation.

Dayrne leaped across the threshold, but his foe was just as fast. Again
the points of the blades touched, and again he shouted in that strange
tongue.

Dayrne screamed as fire exploded in his chest and a rush of tears half-
blinded him. But he kept his feet and flung himself at the altar. Wide-
eyed, the wizard sprang back against the wall, clutching the daggers in
shivering hands.

"Whatever god has siphoned my power, I've still more than enough
for you," the wizard hissed. But his voice quavered.

Dayme sprawled over the altar and over the woman's limp form, his
fingers clutching her thighs for support. He sucked for air to relieve his
tortured lungs and tried to fight the weakness that numbed his limbs. He
lunged with the point of his sword, but his strength faded too swiftly, and
his foe retreated beyond his reach.

The wizard flattened against the wall, and his fear was a tangible force.
Then, fear turned to anger as he realized Dayrne's impotence. "All the
way from Carronne I came to this miserable dung-hole!" He was still
careful to keep his blades touching and pointed at the gladiator. "The
tales had reached even that far of the strange affairs transpiring here,
stories of gods and demons and dead souls that walked the streets.
Clearly, there was power here for the taking, and who deserved it more
than I? So I came disguised as one of the laborers who build your walls."

Dayrne hissed through his teeth, barely able to form words. "Human
sacrifice? Never in our empire—not even in this rotten town!" He tried to
glance over his shoulder, wondering if he could make it back to the safety
of the entrance where the wizard's spell didn't reach. But he knew that
was useless. It was a struggle even to raise up on one elbow and look his
foe in the eye.

"The sacrifices are to placate whatever god has stolen my magic!" The
wizard dared to come closer. "In Carronne I was a hazard-class magician
—curse the fate that brought me here! My simplest spells go completely
awry. All those stories of power—there must be some secret!"

"No secret," Dayme managed. "Go back to Carronne." He dragged
one foot, then the other, under himself and tried to stand. It was useless.

356 UNEASY ALLIANCES

His heart hammered against his ribs; the room spun crazily. The wizard's
face swam out of focus. "Tasfalen's,"—he fought to get the words out—
"magic burned out!"

But the wizard didn't hear or didn't understand. "I'll find the god who
has cursed me and broken my skill and offer blood to appease him, until
I'm strong again—strong enough to break your secret and seize the
magic that pervades this city!"

Another voice called suddenly from the entrance. "It's always good to
have dreams." Dayrne recognized it immediately and turned to shout a
warning. All he managed to do was fall. Daphne didn't spare him a
glance. "Have a long one in your death sleep." Her dagger flashed across
the space.

The wizard cried out and bounced against the wall, clutching his
shoulder. When he straightened. Daphne's blade protruded near his col-
lar bone. A wet stain blossomed rapidly on his dark garment. Still, he
managed to lift his own daggers and slam the points together and breathe
his Word of Power.

Dayme thought his heart would burst. From the comer of his eye he
saw Daphne double over as she stepped across the threshold with drawn
sword. The weapon tumbled from her grip-
But then, impossibly, she began to laugh. She straightened, threw back
her head and let the mirth flow from her lips. She looked around for her
sword, but as she bent to retrieve it she tripped on her own foot and fell,
only to clamber up again laughing.

Dayrne felt it, too- The hand that squeezed his heart began, instead, to
tickle it. His pain turned slowly into renewed energy. Strength flooded
his limbs. He chuckled. Then, uncontrollably, he laughed. He looked at
the bodies suspended on the walls, at the prostitute bound to the cross, at
the astonished expression on the wizard's face.

It was all so funny!

The wizard smashed his daggers together, cursing, and stamped his
foot. With a bellow he struck them once more. The blades shattered
under the impact, and the pieces fell at his feet. His face paled, and his
mouth gaped. Then, gathering his robes about him, he raced from the
room and into the tunnel.

Daphne shot out a foot as if to trip him, but he was already gone. She
rolled kittenlike onto her back, clutched her stomach and howled.

Moments passed before the twisted spell dissolved. Dayme got to his
feet, wiping spittle from his chin. He sheathed his sword and turned to
help the princess.

But Daphne rose on her own. "If you breathe a word of this," she
threatened, red-faced, "I'll wear your mouth for a garter."

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN              357

"Just see to that one," he snapped, pointing to the prostitute on the
altar. "Later we'll talk about your following me. I told you this was
personal business."

She put a hand on his chest before he could pass her. "You're my
business," she answered stubbornly, her gaze hard and glittering. "Good
trainers are rare."

He regarded her for an instant, then remembered the wizard. "We'll
talk," he said, and he ran into the tunnel.

The echo of fleeing footsteps sounded from the direction of the Prom-
ise. Dayrne sped after, drawing his blade once again. He quickly passed
the final lamp and plunged ahead. The darkness, though, forced him to
slow. He put a hand to the wall and hurried as rapidly as he dared,
cursing under his breath.

The wizard's footsteps faded. Had he reached the tunnel's end at the
shrine of Us? If he had emerged, Dayme knew he might never find him.

His answer came as he spied the shaft of moonlight that lanced the
blackness. But strange sounds wafted through the opening, swelling as he
approached—shouts and curses, high, frantic voices:

Dayrne raced toward the moonlight. It had to be the prostitutes! He
took the steps two at a time and ascended into open air.

The women of the Promise surrounded the wizard in a wide ring. He
spun in confusion, weakling brandishing Daphne's dagger. It gleamed
wetly with his blood. The whores, too, waved daggers, the small weapons
they wore in their garters. Still, they didn't know their foe's power!

Dayme tried to warn them. "Asphodel!"

At his shout, the wizard whirled. Their eyes met for an instant. Hatred
and anger burned in that furious gaze, and Dayme felt a force reach out
for him.

The prostitutes saw their chance. They fell on the wizard, hacking and
stabbing with their tiny blades. Arms rose and plunged with frantic out-
rage and swiftly blackened with the blood of their stalker.

Dayme could only stare as the wizard sank under the onslaught. The
women did not stop. They stabbed and stabbed, giving release to all the
rage and terror they had lived with the past nights. Then, Asphodel
stepped back gasping and wide-eyed, her white dress a stained ruin.
Dayme went slowly to her side.

"Who was he?" she asked, barely able to speak as she trembled.

She might have been a spectre that haunted the park the way she
looked. Dayme wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and patted back
the hair that had fallen around her face. "He came from Carronne," he
finally answered. "I never learned his name."

Asphodel sighed and looked over her shoulder. The whores stood

358 UNEASY ALLIANCES

away from their grisly work. Pieces of the corpse lay hacked and scat-
tered around their feet. The women stared from one to the other with
expressions that betrayed confusion in some, fury and vindication in oth-
ers. One by one they drifted back into the bushes. From somewhere in the
foliage came the sound of weeping.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Asphodel said. "One of my ladies found
this opening, and we waited to see who came out. I knew it had some-
thing to do with my missing ones." She sighed again and peered into the
tunnel's gloom. "They're dead, aren't they, Tiana and all the rest?"

He nodded quietly. "All but the one he took tonight. She's still alive,
though somewhat battered."

Daphne chose that moment to emerge from the opening with the pros-
titute slung over her shoulder. She dumped her burden unceremoniously
in the grass.

Dayrne frowned and knelt beside the woman. "He didn't hit her that
hard. She should have come around by now,"

Daphne spat. "She did. Then, she took a good look at—" the one-time
princess, hesitated, looked at Asphodel, and spoke more softly. "She saw
her friends and realized how close she'd come to joining them." Daphne
shrugged and cocked her head to one side. "She fainted."

Asphodel glanced from Dayme to Daphne and back again. She real-
ized who the princess had meant, and that the younger woman had tried
to spare her some horror. Her old eyes misted over, but she blinked back
any tears-

"Some of my brothers will bring them up in the morning," Dayme
said gently. "There's no need for you to see them the way they are."

"They're family," Asphodel answered. She held up her dagger. With a
look of disgust she flung it aside and wiped her hand on her dress. "I'll be
here to help."

Dayme started to protest, but Daphne touched his sleeve. "It's her
decision," she told him. "You know, personal business." Then, with her
usual tact, she pointed to the wizard's remains. "Besides, they don't look
any worse than that."

