Thieves World Book #07

The Dead of Winter

Edited by Robert Lynn Asprin

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personae                           Lynn Abbey

Introduction                                      Robert Lynn Asprin

Hell to Pay                                         Janet Morris

The Veiled Lady,

or A Look at the Normal Folk                   Andrew Offutt

The God-Chosen                                          Lynn Abbey

Keeping Promises                             Robin W. Bailey

Armies of the Night                          C. J. Cherryh

Down by the Riverside                                Diane Duane

When the Spirit Moves You                        Robert Lynn Asprin

The Color of Magic                           Diana L. Paxson

Afterword                                          Andrew Offutt

Dramatis Personae

The Townspeople:

Ahdiovizun; Ahdiomer Viz; Ahdio

Proprietor of Sly's Place, a legendary dive within the Maze.

Lalo the Limner

Street artist gifted with magic he does not fully understand.

Gilla    His indomitable wife.

Alfi      Their youngest son.

Latilla Their daughter.

Vanda Their daughter.

Wedemir        Their son and eldest child.

Dubro Bazaar blacksmith and husband to Illyra.

Illyra  Half-blood S'danzo seeress with True Sight.

Arton  Their son, marked by the gods and magic as part of an

emerging divinity known as the Storm Children.

Hakiem          Storyteller and confidant extraordinaire.

Harran           Overworked  surgeon for  the false  Stepsons and  one-time priest of the

nearly forgotten goddess, Siveni.

Jubal   Prematurely aged former gladiator.  Once he openly ran Sanctuary's  most

visible criminal organization,  the  Hawkmasks.  Now he works behind the

scenes.

Kurd   Vivisectionist slain by  Tempus upon whom he  had performed some of  his

viler experiments.

Lastel; One  Thumb Proprietor  of the  Vulgar Unicorn.  Betrayed by  local

magicians, he spent a small eternity in death's embrace. Freed when Cime

wreaked havoc on the local Mageguild, he is a shadow of his former self.

Moruth           King of the Downwind beggars. Myrtis-Madam of the Aphrodisia House.

Tamzen          Young woman, daughter of a  tavernkeeper, who loved Niko and was  killed

by Roxane.

Zip      Bitter young terrorist. Leader  of the Popular Front for  the Liberation

of Sanctuary (PFLS).

The Magicians:

Askelon          The Entelechy of Dreams, a  magician so powerful that the gods  have set

him apart from men to rule in Meridian, the source of dreams.

Datan  Supreme of the Nisibisi wizards;  slain by the Stepsons and Randal.  His

globe of power,  which now belongs to  Randal, was the foremost  of such

artifacts manufactured along Wizardwall.

Enas  Yorl      Quasi-immortal  mage cursed  with eternal  life and  constantly

changing physical form.

Ischade          Necromancer and thief.  Her curse is passed  to her lovers who  die from

it.

Haught           Her apprentice. A Nisibisi dancer and freed slave.

Mor-am         Her servant.  A  Hawkmask she  saved from certain   death, whose

pain  and  torment  she  holds  at  bay  in  exchange for  other

services.

Moria  Mor-am's sister, also a Hawkmask but now the somewhat  alcoholic

chatelaine of Ischade's uptown establishment.

Stilcho            One  of the  Sanctuary  natives chosen to   replace the Stepsons

when  they  followed  Tempus  to  Wizardwall.  He  was  tortured

and killed  by Moruth,  then reanimated by Ischade.

Roxane; Death's Queen       Nisibisi witch. Heiress to all Nisi power and enemies.

Snapper Jo    A fiend summoned and controlled by Roxane.

Others:

Bashir A Free  Nisi fighter and  ally of the  Stepsons during their  sojourn at

Wizardwall.

Brachis           Supreme Archpriest of Vashanka, companion of Theron.

Mradhon Vis Nisibisi mercenary, adventurer and occasional spy.

Theron           New military Emperor.  An usurper placed on  the throne with the  aid of

Tempus and his allies.

The Rankans living in Sanctuary:

Chenaya;  Daughter of  the Sun        Daughter of  Lowan Vigeles,  a beautiful  and

powerful young woman  who  is fated never  to  lose a fight.  Dayrne-Her

companion and trainer.

Gyskouras     One of the Storm Children, conceived during  an ill-fated Ritual

of the  Ten-Slaying,  a  commemoration of  Vashanka's vengeance  on  his

brothers.

Seylalha         His mother, a temple  dancer chosen to be Azyuna in  the

Ritual of the Ten-Slaying.

Prince  Kadakithis    Charismatic  but somewhat  naive  half-brother  of the

recently assassinated Emperor, Abakithis.

Daphne           His official wife, missing since the arrival of the Beysib.

Lowan Vigeles           Half-brother of Molin Torchholder, father of Chenaya, a  wealthy

aristocrat  self-exiled  to   Sanctuary   in  the  wake   of  Abakithis'

assassination.

Molin Torchholder; Torch   Archpriest  and architect of Vashanka;  Guardian

of the Storm Children.

Rosanda         His wife.

Rankan 3rd Commando      Mercenary company founded by Tempus Thales and noted for

its brutal efficiency.

Kama; Jes      Tempus' barely acknowledged daughter.

Sync                Commander  of the 3rd.

Rashan; the Eye of Savankala        Priest and Judge of Savankala.  Highest-ranking

Rankan in Sanctuary prior to the arrival of the Prince.

Razkuli           Hell     Hound slain for vengeance by Tempus.

Stepsons; Sacred Banders   Members of  a mercenary unit founded by  Abarsis

who willed their allegiance to Tempus Thales after his own death.

Critias;  Crit   Leftside leader   paired  with   Straton.  Second   in

command after Tempus.

Janni   Nikodemos' rightside partner; tortured and killed by Roxane.

Nikodemos;  Niko; Stealth  Bandaran Adept  skilled in  mental and

martial disciplines. Once a captive of Roxane and Datan.

Randal; Witchy-Ears           The  only  mage ever   trusted by  Tempus  or

admitted into the Sacred Band.

Straton;  Strat;  Ace Rightside  partner  of  Critias. Enamored  of

Ischade and, so far, immune to her curse.

Tempus Thales; the Riddler           Nearly immortal mercenary, a partner of Vashanka

before  that  god's demise;   commander  of the  Stepsons;  cursed  with

a  fatal inability to give or receive love.

Walegrin        Rankan army officer assigned to the Sanctuary garrison where his

father had been slain by the S'danzo many years before.

Zalbar Captain of  the Hell-Hounds  which,  since  the arrival  of the  Beysib

exiles, have lost most of their influence.

The Gods:

Enlil    Storm God/wargod for the  more recently conquered Northern parts of  the

Rankan Empire.

Mriga  Mindless  and  crippled  woman  elevated  to  divinity  during Harran's

abortive attempt to resurrect Siveni Gray-Eyes.

Sabellia           Mother goddess for  the Rankan Empire. Savankala-Father  god for

the Rankan Empire.

Siveni Gray-Eyes     Ilsigi goddess of wisdom, medicine and defense.

Stormbringer            Primal Storm God/wargod. The pattern for all other such gods, he

is not, himself, the object of organized worship.

Vashanka       Storm God/wargod  of the original  Rankan lands; vanquished  and

exiled beyond the reach of his onetime worshippers.

The Beysib:

Monkel Setmur         Young chief of clan Setmur, an extended kinship of fishermen and

sailors.

Shupansea; Shu-sea Head of the Beysib exiles in Sanctuary; mortal avatar of

the Beysib mother goddess.

INTRODUCTION

Robert Lynn Asprin

"You may remove your blindfold now, old one."

Even as  he fumbled  with the  knot binding  the strip  of cloth  over his eyes,

Hakiem knew much of his  surroundings. His nose told him  that he was in one  of

Sanctuary's numerous brothels ... though exactly which one he was unsure of.  At

his advanced age he did not frequent the town's houses of ill-repute even though

he could now  easily have afforded  them, and therefore  he was unfamiliar  with

their individual  nuances. The  memories of  his youth,  however, still lingered

strong enough for him to recognize  the generic aroma of a dwelling  where women

sold sex for a living  and the incense used in  a vain attempt to disguise  that

profession.

More important than the room's location was its inhabitant, and Hakiem had  good

reason  to recognize  the voice  that now  instructed him.  It was  Jubal,  once

Sanctuary's  crimelord  ... now  the  underground leader  of  one of  the  armed

factions that fought overtly and covertly for control of the city.

"It takes longer to  reach you these days,"  Hakiem said with a  casualness that

bordered on insolence as he removed his blindfold.

Jubal was  sprawled across  a large,  throne-like chair  which Hakiem recognized

from earlier days when the black ex-gladiator/slaver had openly operated out  of

his Downwind mansion.  He wondered briefly  what it had  taken to retrieve  that

piece of furniture; the Stepsons had attacked the dwelling, driven the crimelord

into hiding. Of course, the "ersatz" Stepsons had been there for a while,  which

might have made the recovery easier ... but that would have to be a story to  be

purloined on another day.

"These are  dangerous times,"  Jubal said  without a  trace of  apology. "One as

observant as yourself must surely have noticed that, even though you have seldom

relayed such information to me since your promotion."

Hakiem felt vaguely uncomfortable at this subtle accusation. He knew that he had

long  enjoyed  favored  status in  Jubal's  eyes,  and at  one  time  would have

tentatively called him a friend. Now, however ...

"I  have  brought  someone  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  striving  to  shift  the

conversation away from himself. "Allow me to present ..."

"You would not have reached me if I hadn't known both that you were  accompanied

by someone and that person's identity," Jubal interrupted. "All that remains  to

be discovered is  the motive for  this visit. You  may remove your  blindfold as

well. Lord Setmur. My earlier instruction was meant for both of you."

Hakiem's  companion  hastily  removed  his  eye  covering  and  stood  squinting

nervously.

"I ... I wasn't sure, and thought it better to err on the side of caution."

"A sentiment we both  share," Jubal said with  a smile. "Now tell  me, why would

one  of  you Beysib  interlopers,  much less  the  head of  the  Setmur clan  of

fishermen,  seek an  audience with  a lowly  Sanctuarite such  as myself?  I  am

neither noble nor  fisherman, and it's  been my impression  that the Beysib  are

interested in little else in our town."

Hakiem  felt a  moment of  sympathy for  the little  Beysib. Monkel  Setmur  was

unaccustomed to dealing with those who specialized in words, much less those who

habitually honed their tongues to  razor-sharpness. It was clear that  Jubal was

in a bad mood and ready to vent his annoyance on his hapless visitor.

"Surely you can't hold Monkel here responsible for ..."

"Stay out of this, old one," Jubal snapped, stopping Hakiem's attempted  defense

with a suddenly  pointing finger. "Speaking  for the Beysib  has become a  habit

with you which  would be better  broken. I wish  to hear Lord  Setmur's thoughts

directly."

Sketching a bow so formal it  reeked of sarcasm, Hakiem lapsed into  silence. In

truth, he himself was curious about the reason behind Monkel's visit. The Beysib

had sought out  Hakiem to arrange  an audience with  Jubal, but had  steadfastly

refused to reveal his motive.

The Beysib licked  his lips nervously,  then locked gazes  with the ex-crimelord

and straightened his back proudly.

"One hears that you have power in  the streets of Sanctuary ... and that  of the

gang leaders, you are the only one whose favor can be bought."

Hakiem winced inwardly.  If Monkel had  intended to make  an enemy of  Jubal, he

could not have  picked a better  opening gambit. The  diplomat in him  wanted to

close his eyes and avoid the sight  of Jubal's response to this insult, but  the

storyteller part of him required that he witness every detail and nuance.

To his surprise, Jubal did not immediately lash out in anger ... either verbally

or physically.

"That is a common misconception," he said instead, nodding slowly. "In truth,  I

am simply more open about my interest in money than most. There are some  causes

or chores which even I and my forces will not touch ... regardless of the fee."

The head of the Setmur clan sagged slightly at this news. His gaze dropped,  and

as he replied, his voice was lacking the edge of confidence and arrogance it had

held earlier.

"If by that you mean you wish to have nothing to do with my people, then I  will

waste no more of your time. It had been my intention to ask for your  protection

for the Beysib here in Sanctuary. In return, I was willing to pay handsomely ...

either a flat fee or, if you wished, a percentage of my clan's revenues."

In his head, Hakiem damned Monkel for his secrecy. If only the little  fisherman

had asked his counsel before they  were in Jubal's presence. On the  surface the

proposal seemed reasonable  enough, except.... It  was common knowledge  in town

that Jubal had long sought to obtain a foothold on Sanctuary's wharfs, but  that

to date he  had been forestalled  by the tight  unity of the  fishing community.

Apparently this  common knowledge  had escaped  the ears  of Lord Setmur. Either

that or he was unaware  of the fragility of the  union between his clan and  the

local fishermen. If the local captains discovered that he was offering Jubal  an

opening to drive a wedge into the fishing community in exchange for safety ...

"Your request is not unreasonable, and  the price you offer is tempting,"  Jubal

said  thoughtfully,  the  earlier  note  of  mockery  in  his  voice  gone  now.

"Unfortunately I am not in a  position to enter into such a  negotiation. Please

accept  my assurance  that this  is not  because I  hold a  grudge against  your

people, but rather that I would be unable to fulfill my part of the bargain."

"But I thought ..." Monkel began, but Jubal waved him to silence.

"Let me explain the current situation to you, Lord Setmur, as I see it. The city

is  currently a  battlefield. Many  factions are  fighting for  control of   the

streets. Though it  may seem that  the Beysib are  the target of  this violence,

they are more often than not innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of  the

real war."

Jubal was leaning forward in his  chair now, his eyes burning with  intensity as

he warmed to the subject.

"If  I  were to  guarantee  the safety  of  your people,  it  would mean  openly

committing my troops to your defense. Anyone who wanted to attack me would  soon

learn that all that  was necessary would be  to attack the Beysib.  whereupon my

forces would emerge from  hiding to receive the  brunt of the attack.  In short,

rather than relieving you of your  enemies, your proposed deal would simply  add

my enemies to yours  ... a situation less  than favorable to the  Beysib. As for

me,  I  cannot afford  to  have my  fighting  strength eroded  away  by becoming

predictable.  My current  activities are  more covert  in nature,  playing  each

faction off against the others so that they will be weakened as I grow stronger.

When I  am confident  that there  is sufficient  inequity of  power to  assure a

victory, my forces will sweep the streets and restore order once again. At  that

time, we wi!l be able to discuss terms of coexistence. Until then, you are  best

to heed the  advice of people  such as Hakiem  here in regards  to which faction

holds which neighborhood, and plan your movements accordingly. Such  information

is readily enough available that there is no need to pay my prices for it."

"I see," Monkel said softly. "In that case, I thank you for your time ..."

"Not so  hasty. Lord  Setmur," Jubal  interrupted with  a smile. "I occasionally

deal in  currency other  than gold.  Now, I  have given  you some new and honest

information. Could I trouble you to respond in kind?"

"But ..." the little  Beysib shot a confused  glance at Hakiem in  silent appeal

for guidance. "What information could  I possibly have that would  interest you?

All I know is fishing."

"I am  still learning  about the  Beysib," Jubal  said. "Specifically, about how

they think. For  example, it occurs  to me that  the fishing clan  of Setmur has

suffered  few  casualties  in  the  street  wars  when  compared  to  the losses

experienced by the royal clan Burek.  1 am therefore surprised that the  request

for  my protection  comes from  you rather  than a  representative of  the  clan

suffering the most from the current civil upheaval. Perhaps you could  enlighten

me as to this seeming contradiction?"

Monkel was taken aback.  Apparently it had never  occurred to him that  he would

have to explain his motives to Jubal.

"Could ... could  it not be  that the loss  of any countryman  concerns me? That

clan Setmur stands ready to pay the price for the good of all?"

"It could be," Jubal  acknowledged. "Though it would  mean that your people  are

considerably more noble than mine  ... particularly when the poorer  stand ready

to pay for  the protection of  the richer. I  had thought that  the reason might

possibly be  that you  suddenly had  reason to  be personally  interested in the

safety of clan  Burek ... say,  specifically, the safety  of one member  of that

clan? A guardswoman, perhaps?"

Monkel simply gaped, unable to respond. As a relative newcomer to Sanctuary,  he

had  not  expected  Jubal's  information network  to  include  his  own personal

activities. As head of  one of the two  clans of invaders, he  should have known

better.

"If that were  indeed the case,"  Jubal continued smoothly,  "we might yet  work

something out. The safety of one person I could guarantee."

"... At  a reduced  rate, of  course," Hakiem  said, risking  Jubal's wrath  but

unable to hold his silence.

"Of course,"  Jubal echoed  without releasing  the Beysib  from his gaze. "Well,

Lord Setmur?"

"I ...  I would  have to  think about  it," Monkel  managed at  last. "I  hadn't

considered this possibility."

"Very well," Jubal  said briskly. "Take  your time. If  you wish to  discuss the

matter further, wear a red neck scarf. One of my agents will identify himself to

you with the  word Guardswoman and  lead you to  my current headquarters.  While

Hakiem here is trustworthy enough, there is  no need for you to have to  contact

me through him. The fewer who know when we meet and how often ... much less what

is discussed, the better it will be for both of us."

"I ... thank you."

"Now then, if you would wait in the  next room, my man Saliman will see to  your

needs. I would like a few words alone with Hakiem."

Hakiem  waited  until  the  door had  closed  behind  the  little Beysib  before

speaking.

"Well, it seems I have led yet another fly into your web, Jubal."

Instead of  replying to  this insolence,  Jubal studied  the ex-storyteller  for

several moments in silence.

"What distresses you, old one?" he said finally. "I dealt fairly with your  fish

eyed  companion,  even  to  the  point  of  admitting  my  own  weaknesses   and

limitations. Still your words and stance reek of disapproval, as they have since

you first entered the room. Have I done or said something to offend you?"

Hakiem started to snap  out an answer, then  caught himself. Instead, he  drew a

deep breath and blew it all out slowly in a silent whistle.

"No, Jubal," he sighed at last. "All  you have said and done is consistent  with

who and what  you have been  since we first  met. I guess  my time at  court has

simply taught  me to  view things  on a  different scale  than I  did when I was

selling stories on the street for coppers."

"Then tell me how you see things now," Jubal demanded, impatience sharpening his

tone. "There was a time when we could speak openly together."

Hakiem pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

"There was a time when I thought  as you do, Jubal, that power alone  determined

right and wrong. If  you were strong enough  or rich enough, you  were right and

that was that.  At court, however,  I see people  every day who  have power, and

that has caused me  to change my views.  Seeing things on a  grander scale, I've

learned that power can be used for  right or wrong, to create or destroy.  While

everyone  thinks  they  use  their  power  for  the  best,  narrow-visioned   or

shortsighted exercise  of power  can be  as destructive  as deliberate wrong ...

sometimes even worse, because  in the case of  deliberate wrong one is  aware of

what  he  is doing  and  moderates it  accordingly.  Unintended wrong  knows  no

boundaries."

"This is a strange thing to say to me," Jubal laughed mirthlessly. "I have  been

accused of being the greatest wrongdoer in Sanctuary's history."

"I've never believed that," Hakiem  said. "Frequently your activities have  been

illegal and often brutal, but you have  tried to maintain a degree of honor  ...

right and wrong, if you will. That's why you wouldn't sell Monkel protection you

couldn't give, even though the price was tempting."

"If that  is true,  then what  distresses you?  I haven't  changed the  way I do

business."

"No, and that's the problem. You haven't changed. You still think of what's best

for you and yours  ... not what's  best for everybody.  That's fine for  a small

time hoodlum in a  dead-end town, but things  are changing. I've long  suspected

what I heard you say openly today ... that you're playing the other factions off

against each other to weaken them."

"And what's wrong with that?" Jubal snapped.

"It  weakens  the town,"  Hakiem  shot back.  "Even  if you  succeed  in gaining

control, can you keep it? Open your eyes, Jubal, and see what's going on outside

of your own little  sphere. The Emperor is  dead. The Rankan Empire  is facing a

crisis, and the rightful heir to the throne is right here in town. What's  more,

those 'fish-eyed' Beysib you  scorn have made us  the gateway to a  new land ...

and a rich land at that. Sanctuary  is becoming a focal point in history,  not a

forgotten little  backwater town,  and powerful  forces are  going to  be set in

motion to control it, if they  haven't been mobilized already. We need  to unify

what strength we have, not erode it away in petty local squabbles that leave  us

drained and ripe for the picking."

"You're becoming  quite a  tactician, old  one," Jubal  said thoughtfully.  "Why

haven't you said this to anyone else?"

"Who would  listen?" Hakiem  snorted. "I'm  still the  old storyteller  who made

good. I may  have the ear  of the Beysa,  and through her  the Prince, but  they

don't control the streets. That's your  arena, and you're busy using what  power

you have to stir up trouble."

"I listen to  you," the ex-crimelord  said firmly. "What  you say gives  me much

food for thought. Perhaps I have been shortsighted."

"At least we're headed into winter.  The rainy season should cool things  off...

and maybe give you enough time to reflect on your course of action."

"Don't count on it," Jubal sighed. "I was going to warn you to stay away from my

old mansion. I  have information that  the Stepsons are  on their way  back into

town ... the original ones, not the mockeries who took their place."

Hakiem closed his eyes as if in pain.

"The Stepsons," he repeated softly. "As if Sanctuary didn't have enough  trouble

already."

"Who knows?" Jubal shrugged. "Maybe they'll restore that order you long for.  If

not, I'm afraid there'll be a new meaning for 'the dead of winter'."

HELL TO PAY

Janet Morris

On the first day  of winter-a sodden, sullen  dawn of the sort  only Sanctuary's

southern  sea-whipped  weather  could  provide-the  bona  fide  Stepsons,  elite

fighters trained by the immortal Tempus himself, crept round the barracks estate

held by pretenders  to their unit  name and defilers  of all the  Sacred Banders

stood for.

Supported by Sync's  Rankan 3rd  Commando renegades  and less  quotidian  allies

wraiths of the netherworld lent to the Band by Ischade, the necromant who  loved

the band's commander,  Straton; Randal, the  Stepsons' own staff  enchanter; and

Zip's gutterbred PFLS rebels-they stormed gates once theirs at sunrise,  naphtha

fireballs and high-torque arrows whizzing from crossbows in their hands.

By midmorning the  rout was over,  the whitewashed walls  once meant to  keep in

slaves  now  bright  with  blood   of  ersatz  Stepsons  who'd  betrayed   their

mercenaries' oaths and now would pay the customary, ancient price.

For nonperformance was the greatest sin, the only error unforgivable, among  the

meres. And Sacred Banders, the paired fighters who cored the Stepsons unit which

had spent eighteen months warring  on Wizardwall's high peaks and  beyond, could

not forgive incompetence,  nor cowardice, nor  graft nor greed.  The affront had

brought the ten core pairs to Strat, their line commander and half a Sacred Band

pair himself, with  ultimata: either the  barracks was reclaimed,  and purified,

the honor and the glory of their unit restored so that Stepsons could once again

hold their heads  high in the  town, or they  were leaving- going  up to Tyse to

find Tempus and lay before him their grievances.

So it was that Strat walked  now among the slaughter within the  barracks' outer

walls,  among corpses  burned past  recognition and  others disemboweled,  among

women and children gutted for being where they had no right to be and  housepets

slit from jaws to tails, their entrails already out at Vashanka's field altar of

handhewn stones, ready to be offered to the god.

Ischade walked with him, inky eyes agleam within her hood. He'd promised Ischade

something, one night last autumn. He wondered if this was it-if the killing  had

gotten out  of hand  because Ischade  was there,  and not  because Zip's Popular

Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary  knew nothing of restraint and Sync's  3rd

Commando, not to be outdone, forsook all thoughts of proper measure once it  was

clear that the ersatz Stepsons had  been keeping dogs on grounds consecrated  to

Vashanka, the Rankan god of rape and pillage.

Rape,  of course,  was still  under way   in the  stables and  in the  long  low

barracks. Strat saw  Ischade turn her  head away at  the piteous cries  of women

who'd been where women had no right to be and now paid the soldiers' tithe.

Around them, PFLS rebels ran to and fro, heavy sacks or gleaming tack upon their

shoulders-pillaging had begun.

Strat didn't move  to stop the  stealing or the  defilement of the  luckless few

who'd been comely enough to live a little longer than their fellows. He was  the

ranking officer and his was the  burden of command-even when, as now,  he didn't

like it.

Crit, Strat's  absent partner,  might have  foreseen and  forestalled the moment

when the 3rd's bloodthirsty nature surfaced and Zip's rabble followed suit,  and

blood began to spill like Vashanka's rains or a whore's tears.

But he hadn't. Not until it was far too late. And then, knowing that if he tried

to stop  them he'd  lose only  his command,  he'd had  to let the bloodlust work

through the  assault force  like dysentery  works through  those fool  enough to

drink from the White Foal River.

Ischade knew his pain; her hand was  on his arm. But the necromant was  wise-she

said not one word to the Stepsons' chief interrogator and line commander as they

came upon Randal-the Tysian Hazard who was the only magical ally besides herself

the  Stepsons tolerated-quartering  a dog  to roast  and bury  at the  barracks'

compass points.

"For luck, Witchy-Ears?" Straton growled  to Randal, and Ischade relaxed.  "It's

hardly lucky for that pup."

He must take his  anguish out on someone,  vent his spleen. She'd  thought while

they  walked among  the corpses  askew on  training grounds  and open-legged  in

doorways that the "someone" might be her. She'd raised shades to help the  siege

even one named  Janni who'd been  a Stepson before  his death. And  Strat, who'd

known Janni and Stilcho and others among Ischade's part-living cadre when they'd

laid a clearer claim to life, had had shadows in his eyes.

The same shadows of disgust scoured his  mouth now as the big Stepson spat  over

his shoulder and demanded, "Randal, give me an answer."

But Randal, the big-eared,  freckled mage who was  so cautious and yet  no man's

fool or pawn despite his slight and unassuming person, knew that Straton  wanted

more than a reason for the sacrifice of a cur. Strat wanted someone to tell  him

that the  massacre he  walked through  fit somehow  into the  Stepsons' code  of

honor.

But it didn't. Not in any way at all. It was war out of hand and blood begetting

blood and the only  justification or reason for  it was the nature  of Sanctuary

itself- Sanctuary was out of balance, gnawing on its own leg while it frothed at

the  mouth, beset  by enemies  from within  and without.  The town  was full  of

factions  among  men and  among  gods and  among  sorcerers, so  full  that even

Ischade, who had interests here, had to come out into daylight to protect  them,

and  to throw  in her  lot with  Straton's Sacred  Band and  Sync's amoral   3rd

Commando.

When Randal  didn't answer,  just favored  Strat with  an eloquent sickened look

full of accusation, since Strat was  putatively in command, Ischade said to  the

officer beside her, "Order is its own reward. And reason makes its bed with  us,

not with  the Beysib  interlopers who  have the  Prince enthralled,  or with the

quasi-mages  locked up  tight in  their guild,  or with  Roxane's undead   death

squads."

Then Randal put down his knife and wiped his long nose with a gory hand.  "Maybe

it'll bring your  god back, Strat.  Rouse Vashanka from  wheresoever the Pillage

Lord is sleeping. The  men think so, that's  sure enough." The mage  rose up and

made a pass over the quartered dog  and all four parts of it-fore and  hind-rose

into the  air, dripping  fluids, and  floated away  toward the  field altar  out

behind the training ground.

Strat watched the  pieces disappear around  a corner before  he said, "Vashanka?

Back?  What  makes  you  think  the god's  gone?  He's  reverted  to  His second

childhood, is all. He's lost all  sense of proportion like a child."  Then Strat

turned on Ischade, as she'd thought he might, and his eyes were as flat and hard

as her nerves told her his heart had become.

"Does this suit you, then, Ischade? All this 'order' that you see here? Will  it

help us-give us a few  nights more for you to  lie with me without your  'needs'

taking over? Are you sated? Can a necromant ever have enough? Is it safe for you

to take me home?"

Home to  her embrace,  he meant.  To her  odd and  shadowed house, all gleam and

velvet by the White Foal's edge. Straton  made her soul ache and because of  him

she'd mixed in where no necromant belonged. And it was true: The death here  was

partly of her making;  she'd be content now,  without having to stalk  the night

for victims, for days.

She saw in his eyes that he knew too much, that all she'd done to give him  what

he wanted-her-for  stolen evenings  on brocade  cushions was  about to exact the

price she'd always known it must.

Randal, knowing the conversation was getting too intimate for outsiders, hurried

off, wiping hands on his winter woolens as he followed his sacrifice out  toward

the altar and called over his shoulder, "You'll have to say the rites, Ace." Ace

was Straton's war name. "I'm not qualified, being an envoy of magic and thus  an

enemy of gods-even yours."

Strat ignored the Hazard and watched  Ischade still. "Is it my fault?"  he asked

simply. "Some consequence of lying with you against all that's natural?"

"No more than Janni's fate, or Stilcho's,  can be laid at any other's feet.  Men

make their own fates-it's  personal, not a matter  for debate." She reached  up,

taking a chance, touching his lips  gone white as the big Stepson  struggled for

control, his hand upon his sword hilt.  He might well try to kill her  there and

then, to exorcise his guilt and pain.

Then what would she do? Hurt this one, in whose arms she could be a woman, not a

Power too fearful to survive for any  other man? Never. Or not unless he  forced

it.

Her touch on his lips didn't cause him  to toss his head or step away. He  said,

"Ischade, this is more than I bargained for ..."

"It's more,  Strat, than  any of  us bargained  for." Her  hand slipped from his

lips, down his neck, across the  sloping shoulder to rest on his  powerful right

arm-in a moment she  could numb it, if  there was need. "It's  your god, warring

against the Ilsig gods and the Beysib gods-if they have them-turning men's heads

and hearts. Not  us. We're as  close to innocent  as your sword,  which would as

soon stay in its scabbard. Trust me. We all knew there'd be hell to pay,  should

this day come."

Strat nodded slowly: Ersatz Stepsons had rousted real ones in the town, and even

dared to confront  the black-souled 3rd  Commando rangers. And  Zip's indigenous

fighters had reason to hate all oppressors-the PFLS would as soon have made  the

gutters run with blood up to Zip's knees.

"So now what?" said the big man, distress naked in his tone.

The necromant looked up, reached up again, craned her neck so that her hood fell

back and only her hair shadowed her face. "Now you remember the promise you made

me, that first night-not to blame me for being what I am, not to blame  yourself

for doing what you have to do.  And not to ask too many questions  whose answers

you won't like."

The soldier closed his  eyes, remembering what she'd  bade him forget until  the

time was  right. And  when he  opened them,  they'd softened  just a  bit. "Your

place?" he said tiredly. "Or mine?"

That night, down in Sanctuary on a perpetually dank street called Mageway, in  a

tower of the citadel  of magic, Randal the  Tysian Hazard woke in  his Mageguild

bed, strangling in his own sheets.

The slight mage  went pale beneath  his freckles-pale to  his prodigious ears-as

the sheets, pure and innocent linen as far as anyone knew, bound him tighter. If

he ever got  out of this  alive, he'd have  to have a  talk with his treacherous

bedclothes-they had  no right  to treat  him this  way. Had  his mouth  not been

stoppered by  their grasp,  he could  have shouted  counterspells or  cursed his

inanimate bedclothes, come alive. But Randal's  mouth, as well as his hands  and

feet, was bound tight by hostile magic.

His  eyes,  alas,  were  not. Randal  stared  into  a  darkness which  lightened

perceptibly before  the bed  on which  he struggled,  helpless, as  the Nisibisi

witch Roxane coalesced from nimbus, a sensuous smile upon her face.

Roxane, Death's Queen, was Randal's nemesis, a hated enemy, a worrisome foe.

The young mage writhed within the prison of his sheets and wordless exhortations

came from his gagged mouth. Roxane, whom he'd fought on Wizardwall, had sworn to

kill him-not  just for  what he'd  done to  help Tempus's  Stepsons and Bashir's

guerrilla fighters  reclaim their  homeland, Wizardwall,  from Nisibisi wizards,

but  because Randal  had once  been the  right-side partner  of Stealth,  called

Nikodemos, a soul the witch Roxane sought to claim.

Sweating freely, Randal tried to wriggle off his Mageguild bed as Roxane's  form

lost its wraithlike  quality and became  palpably present. He  succeeded only in

banging his head against the  wall, and cowered there, wishing  witches couldn't

slit Mageguild  wards like  butter, wishing  he'd never  fought with Stepsons or

claimed a Nisi warlock's Globe of  Power, wishing he'd never heard of  Nikodemos

or inherited Niko's panoply, armor forged by the entelechy of dream.

"Umn hmn, nnh nohnu,  rgorhrrr!" Randal shouted at  the witch who now  had human

form, even down to perfumed flesh whose scent mixed with his own acrid,  fearful

sweat: Go away, you horror, evermore!

Roxane  only laughed,  a tinkling  laugh, not  horrid, and  minced over  to  his

bedside with exaggerated care: "Say  you what, little mageling? Say  again?" She

leaned  close,  smiling  broadly,  her lovely  sanguine  face  no  older than  a

marriageable girl's. Her fearsome faith, behind those eyes which supped on  fear

and now were feasting on Randal's anguish, was older than the Mageguild in which

she stood-stood against reason,  against nature, against  the best magic  Rankan

trained adepts and even Randal, who'd  learned Nisi ways to counter the  warring

warlocks from the high peaks, could field.

"Whhd whd drr whdd? Whr hheh?" Randal said from behind his sopping, choking  gag

of sheets: What do you want? Why me?

And the Nisibisi witch stretched  elegantly, leaned close, and answered.  "Want?

Why, Witchy-Ears, your soul, of course. Now, now, don't thrash around so.  Don't

waste your strength,  such as it  is. You've got  'til winter's shortest  day to

anticipate its loss. Unless, of course ..." The luminous eyes that had been  the

last sight of too many great adepts  and doomed warriors came close to his,  and

widened. "Unless you can prevail on Stealth, called Nikodemos, to help you  save

it. But then, we both know it's  not likely he'd put his person in  jeopardy for

yours....  Sacred  Band oath  or  not, Niko's  left  you, deserted  you  as he's

deserted me. Isn't that so, little maladroit nonadept? Or do you think honor and

glory and an abrogated bond could bring your one-time partner down to  Sanctuary

to save you  from a long  and painful stint  as one of  my ... servants?"  Teeth

gleamed above Randal in the dark, as all of Roxane's manifestation gleamed  with

an unholy and inhuman light.

The Tysian Hazard-class  adept lay  unmoving, listening  to his  breathing  rasp

unwilling to answer, to hope, or to even long for Niko's presence. For that  was

what the witch wanted, he finally realized. Not his magic Globe of Power,  bound

with the  most deadly  protections years  of fighting  Roxane's kind  had taught

mages of  lesser power  to devise;  not the  Aske Ionian  panoply without which,

should he somehow survive this  evening, Randal would never sleep  again because

that panoply  was protection  against such  magics as  Roxane's sort could weave

about a simple Hazard-class enchanter. Not any of these did the witch crave, but

Niko-Niko back in Sanctuary, in the flesh.

And Randal, who loved Niko better than he loved himself, who revered Niko in his

heart with all  the loyalty a  rightman was sworn  to give his  left-side leader

even though Niko had formally dissolved their pairbond long before, would gladly

have given up his soul  to Roxane right then and  there to prevent a call  going

out on ethereal waves to summon Niko into Roxane's foul embrace.

He would have, if his mind had been able to control his fear. But it could  not:

Roxane was  fear's drover,  mistress of  terror, the  very fount  from which the

death squads plaguing Sanctuary sprang.

She began to make  arcane and convoluted passes  with her red-nailed hands  over

Randal's immobilized body  and Randal began  to quake. His  mouth dried up,  his

heart beat fast, his pulse sought to rip right through his throat. Panicked,  he

lost all  sense of  logic; unable  to think,  his mind  was hers  to mold and to

command.

As she  wove her  web of  terror, Randal's  mage's talent  screamed silently for

help.

It screamed so well and so loudly, with every atom of his imperiled being,  that

far away to the west, in his cabin before a pool of gravel neatly raked, high on

a  cliffside overlooking  the misty  seascape of  the Bandaran  Islands'  chain,

Nikodemos paused in his meditation and rubbed gooseflesh rising suddenly on  his

arms.

And rose, and sought the cliffside, and stared out to sea awhile before he bent,

picked up a fist-sized stone, and cast it into the waves. Then Niko began making

preparations to leave-to forsake his  mystical retreat once more for  the World,

and for the World's buttocks, the town called Sanctuary, where of all places  in

the Rankan Empire Niko, follower of maat-the mystery of Balance and Transcendent

Perception-and son of the armies, least wanted to go.

Even for Niko's sable stallion, the trek from Bandara to Sanctuary had been long

and hard. Not as long or hard as it would have been for Niko on a lesser  horse,

but long  enough and  hard enough  that when  Niko arrived  in town, bearded and

white with  trail dirt,  he checked  into the  mercenaries' guild  north of  the

palace and went immediately to sleep.

When he woke,  he washed his  face with water  from an ice-crusted  bedside pot,

scratched his two-months growth of beard and decided not to shave it, then  went

down to the common room to eat and get a brief.

The guild hostel's common room  was unchanged- wine-dark even in  morning, quiet

all and  every day.  On its  sideboard stood  steaming bowls  of mulled wine and

goat's blood and, beside, cheese and barley and nuts for men who needed  possets

in the morning to brace them for hard work to come.

These  days,  in Sanctuary,  the  meres were  eating  better -a  function,  Niko

determined from the talk around him as he filled a bowl, of their new regard and

esteem in a town coming apart at its seams, a town where personal protection was

a commodity at an all-time high. There was lamb on the sideboard this morning, a

whole pig with an  apple in its mouth,  and fish stuffed with  savory. It hadn't

been this way when  last Niko'd worked here-then  the meres were tolerated,  but

not sent goodies from the Palace and from the fisherfolk or from the merchants.

It hadn't been this way, before.... He  ate his fill and got his brief  from the

dispatching agent,  who sketched  a map  of faction  lines which  divided up the

town.

"Look  here. Stealth,  I'll only  tell you  once," the  dispatching agent   said

intently. "The Green Line runs along Palace Park; above it are your  patrons-the

Palace types, the  merchant class, and  the Beysibs ...  don't tell me  what you

think of that. The Maze's surrounded by Jubal's Blue Line; you'll need this pass

to get in there."  The dispatcher, who'd lost  one eye before Niko  had ever set

foot in Sanctuary, pulled an armband from his hip pocket and handed it to Niko.

The band  was sewn  from parallel  strips of  colored cloth:  green, red, black,

blue, and yellow. Niko fingered it,  said, "Fine, just don't call me  Stealth in

here-or anywhere. I need to sniff  around before I make my presence  known," and

tied it on his upper arm before he looked questioning-ly at the dispatcher.

The old  soldier in  patched off-duty  gear said,  "You're on  call to the Green

Liners, remember, no matter what name you choose. The red's for the Blood  Line:

that's  Zip's  PFLS-Popular  Front  for  the  Liberation  of  Sanctuary.   Third

Commando's  backing that  lot, so  unless you've  friends there,  be careful  in

Ratfall, and in  all of Downwind-that's  their turf. The  Blue Line follows  the

White Foal-those two witches down  there, Ischade and the Nisibisi  witch-bitch,

have death squads to enforce their will, and Shambles Cross is theirs. The Black

Line's round the Mageguild-the  quays and harbors, down  to the sea; the  Yellow

Line your own Stepsons threw up out west of Downwind and Shambles. You need  any

help, son, take my name in vain."

Niko nodded, said, "My thanks, sir. Life to you, and-"

"Your commander?  Tempus? Will  he follow?  Is he  here?" The  eagerness in  the

dispatcher's voice gave  Niko pause. Stealth's  caution must have  showed in his

face,  for  the  rough-hewn, one-eyed  mere  continued:  "Strat's reclaimed  the

barracks for the Stepsons, but it was bloodier than a weekend pass to hell. We'd

like to see the Riddler- nobody lessor's going to straighten this season's  mess

out."

"Maybe,"  Niko  said carefully,  "after  the weather  breaks-it's  snow to  your

horse's belly upcountry by now." He  wasn't empowered to say more. But  he could

ask his own question  now. "And Randal? The  Tysian Hazard who came  downcountry

with the advance force? Seen him?"

"Randal?" The bristling jaw  worked and Niko knew  that he wasn't going  to like

what he was about to hear. "Strat  was asking for him, three, four times.  Seems

he was spirited right  out of the Mageguild-or  left on his own.  You never know

with wizards, do ya, son? I mean, maybe  he up and left. It was right after  the

sack ofJubal's old-of the  Stepsons' barracks, and it  was so bad Strat  took to

sleeping here with us until they got the place cleaned up."

"Randal wouldn't do that," Niko said under his breath, rising to his feet.

"What's that, soldier?"

"Nothing. Thanks  for the  work-and the  advance." The  mercenary, who was older

than he looked, even with a beard  to point up hard-won scars, patted the  purse

hanging from his swordbelt. "I'll see you after a while."

Stealth needed to get out of there, ride perimeters, make sense of the  worsened

chaos in a town which had been as  bad, last time he'd been here, as Niko  would

have thought a town could be.

And that got him to thinking, as he tacked up his horse and led it snorting into

the sulky air of a late dawn only  a week shy of the year's shortest day,  about

the last tour he'd done here.

Two  winters ago.  Stealth, called  Nikodemos, had  lost his  first partner   in

Sanctuary-the man he'd partnered with according to Sacred Band rules for  better

than a decade had been killed here. It had hurt like nothing since his childhood

servitude  on  Wizardwall  had hurt;  it  had  happened down  on  Wideway,  in a

wharfside warehouse. Return  to Sanctuary was  bringing back too  many memories,

unlaid  ghosts  and  hidden  pain. The  following  spring,  still  here as  part

ofTempus's cohort of  Stepsons, he'd lost  his second partner,  Janni. He'd lost

Janni to the Nisibisi  witch. Death's Queen, and  left then, quit Sanctuary  for

cleaner wars, he'd thought, up north.

In the north he'd found the wars no cleaner-he'd fought Datan, lord archmage  of

Wizardwall, and  Roxane on  Tyse's slopes  and up  on the  high peaks where he'd

spent his youth as  one of the fierce  guerrillas called Successors, led  now by

his boyhood friend, Bashir. Then Niko  had fought beside Bashir and Tempus,  his

commander, against the  Mygdonians, venturing beyond  Wizardwall to see  what no

man  should see-Mygdonian  might allied  with renegade  magic so  that all   the

defenders Tempus arrayed against them were, by default, pawns in a war of  magic

against the gods.

After that campaign,  he'd taken part  in the change  of emperors that  occurred

during the Festival of Man and then,  tired to his bones of war and  restless in

his spirit and his heart, he'd taken a youth-a refugee child half Mygdonian  and

half a wizard-far west  to the Bandaran isles  of mist and mysticism  where Niko

himself was raised, where  he'd learned to revere  the elder gods and  the elder

wisdoms of the secular adepts,  who saw gods in men  and men in gods and  had no

truck with such  young and warring  deities as Ilsigi  and Rankan alike  brought

alive with prayers and sacrifice.

Yet all the blood he'd spilled and honors he'd won and tears he'd shed, far from

Sanctuary, fell away from him as soon as he'd saddled his sable stallion in  the

stable behind  the mercenaries'  guildhall and  gone venturing  in the town. For

there was one thread of continuity, one sameness Niko's maat sensed in Sanctuary

that had been with him since last  he'd served here as one of Tempus's  Stepsons

and-with the exception of his time  in far Bandara-had been with him  ever since

as it was with him still: Roxane, the Nisibisi witch.