Asphodel walked to the corpse and stared at it for a long moment.
Daphne went with her, bent down and retrieved her dagger from the
ground near the wizard's hand. "It's Chenaya's," she informed Dayme.
"She'd be pissed if Host it." Then, she turned away and vanished into the
park.

Alone, the old whore turned to Dayrne and touched his arm. "Thank
you," she said.

"For what?" he answered with a shake of his head. "I didn't do any-
thing."

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN             359

It was almost true. With all the blood spilled this night, his was the
only clean blade in the park.

Daphne scandalized the palace by arriving, not in a gown, but in an
outfit borrowed from Chenaya's closets. She looked as beautiful and
deadly, all in soft black leather, gleaming with buckles and ringlets and
weapons. Her night-black hair flowed over her shoulders. Pride stiffened
her spine; she lifted her chin high as she strode into the Hall of Justice.

Two seats had been placed upon the dais. Kadakithis and Shupansea
sat there side by side, looking down upon her. Molin Torchholder stood
beside the Beysa, Walegrin by his prince. It was the audience she'd re-
quested and no one else. Her husband simply had no sense of theatrics.
But then, he had no sense, period.

She looked up and met his stare as she stopped at the lowest step. His
jaw gaped in astonishment. It was the acknowledgment she had sworn to
get from him—and it tasted sweet indeed.

"Second thoughts, my husband?" She rested one hand on her hip,
taunting him.

His hands fluttered. "You look—" he bit his lip and cast a sidewise
glance at Shu-sea. The sentence hung unfinished. The Beysa at that in-
stant looked less like a carp, more like a shark protecting her catch.

Daphne had expected to gloat, to draw out the moment of her tri-
umph, but she found now she had little stomach for that. Better, she
decided, to end this quickly, break her ties with this pathetic little man,
and get on with her new life.

"You want a divorce, Kitty-Kat?'' She looked at each of the four on
the dais and grinned. It's all a game, Chenaya had once told her, every-
thing is a game. Daphne realized the truth of that. These were the master
gamers of Sanctuary she faced. "These are my terms."

"List them, Princess, and we'll consider."

Daphne shot Molin a withering look. "Shut up, Torch. This is between
Kadakithis and me. You're merely here to witness, and I extend you that
courtesy only because I know you're even more eager for these two to
wed than they are. I half expect you'll share the marriage bed."

Molin maintained an outward calm, but Daphne knew him better than
that. She turned back to her husband.

"First, I want the estate immediately south and adjacent to Land's
End. It's abandoned right now, but the way people are flocking to this
pisshole these days it's not likely to be so for long." She paused, and her
brows narrowed, "I require agreement. None of this is negotiable."

Kadakithis rubbed his thinly bearded chin and glanced at Molin. The

UNEASY ALLIANCES

360

Torch gave a not-very-subtle nod, and Daphne smiled to herself. Puppet
and puppet-master.

"We'll draw up a deed," the prince answered.

"Second term," she continued. "One half of your personal fortune."

Kadakithis rose from his seat. His eyebrows shot upward, and he
gripped the arms of his chair to steady himself. "What!"

Daphne clucked her tongue. "Won't it be worth it to get rid of me?
Besides, think of all that gold on the Beysib ships. I'm sure your bride
will offer a dowry worthy of a man like you."

The prince sank back into his seat. At last, he waved a hand. "All
right, damn you! Yes, I'll even agree to that. As you say," he added
caustically, "it'll be worth it to be free of you." He glowered down from
his high position. "You're not at all the sweet wife you used to be,"

The accusation caught her completely off guard, and she barked a
short laugh. To her utter surprise she found within herself a sudden
sympathy for Shupansea.

"Third term," she said, regaining control of herself. 'T retain all my
titles and any property in Ranke that Theron hasn't seized along with the

throne."

"Done," Kitty-Kat agreed disinterestedly. "What else?"
She rested a hand on the pommel of her sword and let go a small,
inaudible sigh. "There was one more term, originally," she said. She
faced Walegrin and waited until he shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted the
first knuckle of the little finger of your right hand to wear on a chain
about my neck," she told the garrison commander. She watched all their
faces as she said it, and she wasn't disappointed by their reactions. "Look
at them," she said, addressing him directly. "They'd have given it to me,

too."

Molin stepped to the very edge of the platform, but Kadakithis caught
his sleeve and pulled him back. "You're insane!" her husband shouted.

"That's right!" she shot back. "You made me insane when you aban-
doned me to the gentle mercies of Scavengers' Isle!"

Only Shupansea kept a measure other composure. She leaned forward,
regarding Daphne with sudden interest. "Why our commander?"

Daphne faced Walegrin again. "You betrayed the Lady Chenaya," she
charged, "and let Zip go free after she handed the little bastard over to
you. Now, the common people of the city shower her name with praise
and beflower her gate while Molin and the powerbrokers of Sanctuary
rant and rave about her so-called treachery. Yet, no one speaks of your
treachery, Walegrin. You made love to her, then you betrayed her. You
helped shape her plan, and you killed piffles right beside the rest of us."
She stabbed a finger at the Torch and Kitty-Kat. "Then, on their orders,

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN

361

you freed the man who murdered your little niece and gutted your own
sister with an ax." She gave him a cold look, finding small reward when
he turned away from her gaze. "You've thrown away your honor, Com-
mander. Molin and his cronies may praise you for your obedience and
sense of duty. But the common men and women of this town know you
now. Look in their eyes the next time you walk the streets. You'll find
reflected there nothing but scorn."

She turned to Molin who seemed ready to swoop down on her like the
carrion bird he so resembled. "Keep your toy soldier, Torchie. But keep
him away from me. He pollutes the air."

"I am curious," Shupansea spoke, leaning forward. "If you wanted our
commander's finger, why did you change your mind?"

Daphne allowed a wan smile. "It's nothing any of you will ever grasp,"
she answered. "But I found true honor in this city last night among some
whores in a dirty park, where a group of women struggle every moment
of their lives to eke out an existence you and I would die to avoid. For all
their misery they take care of each other like a kind of family." She
hesitated. "I've found a similar kind of honor at Land's End, but you
wouldn't understand that, either. Walegrin can keep* his finger." She
cocked her head to one side, recalling her night in the tunnel and an odor
that still lingered unpleasantly in her memory. "It would have made a
smelly bauble, anyway."

She gave her back to the masterplayers, then, winning her best victory
by walking away from the game.

Just beyond the Processional Gate she found Dayme waiting. He'd
washed and changed since the morning's training session, and his essence
was sweeter than the day, itself. "I thought I'd walk you back," he said.

She grinned up at him. He really was the hugest man she'd ever seen,
yet she found in him the most unexpected gentleness. Chenaya was a fool
not to love him. Daphne shielded her eyes from the sun as she gazed at
his face. The brightness lent a halo to his features.

"How about I buy you a mug, instead," she offered. "You pick the
tavern. Make it someplace raunchy."

He frowned. But then, he clapped an arm around her shoulders, and
his lips curled upward into the barest smile-t<! think I can find a place to
make you blush," he said.

"A gold sheboozh," she answered, "that you can't."

THE VISION OF LALO

Diana L. Paxson

Lalo twitched the mask back into position over his nose and mouth
and dipped his brush into the gray paint once more. Another three feet of
this wretched wall and he could stop for a bit. The brush rasped the
coarse canvas, deftly suggesting texture; a touch of black gave it depth,
and another stone was finished. From somewhere out front he heard
hammering. The opening of the second production of Sanctuary's first
and only resident theatre troupe was two days away. The painter won-
dered if either their rehearsals or his sets would be finished in time.

Lalo stepped back to consider his work and grimaced beneath the
mask. Even with shading the canvas looked like a collection of blobs. He
supposed that from the audience the flat would create the illusion of
reality. It occurred to him then that if he took off his mask and breathed
on those rocks that they would be reality. . . . Was he resisting the
temptation because he was not sure the stage would take the weight of
the stones, or because he feared that he had lost the power to make them
real?