Sidling through the upscale crowd in the  Alekeep to find the owner, a man  Niko

had known well enough to court his daughter when he'd been stationed here before

and a man who had a right  to know that the daughter's shade, long  undead under

the witch's spell, had finally been put to rest by Niko's own hand, the  fighter

called Stealth was suddenly  so aware of Roxane  that he fancied he  could smell

her musk upon the beerhall's air.

She was here, somewhere.  Close at hand. His  maat told him so-he  could glimpse

the cobalt-shining trails of Roxane's magic  out of the corner of his  inner eye

the way  some lesser  man might  glimpse a  stalker's shadow  in his  peripheral

vision.  Niko's  soul  had  its  own  peripheral  vision  in  the  discipline of

transcendent  perception,  a skill  which  let him  track  a person  or  sense a

presence or  gather the  gist of  emotions aimed  his way,  though he  could not

eavesdrop on specific thoughts.

The Alekeep  was freshly  whitewashed and  full of  determined revelers, men and

women whose position in the town demanded that they show themselves at  business

as usual, undisturbed by PFLS rebels or Beysib interlopers or Nisibisi wizardry.

Here Rankan Mageguild functionaries in robes that made them look like  badly-set

tables hobnobbed with caravanners and Palace hierophants all intent on the  same

end: safety  for their  business transactions  from the  interference of warring

factions; safety for their persons and their kin from undeads and less  numinous

terrorists; safety-it  was the  most sought  after commodity  in Sanctuary these

days.

Safety, so far as  Niko was concerned whenever  he came out of  Bandara into the

World, was beside  the point. In  his cabin on  its cliff he  could be safe, but

then his gifts of maat and his deep perceptions were turned inward, useful  only

to the student, not, as they were  meant, carried by him abroad in the  World to

turn a fate or two or stem a tide gone too far in any one direction.

Maat  forced  its  bearer  out,  among  its  opposite,  Chaos,  to  set whatever

imbalances he could  to rights. It  always hurt, it  always cost, and  he always

longed for Bandara when his strength was spent. But, when he was home, he always

grew restless, strong and able, and so he'd come out again, even into Sanctuary,

where Balance was just an abstract, where everything was always wrong, and where

nothing any  man-or even  demigod like  Niko's commander  Tempus-could do  would

bring even an intimation of lasting  peace. But peace, Niko's teacher had  said,

was death. He would have it by and by.

The witch, Roxane, was death also. He hoped she couldn't sense him as clearly as

he could her.  Though he'd been  at pains to  keep his visit  here a secret from

those who'd use  him if they  could, Niko was  drawn to Roxane  like a Sanctuary

whore  to  a well-heeled  drunk  or, if  rumor  could be  believed,  like Prince

Kadakithis to the Beysa Shupansea.

Not even Bandara's gravel ponds or deep seaside meditation had cleansed his soul

of its longing for the flesh of the witch who loved him.

So  he'd come  down again  to Sanctuary,  on the  excuse of  answering  Randal's

ephemeral summons. But it was Roxane he'd come to see. And touch. And talk to.

For Niko had to exorcise her, take  her talons from his soul, cleanse his  heart

of her. He'd admitted it to himself this season in Bandara. At least that was  a

start. The lore of his mystery whispered that any problem, named and known,  was

soluble. But since the  name of Niko's problem  was Roxane, Stealth wasn't  sure

that it was so.

Thus, he must confront her. Here, somewhere. Make her let him go.

But he didn't  find her in  the Alekeep, just  a fat old  man with a  wispy pate

who'd aged too much in  the passing seasons, who had  a winter in his eyes  with

more bite to it than any Sanctuary ever blew in off the endless sea.

The old man, when Niko told him  of his daughter's fate, simply nodded, chin  on

fist, and said  to Niko, "You  did your best,  son. As we're  all doing now.  It

seems so long  ago, and we've  such troubles here...."  He paused, and  sighed a

quavery sigh, and  wiped red eyes  with his sleeve  then, so Niko  knew that the

father's hurt was still fresh and sharp.

Niko got up from  the marble table where  he'd found the father,  alone with the

night's receipts, and  looked down.  "If there's  ever anything  I can  do,  sir

anything at all. I'm at the mercenaries' guildhall, will be for a week or two."

The old barkeep blew  his nose on the  leather of his chiton's  hem, then craned

his neck. "Do? Leave my other daughters be, is all."

Niko held the barkeep's feisty gaze until the man relented. "Sorry, son. We  all

know none's to blame  for undeads but their  makers. Luck go with  you. Stepson.

What is it your  brothers of the sword  say? Ah, I've got  it: Life to you,  and

everlasting glory." There was too much bitterness in the father's voice for Niko

to have misunderstood what remained unsaid.

But he had to ask. "Sir, I need  a favor-don't call me th at here, or  anywhere.

Tell no one I'm in town. I came  to you only because ... I had to.  For Tamzen's

sake." That was the first  time either man had used  the name of the girl  who'd

been  daughter to  the elder  and lover  to the  younger, a  girl now  safe  and

peacefully dead, who hadn't been for far  too long while Roxane had made use  of

her, and other children she'd added to her crew of zombies, children taken  from

among the finest homes of Sanctuary and now buried on the slopes of Wizardwall.

He got out of there as soon as  the old man shielded his eyes with his  hand and

muttered  something  like  assent.  He shouldn't  have  come.  It  had done  the

Alekeep's owner harm, not good. But he'd had to do it, for himself. Because  the

girl had been used by the witch against him, because he'd had to kill a child to

save a childish soul. He wondered  whether he'd expected the old man  to absolve

him, as if anyone could. Then he  wondered where he'd go as he stepped  out into

the Green Zone streets and  saw torches flaring Mazeward-tiny at  this distance,

but a warning that there was trouble in the lower quarter of the town.

Niko  didn't want  to mix  in any  of Sanctuary's  internecine disputes,  to  be

recruited by any side-even Strat's- or even know specifics of who was right  and

wrong. Probably everyone was  equally culpable and innocent;  wars had a way  of

blotting out absolutes; and civil wars, or wars of liberation, were the worst.

He wandered  better streets,  his hand  upon his  scabbard, until  he came to an

intersection where a corner  estate had an open  gate and, beyond, a  beggar was

crouched. A beggar this far uptown was unlikely.

Niko  was just  about to  turn away,  reminding himself  that he  was no  longer

policing  Sanctuary  as  a Stepson  on  covert  business, but  here  on  his own

recognizance, when he heard a voice he thought he knew.

"Seh," said a shadow  separating itself out from  shadows across from where  the

beggar sat. The curse was Nisi; the voice was, too.

He stepped closer and the shadows became two, and they were arguing as they came

abreast of  the beggar,  who stood  right up  and demanded  where they'd been so

long.

"He's drunk, can't  you see?" said  the first voice  and Niko's gift  gave him a

different kind  of light  to place  the face  and find  the name he'd known long

since.

The first speaker was a  Nisi renegade named Vis, a  man who owed Niko at  least

one favor, and might  know the answer to  the question Niko most  wanted to ask:

the whereabouts of the Nisibisi witch.

The second shadow spoke, as the drunken beggar clawed at its clothes and  Niko's

sight grew sharper, showing him bluish  sparks swirling round the taller of  the

two shadows solidifying despite the  moonless dark. "Mor-am, you idiot!  Get up!

What's Moria going to  say? Fool, and worse!  There's death out here.  Don't get

too cocky...." The rest  was a hostile hiss  from a lowered voice,  but Niko had

placed this man  easier than the  first: The deeply  accented voice, the  velvet

tones, had made him know the other speaker was an ex-slave named Haught.

This Haught was a freedman. The Nisibisi witch had freed him. And Niko had saved

him from interrogation, long ago, at Straton's hands. Strat, the Stepsons' chief

inquisitor, was no man to cross and one who was so good at what he did that  his

mere reputation loosened tongues and bowels.

So it was not that these were strangers, or even that they picked the beggar  up

between them and carried him toward the open gate beyond which lights blazed  in

skin-covered  windows, that  gave Niko  pause. It  was that  Haught, who'd  been

little more than a  frightened whelp, the slave's  collar bound 'round his  very

soul, when last Niko  had chanced across him,  was giving orders with  assurance

and had, by the way his aura glittered blue, magical attributes to back him up.

There was nothing magical  about Vis's aura, just  the red and pink  of distress

and passion held in check-and fear, the spice of it tingling Niko's nerves as he

moved to intercept them  at the gate, sword  drawn and warming as  it always did

when in proximity to magic.

"Vis, he's got a weap-"

"Remember me, puds?" Niko said,  halting all three in a  practiced interception.

"Don't move; I just want to talk."

Vis's hand was on his  hip and a naked blade  would surely follow; Niko let  his

attention dwell on Vis, though Haught ought to have been his first concern.

And  yet Haught  didn't push  the beggar  (moaning, "Whaddya  mean, Haught,   's

nothin' wrong with a little fresh air ...") at Niko or cast a spell, just  said,

"Years ago-the northern fighter, isn't it?  Oh yes, I remember you. And  so does

someone else, I'd bet-"

Vis-too taut, planning something-interrupted, "What is it, soldier? Money? We'll

give you money. And work for an idle blade if ... Remember you?" Vis took a step

forward and Niko  felt, rather than  saw, eyes narrow:  "Right, that's right.  I

know who you are. We owe you one, is that it? For saving us from Tempus's covert

actors downtown. Well, come on in. We'll talk about it indoors."

"If," Haught put in on that silken tongue that made Niko wonder what he might be

walking into, "you'll sheath that blade  and treat our invitation as what  it is

... a luxury. If you  want to fight, we'll not  be using bronze or steel  in any

case."

Niko looked between the two, still holding up their beggar friend, and  sheathed

his blade. "I  don't want your  hospitality, just some  information. I'm looking

for Roxane -and don't tell me you don't know who I mean."

It was Haught's laughter that made Niko know he'd found more than he'd bargained

for: It sent chills screeching up and down his spine, so self-assured it was and

so full of  taunt and anticipation.  "Of course I  know-me and my  mistress both

know. But don't you think, fighter,  that by now Roxane's looking for  you? Come

in, don't come, wait here, go your way-whatever choice, she'll find you."

My mistress, Haught had said. Someone  else, then, had taught him what  Niko saw

there-enough magic for it  to be an attribute,  not an affectation; real  magic,

not  the  prestidigitator's  tricks  that  abounded  in  Sanctuary's  third-rate

Mageguild.

Niko shook his head and his hand of its own accord found his sword's pommel  and

rested there as he retreated a pace.

By then Vis  was saying, "It's  not a thing  I'd seek, soldier,  were I you. But

we'll give you what we  can to help you on  your way to her. Yes,  by all that's

unholy, we'll surely give you that."

When Roxane, in her Foalside haunt,  an old manor house refurbished from  velvet

hangings to weeds head-high in her  "garden," heard a footstep belonging not  to

an undead or to one of  her snakes-who occasionally took human form-outside  her

window, she went personally to see who her uninvited guest might be.

It was a Nisi type, a youth she'd never noticed, some local denizen with a trace

of Nisibisi blood.

His soul was smooth  and unctuous over customary  evil; he was some  familiar of

another  power here.  He said,  far back  in the  dark with  wards springing  up

between them, "I've brought  you something. Madam. You're  going to like him.  A

gift from Haught, in case things go your way in the end."

Then there  was a  soft "pop"  and the  presence was  gone, if  it had ever been

there. Haught. She'd remember.

Just as she was turning, a pebble  skittered, a soft whicker cut the night.  She

blinked-twice in one  night, her best  wards violated, slit  like cobwebs? She'd

have to make the rounds tomorrow, set up new protections.

And then she concentrated on what was there: a horse, for certain; and a  person

on it, a person drugged and tied to its saddle.

A present  from this  Haught. She'd  have to  thank him.  She went  out into her

garden  of thornbush  and nightshade,  down to  where the  water mandrake  threw

poisonous tubers high along the White Foal's edge.

And there, in the luminous spill  from the polluted river's waves, she  glimpsed

him. Niko, drugged to a stupor,  or drunk-the same. Her heart wrenched,  she ran

three steps, then calmed herself. He was here but not of his own will.

Fingers working a soft  and silken spell, she  half-danced toward him. Niko  was

her beloved and yet her undoing lay  within him. Seeing him was more the  proof:

She wanted to  take him, cut  his bonds away,  heal him and  caress him. Not the

proper reaction for a witch. Not the proper motivation for Death's Queen.  She'd

sent for him, used Randal the mageling  to lure him, but she dared not  take him

now, not use him thus. Not when this Haught was obviously tempting her.

Not when Roxane had a war on her  hands, a war of power with a necromant  called

Ischade, a  creature of  night who  might just  have orchestrated  this untimely

meeting.

So, while Niko, bent over his horse's neck, slept on, she came up to the  horse,

which flattened  its ears  but did  not move  away, cut  the bonds that held the

fighter to his saddle, and said, before sending him away, "Not now, my love. Not

yet. Your partner Janni, your beloved Sacred Band brother, is the thrall of  the

necromant Ischade-he lies  in unpeaceful earth,  is rousted out  to do her  foul

bidding  and  wear her  awful  collar at  night.  You must  free  him from  this

unnatural servitude, beloved,  and then we  will be together.  Do you understand

me, Niko?"

Niko's  ashen  head  raised  and  he  opened  his  eyes-eyes  still  asleep, yet

registering all  they saw.  Roxane's heart  leaped; she  loved the  touch of his

gaze, the feel of his breath, the smell of his suffering.

Her fingers spelled his  fate: He would remember  this moment as a  true dream-a

dream that, his maat would understand, bore all he needed to know.

She stepped forward and kissed him, and  a moan escaped his lips. It was  hardly

more than a sigh, but enough of a sign to Roxane, who could read his heart, that

Niko had come to her at last-of his own free will, to the extent that free  will

was possessed by mere men.

"Go to Ischade. Free Janni's spirit. Then  get you both here to me, and  I shall

succor you."

She touched his forehead and he sat up straight. His free hands reined the horse

around and  he rode  away- ensorceled,  knowing and  yet unknowing,  back to his

hostel where he could sleep undisturbed.

And tomorrow, he would do evil unto evil for her sake, and then, as he had never

truly been, Nikodemos would be hers.

In the meantime, Roxane  had preparations to make.  She quit the Foalside,  went

inside, and looked  in upon the  Hazard Randal. Her  prisoner was playing  cards

with her two snakes-snakes which she'd given human form to guard him. Or sort of

human form-their eyes were still ophidian, their mouths lipless, their skin bore

an ineradicable cast of green.

The mage,  his torso  bound to  his chair  with blue  pythons of power, had both

hands free and just enough free will  left to give her a friendly wave:  She had

him tranquilized, waiting out the time until his death day-the week's end,  come

Ilsday, if Niko did not return by then.

A little saddened at the realization that, if Niko did come back, she'd have  to

free the mage-her word was good; it had to be; she dealt with too many  arbiters

of souls-Roxane waved a hand to lift the calming spell from Randal.

If she had  to free him,  she'd not keep  him comfy, safe  and warm, till  then.

She'd let  him suffer,  help him  feel as  much pain  as his slender body could.

After all, she was Death's Queen. Perhaps if she scared him long enough and well

enough, the Tysian magician  would take his own  life, trying to escape,  or die

from terror-a death she'd have the benefit of but not the blame.

And in his chair,  Randal's face went white  beneath his freckles and  his whole

frame began to rock  while, with every lunge  and quaver, the nonmaterial  bonds

around his chest grew tighter and the snakes (stupid snakes who never understood

anything) began querulously to complain that it was Randal's bet and wonder what

was wrong as cards fell from his twitching fingers.

Strat was out at Ischade's, where he shouldn't be but mostly was at night,  just

taking off his clothes when the damned door to her front room opened with a wind

behind it that nearly doused the fire in her hearth.

Accursed Haught, her  trainee, stood there,  arch mischief glowing  in his eyes.

Strat hitched up his linen loinguard and said, "Won't you ever learn to  knock?"

feeling  a bit  abashed among  Ischade's silks  and scarlet  throw pillows   and

trinkets of gem and  noble metal-the woman loved  bright colors, but never  wore

them out of doors.

Woman? Had he  thought that, said  it to himself?  She wasn't exactly  that, and

he'd better remember  it. Haught, once  slave-bait, looked at  Strat and through

him as if he didn't  exist as he entered and  the door closed behind him  of its

own accord.

"Best  remember that  you're mortal,  Nisi boy.  And that  respect is  due  your

betters,  be  you slave  or  free," Strat  warned,  looking at  his  feet where,

somewhere in a  confusion of cushions,  his service dagger  lay buried. Best  to

teach  this  witch's  familiar  some  manners  before  he'd  have  to  do worse.

-

But behind him  he heard a  stirring and a  soft step as  sinuous as any  cat's.

"Haught, greet Straton  civilly," came her  voice from behind  him and then  her

hand was on his spine, pouring patience into him where patience had no right  to

be.

"Damned kid comes and goes like he owns the-"

Haught was abreast of him, then,  speaking to the necromant beyond. "You'd  want

this warning, if you weren't so busy. Want to be ready. Trouble's on the way."

Then something unspeakable  happened: Ischade, hushing  the Nisi ex-slave,  came

round Strat  and did  something to  the other  man, something  that included not

quite touching him but circling him, something Strat didn't like because it  was

intimate  and didn't  trust because  he could  tell that  information was  being

exchanged in a way he didn't understand.

Abruptly, the creature called  Haught turned in a  flare of cloak and  arrogance

and the door opened wide, then shut again behind him, leaving candles flickering

huge shadows upon the wall and a chill in the air Strat was expecting Ischade to

dispell with a caress.

But she didn't. She said, "Ace, come here. Before the fire. Sit with me."

He did that and  she cuddled by his  knee in that way  she had, so much  a woman

then that Strat could barely refrain  from pulling her onto his lap.  She looked

up from under the darkness that veiled her and her eyes clamped on his: "What  I

am, you know. What  I do, you understand  better than many. What  life Janni has

with me, his soul has  chosen. Someone is going to  come here, and if you  don't

tell him all of that, the result will not sit well with you. Do you understand?"

"Ischade? Someone? A threat to you? I'll protect you, you know-"

"Hush. Don't promise what you'll not deliver.  This one is a friend of yours,  a

brother. Keep  him from  my doorway  or, despite  what I'd  like to promise you,

he'll become a memory.  One that will hang  between us in the  air forever." She

reached up toward his face.

He jerked his head back; she lay her head upon his knee. He couldn't tell if she

was crying, but he felt as if he  would, so sad was she and so helpless  did the

big Stepson feel.

An hour later, outside her door, stationed like a sentry, he began to wonder  if

her creature hadn't  lied. Then his  big bay, tied  at her low  gate, let out  a

challenge and some horse answered from the dark.

Sword drawn, he  sidled down to  calm the beast,  wondering what in  hell he was

supposed to do about something  she hadn't explained, when a  darkness separated

from the midnight chill and a tiny coal, red-hot, seemed to bobble toward him in

midair.

Closer it came, until the soft radiance of Ischade's hedges caught its edges and

he made out a  mounted man smoking something-pulcis,  by the smell of  it, laced

with krrf and rolled in broadleaf.

"Hold and state your business, stranger," Strat called out.

"Strat?" said a soft voice full of distaste and some measure of disbelief. "Ace,

if  it's  really you,  tell  me something  a  man would  have  had to  fight  on

Wizardwall to know."

"Ha! Bashir can't hold his liquor, is what-not even laced with blood and water,"

Strat responded, then added, "Stealth? Niko, is that you?"

The little  coal of  red grew  brighter as  the smoker  inhaled and in its flare

Strat could see the face of Nikodemos-bearded, but with scars showing like white

tracks among the hair, just where those scars should be.

A  surge of  joy went  through the  Stepsons' leader.  "Is Crit  with you?   The

Riddler-is Tempus come  back?" Then he  sobered: Niko was  the problem Ischade'd

sent him out here  to deal with. Now  her distress, and her  cautions, made good

sense.

"No, I'm  alone," came  Niko's voice  soft as  a winter  gust as  sounds and the

movement of the smoke's coal let Straton know the Sacred Bander was dismounting.

They had a bond  that should have been  deeper than Straton's with  Ischade-that

had to be. Straton  considered alternatives as Niko  tied his Askelonian to  the

fence on the other side of  Ischade's gate from where Strat's bay  was tethered,

and vaulted over the hedge, then grinned: "Not good form to enter a witch's home

through a portal she's chosen. How'd you find out about this? No matter-I'm glad

to have your help, Ace. Janni's going to be, too."

So  that was  it-Janni. All  Straton's mixed  feelings about  Ischade's  minions

roiled around in  him and kept  him speechless until  he realized that  Niko was

reaching over the fence to  get a bow and bladder  of naphtha and rags from  his

horse's saddle.

"Niko, man, this isn't the time or the place for the talk we've got to have."

Stealth turned  and as  Strat bore  down upon  him, the  Bandaran fighter  said,

"Strat, I've got to do this. It's my fault, in a way. I've got to free him."

"No, you don't. From what?  For whom? He's fighting a  war he still has a  stake

in-fighting it his  way. I've fought  beside him. Stealth,  things are different

here from the way they were upcountry. You can't make any headway without  magic

on your-"

"Side?" Niko supplied the  missing word, his face  glowing red from the  coal of

the smoke between his  lips. Then he dropped  the smoke and ground  it under his

heel. "Got a  girlfriend, do you,  Straton? Crit would  beat your ass.  Diddling

around with magic. Now either help me,  as your oath demands, or step aside.  Go

your way. I owe you too much to make an issue of what's right and wrong  between

us." Niko's hand went to his belt and Straton stiffened: Niko was an expert with

throwing stars and poisoned metal blossoms and every kind of edged weapon  Strat

knew enough to  name. The two  were thought to  be, by Banders,  of nearly equal

prowess, though Strat's was fading as he aged, Niko's coming on.

"Whatever I'm doing. Stealth, is worse  than what you've done? Don't I  remember

some fight up  at the Festival,  one in which  you protected the  Nisibisi witch

from a priestess of Enlil?"

That  stopped Niko's  hand, about  to lever  a bolt  to ready  in his  crossbow.

"That's not fair, Ace."

"We're not talking  fair-we're talking women.  Or womanish avatars,  or whatever

they are. You leave this one alone-she's on our side; she's fought with us,  for

us ... saved Sync from Roxane,  for one thing." Suspicion leaped into  Straton's

mind, suspicion enough  to chase the  memory of Janni's  tortured shade. "Roxane

didn't put you up to this, did she? Did she, Stealth?"

Niko, a flint in one hand, naphtha bladder in the other, paused with the bladder

poised above  the rags  on his  arrow's tip.  "What difference  does that  make?

What's going on here, anyway? Randal's disappeared and no one's looking for him?

You're sleeping with a necromant and no one gives a damn?"

"You stay around, and you'll find out.  But I can guarantee you're not going  to

like it. I don't. Crit wouldn't. Tempus  would bust all our butts. But he's  not

here, is he? It's you and me. And I'm bound to protect this ... lady, here."

"More bound to her than to me? Sacred-" Niko stopped and stared, his mouth  half

open, at something behind Strat, so that the big fighter turned to see what Niko

saw.

On Ischade's  doorstep, beside  the necromant  swathed in  her black  and hooded

robe, was Janni-or what remained  of Janni. The ex-Stepson, ex-living  thing was

red and  yellow and  showing bone;  things glittered  on him  like fireworks  or

luminescent grubs.  He had  holes for  eyes and  too-long hair  and the smell of

newly-turned earth proceeded him down the steps.

Despite himself, Strat looked over his shoulder at Niko, who slumped against the

waist-high  fence, his  eyes slitted  as if  against some  blinding light,   his

crossbow pointing at the ground.

Strat heard Ischade murmur,  "Go then. Go to  your partner, Janni. Stay  awhile.

Have your reunion." Then, louder, "Strat!  Come in. Let them be alone.  Let them

solve it-I was wrong; it's between these two, not us."

And then, as Niko threw the bow up to his shoulder and took fluid, sudden aim at

Ischade-before Straton could put himself  between her and Niko's arrow,  or even

thought to  move-Ischade was  beside him,  facing Niko  with a  look on her face

Strat had  never seen  before: deep  pain, compassion,  even acknowledgment of a

kindred soul.

"So you're the one. The special one. Nikodemos, over whom even the god Enlil and

the entelechy of dreams contend." She nodded as if in her drawing room,  sipping

tea at some civil  table. "I see why.  Nikodemos, don't choose your  enemies too

quickly. The witch who sent you here  has Randal-is that not a greater wrong,  a

deeper evil, than giving the opportunity for vengeance to a soul such as  Janni,

who craves it?"

Ischade waited, but  Niko didn't answer.  His gaze was  fixed on the  thing that

shambled toward him, arms outstretched, to embrace its erstwhile partner.

Strat, were  he the  one faced  with love  from such  a zombie,  would have  run

screaming, or shot the bow, or lopped the head off the undead who sought to hold

him.

But Niko took a deep breath that Strat could hear, so shuddering was it, dropped

the bow, and held his own arms out,  saying, "Janni. How is it with you? Is  she

right?"

And Strat had to turn away; he  couldn't watch Niko, full of life, embrace  that

thing who'd once ridden at his side.

And when he  did, Ischade was  waiting there to  take Strat's hand  and cool his

brow and usher him inside.

But no matter the  depth of her eyes  or the quality of  her ministrations, this

time Straton knew he had no chance of forgetting what he saw when a Sacred  Band

pair was reunited, the living and the dead.

Niko was drinking off  his chill in the  Ale keep, which opened  with the rising

sun, when he realized that somebody was drawing his picture.

A little  fellow with  a pot  belly and  black circles  under his  eyes, who was

sitting in the beamed  common hall's far corner,  was looking at him  too often,

then looking down at a board he held on his lap.

Just the day barman was present, so  Niko didn't try to ignore a problem  in the

making. He'd had too rough  a night, at any  rate, to have patience  with anyone

let alone a limner who didn't ask permission.

But when he was  halfway to the other  man, his intention clear  enough, the day

barman reached out a hand  to stay him. "I'd not,  were I you, sir. That's  Lalo

the Limner, who drew the Black Unicorn that came alive in the Maze and killed so

many. Just let the scribbler be."

"As far as I know, I'm alive already, man," Niko said, knowing that his accursed

temper had already slipped its bonds  and that things would doubtless get  worse

before he got it in check again. "And I don't like having my picture scrawled on

anything-walls, doors, hearts. Maybe  I'll turn the tables  and draw my sign  on

that fat, soft belly...."

By then, the little, rat-faced limner  was scrabbling up, running for the  door,

his sketching board under his arm. Niko didn't chase him.

He went back to his table and sat  there, digging in the wood with the point  of

his blade the way Janni used to do, thinking of the meeting he'd had and  wanted

to forget with a dead thing happy to fight beyond mortal battles at the  bidding

of the necromant, wondering if he should-or could-find a way to put Janni's soul

to rest despite its assurance that it was content enough as it was. Did it know?

Was it really Janni? Did the oath they'd sworn still obtain when one  respondent

wasn't a man any longer?

Niko didn't know. He couldn't decide. He tried not to drink too much, but  drink

dulled the  picture in  his mind's  eye, and  at nightfall  he was still sitting

there, trying unsuccessfully to get  thoroughly drunk, when the priest  known as

Torchholder happened  to come  in with  others of  his perfumed  breed, all with

their curl-toed winter shoes and their gaudy jewelry.

Torchholder knew him, but  Niko didn't have the  sense to leave before  the High

Priest  of  Vashanka  recognized  the fighter  who'd  been  with  Tempus at  the

Mageguild's Fete two winters past.

So when the priest sat down opposite him, Niko raised his head from the palm  on

which he'd been propping it and stared owlishly at the priest. "Yeah? Can I help

you, citizen?"

"Perhaps, fighter, I can help you."

"Not if you can't lay the undead, not a chance of it."

"Pardon?" Torchholder was watching the half drunk Sacred Bander closely, looking

for some sign. "We can  do whatever the god demands,  and we know you are  pious

and well disposed to-"

"Enlil," Niko interrupted firmly. "Gotta have  a god around here, so I'm  making

it plain: Mine's Enlil, when I need one. Which is as infrequently as  possible."

Stealth's hand went to his belt and Torchholder froze in place.

But Niko  only patted  his weaponbelt  and brought  the hand  back to the table,

where he propped his chin on it. "Weapons'11 do me, mosttimes. Other times  ..."

The Sacred Bander leaned forward. "You any good at fighting witches? I've got  a

friend I'd like to get out of one's clutches ..."

Torchholder made a  warding sign with  practiced fluency before  his face. "We'd

like to show you something, Nikodemos called-"

"Ssh!"  Niko said  with exaggerated  care, and  looked around,  right and  left,

before leaning forward to whisper. "Don't call me that. Not here. Not ever.  I'm

just visiting. I can't stay. Too much magic. Hurts, you know. Dead partners that

aren't dead. Ex-partners that aren't ex.... Very confusing-"

"We know, we know," soothed the priest with wicked eyes. "We're here to help you

sort it out. Come with us and-"

"Who's we?" Niko wanted  to know, but two  of Molin's cohort already  had him by

the armpits. They lifted the only mildly protesting fighter up and eased him out

the door  to where  a carriage  with ivory  screens was  waiting and, after some

little difficulty, boosted him inside and closed the door.

Niko, who'd been abducted more than  once in his life, expected the  carriage to

jerk and horses to lunge and to be carried off into the night. He also  expected

to fight being bound hand and foot. And he expected to be alone in there,  after

that, or at least alone but for the company of guards.

None of  his expectations  came to  pass. Before  him, on  the other side of the

carriage, were two children, one on  either side of a harried looking  woman who

might once have been beautiful and whom Niko, who liked women, vaguely recalled:

a temple dancer. The two children were hardly more than babes, but one of  them,

the fair-haired, sat right up and clapped his little hands.

And the sound of  those hands clapping rang  in Niko's ears like  the thunder of

the god Vashanka, like the Storm  God's own lightning that seemed to  issue from

the childish mouth as the boy began to giggle in joy.

Niko sat  back, slouched  against the  opposite corner  of the  wagon, and said,

"What the ... ?"

And though the child was now just a child again, another, deeper voice, rang  in

the Stepson's head, saying, Look on  Me, favorite of the Riddler, and  take word

back to your leader that I am come again. And that 1 would take advantage of all

you have to give before the  little world that is thine suffers  unto perishing.

The boy from whose mouth the  words could not have issued was  saying, "Sowdier?

Hewo? Make fwiends? Fwiends? Take big ride? Water pwace? Soon? Me want go soon!"

Niko, stone sober, sat up, looked at the woman sharply and then nodded politely,

as he hadn't before. "You're that one's mother? That temple dancer-Seylalha, the

First Consort who bore Vashanka's child." It wasn't really a question; the woman

didn't bother to answer.

Niko leaned forward, toward the two  children, the darker of whom had  his thumb

in his  mouth and  regarded Niko  with round  black eyes.  The fair child smiled

beatifi-cally. "Soon?"  the boy  said, though  it was  too young  a child  to be

discussing anything as sensitive as Niko knew it was.

He said, "Soon, if you're worthy, boy. Pure in heart. Honorable. Loving of  life

all life.  It won't  be easy.  I'll have  to get  permission. And  you've got to

control-what's inside you. Or they won't have you in Bandara, no matter how they

care for me."

"Good," said the fair child, or maybe just "Goo"; Niko wasn't sure.

These were toddlers, the both. Too young and, if Niko's maat was right and a god

had chosen one as His repository,  too dangerous. Niko said to the  woman, "Tell

the priests I'll do what  I can. But he must  be taught restraint. No child  can

control his temper at that age. Both of them, then, must be prepared."

And he pushed on the wagon's door, which opened and let the sobered fighter  out

into the blessedly cold and normal Sanctuary night.

Normal, except for the presence  of Molin Torchholder and the  little scribbler,

whom the priest held by the  collar. "Nikodemos, look at this," said  the priest

without preamble  as if  Niko were  now his  ally-which, so  far as  Stealth was

concerned, he indubitably was not.

Still, the picture that the scribbler, who was protesting that he had a right to

do as he willed, had  scribed was odd: It was  of Niko, but with Tempus  looking

over his shoulder and both of them seemed to be enfolded in the wings of a  dark

angel who looked altogether too much like Roxane.

"Leave  the  picture,  artist,  and  go your  way."  It  was  Niko's  order, but

Torchholder let go  of the bandy-legged  limner, who hurried  off without asking

when or if he'd get his artwork back.

"That's my problem ... that picture.  Forget you've seen it. Yours, if  you want

what  the  god wants,  is  to get  those  children schooled  where  they can  be

disciplined-by Bandaran adepts."

"What makes you assume I want any such-"

"Torchholder, don't you know what you've got there? More trouble than  Sanctuary

can handle. Infants-one infant,  anyhow-with a god in  him. With the power  of a

god. A Storm God. Can you reason out the rest?"

Torchholder muttered something about things having gone too far.

Niko  retorted, "They're  not going  any further  unless and  until my   partner

Randal-who's being held by Roxane, I hear tell-is returned to me unharmed.  Then

I'll ride up and ask Tempus what he wants to do-if anything-about the matter  of

the godchild  you so  cavalierly visited  upon a  town that  had troubles enough

without one. But one  way or the other,  the resolution isn't going  to help you

one whit. Get my meaning?"

The architect-priest winced and his face screwed up as if he'd tasted  something

sour. "We  can't help  you with  the witch,  fighter-not unless  you want simple

manpower."

"Good enough. As long as it's  priest-power." And Niko began giving orders  that

Torchholder had no alternative but to obey.

On the dawn of  the shortest day of  the year, Niko had  still not come back  to

Roxane.

It was time to  make an end to  Randal, whom she despised  enough-almost-to make

the slight dealt her by the mortal whom she'd consented to love less stinging.

Almost, but not  quite. If witches  could cry, Roxane  would have shed  tears of

humiliation  and  of unrequited  love.  But a  witch  shouldn't be  crying  over

mortals,  and Roxane  was reconstituted  from the  weakness that  had beset  her

during the Wizard Wars. If Niko  wouldn't come to her, she'd make  him notorious

in hell for all the lonely souls his faithless, feckless self-interest had  sent

there.

She was just getting the  snakes to put aside the  card game and fetch the  mage

when hoofbeats sounded upon her cart-track drive.

Wroth and no longer hopeful, she snatched aside the curtain, though the day  was

bright and clear as winter days can be, with a sky of powder blue and  horsetail

clouds. And there, amazingly,  was Niko, on a  big sable horse of  the sort that

only Askelon bred in Meridian, his panoply  agleam as it came within orb of  all

her magic.

So she had to shut  down her wards and go  outside to greet him, leaving  Randal

half unbound with only the snakes to guard him.

Still, it was sweeter  than she'd thought it  could be, when anger  had consumed

her-ecstasy just to see him.

He'd shaved. His boyish face was smiling. He rode up to her and slipped off  his

horse, cavalry style, and slapped its rump. "Go home, horse, to your stable," he

told it, then told her, "I won't need him here, I'm sure."

Here. Then  he was  staying. He  understood. But  he'd not  done anything  she'd

asked.

So she said,  "And Janni? What  of the soul  of your poor  partner? How can  you

leave him with Ischade-that whore of darkness? How can you-"

"How can you torture Randal?" Niko said levelly, taking a step closer to Roxane,

hands empty and  out stretched. "It  makes it so  hard for me  to do this. Can't

you-for my sake, won't you let him go? Unharmed. Unensorceled. Free of even  the

taint of hostile magic."

As he spoke, he pulled her against him gently until she pushed back, fearful  of

the  burns  his armor  could  inflict. "If  you'll  get rid  of  that-gear," she

bargained, trying to keep her hackles from rising. He should know better than to

come to her armored  with protections forged by  the entelechy of dream.  Stupid

boy. He was  beautiful but dumb,  pure, but too  innocent to be  as canny as his

smile portended.

She waved  a hand  behind her.  "Done." And  as she  spoke, a  howl of  rage and

triumph issued from inside  and something, with a  crash, came bursting out  the

window.

Niko gazed after Randal as the mage ran, full-tilt, into the bushes. He  nodded.

"Now it's just the two of us, is that it?"

"Well ..." she temporized, "there are my snakes, of course." She was primping up

her beauty in a  way he couldn't see,  letting her young and  girlish simulacrum

come forward, easing the evil  and the danger in her  face and form. By all  she

revered, did she love this boy with his hazel eyes so clear and his quiet  soul.

By all she held sacred, the feel of his hand on her back as he ushered her  into

her own house  in gentlemanly fashion  was unlike the  touch of any  man or mage

she'd ever known.

She wanted only to  keep him. She sent  away the snakes, having  to discorporate

one who objected that  she would then be  defenseless, open to attack  by man or

god.

"Take  that silly  armor off,  beloved, and  we'll have  a bath  together,"  she

murmured, preparing to spell water, hot and steaming, in her gold-footed tub.

And when she  turned again, he'd  done that and  stood before her,  hands out to

strip  her  clothes away,  and  his body  announced  its intention  to  make her

welcome.

Welcome her he did, in hot water and hot passion, until, amid the moment of  her

joy and just before she was about to  begin a rune to claim his soul forever,  a

commotion began outside her door.

First it was lightning  that rocked her to  her foundations, then thunder,  then

the sound of many running feet and chanting priests as all Vashanka's priesthood

came tramping up her cart-track,  battle-streamers on their standards and  horns

to blow the eardrums out of evil to their lips.

He was as  nonplussed as she.  He held her  in his arms  and pressed her  close,

telling her, "Don't worry, I'll take care of them. You stay here, and call  back

all your minions-not that I don't think I can protect you, but just in case."

She watched him dress hurriedly, strapping  on his armor over wet skin,  and run

outside, his weapons at hand and ready.

No mortal had ever come to her  defense before. So when, snakes by her  side and

undeads rising, she saw them wrestle him to the ground, disarm him, put him in a

cage (no doubt the cage they'd meant for her) and drive away with him, she  wept

for Niko, who loved her but had been taken from her by the hated priesthood.

And she  planned revenge-not  only upon  the priesthood,  but upon  Ischade, the

trickster necromant, and Randal, who should never have been allowed to get away,

and on all of Sanctuary-all but Niko,  who was innocent of all and who,  if only

he could have stayed a little longer, would have proclaimed in his own words his

love for her and thus become hers forevermore.

As for the rest-now there would be hell to pay.

THE VEILED LADY

OR

A LOOK AT THE NORMAL FOLK

Andrew Qffutt

The veiled lady traveled to Sanctuary  with the caravan that originated in  Suma

and had grown at Aurvesh. She was faceless behind the deeply slate blue arras or

veil that backed the white one. It covered her head like a miniature tent,  held

in  place by  a cloth  chaplet of  interwoven white  and slate.  In her   Sumese

drover's robe  of grayish,  off-white woolen  homespun, the  veiled lady was not

quite shapeless; she appeared to be either fat or with child. True, others often

scarf-muffled their lower  faces against the  cold, but the  point was that  the

veiled woman never, never showed her face above the eyebrows and below her large

medium-hued eyes.

Naturally the caravanseers and her fellow pilgrims wondered, and speculated, and

opined and discussed. An innocent child and a rude adult-or-nearly were actually

so crude as to ask her why she was hiding behind a veil and all that loose robe.

"Oh my cute little dear," the veiled lady told the child, cupping its plump dark

cheek with a nice and  quite pretty hand, "it's the  sun. It makes me break  out

all in green warts. Wouldn't that be awful to have to look at?"

No such touch  accompanied the veiled  lady's response to  the rude almost-woman

who breached the  bounds of gentility  and mannered decency  by asking the  same

question.

"Pox,"  the  veiled lady  said  tersely. The  questioner,  while bereft  of  the

sensitivity  to  blush or  even  apologize, said  no  more. Eyes  widening,  she

abruptly remembered that her presence was required elsewhere.

(The first "explanation" was pooh-poohed, though not directly to the veiled one;

if that were so, a fellow pilgrim  wisely observed, then why were her hands  not

gloved, and why were they so  pretty-a lady's hands? The second explanation  was

considerably more troubling. It was suspect, but who wanted to take a chance  on

catching some pox or other? People began to keep their distance, just in case.)

The big good-looking guard from Mrsevada was rude, too, but in a different  way.

He knew what flashing those good big teeth in that handsome face would get  him.

It had  got him  plenty, and  would again.  Having assured  his comrades that he

would soon bring them the answer, he addressed her with cocky confidence.

"Whatcha hiding under all them robes and veil, sweets?"

"A syphilitic face and a pregnant belly," the faceless woman told him. "Want  to

visit me in my tent tonight?"

"Uh-I uh, no, I was just-"

"And what are you hiding behind that totally phony smile, swordsman?"

He blinked and the dazzling smile faded away in patches, like the dissipating of

those fluffy white clouds that signify nothing.

"You have a sharp tongue, pregnant and syphilitic."

"That," she told him,  "is true. You can  understand that I don't  like men with

winning smiles ..."

The handsome guardsman went away.

After that, no one asked  her questions. Furthermore, the guardsmen,  her fellow

travelers, and the caravanseers not only left her alone, but indeed shunned  the

veiled woman-who after all could surely be no lady ... !

She had paid her way-the full charge, too-without argument or complaint and with

only the modicum of dickering that showed her to be human, though not .arrogant.

(Most nobles showed their arrogance either by stating their own price and paying

it-usually less than what could be considered fair. Others at once paid what was

asked, so as to show  that they were far too  well off and noble to  dicker with

mere clerks and caravan  masters or booking stewards.)  She had brought her  own

water and foodstuffs. She stayed to herself and caused no trouble, while  giving

others something to talk about. She was no trouble at all.

The tall caravan  master, his gray-shot  beard and easy  confidence reminders of

his experience, did  not believe  that she  was syphilitic,  or pocked,  or  sun

cursed, or pregnant either. Nor did  he view her as sinister merely  because she

refused to  show her  face. Thus  Caravan Master  Eliab was  not pleasant to the

little delegation of three women and the prideless husband of one of them,  when

they came to demand  that the veiled person  reveal and identify herself  on the

grounds  that she  was mysterious  and therefore  sinister and  Frightening  The

Children.

Master Eliab looked down upon them, literally and figuratively. "Point out to me

those children who are affrighted of the Lady Saphtherabah," he said, making  up

an impressive name for in truth she had signed on with him simply as "Cleya,"  a

name common in Suma, "and I shall make them forget her by giving them  something

else to be fearful of."

"Hmp. And what might that be. Caravan Master?"

"ME!" he bellowed, and  he transformed his bushily  bearded face into a  fearful

scowl. At the  same time  he swept  out the  curved sword  from his worn paisley

patterned sash. Curling his other hand into a claw, he pounced at them.

He took only the  one big lunging step,  but the members of  the delegation took

many. Squealing and worse, four disunited individuals fled his company.

When Eliab arose next  morning-with the sun, of  course-it was to find  that the

veiled lady had prepared  breakfast for him from  her own stores and  was calmly

sharpening his dagger.

"Thank you, Lady," the big caravan master said, with a bow almost courtly.

"Thank you, Caravan Master."

"And  will you  join me  in breaking  the night's  fasting with  this  wonderful

repast. Lady?"

"No, Caravan Master," she said, rising. "For I could not eat without showing you

my face."

"I understand, Lady. And thank you again." He made a respectful sign and watched

her glide away,  robe's hem on  the ground and  cloak whipping in  the wind that

blew worse than chilly, to her own  tent. After that he assigned a man  to pitch

and strike that tent for her. Thus the delegation obtained some result, at that.