Lalo told himself it was a small price to pay for the return to (relative)
normalcy in Sanctuary. Perhaps his son Wedemir and that girl he was
courting up at the Palace would be able to raise all of their children in
peace. Except when some spell-supported building collapsed as its magic
decayed, the debris of the explosion of sorcery that had nearly destroyed
Sanctuary had been cleared away- The town was rebuilding. Lalo sup-
posed he should be glad. But the period of escalation in magic had also
seen the flowering of his own creativity. He was not sure now which of
his talents were magic, and which had been simple craftsmanship. He felt

THE VISION OF LALO

363

half-blinded—
see.

-"head-blind" the mages called it. But he dared not try to

And so he was painting scenery for a production of something called
The Accursed King, which seemed more depressing the more of it he
heard.

"We'll take it again from the beginning, then," said Feltheryn over his
shoulder as he strode onto the stage- "Two days to opening, dear gods!
But at least this piece can offend no one . . ," The repercussions of the
troupe's first production were only now beginning to fade in public mem-
ory.

Feltheryn the Thespian, the troupe's founder, director and star, took
his place before a post that was going to become a tree as soon as the
carpenters got around to it, and thumped his staff against the floor. Sim-
pering girlishly, Glisselrand scurried across the stage after him and took
his elbow.

"Tell me, my daughter, where have you come to now

With your blind old father? What is this place, my child?"

Feltheryn's stentorian tones rang out with remarkable resonance for a
monarch as enfeebled as he was supposed to be.

"It's little I ask, and am well content with less.

Three masters—pain, time, and the royalty in the blood—

Have taught me patience—"

The stage shuddered as something large and heavy hit the floor.
Feltheryn broke off and turned. "Patience!" he roared. "Gods give me
patience—I have to work with fools!"

"It was the hoist," came a plaintive voice from backstage. "It wasn't
my fault, master—the rope slipped—"

"Lempchin! You misbegotten son of a sheep-swiving Rankan!" He
gathered breath, and ominous tones rolled across the stage. "What fell?"

There was a silence, and Lalo bent to gather up the brushes that had
been knocked from their stand.

"It was ... the thunder machine."

"Vashanka's rod! Do you know how much that thing cost? A gift from
the Prince himself it was, and after everything—" he took a deep breath,
then launched into a monologue of sorrows as eloquent as anything in the
play.

Lalo found that he had put the brushes back into their case instead of
on the stand, and grimaced. How could anyone be expected to paint—
even to paint scenery—with this sort of thing going on? Darkness had
fallen an hour ago. Gilla would already be angry with him for being late,
but perhaps dinner would not be completely cold. He was hungry and
tired. As Feltheryn stormed backstage to survey the damage, Lalo fin-

UNEASY ALLIANCES

364

ished capping his paints and putting them away, strapped the brush case
to his belt, and headed for the door.

"Oh Lalo, are you going already?" Glisselrand called after him. He
mumbled something about Gilla and continued up the aisle. "Yes, do give
my love to dear Gilla—I'm working on a shawl for her—rose-colored
yarn with lemon yellow and a lovely purple from Carronne. . . ." As the
door closed behind him Lalo could still hear her describing the color

scheme.

He shook his head. The tea cozy had been bad enough. The thought of
a shawl large enough to cover Gilla. ... He shuddered. And Gilla
would insist on keeping it! He wondered if he could persuade her to keep
it somewhere out of sight. . . . Still contemplating the horror of Glissel-
rand's sense of color unleashed on something the size of a shawl, he
hurried on through the darkness.

Lalo had rounded the comer of the Serpentine and was starting down
when he became aware of the footsteps behind him. Close—too close—
they must have been waiting in an alley, or perhaps his own abstraction
had kept him from hearing them before. Reaching for his knife, he
started to turn.

Shadows rushed toward him. Beyond them he glimpsed the mocking
grimace of the Vulgar Unicorn on its sign as the door of the tavern
opened and light streamed into the road.

"Help! Thieves! Help me!" Lalo knew the futility of his shout even as it
left his throat. His knife glinted as he brought it up. He struck something
soft, heard a grunt and leaned into the blade. Then a blow numbed his
hand and the knife went skittering across the stones. He lifted his useless
arm to guard his head. Someone laughed—his attackers, or the men who
were coming out of the Unicom?

This can't be happening now, Lalo thought in confusion as he was
knocked against a wall. Not after so many years! Not so close to home—a
blade flashed toward his shoulder; he dodged and felt the sting as its tip
scored his arm—as if I were a foreigner or a fool!

How could he have been caught this way? Someone grabbed for the
case that held his brushes and Lalo struck out, tried to duck as he sensed
something falling towards him, but not fast enough, not quite fast—

The shock of the blow stopped the world.

Light and shadow, the hoarse gasps of his assailants and the shouting
beyond them all faded as his senses whirled away.

Gilla, I'm sorry—

And then both regret and pain were extinguished as Lalo fell endlessly

downward into the dark.

THE VISION OF LALO                365

Darkness . . . a musty smell that makes the nose wrinkle. Limbs stiff
from spelled sleep, stretch, lungs draw in stale air. Dust tickles dry nostrils.
and Darios wakes fully with a sneeze. Ears strain, but there is only the
sound of his own ragged breathing. He sneezes again.

I'm alive! I survived! Even in the darkness, Darios can feel his skin flush
with pride. He remembers the panic as the defenses of the Mageguild
began to unravel, remembers collapsing walls, and the roar of rioting
crowds. They were all running—apprentices and masters as well. Did none
of the others remember this vault beneath the stables sealed by potent
magics before ever the Nisibisi rose in the North or the Beysib sailed into
Sanctuary's bay? Those magics would last as long as the Mageguild, pre-
serve him in a timeless trance as long as—

—As long as its wards remained intact, until a ranking Hazard came to
set him free. . . .

But Darios is alone in the vault, and the doors are still sealed.

He swallows, reaches out and touches cold stone. Exploring fingers find
wetness. Water is sliding down the wall from somewhere above. Darios
brings his fingers to his mouth, and the moisture enables him to swallow.
He takes a deep breath and pronounces a Word ...

But the darkness remains unbroken. For the first time, Darios feels the
chill touch of fear.

From the sounds around him it must be morning. Lalo took a deep
breath, winced as pain split his skull, and thought better of trying to open
his eyes. But it was not the throbbing ache that came from drinking—it
had been years since he had felt that particular pain—and already he was
remembering swift footsteps and the scuffle in the dark.

I'm still alive! he realized in wonder.

"Are you back with us, then, you foolish man?" asked Gilla. "What
were you thinking of, to take that route home at night, alone?"

Anxiety had sharpened her voice, but Lalo smiled. Even her scolding
was welcome when he had not expected ever to hear it again.

"You've been luckier than you deserve!" she went on. "Dubro was sure
you were dead when he found you with that great gash in your skull."
That was probably true, thought Lalo, remembering the blow, as if
Feltheryn's thunder machine had fallen on him. "Sit up now, and I'll give
you something to help with the pain."

Biting his lip, Lalo got his elbows under him, and then, very carefully,
opened his eyes. But he must have been wrong about the time, for it was
quite dark still-

"Open your mouth—"

"Light a lamp first," he answered. "So that I can see the spoon."

UNEASY ALLIANCES

366

"A lamp? I'll open the shutters wider if you want more light, but why
—" Gilla did not finish. There was a moment's silence, then a breath of
air brushed his forehead.

"Lalo—" she said tightly. "Why didn't you blink? Didn't you see my

hand?"

"No . . ." He turned towards the sound of her voice, straining to see
despite the pain that pulsed frantically against the confines of his skull.
He reached out, and felt the strong grip of her work-roughened fingers
clasp his.

"No. Gilla, I can't see anything at all!"

After that, Lalo supposed he must have become hysterical, tearing at
the dressings on his head until agony slammed shut the doors of con-
sciousness again. When he woke once more, his eyes were bandaged.
Blind ... he thought, as memory replayed what had happened. Will it
go away? What am I going to do?

For a week they waited for his head to heal, hoping that the blindness
would go away. The Prince sent his own physician, who examined the
wound and clucked solicitously, prattling of evil humours and the aspects
of the stars until Gilla booted him out the door. Wedemir came, and
came again with the chirurgeon from the garrison, a man who seemed
more knowledgeable, but hardly more encouraging. He could only tell
them that he had seen a blow on the head cause blindness on the battle-
field. Usually sight returned in a few days.

"But not always?" asked Wedemir. Lalo could hear them whispering
in the corner. They did not realize how the loss of one sense focused
concentration on those that remained.

"Not always—" the soldier agreed. He did not know why Lalo's sight
had been affected, and the only treatment that he could recommend was
time. "Are you coming, Wedemir?" The chirurgeon's voice faded and
then grew louder, as if he had reached the doorway and then turned.

"Yes—just a moment—"

Lalo felt the rough grasp of his oldest son's hand.

"Papa, I've got to go back on duty now. I'll be back soon, though, to
see you!" The tone was bracing, but Lalo could hear the waver that
Wedemir tried to hide.

"Duty, hah! You just want to see Rhian again, I know!" piped up
Latilla. "Did you know he's got a girl at the Palace. Papa? A Rankan
lady, she is, and very pretty. I saw her when I was visiting Vanda last
time."

"She's not my girl—not yet, anyway," Wedemir interrupted. "She was
pledged to an apprentice in the Mageguild, and she says she is still
bound . . ."

THE VISION OF LALO

367

"The Mageguild?" said Gilla. "But the ones who survived are scat-
tered throughout the city now, or fled—"

"Don't you think I've tried to tell her?" asked Wedemir. "If her lad
were still alive, surely he would have sent her word by now! It has been
almost a year since they broke the Globes of Power. If he is still living, he
doesn't deserve her!"

"Wedi's got a girrill—Wedi's got a girrill!" Latilla sang, until a squeal
and a torrent of giggles told Laio that her brother was tickling her as he
used to when they were younger. Lalo tried to imagine what was going
on, but he could only remember how they had looked as children, long
ago . . . when he could still see ...

Lalo felt his cheeks grow wet with easy tears.

Wedemir accompanied the chirurgeon back to the barracks, and Vanda
went back to her Beysib mistress in the Palace. Glisselrand sent over a
crochetted bed-shawl which Lalo was glad he could not see. The house-
hold began to settle into a routine.

Lalo dreamed of the paintings that he had never foun4 the time to do
and hardly noticed what they fed him, but he heard Alfi and Latilla
complaining and realized that Gilla had stopped buying the delicacies the
family had become used to. She was shifting back to a style of cooking he
remembered only too well—beans and whatever protein was cheapest—
poverty cooking. Once more he felt the treacherous tears slide from be-
neath shut lids.

She does not think 1 am going to get well . . .

Did he?

During the first week Gilla had been always with him, her sharpness
sheathed in uncomplaining, patient care. But that was changing. His wife
still made sure he was fed and tended, but now it was Latilla who sat
with him, Latilla who cut his meat and set the spoon into his hand.

"What is your mother doing?" Lalo asked one morning—he could tell
it was morning because of the freshness in air that would be weighted
with all the smells of the city by the advancing day.

"She's gone up to the Palace to visit Vanda," answered his daughter
brightly. "Vanda says the Beysib ladies need a lot of sewing done, because
of the wedding, you know, and Mother does lovely work—"

Lalo groaned.

"Papa—are you all right? It doesn't matter if Mama's not here—I'm
here. Papa, and I'll take care of you! Please, Papa, don't cry!"

He felt the soft touch of her hands smoothing his hair, the coolness as
she sponged his tears away.

"/ won't leave you!"

368 UNEASY ALLIANCES

Lalo reached out and found her shoulder and Latilla hugged him
fiercely. Her arms were still thin—a child's arms, but her body was be-
ginning to ripen. She was twelve now. Would he ever see her promise of
beauty fulfilled?

Gilla is looking/or sewing to do because she does not think I will ever
work again—the cold fact of it shook him. Was that why she had drawn
away? Lalo wondered if he was seeing what Gilla herself did not yet
consciously know. He thought he understood. He had failed her for the
last time. Gilla's first responsibility was to her children now. Though
Lalo's body still lived, his life, and their marriage, were at an end.

Without meaning to, his grip on Latilla had tightened; she squirmed,
and abruptly he let go. The girl straightened with a sigh and began to
prattle about the bird that was perching on the windowsill. Lalo lay back
against his pillows, hardly hearing her. Was this the way it was always
going to be?

He supposed that Gilla would bear her fate in uncharacteristic silence.
But Lalo was consuming resources that should have been used for the
children. And Latilla—all she knew now was that she had her father to
herself at last. But Lalo could see clearly how her care for him would
steal her youth away.

Perhaps he could sit at the comer and ask charity of passersby. . . .

In Sanctuary? As well seek warmth from a beynit, pity from a Stepson,
motherly love from Roxane! A bark of bitter laughter brought Latilla
back to his side.

"Help me get dressed!" he said with sudden energy. "Without exercise,
my legs will be as useless as my eyes' Come, Latilla—I want you to guide
me through the town."

Once, long ago, Lalo had observed that the blind might be blessed,
because they could not see the squalor of the town. Gods help him, he
had thought it funny at the time. Now, holding to Latilla's shoulder, he
realized that he should have known it was not true. As they moved
through the town, memory and imagination supplied images to go with
the sounds and stenches around him, picturing a thousand evils and
never knowing which of them he imagined and which were true.

The Maze at night was like that, when danger coiled in every dark
alley, and only the glare of a torch could bum the fear away. But all of
Lalo's roads led through darkness now.

Slowly they made their way through the conflicting enticements of
perfumes and cooked food in the Bazaar, the cacophony of hawkers
crying their wares and the babble of not always good-natured chaffering,
Lalo's nerves were still twitching as the" passed the mournful lowing and
the sick stench of cow shit that came from the pens of the Shambles, and

THE VISION OF LALO

369

went on toward the harbor, where a brisk sea breeze did battle with the
myriad odors of the town.

Gulls screamed around him as they neared the wharves. Lalo could
hear the flap and the flutter as they swept past, squabbling over spilled
fish guts. As Latilla led him out along the echoing wooden planks of the
pier, he tried not to remember the dazzle of sunlight on waves, the pure
beauty of the birds when their wings drew a silent arc across the bright
sky.

In the play, thought Lalo, the king had lost his sight because he in-
sisted on seeing too much—on bringing things better left hidden into the
light. Am I being punished/or my vision? Have I been blinded because I
dared to look upon the faces of the gods? he wondered then. But Us
himself had given that gift to Lalo, and if the gods had wished to chastise
him, the past few years had offered them some spectacular opportunities
to strike him down.

Or was it because I wept/or lost magic and never thanked the gods/or
the blessings that I had? I have nothing now. All my.visions must remain
imprisoned behind my eyes, and I in this useless body, a burden to those I
love!

** 'Tilla—Latilla! It is you! Where have you been?" a girl's voice cried.

"Hello, Karis—" there was a pause, and Lalo knew that Latilla must
have made some sign that indicated his disability, for the other girl's
voice was considerably subdued when she replied.

Lalo's hand touched the splintery, weathered wood of a piling and he
guided himself down.

"Are you all right, Papa?"

"Yes—yes—" he forced an answer. "Just a little tired. Let me sit here
with my back against the piling for a while. You go on—talk to your
friends. I will do well enough here."

For a few moments he could feel her near him- Then her light footsteps
grew fainter as she moved across the planks. Soon he heard the ripple of
conversation, and a girl's light laughter.

Waves lapped against the base of the piling as a fishing boat came in,
timbers creaking, sails flapping as the curve of the land cut off the wind.
A man hailed the shore. Lalo felt the pier shake as someone ran forward
to catch the line and make it fast. Familiar sounds, all of them—he tried
to visualize exactly what the boat would be doing now, how they would
take down the sails and warp the craft in to lie snug against the pier. But
he could not remember.

He rested his face in his hands- How many times had he come here to
think, sometimes in joy, sometimes in despair? Why had he never set his

370 UNEASY ALLIANCES

mind to really seeing what was going on around him, instead of chasing
his own thoughts until he grew tired, or Gilla came to drag him home?

Memory moved back to the time of his greatest agony (until now)
when Enas Yorl's gift had turned to a curse from which he saw no
escaping. Lalo remembered how he had gazed into the polluted waters of
Sanctuary's harbor. He would have thrown himself into them that day if
it had not been for the horrors he saw floating there.

But you cannot see what is in those waters now. . . .

Were the words that came to Lalo's mind his own? Softly, how softly,
the wavelets were lapping—they made a hushed, soothing sound, like a
lullaby. He turned a little, head tipped toward the water, listening.