At last the cavalcade of humans, beasts, and trade goods reached the tired  town

called Sanctuary, and the veiled lady detached her three horses and went her way

into  the  dusty old  "city."  The others  saw  her no  more  and soon  she  was

completely  out  of their  thoughts.  Neither the  big  good-looking guard  from

Mrsevada nor Master Eliab ever forgot  her, really, but she slipped easily  from

their  minds, too.  The former  began flashing  his smile  and cutting  a  swath

through the girls of Sanctuary,  if not the women. As  a matter of fact none  of

them had seen her and so never saw her again or knew if they did, for the veiled

lady soon unveiled herself.

In  this moribund  town of  thieves now  ruled by  weird starey-eyed  people  or

"people" from oversea and un-succored  by "protecting" and "Imperial" Ranke,  it

was easy for the veiled lady to employ a lackey for a few coins and a promise or

two. Next she startled and nearly whelmed the poor wight by having him take  her

to his own home. Within that poorly heated hovel and amid much buzzing curiosity

among the neighbors, she effected a change of clothing. That involved removal of

all headgear  and thus  both veils.  And that,  when she  emerged, elicited more

buzz, even unto awe.

They were the first outside  Suma to see the face  and figure of her whose  name

was not Cleya or Saphtherabah, but Kaybe Jodeera.

She was blessed with beauty, true beauty. It was at once a blessing and a curse.

Jodeera knew herself for a beauty. She admitted and understood and accepted  the

fact. She had  learned that it  was not a  blessing, but a  curse. She had lived

long with it, and paid the price;  several prices. One was that it was  not wise

for a woman  so staggeringly well-favored  to travel unaccompanied.  Even with a

protector and amid  the whistling winds  of winter, she  might well have  proven

invitation to and source for trouble within the caravan. Jodeera knew this;  she

had long been beautiful and admitted and accepted it-as curse. Therefore she had

chosen to  conceal herself  utterly. Better  to be  a source  of speculation and

gossip  than  of  trouble!  (She  was  neither  pregnant  nor  obese,  nor  even

"overweight,"  that delicate  phrase for  people of  sedentary habits  who  were

without restraint in the matter of food and drink.)

Furthermore, Jodeera and the sun were  not enemies. She was not syphilitic.  She

was not even pocked.

She stepped forth from the house of her new lackey unveiled and clasping a  long

amethystine  cloak  over the  azure-and-emerald  gown of  a  lady, and  she  was

breathtaking. She was radiance to challenge the sun; she was Beauty to challenge

the goddess Eshi Herself.

And she was looking for a man. A particular man.

She  and her  lackey-his name  was Wintsenay  and he  was best  described as  an

overage street urchin-returned through town, saw a killing and pretended not to,

two blocks farther along stepped carefully around another murder victim not  yet

cold, satisfactorily answered  the questions of  a Beysib who  looked worse than

nervous and ready to draw  the sword on its or  her back, and came at  last to a

fine inn. There they installed her.

Oh, but Jodeera turned heads in the White Swan! Nevertheless, she caused herself

to be. conducted at once to an available chamber, one with a good bed and a good

lock on the door.  Though many waited and  watched and some of  them entertained

dreams  and pleasant  fantasies, she  did not  return to  the common  room.  She

remained in  her own  rented chamber.  Her hireling  Wintsenay slept  before the

door, armed, but nothing untoward befell her at the White Swan.

Word of her arrival in Sanctuary was abroad before she rose next day.  Beautiful

women did not  come at all  often to Sanctuary.  Not even Hakiem  could remember

when last one had arrived here alone.  Yet this time a true beauty had  arrived,

and alone, and she was a mystery. Having taken on a low and baseborn servant who

was about ten minutes  out of the downwind  area of Downwind, she  had given her

name at the White Swan as Ahdioma of Aurvesh, and she was nigh incredible.

As for the lady herself ... "See  you this ring?" she asked of the  White Swan's

day-man, who was trying hard to gather up his lower lip so as to close his mouth

while staring at her. He remembered to nod and she said, "When next you see  it,

it will be sent you, and you will honor it, and my wishes."

He assured her that he would, indeed.

Taking no  breakfast and  seeming uninterested  in the  chatter of  last night's

bloody PFLS activities, she went forth into ratty Thieves' World of the creaking

commerce and cracking,  peeled stucco and  stones leaking their  mortar onto the

streets and "streets." Its powder  freighted the wind that whistled  along those

streets, disarranging cloaks and scarves while bearing the scent of death.

She was noticed wherever she went in  damned Sanctuary. Hair of a dark red,  the

shining  maroon of  a rich  old wine.  Large eyes  that were  perhaps hazel  and

perhaps  green-it depended  upon the  viewer, and  where she  was standing  with

relation to  the sun.  A face  in which  the bones  were prominent and the mouth

generous. (Some few marked the absence of what passed for dimples and later  for

creases  and  were  truly  smile-lines,  and  pounced  to  the  conclusion that,

incredibly for one of her  looks, she had had no  happy life.) A figure to  turn

dry the mouths  of men and  never mind their  ages. A lackey  called Wints whose

face was washed  and who strove  to look mean  while keeping his  hand on one of

those dauntingly long Ilbarsi "knives" thrust through a red-and-yellow sash worn

over his old brown cloak.

In the Bazaar she crossed a brown, clutching palm with a small silver coin,  and

was allowed to adjourn to a  rearward chamber. She emerged with her  hair caught

in a plain snood of dull old  green. A veil of medium green concealed  her lower

face.  Displayed  were ears  pierced  but not  be  jeweled, which  she  knew was

unattractive.

She tarried there,  in that booth  of a seer  blindingly dressed in  multicolor,

while the  S'danzo's daughter  and the  lackey Wints  bore the  ring back to the

White Swan. No, she did not care to be read by the S'danzo. Was the kind S'danzo

discreet?-Yes. Then did she perhaps know of a certain man ... And the  newcomer,

veiled again, mentioned a name and then a description.

No, the S'danzo did not know him; perhaps a reading might help?-No, no  reading;

there would be no Seeing into the affairs of the veiled lady.

The S'danzo wisely said  no more. She assumed  that this stranger either  was so

cautious as to want not even a close-mouthed seer to know aught of her-or wished

not to  know more  of herself  and her  future's possibilities and probabilities

than she already did.

Wintsenay  and the  nine-year-old returned  anon with  the veiled  lady's  three

horses. She dispatched them to arrange lodgings for her at the inn suggested  by

her new S'danzo friend.

She did not see him she sought, that day. Twice she must stop and show her  face

to members of the occupying force, but apparently she did not resemble  whomever

they sought. Two of their number had been slain last night. The word was murder,

but Sanctuarites did  not use it  in connection with  the deaths of  the Beysa's

minions.

She kept Wintsenay with her, calling him Wints, that he might not talk  o'ermuch

to his acquaintances and, if he had any, his friends. Obviously he was  enjoying

his role as  well as the  pay. Wints was  quite willing to  remain with her  and

comply with any of her wishes.

On the day following she wore a still different guise, and changed her  lodgings

yet  again. Again,  the inn  was a  good one.  Having gained  some knowledge  of

bankers, she left money and jewels with a man she felt she could trust. He  also

stabled her horses. She left with a receipt and a more secure feeling. That day,

again, she looked more for him she sought.

In mid-aftemoon on the fringe of the Bazaar, she saw him.

"Oh my," she  said, from behind  her lower-face veil  of scarlet (and  above her

garish S'danzo garb, skirts and apron and blouse in seven colors and six  hues),

"whoever is that big man who just ordered crockery from your neighbor, there?"

"Ah, m'girl, that's Ahdio-Ahdiovizun, but it's Ahdio he's callt. Runs that hole,

back in the Maze-Sly's Place, it's callt. You know. Big, ain't he!"

"Indeed," the veiled lady said softly, and went away.

"Well, I can't help that," the very  big man said to the dealer. "You  just tell

Goatfoot what I said: When even my customers complain about his beer, it's  bad!

Thin as ... well, if I find out he has a lot of cats over there, I'll be  mighty

suspicious about what he puts into his so-called prime ale!"

"That ain't nice, Ahdio. You want good stuff, whyn't you buy it then?"

"As you damned well know, Ak, I  do. But not from Goatfoot! However, not  all my

patrons can afford the  premium brew, and not  all of them know  the difference,

anyhow. I serve maybe  twenty to one of  the stuff made by  Goatfoot and Maeder.

And based on the quality, I ought to be charging more for Maeder's Red Gold!"

"Or maybe less for Goatfoot's True Brew," Akarlain said, tilting his head to one

side and doing his best to look clever. It was a strain.

"I'm willing to do that," Ahdio told him, "just as soon as you and Goatfoot  get

the keg price down to what it should be." He sighed and raised a silencing  hand

as the much smaller man started  to reply. "That's all right, that's  all right.

I'll need thirteen more kegs tomorrow, and don't forget what I told you to  tell

Goatfoot. And that I'm looking for another brewer. My customers may be scum, but

they've got rights!"

Ahdio, his face open and showing no menace, held eye contact with Akarlain for a

long moment before he  turned away. He moved  on to another merchant's  kiosk in

the ever-noisy open market. Face working, Ak watched him. How was it that such a

genuinely bigger than big man moved so  easily in a gait that no one  could ever

describe as "lumbering"? He was almost  graceful! And so lucky, Ak mused  with a

shiver; Ahdio seemed not to notice  the cold although he was not  wearing nearly

as much clothing as most others. Like to have me a wife that generated that much

heat, Akarlain thought, and with a sigh he turned to enter Ahdio's order on  the

slate headed G-Foot.

Ahdio stopped at a fold-down counter  under a sheltering awning of bright  green

and faded  yellow. After  doubling his  order for  the sausages  in brine he had

tried out on consignment, he complimented their creator.

"They loved them, Ivalia. Helped sell  more beer, too! My customers loved  those

special sausages  of yours-and  so did  I!" Abruptly  the big  man laughed a big

man's laugh. "Not my cat, though. Should've seen him wrinkle his nose and  shake

his head when  he started to  settle into a  nice sausage meal  and smelled that

brine! Could've heard his ears rattle two buildings away!"

"Ohh, poor pussy cat," Ivalia  said, interrupting her delighted marking  down of

his order to look up with a sympathetic expression. "What a mean shock for a cat

... well, here! You take this  to that poor disappointed kitty of  yours, Ahdio,

with my compliments."

"Mighty nice of  you, Ivalia," Ahdio  said, accepting the  brown-wrapped package

she hurriedly prepared and proffered.  It looked strangely smaller, once  it was

transferred from her hand to his huge one.

Someone passing behind Ahdio bumped him. Ahdio showed no hint of taking  offense

as his size would have  allowed; he merely dropped a  hand to the wallet at  his

belt. It was still there. The bump  must have been a genuine one, then-not  that

it would have mattered much. He kept only three coppers, two sharply jagged bits

of rusty  steel, and  a few  pebbles in  that leathern  bag. His  money was in a

pocket-purse sewn inside the down-filled vest he wore in lieu of coat or  winter

cloak. Still, he was not anxious to lose what he thought of as the Fool's  Purse

at his belt;  he'd just have  to raise a  great fuss and  try to chase  down the

thief ... and of course replace the thing with another cheap bag of goatskin.

"Mighty nice order  you just gave  me, Ahdio," Ivalia  was saying with  a smile.

"Mighty nice doing business with you-and gracious, I had no idea you were a  cat

person, too! That makes it all the better."

The  disposition of  an angel,  Ivalia had-a  red-faced angel-and  arms like   a

cooper's. Everything  about her  was round  and healthy  and on  the large side,

positively brimming and  glowing ruddy with  health. Everything except  her nose

and her chest,  he thought, a  little wistfully; both  were as flat  as a fallen

pie. Still ... a man did get lonely and thought now and again of a real woman, a

companion rather  than merely  some one-night  wench. And  in this gods-forsaken

town to which he  had exiled himself.... Ahdio  smiled at her. That  showed as a

crinkling of his  eyes and a  writhing of his  winter beard; he  stopped shaving

every year in autumn and removed the whole growth again a few months later  when

real heat  started to  set in.  Just now  the beard  was not  long, but  already

obscured most of his face.

"What's your kittycat's name,  Ahdio?" she asked, practically  burbling, beaming

at him.

Ahdio looked a  bit embarrassed,  pushed a  finger up  into his brown-pepper-and

salt beard, and scratched. "I, ah, named him Sweetboy," he admitted.

The round-faced  sausagemaker clapped  her hands.  "How sweet!  My kittycats are

named Cinnamon, and Topaz, and Micklety, and Kadakithis, wasn't that naughty  of

me?-and  Chase (that's  short for  Chase-mouser) and  Pan-pie, and  Hakiem,  and

Babyface, and-oh, pardon me; yes, what would you like?"

That to the new  customer who had come  to the unwitting rescue  of Ahdio, whose

expression of shock  had increased with  each new cat  Ivalia listed-and without

showing signs of running out of either names or cats anytime soon.

"Try one of her pickled sausages," Ahdio said to the newcomer. "And remember  it

was Ahdio who told  you. Stop in at  my tavern-Sly's Place near  Wrong Way Park.

First beer's on me."

He waved a hand in friendly farewell to Ivalia and departed. Thus he did not see

the look her prospective  customer gave her, or  hear him mutter, "Sly's  Place!

Theba's eyeballs ... I'd as soon slit my throat as go near that dive!"

Ivalia leaned on  her counter, face  in hands, and  gave him a  nice smile. "Why

don't you, then?"

Bulkily visible with his broad back  emphasized by the vest of tired  red, Ahdio

wended his way  out of the  Bazaar, returning greetings,  stopping to say  a few

words to this or that merchant and a couple of Stepsons with ever-wary eyes. His

words to  the beautifully-dressed  noble Shaf-ralain  went unanswered  and Ahdio

grinned. He just  managed not  to wink  at an  armed but  not particularly  mean

looking Bey, and headed for home.

Home was  upstairs over  the dive  called Sly's  Place, well  back in  that most

unsavory and unsafe district of Sanctuary called the Maze. Today he had gone  to

the street called Path of Money early, to put away some of last night's  income.

He never visited his banker at the same time on two days within any week, so  as

not to be predictable.  Sanctuary was that kind  of town. It was  a goodly walk,

too. When  he bore  money out  of Sly's,  he got  out of  the Maze as fast as he

could, and to hell  with shortcuts. He stepped  directly out onto the  Street of

Odors-also  called Stink  Street and  Perfume Boulevard,  with the  tanners  and

charnel houses right there-and walked north to Straight Street. Once it  crossed

the Processional, it jogged a little and became the Path of Money. There bankers

and lenders  and changers  lurked, and  some were  even honest.  It was  Ahdio's

belief and hope that his was.

Then it was back to the Bazaar  and/or Farmer's Market, by some route or  other;

he  was a  known walker  who attracted  little attention  from the  diwiers  and

"guardians" of this or that section of town. Stepsons competent and in-, or  3rd

Commando members, or  the dangerous usually-youths  of the PFLS-"Piffles,"  some

were pronouncing it-or sword-backed Beysibs, forced by the weather to cloak  the

bare  breasts they  apparently loved  to flaunt,  painted. He  gave them  little

attention  in return,  speaking when  they were  obviously not  supposed to   be

concealed, and pretending not to see them when they were.

Ahdio assumed that he was  one of the very few  in the Maze who had  made a deal

with the 3rd  Commando Unit of  Ranke. After all,  it was in  his back room that

Kama of  the 3rd  C. and  Zip of  PFLS had  met with  Hanse, for  the purpose of

persuading that  thief called  Shadowspawn to  break into  the Palace. Oh, Ahdio

knew that, now; Kama had been back and they were friends-make that "on  friendly

terms."

Not infrequently he  stopped at a  better inn just  to take note  of it and  its

clientele and enjoy a measure or two served by someone else. Then it was back to

his  residence and  place of  business, which  was sort  of sphinctered  in  the

improbable three-way intersection where  the Serpentine sort of  extruded Tanner

Lane as it slithered by, at the  place where Odd Birt's Cross became Odd  Birt's

Dodge.

The lowest dive in the lowest of towns, some called Sly's Place.

Ahdiovizun called it home. He also called it never dull and always  fascinating,

even inspiring. (Sly was a man dead these three years, but who wanted to  change

the name and take credit for the skungiest and most fight-prone watering-hole in

all Thieves' World? In consequence, no one  was sure just who did own it.  True,

Sly's widow seemed not to be  hurting any for finances, but certainly  she never

came near the place,  and no one ever  reported having seen Ahdio  or his helper

Throde go to her home.)

Since today he had  settled a few bills  with last night's receipts,  he had not

gone over to the Path of Money at  all. Thus he extended his walk by taking  the

longer way around from the Bazaar. When he entered the Maze from the north, onto

the Serpentine, nature had been calling for several minutes. With a little smile

he decided  to avail  himself of  the little  cul-de-sac variously called Tick's

Vomitorium, or Safehaven, or more descriptively: The Outhouse. Even in the  ever

present shadows, the  lower walls of  all three buildings  abutting on Safehaven

were stained dark. The area, a squared horseshoe, reeked of urine and worse. The

Vulgar Unicorn was just  around the corner and  many a patron had  come hurrying

into just this odd little shelter to relieve his bladder or his stomach or both.

(This was the reason Ahdio had been known to refer jocularly to the place as the

Vulgar Unicorn Annex.)

He was just contentedly  spraying the eastward wall  when a slight sound  behind

him was followed quickly by a swift, jerky pressure at his side, a shade forward

of the kidney. The pressure-point was tiny, and Ahdio recognized the touch of  a

knife's tip.

"Uh," he said, and splashed his thick-soled walking buskin. "Damn."

"All right," a voice snarled in  an obvious attempt both to sound  dangerous and

to disguise  itself, "let's  have yer  purse, bigun."  The pressure  remained at

Ahdio's side.

"I'll give you this," Ahdio said without turning, "you're light on your feet and

may amount  to a  real thief  someday. But  I think  you have  me confused  with

someone else-I'm Ahdio."

"Ah-Ahdi-"

"Probably couldn't  recognize me  in the  dark, here.  You know: Ahdiovizun, the

great big mean and cantankerous proprietor of Sly's Place, who always wears ..."

"A mailcoat!"  the snarler  snarled loudly,  and the  pressure of his knifepoint

instantly left Ahdiovizun's person. The  would-be thief was not nearly  as quiet

departing in haste as he had been at stalking.

Ahdio let go a goodly sigh and restored his clothing. Having deliberately  given

the thief opportunity to  escape unseen, he turned  slowly and paced out  of the

Maze's public convenience. He felt around  at his rearward side with a  big hand

that had gone a bit sweaty.

Good.  The  little idiot  didn't  prick my  vest.  Hate to  start  leaking goose

feathers. Glad he  was too scared  and stupid to  run a test  by leaning on that

sticker ... what sort of  glutton for punishment would I  have to be to wear  my

mailcoat all day, just walkin' around town?

Still, he would  not claim even  to himself not  to be unnerved.  With the whole

town gettin' to be as dangerous as the Maze, maybe I should!

He wiped wet hands on his leggings, and considered dropping in at the Vulg for a

short one. No, he'd just stay away from that place; it was no trick to spot  the

two Beysibs, so very casually hanging about across the "street," keeping an  eye

on a dive to which Ahdio  felt Sly's was eminently superior. Doubtless  a PFLSer

or two would be about, too, keeping an eye or four on the Stare-Eyes. He'd  just

head on home and drink his own, with Sweetboy for company.

He followed the Serpentine on down and around onto Tanner. With a casual wave at

the enormous (and teetotal-ing)  bodyguard of Alamanthis, the  physician located

conveniently across the street from Sly's and prospering accordingly, Ahdio went

around back.  He whacked  the door  a couple  of times  while he  whistled a few

notes, to avoid a misunderstanding with  Sweetboy, and slipped the first of  two

keys into the smaller lock. Then the  other one, and he entered. He dropped  the

big bar across the door behind him.

"Hey, you mangy furbag, daddy's home!"

"Mrarr," Sweetboy said in what was almost a travesty of a cat's customary sound,

and meandered over. Ahdio stood still  long enough to let the black,  mange-free

animal sinuously whack its left flank against his buskin and pace back and forth

a few times, rubbing, getting rid of some excess fur while saying Hello Good  To

See You My Bowl's Empty.

"Just had a bit of a scare, Sweetboy. Let's have a drink."

Sweetboy  made  a  profoundly  enthusiastic  remark  and  lost  all  dignity  in

industriously rubbing both Ahdio's legs  while the big man lighted  an oil-lamp.

Moving to a table on which rested a small keg, he twisted out the bung: This was

good Maeder's brew he had re-bunged  last night after close of business.  He had

done a good job of it, too, he saw when he poured: Head foamed up high and rich.

Ahdio bent and gave himself a white mustache to keep it from flowing over,  then

set it aside while he drew another cup.

Watching, Sweetboy reared  up to clap  both paws to  the table-leg and  stretch,

meanwhile purring loud enough to vibrate the table.

"Uh-huh. Soon's the head settles down.  True beer-lovers know you need to  raise

the foam and wait for it to lapse, Sweetboy ole Tige. Remember that."

The cat, jet with an odd strawberry- or heart-shaped white patch on its face and

one white paw, made an urgent remark.

Picking up the first cup, Ahdio squatted  to the floor beside a cut-down mug  of

wide diameter, with a handle. "Wait," he said, in a particular voice, and poured

Red  Gold into  the cat's  bowl. Sweetboy  waited, staring,  saying nothing  but

expressing his impatience with a lashing of the stub of his tail.

That sight was disconcerting to everyone but Ahdio. Any cat expressed itself  or

at least  acknowledged noises  or its  name with  movements of  its tail,  often

merely the tip. A tailless cat, if not a cripple, was at least the equivalent of

a human with a  severe lisp. Sweetboy, however,  seemed unaware of his  lack and

expressively moved what he had. He even  managed to make it obvious when he  was

not just moving the thumb-length stub, but lashing it. Now he peered at his bowl

under a thigh the thickness of a trim man's waist. It moved, straightened.

"Drink up, Tige," Ahdio said, and turned  to his own mug. By the time  he lifted

it to his lips, his beer-loving cat was sounding more canine than feline in  its

enthusiastic lapping.  Hip against  the table  and one  elbow on  the keg, Ahdio

quaffed his beer while watching Sweetboy  put away his. The big man's  face wore

an indulgent smile. It faded, and he sighed.