Gently rocking, peacefully floating . . . soon the tide would be turn-
ing, and all broken and useless things that had been cast into the bay
would be carried out to sea. The weight of his head drew him downward
. . . moist air cooled the tight skin of his brow. How easy it would be to
let himself fall . . . When the dark waters had closed over him it would
not matter if he could see.

He let out his breath on a long sigh, not allowing himself to think,
wanting only coolness, darkness, rest. . . .

"Papa, Papa! Watch out!" Sharp fingers pulled him upright. For a
moment Lalo tensed in resistance. "Papa, were you asleep? You almost
fell in!"

Lalo shook his head despairingly. He had been so close! He struggled
to his feet and took a step forward, then stopped, confused. Which way
was the water?

Latilla's thin arms closed around him. "It's all right. Papa. You're
going the right direction—I won't let you fall!"

The water was behind him, then- All he would have to do was turn,
and leap—he felt wetness on his hand. Latilla's tears. . . . One leap and
it would be over for him, but not for her. The child would have felt guilty
even if his death had appeared to be an accident. Latilla thought she had
saved him. Lalo could not kill himself before her eyes.

Oh, my little one—he thought, holding her, ;/ only you could set me
free. . . .

He let Latilla lead him homeward without even trying to keep track of
the way, let her bright chatter flow over him without answering. The
house was full of the rich odor of roasting fowl as they came in the door,
but even the relief in Gilla's voice as she announced that the Prince had
awarded Lalo a pension could not cheer him. He told them that the walk
had tired him, and lay down with his face to the wall.

THE VISION OF LALO                  371

Darios breathes slowly, deeply, trying to control panic with the knowl-
edge that he is not going to exhaust the air in the room. The water that
drips down the wall proves the vault is hermetically sealed no longer. That
must be why he has awakened—even the magic that made this place is
finally beginning to decay.

But not entirely. The spells that hold—and hide—the door are still
intact. Darios has worn his fingertips raw, feeling every inch of stone. He
has even spent some of his dwindling strength to conjure up a magelight,
but the blue flicker shows him the same blank surface his fingers have
found. Without some way to replenish his energy he dares not try that
again. He will not die of thirst or suffocation, but without food, how long
can he survive? If he uses no energy, and stills his bodily processes in
trance, Darios can extend his existence. Buy why? Why, if he is bound to
starve to death in the end?

If only he could remember the Sigil on the outside of the door!

That night, he had thought only of getting into the vault—he had been
sure that his master was just behind him. . . .

Darios takes a deep. shuddering breath and forces himself to stillness
again. Are all the wizards in Sanctuary dead? He tries to use his inner
vision, but he has not received the proper initiations to walk the Wizards'
road. All that comes to him is the face ofRhian, gray eyes clear as rainwa-
ter, auburn hair taking fire from the setting sun. . . .

Am I being punished for deceiving her? Darios wonders. It was only a
little magic, a small glamor to make her look at me! He was a student,
and he looked like one—a little round in the shoulders from hunching over
a desk, and in the belly, too, though he supposed his gut was growing
concave by now. Pale from long hours indoors, how could he compete with
the hard-muscled, bronzed men of the Palace guard? But he had skills a
soldier never dreamed of, and it had only been a small spell to make him
look taller, to broaden his shoulders, to give his dark eyes a mystic gleam.

And it had worked! Rhian had given him her love!

Oh my sweet girl! His heart cries. Where are you now? Did you sur-
vive, do you remember me? The brightness of her eyes holds his fear at
bay. Still clinging to that image, Darios forces himself back into the half-
sleep that will preserve him another day.

"Papa—I've brought Rhian to see you—"

Wedemir's voice, brittle with that conscious cheerfulness with which
everyone spoke to Lalo these days. Did they think he could not hear? He
heard the rustle of silken skirts and turned his head toward the sound.
What did she look like, this girl with whom his eldest had fallen in love?

"I'm glad to meet you."

UNEASY ALLIANCES

372

Her voice was subdued. Lalo wondered if she were embarrassed be-
cause of his blindness, or whether she had her own sorrows? Even the
privileged ones at the Palace had reasons to grieve, these past years.

"You are in service with the Beysa?" he asked. He wanted to hear her
speak again. Silk whispered as if she had shrugged.

"The Prince wants to build understanding between our people and
hers. I was glad to be offered the position. My father brought his family
here when the Prince was made Governor, but my parents had gone back
to Ranke on a visit when the Emperor . . . fell."

Lalo thought she sounded more wistful than bitter. Her voice had a
spicy warmth to it. What kind of face would go with those tones? Drift-
ing, he visualized cleanly modeled features, bright eyes, and hair of some
warm color—something like cinnamon, perhaps.
He could hear Wedemir talking to his mother in the other room.
"They tell me that my son is courting you," Lalo said then. There was
a pause, as if Rhian had looked around to see who else was there.

"Wedemir is a good man," she said slowly, "but—" Suddenly it
seemed to him that her Rankan accent was very clear.

"But he is Ilsigi, and a commoner!" Lalo fought to subdue a bitterness
he thought he had forgotten.

"Oh, it is not that!" Rhian said quickly. "What does all that matter,
now? But before I met Wedemir, I had given my word—"

"To a mageling—" Lalo remembered now. "Wedemir was telling me.
Did you love him so much, then?" He stopped, wondering why he dared
question her so sharply. Was it perhaps just because he could not see her?
And was she answering so freely because she did not fear to read con-
demnation in his eyes?

Rhian sighed. "Wedemir is very warm and alive. When I am with him,
I feel safe. I know that I am loved. But I gave Darios my word."
"Death cancels such pledges," said Lalo.
"Darios is not dead."
"She keeps on saying that!"

Lalo started, realizing that Wedemir had come in from the other room.
"Rhian, if he is not dead, he has deserted you! You owe him nothing
either way!"

"I can feel his presence! If he is dead, then his spirit is haunting me!"
Her tone had sharpened, and Lalo's sense other presence grew clearer.
She was turning from him to Wedemir, her gaze more luminous, as if her
eyes had filled with tears. Or was it only the pain in her voice that made
him think so?

"In my dreams I see him, Wedemir - . . Darios is trapped in dark-
ness, and he cannot get free!"

THE VISION OF LALO

373

Trapped in darkness! thought Lalo. Like me! Like me! For a moment a
terror that was not his own washed through him. But he could hear
voices, feel the sun on his face and breathe in the wind. It occurred to
him for the first time since he had been blinded that there were worse
fates than his own.

"He is not dead yet," Rhian continued. "But he is dying. He has been
buried alive, and if I can't find him, he will starve to death in the dark.
He has lost hope, but still he thinks of me. . . ."

Again, the sense of panic washed through Lalo's awareness, as if what
the girl was feeling had somehow been transmitted directly from her to
him.

"But where?" exclaimed Wedemir, humoring her. "Most of the wreck-
age from the riots has been cleared away."

"Not all of it—" said Rhian slowly. "No one has dared to touch the
parts of the Mageguild that fell down. That's where Darios was living.
What if he sought shelter in the cellars and was trapped there? The
possibility comes between me and sleep!"

"Well that's easily checked out!" Wedemir laughed. "I'll get a permit
from the Palace to excavate, go down there with a fe^ of the lads and
some picks and shovels and dig the nibble out. We'll lay your ghost for
you, Rhian.'*

Lalo could feel the sudden hostility between them. He understood
Wedemir's reaction—he was fighting for his love. But beneath her
Rankan elegance this woman was the true steel. The boy would ruin his
chances with her if he went on this way, no matter what the diggers
found. Why couldn't Wedemir see that? Lalo felt himself straining, as if a
look could silence his son. But he knew that he was seeing through both
of them, seeking, like Darios, to pierce the dark.

Darios knows when he is dreaming, because in his dreams, he can see.
But when he opens his eyes into darkness, he is afraid. He is going to die.
. . . Why does he keep trying to keep his body going when there can only
be one end? He will go through the only door that will open for him now,
and hope the gods will forgive him all the petty deceptions and angers of a
student mage.

I have done nothing really bad, he tells himself. Nor anything particu-
larly good, either, his thought goes on. But he has done one thing for which
the Judge might indeed condemn him, though he supposes that hardly a
man in the Mageguild or out of it would care. He has deceived a woman in
order to compel her love.