The hard part  was the disappearance  of Sweetboy's former  companion and fellow

watch-cat. Notable. Both Ahdio and Sweetboy missed the big red cat. First  Hanse

had popped in late  one afternoon and just  had to borrow him;  then, even while

Ahdio was trying to explain that  Notable was a one-man cat, the  damned traitor

had come in all high-tailed and  started in rubbing Shadowspawn as if  the cocky

thief were his favoritest person in the whole world. So off went large watch-cat

with smallish  thief, and  into the  governor's palace  and out.  And Hanse  had

brought Notable  back, too,  bragging on  his loyalty  and valor-and loud voice.

That was right before Hanse had left  town, in a hurry. Apparently he had  taken

with him the eldest daughter of the murdered S'danzo, Moon-flower.

Next morning, Notable was gone, too.  Just short of frantic, Ahdio searched  and

asked; put out the word. Notable was gone without a trace. At least it was  hard

to imagine  such a  fighter's having  been snatched  and used  to fill someone's

hungry belly. Ahdio swallowed hard, then turned up his mug.

"I hope he's with  Hanse," he muttered, lowering  the emptied cup, and  Sweetboy

gave his abbreviated  tail a twitch  in acknowledgment. "But  if he is  and they

ever come back to Sanctuary, I'm going to pin back all four of their ears!"

With  another  sigh, Ahdio  decided  to have  another  before he  fixed  himself

something  to  eat and  joined  Throde in  preparing  to open  up  for tonight's

business in the lowest dive in Sanctuary. He had no idea that it would be one of

the very most eventful nights ever.

He was just finishing  his early dinner-he'd snack  while he worked and  enjoy a

late supper while counting tonight's take-when  he heard Throde at the door.  He

hurried to  lift the  bar and  let in  his lean  and wiry  assistant. The  youth

entered, thump-clump  thump-clump. Neither  ugly nor  handsome, he  was known to

some as Throde the Gimp, and now and again a customer tried calling "Hey  Gimp!"

or "Gimpy-over  here" when  he wanted  service. Throde,  with more encouragement

from Ahdio than mere  approval, did not respond  in any way. (He  did respond to

calls of "Boy" or  "Waiter" or "Hey you!")  If a newcomer chose  to take offense

and become surly despite being advised  by a fellow patron of Throde's  name and

humanity,  Ahdio was  always ready  to prevent  any violence  on his  assistant.

Sometimes  they  even came  back,  those he  graphically  warned and  cooled  by

throwing out.

Enveloped in big brown  cloak from crown to  instep, the youth leaned  his staff

against the wall; a shade under an  inch and a half in diameter, the  inflexible

rod was six feet long, five inches longer than its owner.

"'Lo, Ahdio. Hey, Sweetboy."

He unclasped and twisted out of the hairy cloak that looked nigh big enough  for

Ahdio, except in length. As usual,  Throde's brown hair came out of  the cloak's

hood mussed in six or nine directions. He carried the garment over to hook it on

one of  the pegs  just inside  the door,  on (he  wall opposite  the eight or so

untapped tuns of beer.  He turned back to  Ahdio, left hand pushing  his hair up

off his forehead above the left eye in a gesture Ahdio had seen a thousand times

or  more. His  smooth face  was long   and bony,  and his  lean body  gave  that

appearance. Ahdio knew that was a bit deceptive; wiry and rangy, Throde had good

musculature. Even his bad  leg looked strong, though  Ahdio had seen his  helper

only once without leggings,  even back in high  summer. He introduced Throde  as

his cousin's son, from Twand. Ahdiovizun was not from Twand. Neither was Throde.

"Ah. New tunic?"

Throde blinked and little twitches in his face hinted at a smile. He looked down

at the garment, which was medium green with a wave-imitating border at neck  and

hem, in dark brown. Ahdio  recognized that gesture, too; Throde  wasn't studying

the tunic,  he was  ducking his  head. The  lad was  shy, and  just a shade more

gregarious than his walking stick.

He nodded. "Yes."

"Good for you. Good-looking tunic, too. Going to have to think about a new  belt

for that one, to do it justice. Buy it in the Bazaar?"

Throde shook his head.  "Country Market. Bought it  off a woman who  made it for

her son."

"Oh,"  Ahdio  said,  and as  usual  tried  to force  his  helper  into something

approaching conversation. "Didn't he like it? Sure doesn't look worn."

"Was a present for him. Never been  worn." Throde was looking at the cat,  which

had assumed a ridiculous sitting position with one hind leg straight up while it

licked its genitals. "You'll go blind, Sweetboy."

"Lucky you," Ahdio said, and kept trying:  "Bet you got a good price on  it. Her

boy didn't like it?"

"Never saw it. Took a fever on the first cold night. He died."

"Oh. Listen,  I was  a little  nervous about  you when  you left  last night. No

trouble going home?"

Throde shook his head. "I better get set up."

"No trouble at all? Didn't see those three meanheads?"

Shaking his head, Throde went through the door into the taproom-the inn  proper.

Ahdio sighed.

"Sure nice to have company," he  muttered, and Sweet-boy looked up and  belched.

Ahdio gave him a look. "Here! Cats do not belch, Tige. Maybe you should consider

giving up strong drink."

The final word brought the cat to attention, and to its mug. It peered within as

if myopic, looked pointedly up at its human, twitched its stub and said "Mraw?"

"No," Ahdio said, and Sweetboy showed him an affronted look before it  slithered

in between a couple of barrels to sulk.

Accommodatingly, Ahdio let those  tuns sit and picked  up another to carry  into

the other  room. He  handled it  as if  it weighed  about half  what it weighed.

Throde was arranging  benches and stools,  squatting to rearrange  the sliver of

wood that for  three months had  "temporarily" steadied the  table with the  bad

leg.

"Maybe tonight we ought to turn that damned table up and slap a nail up  through

that hunk of wood into the leg,"  Ahdio said, his voice only a little  strained.

He set the barrel down behind the bar, without banging it. "Not thisun,"  Throde

said. "The wood'd split out."

"Uh," Ahdio said, thinking about last night's trouble. The arising of trouble in

Sly's Place was hardly noteworthy. Patrons  who came to push and shove  or worse

either settled down, or helped clean up and pay for damage, or were told not  to

come back. Now and again Ahdio  relented. But when sharp steel flashed  he moved

in fast with a  glove and a club.  Both were armored. Such  things happened, and

usually he stopped it without a  blow and before someone got stuck.  Not always.

What he  would not  tolerate was  yellers and  plain bullies.  That big one last

night had been both. Ahdio warned  him. Others warned him. Eventually Ahdio  had

felt compelled to pick up the big drunken troublemaker by the nape, just the way

he'd  have  picked  up a  kitten.  In  sudden silence  from  patrons  once again

impressed by his strength, he carried  the loosely wriggling fellow over to  the

door and deposited him outside,  without roughness. He returned to  applause and

upraised mugs, smiling  a little and  never glancing back;  he knew that  if the

ejected one came back in behind him, other patrons would call a warning.

Two men, however, stood staring in manner unfriendly. Ahdio stopped and returned

the gaze.

"You boys his buddies?"

"Right."

"Yes. Narvy didn't mean no harm."

"Probably not," Ahdio said equably. "Just drank too much, too fast and  wouldn't

take anything to eat. You boys want a sausage and a beer, or you think you ought

to help him ... Narvy ... home?"

The two of them  stared at him in  silence, mean-faced, and the  taverner stared

back with his  usual open, large-eyed  expression. After a  time they looked  at

each other. The handsome one shrugged.  The balding one shrugged. They sat  down

again.

"Couple of sausages and beers coming up," Ahdio said, and that was that.

Still, he had worried  that they or perhaps  all three might decide  to take out

their mad on  Throde, and Ahdio  warned the youth,  who walked home  every night

alone. They had made it well known that  he carried no money but did bear a  big

stick. On the other hand, he needed that staff because he had a gimped leg.  Now

his employer was more than glad that his apprehension had been for nothing.

He was heading back to the storeroom when he heard the banging sound back there.

Sweetboy didn't make banging sounds, particularly when he was napping.

That was when it hit Ahdio that he and Throde had both forgotten to replace  the

bar across the outer door. Some  godless motherless meanhead had just walked  in

for sure, he thought, already racing  that way. He was bulling through  the door

when he heard the screams: two. A man's, and a cat's. Not just any cat's. It was

Sweetboy's war-cry. He had  never achieved the volume  of Notable, but he  could

sure  raise hell,  nape-hair and  heartbeats. The  pair of  yowling sounds  were

followed by a much louder banging than the first. And a yell that was positively

a shriek.

From the  doorway Ahdio  glimpsed it  all at  once. The  balding man and his big

ejected pal Narvy, from last night, were in the act of removing a barrel  marked

with the hoofprint of a goat branded in black; the scream-trailing black  streak

was a watch-cat earning its keep.  The cat landed acrouch on the  barrel between

them, having in passing opened the balding man's sleeve without even trying.  It

hissed, whipping its stub back and forth, and uncoiled to hit Narvy's big chest.

Narvy's  friend  yelled when  he  felt his  arm  hit; when  he  saw the  demonic

apparition appear as if by ghastly sorcery right on the barrel he was so happily

stealing, he let go his end.

It was his friend  Narvy who let out  the high-voiced shriek; the  impact of the

hurtling cat  was bad  enough, but  the feel  of all  those claws puncturing his

chest  through two  layers of  blue linsey-woolsey  was a  lot worse.   Besides,

Sweetboy wasn't just  there; he was  climbing, and that  evilly fanged face  was

terribly close to Narvy's own. Naturally he  too let go the tun of beer,  to get

both arms in front of his face. Since his friend had already let go, the  barrel

swung  in as  it dropped,  and got  Narvy's shin  and one  foot. He   positively

bellowed. Besides, the carefully misnamed Sweetboy, intent on reaching his face,

was busily trying to  chew his way through  Narvy's sleeved arm. Narvy's  throat

erupted more noise.

His friend caught a  glimpse of the big  taverner coming through the  doorway he

absolutely filled, and the  balding man whirled to  exit by the outer  door at a

speed that  would have  brought him  in at  least second  in a seven-horse race.

Narvy kept on screaming.

"Damn," Ahdio said. "I told you last night you were a noisy beerhead, and damned

if you aren't even noisier by day and sober-I-guess. Now look what you've  done!

You've disturbed that poor pussy's nap and got him all angry."

Narvy was flailing both arms, to one  of which clung a chomping cat anchored  by

twenty or so claws and an unknown number of needly teeth.

"Get him offf meee!" poor Narvy shrieked.

"Are you daft or jesting, man? I'm not wearing mailed gloves!"

Screaming enough for six, Narvy wheeled and limp-dashed out the open doorway  in

the wake of his friend- who was already out of sight.

"Sweetboy! Let's have a drink!"

Sweetboy opened his mouth, retracted all  claws, hit the ground facing the  rear

door of Sly's Place (drooling a shred of red-smeared blue fabric), and became  a

blur again  until he  was standing  at his  bowl. Finding  it empty,  he glanced

accusingly around and up. He was also licking at the blood on his mouth.

"Goo-ood boy, goo-ood kitty," Ahdio crooned,  using his foot to roll the  barrel

aside. It was intact and pleasantly sloshy.

He drew two cups  of beer and unwrapped  the brineless sausage Ivalia  had given

him. Sweetboy watched as if entranced, ears on the move. Ahdio had treacherously

saved back the six-inch length of sausage about the thickness of Throde's staff.

Now the big man gave  it to Sweetboy all at  once, as reward. Along with  a full

mug-bowl.

Sweetboy immediately proved that he was a cat who loved beer, not an  alcoholic.

He nicked his ears at the bowl,  made a small appreciative remark, and went  for

the meat.

"What happened?" That from Throde, in the doorway with broom in hand. He held it

in the manner of a spearman awaiting the command to charge.

"You and I both left the door unbarred and let two cess-heads disturb this  nice

li'l kittycat's nap, that's what!"

"Oh, gredge," Throde muttered, staring downward. "'m sorry, Ahdio."

"No harm done. If those  two don't talk about it,  let's be sure the story  gets

around." Eyes twinkling, Ahdio hoisted his mug.

"Uh ... what if they spread it that you keep a demon back here?"

"So?  In  Sanctuary?  Who'd care?"  his  grinning  employer rhetorically  asked.

"Demons and  vampires and  dead gods  and living  goddesses involved  in  street

fights ... a demon in the back room of Sly's Place seems perfectly normal to me!

What do you think, Sweetboy?"

Sweetboy thought the sausage was just lovely and that it was time for a swig  or

three of beer. • • •

*  *  *

When the  veiled lady  came into  Sly's Place,  it was  three-quarters full  and

altogether noisy. Also, predictably, male.  Nor did any of their  attire reflect

wealth,  nobility,  or the  military.  Oh, of  course  they wore  daggers,  that

standard utensil for eating, among other uses. She saw three other females,  all

of whom looked as  if they belonged here.  The one in her  teens wore a sort  of

skirt the color of new gold that was slit on both sides to the belt, and a black

singlet that looked as  if it had been  stitched onto her. Her  hair matched the

skirt, despite her black eyes and brows, and three bangles chimed on each wrist.

The oldest of the three sat against the wall with a bald and white-bearded  man.

He was presumably her husband, since they were saying nothing to each other. The

third was a  blowze of perhaps  thirty who wore  a low-necked white  blouse that

displayed a  great deal  of her  pair of  highly mobile  head-sized breasts. Her

skirt was heel-length, unslit, and wildly striped. Her voice was just as loud.

Among the tables  and stools moved  a thin young  man in a  nice green tunic and

waist-apron over  fawn-colored leggings.  He had  a tray,  a towel,  a shock  of

unruly brown hair, and a limp.

The  advent  of the  veiled  lady through  the  curtain of  colored  Syrese rope

attracted attention, naturally; there was,  after all, the veil, in  addition to

her hooded emerald cloak  of obviously good cloth  and weave. She was,  however,

escorted. Someone recognized  him and  called out  with a  wave. Wintsenay, self

consciously  with Jodeera,  barely nodded  acknowledgment. The  newcomers  stood

where they were, on the entry platform a step above the room.

The veiled lady paid no  mind to any of them.  Her eyes, as invisible below  the

hood's shadow as her face behind the quietly colored paisley veil, followed only

the movements of the big man  in the coat of scintillant, softly  jingling chain

mail. He set down a double handful of mugs and slipped some coins into his apron

before following the gazes  of those he served.  His brows rose at  the sight of

the two. He glanced  around, raised a hand,  and both looked and  pointed to his

left. He  saw the  man and  the hooded  and veiled  woman look  at the  table he

indicated, at the wall; saw the man look questioningly at her. The hood  nodded.

Perhaps she  said something.  Without uncloaking,  they descended  the step  and

moved to the table Ahdio indicated.

She  was  in  charge,  Ahdio  noted immediately.  The  man  was  her  servant or

bodyguard, then. He caught  Throde's eye, indicated a  table of empty cups,  and

headed for the new arrivals.

"Welcome to  Sly's Place,  my lady;  sir. I  am Ahdio  and, yes,  this is a real

chain-coat. What would you like?"

"Your best wine for milady; your better beer for me," Wints said.

Ahdio  knew that  she had  told her  escort what  to order;  he was  not to   be

privileged to hear her voice in addition to seeing no glimpse of her face, then.

The point was, what in the name of the Shadowy One was she doing here? While her

retention  of her  hooded cloak  along with  the veil  attracted attention  just

because others wondered what  she was hiding, he  hoped she kept both  in place.

Just the presence of a  woman of quality here in  Sly's was enough to touch  off

trouble from some of these jackasses. If she happened to be well-favored  behind

the veil, and shapely within her doubtless expensive and fashionable attire,  he

might well need Sweetboy's aid!

Ouleh jiggled over while he poured qualis into a nice cup and was about to  turn

to Maeder's  Better True  Brew, which  Maeder identified  with a  blue MB on the

barrel. She leaned across the bar to give Ahdio a high-eyebrowed look.

"Hai, Ahdio ole handsome ... who's the one in the veil and hood, hmmm?"

"Get your things off the bar," he said, grinning, and she chuckled dutifully  at

their old joke. Instead she ground herself down on it, wagging her shoulders, so

that  the  things  he  mentioned  were pushed  above  her  low  blouse  in great

outrounding   moonshapes   to   her   collarbones.   He   leaned   toward    her

conspiratorially, keeping his gaze on her face.

"My cousin  from Twand,"  he said  quietly. "For  all the  gods' sakes and mine,

don't ask her about her face or twit her either."

"That ugly, huh?"

"I can't answer that, Ouleh. Just be good and tell your friends, all right?"

"Me? Be good? Oh, Ahdio! Qualis and Red Gold 'stead of True Blue Brew for  them,

hmmm? Didn't know you had moneyed relatives, bigun, in Twand or anyplace  else."

She flashed him a teasing  smile; Ouleh was good at  that. "I've got me an  idea

that  we're  being  treated  to  a visit  by  the  mysterious  Veiled  Lady just

everybody's talking about! Your cousin, Ahdio?"

Ahdio gazed at  her, blinking. The  mysterious veiled lady  everyone was talking

about? In that case, why hadn't he heard about her? True, it seemed not the sort

of gossip that interested his patrons. They tended to talk about their work,  to

damn anyone with authority or wealth, to talk about who was doing what with  and

to whom, and who was going to get into whom, how and when, and who was going  to

get  into Ouleh  next. He  glanced past  her at  the two  newcomers over  there,

waiting for him to bring their  order. His patrons' favorite breasty blowze  had

just described  her, all  right: a  mysterious veiled  lady. On  the other hand,

within and under cloak and hood and veil she might as well be Ouleh or any other

easygirl.

No; not with the aura he felt about her; she even moved-even sat with class.

"Just be good, Man-killer. Or be  bad as usual, but leave her  alone; physically

and with that  mouth of yours."  Hearing how harsh  that sounded, he  smiled and

added, "Please. Tell you what. Anyone who gives her or her escort trouble is out

of here on his tailbone."

It was Ouleh's turn to blink,  in surprise. "Es-cort! That's Wints, bigun.  He's

no escort-not for the likes of her. Bodyguard, maybe. Lackey. Someone she  found

to guide  her in  what she's  doing-slumming. I'll  spread your  word, bigun-for

you," she said, glancing back at  many men at many tables. "But  others're going

to think she's slumming, and that  Wints is putting on airs, and  there's likely

to be trouble."

"Anyone starts any trouble tonight, Ouleh, it's going to be me who ends it."

She gave him a lazy grin, again leaning forward onto the bar to show him a  pair

of pale mountains and the deep dark canyon dividing them. "Isn't it always,  big

boy? All I'm sayin' is that it may happen anyhow."

He sighed. Not sure why, he said, "Ouleh-keep a secret?"

"Me? Betray a confidence? Cross my  treasure chest and hope to die!"  Her finger

slid down one mountain and  into the valley, up the  other slope, and back in  a

necessarily large X. Ahdio  immediately looked ceilingward. "What's  the matter,

Ah-dio? Can't look? Want me to start wearing loose robes to the chin?"

I'd have fewer fights and shouting matches if you did, he mused, but said, "Just

looking for the thunderbolt, after that oath of yours. Anyhow. First, here.  You

take this cup of qualis, on ole Ahdio. Second: Spread the word as I said. Third,

and this is the  secret now, Man-killer: The  reason is that's my  ... lady. She

just came here to see me. You can  understand that I have to watch out for  her.

Here's your wine, dear. Start helping me out, all right?"

"Ohh, Ahdio! Reeeeally? Your la-oh, Ahdio,  you devil! And here I've had  my cap

set on you for years!"

Why am I doing this  for some slumming stranger who  may well be a Bey,  come to

spy on us with an Ilsigi sell-out, he demanded of himself, and said, "Sure, sure

you have. You don't even have a cap."

She gripped the  nice goblet with  one hand and  the rim of  her bodice with the

other. "No? What d'you call this?" She whipped the blouse down below the salient

of her leftward mountain, held it there  for two or three beats, and flipped  it

up over her nipple again. Then she swung away, laughing.

Briefly closing his eyes  while he shook his  head, Ahdio filled another  goblet

with that  best of  wines and  topped off  the mug  for Wints,  the head  having

subsided.  He  headed for  the  table against  the  wall, his  scintillant  coat

jingling softly.  Just as  he passed  a regular  named or  rather called Weasel,

Ahdio heard his loud conversation topper: "In a pig's ass!"

"Someone call for  my special sausage?"  Ahdio called en  passant, and went  on,

ahead of a wake of laughter.

He set  wine and  beer before  the strange  couple, and  noted the  coins on the

table. He smiled at the invisible face that, judging from the angle of the hood,

seemed to be looking up at him. "In this place, those who put coins on the table

are running  a tab.  Unless you  think you're  just going  to have one and run."

There. That would  get a few  words from the  woman who had  eased coin onto the

table while no one was looking.

Wrong. Wints looked at his companion/employer a moment, then up at the huge  man

looming over their table and occluding an immoderate number of tables.  "Thanks,

taverner. We'll be  here awhile. My  lady would like  to know why  you wear that

chain-coat."

Ahdio shook his arm to emphasize the jing-jing of the mail that covered him from

collarbone to wristbone and  to a point just  below his loins. "For  effect," he

said with an easy smile. "Ambience?  A conversation piece. A little added  color

in a place I can't afford to fancy up much."

Wints glanced at the veiled lady and gave the taverner a knowing grin. "With the

price of a coat of good butted  chainmail being what it is? You sure  that's the

reason?"

Ahdio shrugged, jing-jing. "Maybe I wear  it for the same reason a  soldier does

in battle. This is  a tough dive with  me as proprietor, bartender  and bouncer.

Maybe I'd be  dead or full  of scars by  now if I  didn't wear these forty-seven

pounds of linked steel."

Wints's grin broadened and  just as he started  to laugh, Ahdio heard  the first

sound from the man's  companion: a nascent chuckle  swiftly drowned by his  full

laugh.