Was that evil? He asks himself. What would that deception do to me—
to us—if I were to live? He thinks of Rhian's bright beauty, and knows

UNEASY ALLIANCES

374

that his own falsehood would stain it for him, in time. As outer vision is
denied, his inner awareness becomes clearer, showing him a future in
which one deception leads to another, until he hates Rhian's truth for
showing him his own deficiency—until he hates, and at last destroys, the
clear gaze that would prevent him from seeing himself as he has made her
see him.

Is this knowledge why he is suffering? But now Darios knows his sin.
Surely he has been punished enough. Once more. he tried to remember the
SigH on the door, the pattern which he must trace in order to be free. . . .
But he cannot see it!

And there is no use in praying for rescue. Darios remembers only too
well how the Spell that seals the vault is set to respond if anyone tries to
open it by physical means. . . .

Lalo knew that he must be dreaming, because he could see. He
dreamed with a clarity of vision that had never been his in waking life, or
even in sleep, before his sight was taken away. In his dreams, he ranged
through Sanctuary at will, invisible, invulnerable, as if all the energy that
had no outlet by day was fueling his nocturnal wanderings—nocturnal in
their beginnings, though once he had begun his dreaming, Lalo might
find himself moving through night or day, through scenes from the past,
or sometimes among people and events whom his waking mind would
not have recognized. But he had never tried to bring these visions into
waking memory. The contrast would have been too cruel.

It was morning now. The clear light glowed in the faces of the young,
who woke wondering what the new day would bring, and revealed with-
out pity every line and shadow in those of their elders, who knew only
too well. Still, there was a welcome freshness in the air, and the sunlight
gleamed cheerfully from the temple domes. For a moment Lalo thought
that he had gone back to his own youth, when the great caravans used to
bring the town a rough prosperity. But as he looked more closely he saw
the mended cracks the new gilding tried to hide, and turning a corner,
recognized the jagged outlines of the Mageguild. This was the present
then, or perhaps the future, for the City walls beyond it were perceptibly
higher than he remembered them.

For such an early hour, the place seemed very active. . . . Lalo
moved closer, and saw a familiar curly head—his own son Wedemir, with
a crowd of his friends from the garrison, big, bronzed men, who laughed
and traded good-natured obscenities. But they were carrying picks, not
pikes, and instead of swords they swung shovels. Wedemir was trying,
with indifferent success, to get them organized. A short distance away
Lalo saw his daughter Vanda, and with her another girl whose auburn

THE VISION OF LALO                 375

hair glinted beneath her veil. R h ian— suddenly Lalo was certain who this
must be. But how had he known?

He moved toward them, calling a greeting, but they looked through
him, no more able to see his spirit than he had seen their bodies when
they visited him.

Sight and vision are not necessarily the same. . . . The awareness came
to Lalo like the answer to some long-debated question ... He was on
the edge of understanding when a shout distracted him. The soldiers
were attacking the rubble at the edge of the Mageguild's great hall. Dust
puffed up as the first of the great stones was moved. Wind lent the
moving particles form and substance. Figures for which ordinary humans
have no names seemed to hover for a moment above the workers, then
the wind swirled them away. Was that a trick of the light, or was Lalo
perceiving the elementals that had been bound to those stones?

Sight ... or vision?

That first success had encouraged the diggers. Picks shattered stones
into fragments small enough to be carried away. Now they had bared the
ground level. Someone shouted, and the men crowded around a rubble-
choked depression next to the wait.

"What have they found?" Vanda asked her friend.

"It should be the stairs to the vaults beneath the Mage hall," answered
Rhian. "Darios boasted that he knew the way—he should not have told
me, I suppose, but he would never believe he did not need to impress
me. . . ."

"His indiscretion may save his life," said Vanda. "If they do find him
alive, what will you do about Wedemir?"

Rhian shrugged a little and colored. "I don't know. I love them both—
can you understand that? I love them in different ways."

Vanda shook her head. "I have never been in love with one man, much
less with two. Perhaps I am the lucky one . . . Oh, look—" she added
suddenly, "the men have found a door!"

The digging had continued while the girls were talking. As the last
stones were removed, Lalo saw what seemed to be an unbroken slab of
stone. A symbol was cut deeply into the smooth surface; Lalo drifted
closer to see. It was nothing he knew, but its loops and angles teased at
the memory. Had he seen something tike it at Enas Yorl's?

But he had no time to study it. Wedemir heaved up his pick and
brought it down with all his strength upon the stone.

Violet light blazed from the sigil, then burst outward in a flare that
burned sight away. But Lalo heard the sharp crack, the clatter of falling
rock and then screaming and the ominous, agonized rumbling of settling
stone. His cry mingled with the others', but the rush of displaced air was

376 UNEASY ALLIANCES

whirling him away. Vision was still darkened, but upon his inner eyelids
he saw the Sigil imprinted in lines of fire.

"Wedemir! WedemirF

Anguish tore Lalo's throat. He fought the darkness; his flailing hands
found something soft and solid, he was held, and presently his breathing
steadied. An awareness deeper than sight told him who held him. With a
shuddering sigh Lalo rested his head on Gilla's ample breast and
breathed in the sweet scent of her hair.

"It's all right—I'm here . . . hush, my love—it was only a dream.
. . ." Gilla was patting his back as if he had been her child. A coolness in
the air told him that it was still nighttime. He could hear the distant
barking of a guard dog, and a scream, cut short abruptly, from the direc-
tion of the Maze.

"A dream—" he muttered. "Dear gods, I hope so!" He waited for his
heartbeat to steady. Images replayed themselves in his awareness—the
Sigil, Wedemir's face as the stones crashed down. . . .

"Wedemir said he would excavate the rubble of the Mageguild," he
said finally. "When, Gilla—did he say when?"

"I don't really know," she began, and winced as his fingers tightened
on her arm. "Tomorrow, perhaps. Does it matter?"

"We've got to stop him, Gilla. If Wedemir tries to break those ward-
ings, he'll be destroyed!"

"What wardings?" He felt her pull away a little to look at him. "The
Guildhall is a ruin, Lalo. I've seen it!"

"So have I!"

"Lalo, what are you talking about?" Gilla said sharply.

"In my dream I saw Wedemir digging among those ruins, and I saw
him crushed beneath falling stones."

"You are worried about him—well, so am I—" she said carefully. "Ifs
part of parenthood. I've had any number of nightmares in which the
children were endangered. It was a nightmare, nothing more." Her voice
was so reasonable, so soothing. . . .

Lalo shook his head. "Gilla. don't talk to me as if I were one of the
children! You're acting as if I'd lost my mind along with my sight! Listen
to me, Gilla!"

"What do you mean? I've been treating you the way I always do. I've
had to take care of you, of course, but—"

"Have you always secretly despised me, then?" he shouted. "Even in
our worst times, you never slept in the other room."

"You were hurt," she began. "You needed to sleep alone—"

THE VISION OF LALO                   377

"Gilla, my head healed weeks ago! I'm still your husband—I'm still a
man, even if I can't see!"

There was a silence. He heard her shaken breathing and fought to
control his own. Her flesh was so familiar . . . Lalo knew the luxuriant
hills and valleys of her body better than he did his own. But now he felt
as if a stranger were lying there.

"Is that the way it seemed to you?" she whispered finally. "I didn't
intend it. But you may be right. I was afraid—all I could think about was
protecting the children. Oh Lalo, what can I do?"

Lalo was glad that the darkness hid his involuntary grin. Her question
had sounded too much like a verse from a bawdy song that he doubted
Gilla knew.

"Let me inside your defenses, love," he whispered, touching her cheek
with fingers that had grown more sensitive, moving his hand gently
downward until it curved around her breast, teasing her nipple until he
felt it harden, and she gasped. For this, he did not need to see.

"Please, Gilla, let me come in. . . ."

The air had freshened and the hush of early dawn lay on the town by
the time they were quiet again.

"After so long, you would think there could be no surprises," Gilla
murmured drowsily, rolling away from him. "But each time we make the
world anew. . . ."

Lalo emerged from the deep well of pure sensation reluctantly. He
could view the images of his nightmare with some detachment now, but
they retained their clarity.