"Hey, Ahdio, you still sellin' ale around here?"

Ahdio swung away from the strangers.  "Ale! In this place? Glayph, you  wouldn't

know ale if I poured some in your ear! Want another mug of junk beer?"

"Junk beer's  right," another  man said,  as Ahdio  moved that  way. "Is it true

you've got that beer-drinkin' demon-cat you keep back there trained to take  his

leaks in the kegs?"

"No," Ahdio  said with  an easy  grin, "just  in the  qualis." When the laughter

subsided, he made his face serious and added, "But I'll tell you this. I accused

my brewer  of that,  just this  afternoon. I  also put  him on  notice that  I'm

lookin' around for another supplier. I am. All right, how many?"

"Two for me; I just got here. Is it true that's your girl over there, Ahdio, all

bundled up?"

"My cousin Phlegmy brews good brew, Ahdy!"

"Girl! I'm too old for girls, two-beers.  You think I put this gray in  my beard

with chalk? Now  who's been blabbing  that I have  a secret lady  who dropped in

tonight to watch me work?" /( worked, he thought. Good old Ouleh-all you have to

do is ask her to keep a secret and it's the same as hiring thirty boys to  shout

the news!

Laughter and shouts followed him to the bar, and he made sure that he gave Ouleh

a scowl. She bit her  lip in the manner of  a chastised child. While sitting  on

Tervy's knee with her  hand inside the shirt  of Frax, former palace  guardsman.

Someone reached out  and yanked at  the hem of  Throde's tunic, in  back. Throde

reeled and his tray tipped. A  mug dropped off into someone's lap.  That someone

cursed and  came up  fast, drawing  back a  fist. One  moment he  was looking at

Throde's whimpery face saying "Oh,  oh, I'm sorry" while his  peripheral hearing

reported the steel-jingle  sound of a  battlefield; the next  he was staring  at

Ahdio's chest and it was too late to arrest his swing.

His fist slammed into quintuply-linked chain that seemed to be backed by a  wall

of stone.

"Yaaowww!"

"You don't want to go hittin'  my cousin's boy Throde, friend," the  chainmailed

stone wall  said, while  the subject  of his  pleasant-voiced address danced and

clutched his wounded fist. Tears  welled out of his  eyes. "It wasn't his  fault

somebody grabbed  his tunic  from behind  and don't  ask who.  Besides, that mug

didn't hurt your jewels or you'd never uv got up so fast. Sit down now and  I'll

bring you a full one."

"You big-that really is chain! I'm hurt!"

Ahdio lifted his  hand between them  and doubled it  into a fist  the size of an

infant's head. "What hurts?"

"My ... f ..." The fellow trailed  off. Staring at the fist and glancing  at his

considerably smaller one, he sank slowly down into his chair.

"That'll teach ya, Tarkle," one of the injured man's tablemates said.

Having hurt his knuckles and arm and been backed down, Tarkle was happy to snarl

and reach for that man-with his uninjured hand. That fast, an enormous fist came

down onto  the table  between them  with a  bang. Unable  to stop  his movement,

Tarkle  rammed  his outstretched  hand  into the  knuckles  and stove  up  three

fingers. He repeated his previous yaow.

Ahdio said only, "Now damn it-"

Lots of eyes  watched while the  table's complement sat  in silence, with  Ahdio

bending over it and his fist resting in place. Slowly he straightened.

"Easy now, Tarkle, that beer's coming right up," he said, and turned to continue

barward.

"Ahdio!" a female voice screamed. "Look out!"

At the same time  as he reacted by  hunching his shoulders and  pushing his chin

into his chest,  Ahdio glanced in  the direction of  the cry. He  saw the veiled

lady, on her feet and  pointing. Meanwhile he was  pivoting, spinning, one  tree

branch arm straight out from his body. Fortunately only one man was on his  feet

behind him: Ahdio's forearm whacked into the side of Tarkle's neck. Tarkle  went

sideways over  his own  chair and  onto his  table. Its  other occupants vacated

their chairs with admirable speed even  while Tarkle's wrist banged down on  the

table's  edge.  His knife  vacated  his fist.  Throde's  foot was  on  it before

Tarkle's head whacked the table and bounced. While he was still disconcerted and

seeing bright lights before his eyes, a huge hand closed on the back of his neck

and hoisted him onto his feet. Never  mind his watery legs; Ahdio walked him  to

the door. Along the way his other hand dropped to come up with another man.

"Gawk! Here! I didn't do nothin'!"

"Sure you did," Ahdio advised him in an equable voice. "You started this hothead

off by yanking the hem of my  cousin's boy's brand-new tunic. And a lovely  good

night to you  both," he said,  thrusting them out  the door back-to-back  with a

twist and thrust of his arms. "Sorry,  boys. Don't even think of coming back  in

tonight, mind."

"You-you sumbitch-"

"Yes, yes," Ahdio said, turning back into the doorway; "I never thought much  of

her myself."

Having demonstrated why he wore the  mailcoat, he closed the wooden winter  door

against the  cold, and  with both  hands swept  back the  thirty-one strands  of

dangling colored rope that for most of the year were the inn's only door. He was

right in assuming that  no one in Sly's  Place was looking anywhere  but at him.

Standing there on the one-step entry  platform he had installed to make  it easy

for comers-in to spot friends or empty tables, he gave them the full benefit  of

his lungs.

"Now that  is enough  trouble for  one night!  Settle damn  it down! Throde: one

round of Red Gold for everyone at True Brew prices. That includes you and me."

To the sound of applause, Ahdio  returned to the bar. His customers  made plenty

of room. To Throde he spoke quietly: "Take care of our mysterious patron and her

escort for the rest of the night, Throde."

The youth nodded. Anyone else might  have said "You're not going to  thank her?"

but not Throde. Looking at the floor, he said, "I'm sorry, Ahdio. Thanks."

"Going to have to get  you a club to wear  in your belt, or brass  knuckles. But

forget the apology-I saw  it all. Not your  fault at all. Here.  First one's for

you. Next one's  for me. Going  to be an  edgy night, Throde.  Who the blazes is

that woman?"

Throde had no answer. He served the veiled lady's table. She had two glasses  of

wine only, without ever showing her face; her companion put away several  beers.

There was  no further  trouble. Nevertheless,  Ahdio was  right: it  was an edgy

night. Avenestra, the teenaged  girl in the skintight  top and slit skirt,  left

with Frax and came back an hour or  so later, alone. By then, about half of  the

patrons had departed  Sly's Place, in  various stages of  inebriation. Avenestra

went to the bar for a beer,  specifying lots of foam, and approached that  table

by the wall.

"You a Bey behind that veil?" she  asked, licking at the foam boiling above  her

blue-glazed mug.

"No," the blue-green veil said. "I'm Ahdio's girl. Just came in tonight to watch

him work. Sure knows how to settle fights, doesn't he?"

"Uh-huh." Avenestra licked foam. "You sure better treat him right, Ahdio's gurl.

He sure does have  friends." And she moved  off. Less than three-quarters  of an

hour later, she left with another man.

"I'd say she's about fourteen," the veiled Jodeera quietly murmured to Wints.

"About," Wints said.

"One more round before  closing!" Ahdio called. "One,  I say one more  round and

that's it. How about savin' wear and  tear on our legs and puttin' hands  in the

air, dear friends?"

Wintsenay's hand went up, with many others. Ahdio and Throde went to work moving

fast. No, Throde told his employer, he had not heard the veiled lady's voice.

"Just drink this one  right down, Wints," his  hooded and veiled employer  said.

"When the last of these scum is leaving, you leave too. I'm staying."

"Milady ..."

"Just get up and amble out with the last of them, Wintsenay."

"Yes'm."

The last round was served, and quaffed. More men left. Ouleh was long gone.  The

veiled lady had long since become the only woman in the place. Keeping an eye on

her without seeming to, Ahdio announced closing. Throde went into the back  room

and returned with his broom, a  reminder that could not be overlooked.  Sweetboy

meandered  into the  main room,  yawning, glancing  hopefully at  the bar.  More

people  straggled  out. Ahdio  helped  one. Throde  helped  one. The  last  two,

companions, rose. They hoisted their mugs  to Ahdio and then to the  woman whose

face or even hair they had never seen, and drained their cups. With considerable

pride, both departed without support.

"Not right out in front now, boys!" Ahdio called after them.

Looking a little nervous,  teeth worrying his lip,  Throde watched both men  all

the way out the door.

Ahdiovizun stared at the veiled lady.  Throde looked at her, at Ahdio.  Who knew

where she was looking, under hood and behind veil?

"My lady ..." Ahdio began, and broke off as she rose to her feet.

He and Throde stared as she tossed back her hood, then unclasped the cloak,  and

with one hand pulled her veil straight out until it dropped free. Her hand  fell

to her side, carrying the veil. She said nothing. Neither did Ahdio. He  stared,

mouth open.  He dropped  one big  hand to  the back  of a  chair as if he needed

support.

"Not," he said in a very low voice, "possible!"

"Oh," Throde said, with feeling, as  he looked upon the most beautiful  woman he

had ever beheld.

The unveiled  lady gazed  at him  while he  and Throde  stared at  her. She said

nothing.

"Throde," Ahdio said, and  his voice sounded funny  to his helper, "let's  leave

the tables and sweeping up till tomorrow. Go ahead home, and don't forget to  be

careful out there tonight."

Swallowing hard, looking at him, Throde stood blinking. He had never seen  Ahdio

look this way before. The big man looked ... stupid.

Also impatient. "Throde!"

Throde jerked  as if  awakening, and  headed for  the back  room with his unused

broom. The whole night  had been truly unique,  a succession of new  experiences

adding new knowledge  to Throde's store.  It had not  ceased. No woman  had ever

stayed  behind this  way, not  both sober  and clothed.  And saying   absolutely

nothing; she was  merely ... being  here. Nor had  Ahdio ever behaved  in such a

way. Throde had often thought that his huge, tough and yet kind employer  should

have a  woman; even  women, in  the plural.  Yet he  had never envisioned such a

woman as this; never dreamed that she  might be such a beauty as this  veiled-as

this now unveiled lady.

He set the broom in its place and made sure the back door was locked as well  as

barred. Then  he swung  his big  hairy cloak  about himself,  pausing only  long

enough to lift the hood and close the clasp. Taking his staff, he headed for the

front door. He walked between the  man and the woman without looking  at either,

but noticed nevertheless  that they remained  as if frozen  in place, gazing  at

each other in silence. As he reached the hanging before the door, a new  thought

struck him and he turned back.

"Ahdio? You're ... all right?"

"Of course. And you be careful, Throde." Ahdio spoke without looking at him.  He

stood as if in shock, thunder-struck.

"Uh." And, still nervous and  going motherly, the youth said,  "uh, don't-don't,

uh, forget to lock the door after me, Ahdio."

"Good night, Throde."

Throde departed, pulling the door securely shut behind him.

The  moment he  was gone,  the unveiled  lady spoke.  "I'm sorry  I called  that

warning-you handled everything  so well, and  purely physically, too,  without a

sign of your Ability."

Her voice was soft and  she seemed to lean toward  him, but he stood stiffly,  a

dozen paces away. Glaring at her. Still he appeared to be in shock, and she  saw

pain in his face.

"What  in four  hells are  you doing   here, Jo?"  He could  not have  made  his

displeasure more obvious, but the catch in his voice bespoke pain, too.

"I'm sorry I felt I had to  come here, in disguise. It's all right,  Ahdio, it's

all right now. Ezucar died over four weeks ago. I left just days later. I had no

care for what 'looked right,' Ahdio. I am a widow. I am free. I may even be able

to  smile again.  I came  straight here,  with a  caravan. I  came looking   for

Ahdiomer Viz ... and I find one  Ahdiovizun, wearing mail in a rough, low  place

peopled by rough, low patrons; tending bar and handling trouble with-with  hands

and strength alone?!"

He glanced away. "Yes, well  ... this isn't Suma, and  I had to leave. You  know

that." He took up a wet cloth and began rubbing the bar's counter-top.

"I know that you are a superlative wizard among wizards, and were surely on your

way to being Chief Wizard and Advisor," she said, with a note almost of pleading

in her voice. "And then you simply vanished." She looked around, gestured.  "And

I find you ... in this."

"I didn't vanish,  Jodeera. I left  because of a  woman- she was  the wife of  a

mighty well-off and powerful noble, and  I loved her. I couldn't stand  being so

close to her; couldn't stand being in Suma anymore."

Perhaps he noticed  her sudden pained  look when he  put the word  "love" in the

past tense;  perhaps he  did not.  She was  worse than  uncomfortable; she  felt

positively wretched. Knowing that he was uncomfortable and worse did not help.

"I gave  up my  magickal practice,"  he said,  staring at  the bar,  rubbing and

rubbing it with his wet cloth. "Completely. I came here and became who and  what

I am. This is my life. And now-gods, Jo, gods ... why have you come here?"

She straightened up,  lifted her chin,  put back her  shoulders. "Why don't  you

look at me, Ahdio, and I will tell you." She waited until he did so. She saw the

torture in his large dark eyes and  knew it showed in hers. First she  swallowed

hard, and then she  told him: "Because that  woman you loved; she  loved you too

and still does, and shamefully soon after  Ezucar died, I came after you. Now  I

am not going to leave, my love; you might try throwing me out but I will not  go

back to Suma ... or anyplace else, except where you are."

With one huge hand on the bar as if he needed its support to keep his knees from

buckling, he stared at her.  The look of pain had  not left his face. She  could

not imagine why until he  said, "I am not about  to take up Practice again,  Jo.

That is behind me. The wizard Ahdiomer Viz is no more."

"Oh?" she said, putting her head a little to one side. "What about the cats? And

that assistant of yours- Throde?"

Again he looked away from her stricken eyes and her beauty. He heard the  rustle

and the quiet footsteps as she moved toward him, but would not look; could  not.

Could this be? Didn't she love  what he had been, that brilliant  and prospering

Sumese wizard-on-the-rise? She was a woman of beauty and she had been married to

wealth and power; Ezucar of Suma. This was ... this was Sly's Place.

And I am Ahdiovizun, not Ahdiomer Viz. Not anymore.

"That's different. That's all there is, and all there will be of my power and my

Practice, Jodeera. I'm  so out of  practice that one  of the cats  left me and I

can't even locate him. That's all  buried. Ahdiovizun is the man who  runs Sly's

Place in the Maze in Sanctuary, and serves drinks wearing a coat of chain."

He partly turned and  bent then, to wriggle  his shoulders and let  the mailcoat

rustle clinkingly down  over his head  and arms. It  became a smallish  package,

which he placed on the bar as if it were not at all heavy.

"Let it be buried  with Ezucar then," she  said softly, right beside  him behind

the bar, "and the rest of the past. The present is that I love you, Ahdio.  What

about the future? Can't we start it right now?"

He looked at her, and the tears he saw on her cheeks caused those in his eyes to

well over. Then he was embracing  her and being embraced, both of  them striving

to meld their bodies into one. The embrace lasted a long, long while, and surely

no one who knew or thought he  knew Ahdiovizun could imagine him weeping, as  he

wept  now.  Some of  their  murmuring was  incoherent  but most  of  it was  the

repeating of the other's name, over and over.

"Home is where Ahdio is," she murmured, in a moment of coherence, "and the  rest

of his name doesn't matter. I've come home."

At last she reminded him that he hadn't locked the front door. He did that,  and

they went upstairs.

The following night  she was there,  very much there  and enough to  bring gasps

from every patron,  men and women  alike, and Ahdio  stood and bellowed  to gain

their attention and silence  while he made an  announcement. What he made  clear

was that this was his woman. She had  better not be touched or called out at  or

spoken to  with disrespect.  And Jodeera  remained behind  the counter, pouring,

helping him and Throde.

Of course it did not work. Men  who had never bothered to get themselves  up and

go to  the bar  kept doing  so, rather  than calling  or signaling  to Ahdio and

Throde. They fetched and carried their own brew just to be able to approach  the

counter and have a look at  her. Predictably, the looks became more  intense and

more lustful  as the  night wore  on and  the beer  and wine  flowed. Inevitably

someone made a remark. Then someone else did. Someone else, whether from a sense

of honor and rightness or in order to curry Ahdio's favor, conked that man  with

his fired clay cup. It broke on  a hard head. The collapsing man's brother  went

after the  mug-wielder. Ahdio  came after  them both  and Throde  went after his

staff. Jodeera stood looking on,  feeling pained and wretched again  and showing

it.

Her very presence here had caused trouble. Perhaps both she and Ahdio had  known

it would happen, but  both hoped it would  work, her beauty in  this place. They

had' told themselves it would be all right, that it would work out, because they

wanted it so.

So there was trouble. Ahdio ended it, and Ahdio closed early.

"Oh darling," she quavered through her weeping, "I'm so sorry!"

"It wasn't your  fault and we  both know it.  And we also  know that now  you're

here, after last night and today, I am not about to let you go. Nothing is going

to interfere. Nothing!"

Holding her so fiercely  that his hands hurt  her upper arms, he  stared at her.

His Jodeera, who had always been his Jodeera, but they had had to wait so  long,

so long. He knew  what had to be  done; what he had  to do. He hated  it, but he

knew that he was going  to do it. Tonight, Ahdiomer  Viz had to be reborn.  Just

for tonight.

The hit on Throde came as he limped and tap-tapped homeward, leaning on his long

staff. Since everyone knew he carried  no money and was harmless, the  motive of

the three  men was  vengeance, not  robbery. They  could not  get at Ahdio; they

would have their fun with Throde.  He recognized the ejected Tarkle and  the two

who had sat with him, and remained after.

They stood in a  line across his path  in the alley, smiling.  To Throde, Tarkle

loomed about as big as an outhouse. He made a show of looking all around. "Don't

see Ahdio nowheres.  Reckon he won't  appear 'tween you  and my fist  this time.

Gimp!"

Throde said nothing, and Tarkle made his move.

Then Throde did. The cripple's staff practically leaped across him into both his

hands, becoming the quarterstaff  it was. Right end  went low to whack  Tarkle's

left leg just  below the knee,  hard; Throde reversed  the push and  pull of his

arms and the staff's other end rapped the man's right arm, between shoulder  and

elbow. The swiftness of Throde's assuming the stance and delivering those  blows

was not believable, but Tarkle's pain was. He cried out at the first impact  and

moaned  at  the second.  His  better arm  dropped  to hang  useless  and he  was

staggering. Throde was still moving: third stroke high to catch the left side of

Tarkle's neck  with a  meaty thup  sound. The  bully's only  sound was a throaty

noise. He went down.  One of his astonished  cronies had already started  moving

in; the third underwent a sudden  attack of intelligence and paused to  draw his

dagger. Throde feinted to the right and drove the end of the stave straight into

the stomach of his  second attacker. He made  a truly ugly noise  and bent right

over and Throde whacked him  right on the top and  back of his head. The  fellow

fell onto Tarkle. Tarkle was moving and groaning; his crony wasn't.

And the third man was coming in from the side, his knife out and held low in the

manner of a man who knew how to use it on other men and had done so before.

His mouth dropped open. The cripple had shown that he could move, and move fast;

now he moved even faster, and in a way and direction not at all believable.  The

knife glittered as it rushed in,  its wielder partly crouched and extending  his

arm, and  Throde wasn't  there. He  ran several  steps right  up the wall on his

attacker's left with all the speed and facility of a frightened cat. Five  steps

up he wheeled and came dropping  like a stone, his right shoulder  hunched above

the  stave  he  held in  both  hands.  The knife-wielder,  going  into  shock or

something like at the absolutely incredible,  knew real fear. He made the  wrong

move. That cost him  his eye, which  his dodging put  into the path  of the down

rushing quarterstaff. His cry was a shriek as he went down and Throde landed  in

a crouch. He had to  yank his staff out of  the man's eye socket and  brain. The

last  three  or four  inches  were dripping  as  he turned,  crouching,  to meet

whatever had to be faced and braced next.

That was nothing;  mumbling and whimpering,  Tarkle was crawling  away. Throde's

arms quivered  under the  impetus of  adrenaline and  excitation, but he stopped

himself.

"Guess Throde and me fooled you bastards," he snarled in the best fakey voice he

could find.

Tarkle didn't look back. Tarkle kept  right on crawling up the alley  toward the

light. Throde looked down at his  two victims. They lay sprawled ugly,  messily.

So what? This was an alley in the Maze: Who cared?

Throde did. Shaking  all over and  leaning on his  staff, he limped  back to the

house of  Alamanthis, and  awoke the  physician. Then  the youth  went on  home,

limping, his staff clacking the street. Throde lived alone.

The following night,  Ahdio and Throde  worked alone. Once  again Ahdio made  an

announcement, sadly: his  woman was gone.  That brought groans  and embarrassed,

chastened faces and  expressions of sympathy.  It was the  first quiet night  at

Sly's Place in anyone's memory.

On the night following,  however, Ahdio and Throde  had help. Mostly she  stayed

behind the bar, pouring, slapping bread and sausage onto wooden plates. She  was

not attractive and furthermore was specifically unattractive, this new helper in

Sly's. Her big chaincoated employer called  her Cleya. Remarks were not made  to

her. No one bothered to approach the counter  to get a look at her, in her  long

and nigh-shapeless gray  dress. Ouleh announced  that she liked  this Cleya. The

reason was simple, and it was Frax who put it best: "Whew. Got a face her mother

couldn't love and I've saw better figures on brooms."

The woman now publicly called Cleya did not mind. To be with Ahdio at last,  she

accepted the price, even this. All her life her beauty had after all been more a

curse than a blessing. One man, among all men, had treated her as other than  an

object, a bauble, and he was the only man she had ever loved. Her father and the

powerful noble of wealth,  Ezucar, had arranged and  forced her marriage to  the

latter, who wanted an object and a bright and beautiful bauble to wear in public

and at his parties. Meanwhile the man she loved had left Suma. Now, years later,

she had followed  and they were  together. The two  rooms above the  tavern were

eminently superior to the servant-staffed mansion of Ezucar. She was sorry  that

because of her Ahdio had  felt that he must take  up his Practice again. Yet  it

was only this once; it  was enough and more than  enough that at night in  their

apartment above Sly's Place in the Maze, his spell was off her so that the  veil

of ugliness was lifted, and she was again his beautiful Jodeera.