"Gilla . . . there's been so much strangeness in my life. Do we dare
assume there was no truth in what I saw in my dream? Listen—" he went
on as she mumbled sleepily. "We never met that girl, Rhian, until after I
was blinded, but I can describe her—someone might have told me the
color of her hair and eyes, but would they have said that Rhian wears a
blue gauze veil with golden scallop shells embroidered on the hem, or
that she has a dark brown mole on the back of her right hand?"

"That's true," said Gilla, fully awake at last. "You have described the
girt." Her voice sharpened. "But if what you saw was a true vision, then
Wedemir is going to die!"

"It may be a possibility only!" Lalo answered more confidently than he
felt, holding her until he felt her tension begin to ease. "You must take
me to the Mageguild, Gilla, as soon as it's light. We can save our son if I
stop Wedemir from breaking down that door!"

Once. when he was first apprenticed, Darios had broken a flagon in his
master's workshop, and screamed and ran as its contents exploded in fire.

378 UNEASY ALLIANCES

A prompt spell from the senior mage had sent the flames running back
upon themselves until all the stuff was consumed, but the master had
afflicted Darios for several days with a demon who tormented him with
little pricking flames. Now he dreams that the fire is spreading, licking up
the heavy draperies, even consuming the stone. The Mageguild is an in-
ferno; the heat blisters his skin. the light blinds him. He writhes and
shrieks and wakes to the cold silence of his tomb.

Shuddering, Darios composes himself to trance again. And again the
dreams torment him. This time it is a book which he has been forbidden to
read. But if he once opens it, he can escape the tyranny of his masters, for
their knowledge will be his own. He makes his way into the chamber and
sets his hand to the cover. Light spills from within as he lifts it, brilliance
explodes as it flies open. Darios strives to force the cover down again, but he
does not know the spell. He screams as the world whirls away.

To wake twice from such a nightmare is an evil portent. Darios would try
to stay awake, but awake he is aware that he is cold, and hungry, and
alone. Guarding himself with all the spells he knows, he seeks stillness once
more. But yet again he dreams, though he struggles against it. This time he
is with companions, fellow-students, perhaps, who are on the track of some
treasure. They begin to pull down a pile of rocks, laughing and tossing
away the stones. He tries to stop them, but soon they come to a slab set into
the ground. Something is written there—Darios tries to see it, but the
others are in the way. He sees them pulling at it, and then light explodes
from the earth, flinging him away. In despair he cries out Rhian's name
and wakens, hearing the regular clank of metal striking stone. - . .

Lalo and Gilla reached the Mageguild as the sun was topping the
newly gilded dome of the Temple of Us. Wedemir and his friends were
already working. Over protest Latilla had been left behind to watch Alfi,
but Vanda and Rhian were here, as Lalo had known they would be. From
his tone, Wedemir seemed mildly annoyed to see his parents, and more
than annoyed when Lalo asked him to stop. Lalo sighed. It had been
hard enough to get Gilla to believe him, why should his son listen to a
blind old man?

"For Shipri's sweet sake, hear me out!" he exploded finally. "Wedemir,
do you remember the Black Unicorn?" There was an uncomfortable si-
lence. Behind him, Lalo could hear two of the soldiers whispering. He
supposed that by now even new recruits must have heard the tale of the
creature that Lalo had unwittingly created and unleashed upon the town.

"What does that have—" Wedemir began, but Gilla interrupted him.

"You're a grown man now, and so you think you have nothing left to
leam?" she said scornfully. "Especially from your parents? You were not

THE VISION OF LALO                379

so proud when your father destroyed that black beast—don't you yet
understand that he is not like other men?"

"Father—" Wedemir sounded subdued when he finally replied. "You
know why I am doing this. I must have some reason beyond a dream to
give up now . . ."

"Rhian is here, isn't she—" said Lalo.

"You might have heard her voice; you might have guessed she would
be here."

"You don't believe me? Keep on digging then. When you have cleared
away the rubble, you will find a staircase leading down to a stone slab.
There is a symbol carved on it, Wedemir. You must believe me then, for if
you touch that doorway, you will die!"

"I'll admit there's no normal way you can know what's under there,"
said his son. "If we find the door we'll stop. Does that content you, Papa?
We will stop, but you will have to choose what we do then!" Emotion
trembled in his voice.

That girl, thought Lalo. He won't give her up any more than I would
have given up Gilla at his age.

They sat with Rhian and Vanda as they waited. Lalo could hear the
sound of the digging, and memory supplied a picture of the scene. He
knew it when they reached ground level and uncovered the beginning of
the staircase. He knew when they finished digging it out, and found the
stone slab.

The men were very quiet as Rhian led him to the doorway. Delicate
fingering confirmed that the sigil was the one that he had seen. Lalo's
fingertips tingled as he touched it, and he knew that the magic that
warded it was still alive.

And in the silence after he took his hand away there was a sound—too
faint to be heard above the noise of pick and shovel, or even over normal
conversational tone—a distant voice that called, "Stop! For your life's
sake, you must not touch the stone!"

"He's alive!" whispered Rhian. From Wedemir came something like a
muffled groan. Lalo winced, recognizing that at this moment his son
might well have preferred to have been crushed by falling stone. But he
had no choice. He bent until his lips were nearly touching the rock and
took a deep breath.

"What must we do to free you?"

"You cannot," came the faint reply. "The vault can only be opened by
drawing the sigil, with the proper words, from inside . . ."

"Do you know the words?" Gilla's voice sounded very loud in Lalo's
ear,

"I know the spell, but not the Sign," came the answer. 'Tray for the

380 UNEASY ALLIANCES

spirit of Darios, son of Wint, and may the gods bless you for attempting
to help me."

Rhian had begun to sob. Lalo bit his lip, thinking. The contours of the
sigil were still vivid in his memory. He could have drawn it, but he could
not describe it. The peculiar curves and angles of which it was composed
followed no normal human logic, could not be explained in human
words. Could the puzzle have been unlocked by the Rankan wizard,
Randal, or even by Enas Yorl? Lalo wondered. The foundations of the
Mageguild had been here before either. They felt old—Ilsigi magic, or
perhaps something that had been here even before. . . .

"He knows the words, and you know the Symbol," muttered Gilla.
"Surely there must be some way—" Lalo sighed. He was glad to know
that Gilla really believed him. But even if he had been able to see, he and
young Darios were still on opposite sides of the door.

"A doorway—it is only a doorway—" she murmured. "But you can go
through such things, Lalo. Remember how you took me with you
through the image on the card? Can't you do the same thing for the boy
with words?"

Frowning, Lalo reached out and felt her clasp his hand. "I sup-
pose . . -" he said slowly. "Wedemir, my son—do you understand why I
must try?"

"Yes, Papa," Wedemir said harshly. Better to have it over with now,
whatever the outcome might be. If he had not won the girl when Darios's
fate was still in doubt, he would never get her while her first love was
slowly starving to death beyond this stone!

"Darios, can you hear me?" he said more loudly. "Listen—I know
you've been trained to this—listen, and see what I say—"

"I don't understand . . ."

"Just listen!" From habit, Lalo closed his eyes. He had had the S'danzo
card in front of him before, but he remembered each brushstroke vividly.
"Calm down, steady your breathing—you know how. . . . Imagine you
are looking at an archway—the arch of a gate big enough to drive a
chariot through. Look at the stones. They are pale granite with dark
flecks that glint in the sun ... six great stones on each side, and a
larger cap, three on each side of the arch, and a trapezoidal keystone. Do
you see it, boy?" Lalo saw it clearly in his mind's eye, not a thing of paint
and pasteboard now, but a real gateway, solid stone. There was a faint
murmur of assent from within.

"Look through the archway now—you see a garden. . . ." Lalo began
to describe the sweep of green grass, the roses, the trees. And as he spoke,
he himself saw them. He moved forward. "Go through the gateway,
Darios—go into the garden . . - into the garden, , . ."

THE VISION OF LALO

381

Lalo hardly felt Gilla's arms go around him as he left his body behind
him and his own words carried him through. It was no shock to find that
he could see, for this was only a continuation of his inner vision. He
turned, and saw someone coming toward him. It was a tall young man,
well formed, though his skin had the pallor of one who spends his days
indoors. His curling black hair and beard were as glossy as the coat of
one of the Prince's pampered horses, and his dark eyes glowed.

A handsome man, thought Lalo. No wonder Rhian loved him. A mental
adjustment to his own dress clothed him in a clean shirt and one of his
better coats- He lifted his hand in greeting.

The young man's eyes widened. "Who are you?"

"Lalo the Limner." It seemed such an inadequate answer to offer this
young man who stood in the rich robes of his Order, watching him in
wonder.

"I've heard of you. But you're not a mage!"

"I'm not sure what I am anymore . . ," Lalo looked around him. If
only he could stay here, where it was so beautiful—where he could see.
But at least he knew the way here now.

"But unless we do something, you, my son, are going to be dead very
soon'"

A moment's concentration brought a tablet and stick of charcoal into
his hands. The Sigil still blazed in Lalo's memory. He could not have
described it, but his arm moved easily in the contorted swirls of the
figure, and he felt a swift rush of delight in the sureness with which he
drew, recognizing only now how the frustration of being unable to do so
had galled him. Here, he could paint again, even if there was no one to
see.

"Can you remember it?" He held the tablet out to the other man.
Darios gazed at it, his eyes going glassy as ingrained disciplines commit-
ted the curves and angles to memory.

"I will remember," said Darios grimly. "I never saw it properly. The
Sigil was not in the book I found—only the spell. And if I fail," his lips
twisted a little. "At least you have shown me the way to an easy passage.
My thanks to you, Master Limner, for that." For a moment the two men
clasped hands.

They both looked toward the archway that led back to the world's
darkness. Lalo straightened, realizing that he was almost as unwilling to
return to the prison of his body as Darios was to go back to his tomb. But
he could feel the need of those he had left behind him tugging at his
awareness.

Together they moved forward.

Then Lalo was shaken in a tumult of darkness through which he heard

382 UNEASY ALLIANCES

a great voice crying "Be opened'", and the Sigil blossomed upon his
vision in lines of white fire. There was a moment of disorientation. Lalo
felt strong arms supporting him. He gazed as the Sigil coruscated
through all the colors of the spectrum in a blaze of opalescence, and then
both Sigil and stone misted away, and a gaunt figure staggered forward
and collapsed into his arms.

"Darios!" shrieked Rhian.

But Lalo had not needed that to identify him. Something in his spirit
had recognized the essence of the man he held, that wavered like a gut-
tering candle flame. He stared down at matted tangles of black hair, a
patch of blue robe whose cloth was of rather poorer quality than the
fabric Darios had worn in the Otherworld, and beyond, to a patch of
dusty stone. The bent back heaved; bony fingers clutched at Lalo's arms.

"My son, my son, don't weep!" He stroked the dusty locks as if Darios
had been his own child indeed. "It worked, lad—you are free—you are
free!"

And then Lalo's hand stilled. When he closed his eyes, he saw the
glossy hair and tall strength of the man he had met in the Otherworld.
But when he opened them, he knew he held a youth who would be no
more than his own height even when full-fed. Instead of a verdant gar-
den, he saw the sordid, soiled reality to which he had been born ... he
saw every stinking turd and blessed battered stone ... he saw!

Vanda and Rhian were on either side of Darios now.

"Darios—my poor darling! You look like one of your own spirits!"
Rhian drew his arm across her shoulder.

"Starved—" whispered the mageling, "but even before that . . .
wasn't handsome. A spell, Rhian ... to make you think so. Forgive
me!"

"You silly boy!" Rhian shook her head. "Do you think it mattered?"

"We'll take you home and let my mother's cooking put some flesh on
your bones!" said Vanda, taking his other arm.

Lalo let go, and the two girls supported him as he stumbled toward the
stairs. Gilla set Lalo's hand on her shoulder.

"No—" his voice cracked, and he laid his own hand over hers. "I can
see my own way now." She started, and her gaze came back from Darios
to meet his own.

"Oh! Oh Lalo!" Her arms closed around him, and he felt her tears wet
on his neck. He blinked, and looked past her bent head to the stairs.

Darios and the girls had nearly reached the top now. Wedemir was
waiting for them, stiff as a statue, with all his agony blazing in his eyes.

"And what of me?" he asked as they passed him, as tragically as any
character in one of Feltheryn's plays. "Rhian, what about me?"

THE VISION OF LALO                383

Rhian turned to face him. "I am taking this man to shelter. Wedemir,
not marrying him," she said tartly. "At this moment, I don't know if I
want to marry anyone—not him, or you!" She and Vanda helped Darios
on, leaving Wedemir staring.

Lalo began to laugh, because of the swift toss of Rhian's bright head,
and the look on Wedemir's face—and for sheer simple joy because he had
been healed.

"I still love you, lambkin—" Lalo put his arm around Latilla, who
sniffed and turned her face away.

"You love Mama better . . ." she mumbled.

Lalo sighed, aware that there was a part of his daughter that wished he
were still blind. But it would do no good to tell her so.

"I love Mama differently—but not more than I love you. That's the
way it's supposed to be. Someday you'll find a young man who loves you
that way, and you'll have a daughter of your own. You'll see, . . ." He
sighed, remembering how he had rejected this kind of reasoning when he
was her age.

"Nobody will marry me—I'm ugly!" she whispered then.

"Did the other girls tell you so?" He squeezed her hand. "Listen to me,
Latilla—you will be beautiful! This isn't just your father's love talking,
sweetling—I see what you will be!" Gently he turned her to face him, and
let outer and inner vision merge, seeing the color of Latilla's mouse-fair
hair deepen to old gold, the fine bones define the face beneath the translu-
cent skin.

It was becoming easier. When his sight first returned, Lalo had some-
times had to shut his eyes because the confusion of shape and color was
too painful. While Darios lay in the next room, eating Gilla's good food
and growing back into his body, Lalo had learned to see once more.

But it was different now. He saw the shabby streets of Sanctuary as a
man long away looks upon his childhood home. Recovering one kind of
vision had given him all of them, for to Lalo, the ordinary light of day
was now as wonderful as the clear light of the Otherworld. He had begun
to use inner and outer vision equally as he had never done before.

"I could paint what I see in you so that you can see it too—would you
like me to?"

Latilla looked shyly up at him, then away again.

That's the first time I've ever boasted of it, Lalo realized. No, not
boasted, but accepted as one of the things that he could do. / am no
longer simply Lalo the Limner, he thought. But what am I?

"I ... don't think so. I believe you—" she added swiftly, "but I
don't think I should know."

384               UNEASY ALLIANCES

Lalo nodded, wondering how many girls twice her age would have
been so wise.

"You tell me when I get there, will you. Papa? And then, maybe if
Darios doesn't marry Rhian he will marry me. Do you think he might?"
She broke off suddenly, blushing, and Lalo saw the student mage stand-
ing in the door.

"He might—who knows?" he whispered in his daughter's ear. "Run
along now and let me find out if he's good enough for you!"

Latilla giggled, jumped to her feet, and still blushing, darted past
Darios through the door. She left silence behind her. Lalo wondered how
to break it. At times it seemed to him that he and Darios had shared one
resurrection, but there was no reason the younger man should feel the
same.

"Come in," he said finally. "How are you feeling? Have you decided
what you want to do now?" Darios sat down on the other bench.

"My own master died, and there's not much left of the Mageguild,"
Darios said slowly. "What I would like is to finish my apprenticeship
with you. . . ."

"But I'm not a mage!" exclaimed Lalo.

"Aren't you?" Darios looked up suddenly, and Lalo saw his dark eyes
glowing as they had glowed in the Otherworld. "I know the spells, the
recipes, the rules. But what use is that these days, when so much of that
kind of magic has lost its power? You have more of the spirit of magic in
your paintbrush than the whole Mageguild in their wands. Teach me
vision, Master Lalo, and I will take care of the spells."

An apprentice! For the first time in years Lalo remembered that the
man who had made him a master had not been a painter, but a mage.
There was a pattern here, a power that transcended the gods. Again,
inner and outer vision blended, and he glimpsed his life laid out before
him like one of the great murals in the temples. He blinked, and it disap-
peared—like Latilla, he was not yet ready to see.

But one day . . . one day. . . .

Lalo looked back at Darios, took a deep breath, and held out his hand.