THE GOD-CHOSEN

Lynn Abbey

He might have been a stonemason by the way he swung the long-handled hammer save

that  no solitary  stonemason would  be working  before dawn  in the  unfinished

temple. He  might have  been a  soldier since,  when a  younger man appeared, he

exchanged the hammer  for a sword  and held his  own in a  practice session that

went on until the sun edged through the leaning stone columns. He was, in  fact,

a  priest-a priest  of the  Storm God  Vash-anka, and  therefore a  soldier  and

stonemason before all else.

He was  a Rankan  aristocrat: distant  nephew to  the late,  unlamented Emperor;

equidistant to the new  one as well-though none  would have recognized him  with

sweat making  dirty tracks  down his  back and  his black  hair hanging in damp,

tangled hanks.  Indeed, because  of the  hair and  the sweat  his peers from the

capital  would have  picked his  tall, blond  companion as  the aristocrat   and

labelled the priest a Wrigglie or  some other conquered mongrel. But there  were

no observers and none who knew Molin Torchholder mentioned his ancestry.

He'd been born in the gilt nursery of Vashanka's Temple in Ranke-the well-omened

offspring of a carefully arranged rape.  His father maimed or killed ten  men of

impeccable lineage  before claiming  Vashanka's sister,  Azyuna, in  the  seldom

enacted Ritual  of the  Ten-Slaying. It  did not  matter that  Azyuna had been a

slave or that  she'd died giving  birth to him.  Molin had been  raised with the

best his mortal father and Vashanka's cult could offer.

His rise was steady, if not meteoric:  An acolyte at age five, he traveled  with

the army  before he  was ten.  He was  fourteen when  he engineered the siege at

Valtostin, breaching the walls at four places in a single night. Some said  he'd

become  Supreme  Hierophant, but  his  accomplishments in  war,  destruction and

intrigue were  not accompanied  by the  proper deference  to his superiors. He'd

disappeared, apparently  in disgrace,  into the  inner sanctums  of the Imperial

Temple,  re-emerging  in  his  early  thirties  to  accompany  the  inconvenient

Kadakithis into exile in Sanctuary.

"You'd  send  half the  men  on the  barricades  to an  early  death," Walegrin,

commander of the regular army's  garrison in Sanctuary, complimented the  priest

as they set aside their swords. "Pity the fool who thinks Vashanka's priests are

soft."

Molin  immersed  his  face  in  a bowl  of  icy  water  rather  than acknowledge

Walegrin's admiration. Vashanka's priests were soft, due in no small part to the

irremediable absence  of the  god himself.  Vashanka had  died in Sanctuary-died

because  when a  god is  separated from  his worshipers,  the worshipers  go  on

living-not the god. And the priests, intermediaries between worshipers and gods,

what of them when a god had simply vanished? It was not a question Molin enjoyed

pondering.

He settled the tunic of a successful tradesman around his shoulders and hid  the

hammer in a crack between two man-high blocks of stone. "Did the barricades hold

last night?" he asked, tucking the sword into a saddle-sheath.

"Our lines held," Walegrin replied with a grimace as they left the enclosure  of

Vashanka's  last, incomplete  temple. "There  was trouble  Downwind between  the

Stepsons and  the rabble-again.  And something  dead or  deadly moving along the

White Foal. But nothing to disturb our fish-eyed masters."

It was Ilsday for the Ilsigi, Savankhday for the Rankans and Belly's-day for the

Beysin (who demonstrated their barbarism  by giving days to their  bodies rather

than to the gods); but, most important, it was Market-day. Civil war would abate

for one day while partisans and  rivals rubbed shoulders in disorder of  another

kind. The Path of Money, like every other thoroughfare in town, was filled  with

the intense  activity of  commerce-legal and  otherwise. The  pair was separated

near the Processional when a food stall erupted in flames. Walegrin, the soldier

and representative of such order as  the town possessed, went to the  merchant's

aid  and  Molin,  in the  disguise  of  a merchant  himself,  found  his journey

redirected into a tangle of streets.

Here, where a rainbow of painted symbols proclaimed which gangs and factions had

been paid off by each  household, there was no amnesty  and a well-fed man on  a

well-fed  horse  was  only  a moving  target.  Torchholder  shed  his merchant's

demeanor: straightening his back, holding the reins in one hand while the  other

rested on  his thigh  ready to  wield whatever  weapon his  cloak might conceal.

Ragged  children  gauged his  ability  to defend  himself  by shouting  epithets

combining anatomy and ancestry with an originality a soldier could  admire-never

guessing that they cursed Vashanka's Hierarch in Sanctuary. He ignored them  all

as he turned down a sunnier alley.

Then the sunlight vanished. The heavy black clouds which had foretold  countless

perversions of weather since the Storm God's demise condensed overhead. A  blast

of ice-laced  wind roared  down the  alley making  the horse  rear in panic. The

children  and beggars  struck the  moment Molin's  attention was  on the   horse

instead of  Sanctuary, and  the priest  found himself  in the  midst of a deadly

little alley-fight even as needle-like pellets of sleet began their own  assault

from the sky.

He dropped the  reins, a signal  to his army-trained  horse that it  was free to

attack, and drew the  sword from its saddle-sheath.  The odds swung back  in his

favor once he got a film grip on  the hand pressing a knife into his kidney  and

tossed that urchin back into the street. Whatever his attackers had expected  it

wasn't a merchant who fought like one of the thrice-damned Stepsons and,  though

they would have  dearly loved to  drag this anomaly  back to their  leader for a

closer interrogation,  they cowered  back under  the eaves.  Molin gathered  the

reins, pounded his heels  against the gelding's flanks  and made a dash  for the

Palace.

"Send for a groom to take this horse to the stables and see that he's well-cared

for," Torchholder demanded when  he reached the guardhouse  at the West Gate  of

the Palace, forgetting his torn and dripping tradesman's clothes.

"Forgettin' your place,  scum? I don't  take orders from  stinkin' Downwind scum

..."

"Send for a groom-and hope that I forget your face."

The soldier froze-tribute to the instant recognition the Storm Priest's  oratory

could claim and to the unconcealed rage that accompanied Molin's crisp movements

as he wrapped the reins around  the guard's trembling hand. The terrified  young

man hauled away on the stable-gong rope as if his life depended on it.

The storm intensified  once the  Hierarch stepped  into the  vast, empty  parade

ground before  the Palace.  Lightning grounded  in the  mud, releasing steam and

stench. Those who remembered the terrible storms of the summer had already taken

cover in the deepest, driest rooms. Molin glanced at the annex which housed  the

two  children  who  were,  somehow,   avatars  of  both  Vashanka  and   a  new,

unconsecrated Storm God, just as lightning caressed it with blue-and-silver. His

instinct was to run  across the courtyard but  his belief that he  would survive

such bravery was not strong enough; he ducked into one of the stair-niches built

into the West Gate.

"My Lord Molin,"  the bald courtier  in rose-and-purple silk  said, catching his

arm as he strode down the corridors. A mere clothing disguise would never fool a

Beysib courtier,  accustomed as  the Beysibs  were to  dressing like flowers and

dyeing their skin to match. "My Lord Molin, a word with you-"

The Beysibs only called him "Lord" when  they were frightened. They had a  snake

loving bitch  for their  only goddess  and knew  nothing of  the temper of Storm

Gods. Molin plucked his dripping sleeve  from the courtier's hands with all  the

disdain his anger and frustration could muster. "Tell Shupansea I'll come to the

audience  chamber when  this is  over-not before,"  he said  in perfect  Rankene

rather  than in  the bastard  argot that  passed for  communication between  the

cultures.

Lightning reflected off the courtier's scalp  as he ran to inform his  mistress.

Molin slid behind  a dirty tapestry  into the honeycomb  of narrow passages  the

Ilsigi  builders  had put  in  the Palace  and  which the  Beysibs  had not  yet

unraveled. Barely the height and width of  an armed man, the passages were  foul

smelling and treacherous, but they kept  the remnants of the Rankan Presence  in

Sanctuary united, to the consternation of their fish-eyed conquerors.

Molin emerged in an alcove where the sounds of the storm were inconsequential in

comparison to  the fury  emanating from  a nearby  room. An unnatural brilliance

filled the corridor before him. His skin tingled when he crossed the sharp  line

from shadow to light.  Thirty-odd years of habit  told him to fall  to his knees

and pray to Vashanka for deliverance-but if Vashanka could have heard him  there

would have been no need for prayer. He told himself it was no worse than walking

on the deck of a sailing ship, and entered the nursery.

The blond,  blue-eyed demon  he'd named  Gyskouras, on  the advice  of a S'danzo

seeress, was the focus of  the brilliance. He was  shouting as he swung  his red

glowing toy sword, but  the words were lost  in the light. The  other child, the

peaceful child of that S'danzo seeress, had a hold of Gyskouras's leg, trying to

pull him away from the motionless  body he was battering. Arton, though,  was no

match for his foster-brother while the god's rage was in him.

Molin forced himself  deeper into the  blazing aureole until  he could grab  the

child and lift him from the floor.

"Gyskouras," he bellowed countless times.

The  boy fought  with the  determination of  a street  urchin: biting,  kicking,

flailing with  the straw-sword  until Molin's  damp clothes  began to steam. But

Molin persisted,  imprisoning the  child's legs  first, then  trapping his  arms

beneath his own.

"Gyskouras," he said more gently, as  the radiance flickered and the sword  fell

from the child's hand.

'"Kouras?" the other child echoed, clinging now to both of them.

The light flared  once and was  gone. Gyskouras became  only a frightened  child

wracked  with  sobs.  Molin  stroked the  boy's  hair,  patted  him between  the

shoulders, and glanced  down where one  of his priests  lay in a  crumpled heap.

With a gesture  and a nod  of his head,  Torchholder commanded the  others to do

what had to be done.  When he and the children  were alone he sat down  on a low

stool and stood the child in front of him.

"What happened, Gyskouras?"

"He brought porridge," the  boy said between sobs  and sniffles. "Arton said  he

had candy but he gave me porridge."

"You are growing very fast, Gyskouras. When you don't eat you don't feel  good."

Since  they'd brought  Arton into  the nursery  some four  months earlier,  both

children had grown the length of a man's hand from wrist to fingertips.  Growing

pains were a living nightmare for all concerned. "If you had eaten the  porridge

I'm sure Aldwist would have given you the candy."

"I wished him dead,"  Gyskouras said evenly, though  when the words were  safely

out of his mouth he fell forward against Molin. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean

it. I told him to get up an' he wouldn't. He wouldn't get up."

It was only Molin's experience with the children that let him make sense out  of

Gyskouras's garbled syllables-that and the  fact that he'd known, in  his heart,

what had happened as soon as the storm began.

"You didn't know," he repeated softly to convince himself, if not the child.

Gyskouras  fell  asleep once  his  sobs subsided;  the  Storm God  rages  always

exhausted the small body of  their perpetrator. Molin carried an  ordinary child

to a small bed where, with any luck, he would sleep for two or three days.

'"Kouras can't  stay here  any longer,"  Arton said,  tugging at  the hem of the

priest's much-abused tunic.

The S'danzo boy rarely spoke  to anyone but his foster-brother.  Torchholder let

Arton take  his hand  and lead  him to  a corner  away from  the others who were

beginning to return to the now-quiet nursery.

"You have to find a place for us, Stepfather."

"I know, I'm looking. When I hear from Gyskouras's father-"

"You cannot wait for Tempus. You must pray. Stepfather Molin."

Talking with  Arton was  not talking  to a  milk-toothed child.  The seeress had

warned him that her son might have the legendary S'danzo ability to foretell the

future. At  first Molin  had refused  to believe  in the child's pronouncements,

until Arton had utterly rejected Kadakithis and the Prince had finally owned  up

to Gyskouras' true paternity. Now he trusted the child completely.

"I have no gods to pray to,  Arton," he explained as he walked toward  the door.

"I have only myself and you- remember that."

He pulled the curtain  shut. The two acolytes  who had been arranging  Aldwist's

corpse on a simple  pallet moved aside to  let the Hierarch speak  the necessary

rites of  passage. A  war-priest, Molin  had sanctified  the deaths  of so  many

unrecognizable chunks of mortal flesh that  nothing could bring a tremor to  his

voice  or gestures.  He had  come to  believe himself  truly immune  to  death's

outrages, but the imploded face of the gentle old priest brought twisting  pangs

of despair to his gut.

"We do not  have enough bitterwood  for the pyre.  Rashan took what  we had with

him," Isambard, the elder of the two acolytes, informed him.

Molin pressed his fingertips between his eyes, the traditional priestly  gesture

of respect for the departed and one which, coincidentally, dammed his tears.

Rashan:  that conniving,  provincial priest  whose sole  purpose in  life,  even

before Vashanka's  death, had  been to  thwart every  reform Molin instituted. A

cloud of rage worthy of Vashanka swirled up invisibly around Molin  Torchholder.

He  wanted to  confront Rashan,  the so-called  Eye of  Savankala, shove   every

splintered log of bitter-wood down  the whey-faced priest's gullet and  use that

nonentity to light Aldwist's pyre. He  wanted to take his ceremonial dagger  and

thrust it so deep in Gyskouras's chest that it would pop out the other side.  He

wanted to take Isambard's tear-stained face between his hands....

Molin looked at Isambard again, little  more than a child himself and  unable to

hide his grief. He swallowed his rage along with his tears and rested comforting

hands on the acolyte's shoulders.

"The Storm God  will welcome Aldwist  no matter what  wood we use  for his pyre.

Come, we three will carry him back to his rooms and you will be his chorus."

They bore their  burden in silence.  Molin chanted the  first chorus with  them,

then departed  for his  quarters hoping  that the  sincerity of  the young men's

grief would compensate not merely  for the missing bitterwood but  for Vashanka,

Himself,  and  for his  own  heart's silence.  The  priest used  another  set of

passageways to reach a curtained vestry  behind his priest's sanctum. A robe  of

fine white  wool was  waiting for  him and  Hoxa, his  scrivener, could be heard

prodding the brazier on the other  side of the tapestry-though just barely.  His

wife, and whatever gaggle of disaffected Rankan women she'd gathered since dawn,

were  clambering  in  the  antechamber that  separated  his  sanctum  from their

conjugal quarters.

He pulled the tunic over his shoulders and winced as the cloth reopened a  wound

he didn't remember taking. Fumbling in  the darkness he found a strip  of linen,

then emerged into his sanctum clad in boots and loincloth; his robe draped  over

one shoulder; blood running from his  left forearm and a strip of  linen between

his teeth. Hoxa, to his credit, did not drop the goblet of mulled wine.

"My Lord Torchholder-My Lord, you're injured."

Molin nodded as he dropped his robe on top of Hoxa's carefully arranged  scrolls

and  studied the  pair of  bloody horseshoes  on his  arm. The  street  urchins,

possibly, but more likely Gyskouras. With  his good arm and teeth he  ripped the

linen in two. He pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to Hoxa.

"Hold it above the coals. No sense taking chances-I'd rather have the bite of  a

sword than the bite of a child any day."

The priest didn't wince  when the cautery singed  his skin, but after  the wound

was bandaged he used both trembling hands to carry the goblet to his work-table.

"So tell me Hoxa, what sort of a morning has it been for you?"

"The ladies, Lord Torchholder-," the scrivener began, jerking a shoulder  toward

the door, beyond which a chorus of feminine voices was raised in  unintelligible

argument. "Your brother, Lowan Vigeles, has  been here looking for his  daughter

and complaining," Hoxa paused, took a deep breath and continued with a  credible

imitation of Vigeles's nasal twang, "about  the lowness of the Rankan estate  in

Sanctuary, which  is still  part of  the Empire  although you  have seen  fit to

conceal the arrival  of a coterie  of Beysib exiles,  and their poorly  defended

gold,  from the  Empire, which  could put   all that  gold to  good use  in  its

campaigns  rather  than  see  it  squandered  by  Wrigglie  scum  and  fish-eyed

barbarians."

He took another gasping breath. "And the storm shook the windows loose from  the

walls. Your Lady Wife's glass from Ranke  is ruined and she is in high  wrath, I

fear-"

Molin rested his head in  his hands and imagined Lowan's  aristocratic, somewhat

vapid face. My  brother, he thought  to the memory,  my dear, blind  brother. An

assassin  sits on  the Imperial  Throne, an  assassin who  sent you  running  to

Sanctuary for your life. In one  breath you tell me how desperate,  how depraved

the Empire  has become,  and in  the next  you chide  me for  abandoning it. You

cannot have it both ways, dear brother.

I've told you about Vashanka. It  will take many years, generations, before  the

Empire disappears, but it is dead already, and it will be replaced by the people

of the new Vashanka. I've already made my choice.

But the priest had said all this, and more, to his brother and would not say  it

again. "Hoxa," he said, shaking Lowan from his thoughts, "I've been attacked  in

the streets;  I've been  to the  nursery where  the child  has killed  one of my

oldest friends; my arm is  on fire, and you talk  to me about my wife!  Is there

anything worthy of my attention in  this forsaken pile of parchment before  I go

fawn at the feet of Shupansea and tell her everything is under control again?"

"The Mageguild complains that we've not done enough to locate the Tysian Hazard,

Randal."

"Not done enough!  I've poured twenty  soldats into our  informers. I'd like  to

know where the little weasel's  vanished to! Damn Mageguild: Wait  till Randal's

here;  Randal  can do  that;  Randal fought  on  Wizardwall-he can  control  the

weather. I could control the weather  better than that damned pack of  incanting

fools!  Gyskouras  is making  the  ground move.  He's  three years  old  and his

tantrums are shaking the stones. We'll have to go to the witch-bitch herself  if

this keeps up-tell them that, Hoxa, with flourishes!"

"Yes, my Lord."  He shuffled the  scrolls, dropping half  of them. "There's  the

bill from  the metal-master  Balustrus for  mending the  temple doors. The Third

Commando asks for a list of  warrants against their enemies; Jubal's proxy  asks

for  warrants against  Downwinders and  merchants; citizens  from the  jewelers'

quarter demand  warrants against  Jubal's lot  and half  the Commando;  everyone

wants warrants on the Stepsons-"

"Any word from the Stepsons' Commander?"

"Straton presented his warrant-"

"Hoxa!" Molin looked up from his writing table without moving his head.

"No, Lord Torchholder. There's no reply from Tern-pus."

The  enmity  between the  priest  and the  not-quite-immortal  commander of  the

Stepsons had never  been expressed in  words. It was  instinctive and mutual  on

both sides but  now, because Kadakithis  had admitted that  Tempus was the  real

father of the  tantrum-throwing godlet in  the nursery, Molin  needed Tempus and

Tempus was incommunicado somewhere along Wizardwall.

Torchholder was  not, however,  allowed the  luxury of  contemplating the myriad

disappointments around him.  The door from  the antechamber burst  open to admit

the unhappy figure of his wife, Rosanda.

"I knew you were in here-sneaking around like vermin -avoiding me."

A wife had never been part of Molin's dreams for the future-and certainly not  a

wife  like Brachis  had foisted  off on  him. It  was not  that the  priests  of

Vashanka  were  celibate;  they  had  problems  enough  without  such  unnatural

strictures. Simply put, it was  the custom of Vashanka's priests-priests,  after

all, of the Divine Rapist-to choose  rather more casual liaisons among the  many

Azyunas the  temple housed  in their  cloisters. No  Vashankan ever  voluntarily

plowed the fields with a  Celebrant (Hereditary Harridan, in the  vernacular) of

Sabellia.

"I have affairs in the city which require my presence, Milady Wife," he answered

her, not bothering  to be polite.  "I cannot stand  idle each morning  while you

diddle through your wardrobe."

"You  have  more  important  affairs  right  here.  Danlis  informs  me  that no

preparations have  been made  for our  Mid-Winter Festival-which,  need I remind

you, is a mere ten days from now. None of the bitterwood I sent to Ranke for has

arrived. Sabellia's sacred hearth will  be unpurified and there won't  be enough

embers for the women  to take back to  their home-hearths. Now, I  know it's too

much to think that  snake-smitten puppy of a  Prince would take his  position as

Savankala's Flamen  seriously enough  to attend  to these  matters, but  I would

think that  you, the  ranking Hierarch  in Sanctuary,  would see  that our  gods

receive proper respect.

"The Flamens of Ils  have set their altars  up, the Snake-Chanters have  theirs.

Rashan struggles to honor all the gods without any aid-"

Molin spun the empty  goblet between his fingers.  "I have no god.  Milady Wife,

and precious little interest whether anyone scatters scented ashes this  winter.

Did you feel the ground quiver during the storm-"

"The glass in our bedroom, which you  choose to ignore, is on the floor  instead

of in the windows. You'll have to get that horrid little metal-worker to fix  it

I won't spend a night with the sea air ruining my complexion."

He paused, thought better of commenting  on her complexion, then continued in  a

softly modulated tone that  signaled the end of  his patience. "I'll send  Hoxa.

Now-I have more important matters-"

"Impotent  coward.  You  have no  god  because  you let  Tempus  Thales  and his

catamites  usurp you.  Torch-holder's a  True Son  of Vashanka,'  they told   my

father. True son of the Wrigglie whore that whelped you-"

The rage Molin had  repressed when he looked  at Isambard's face burst  out. The

goblet stem broke with a tiny snap;  the only sound or movement in the  room. He

forced himself to move slowly, knowing he would kill her if she did not get  out

of his  sight and  knowing, in  a still-sane  corner of  his mind, that he would

regret it  if he  did. Rosanda  edged backward  toward the  door as  her husband

pushed himself  up from  the table  on whitened  knuckles. She  was through  the

antechamber and barricaded in the bedroom before he said a word.

"Gather  my  possessions,  Hoxa.  Move  them  downstairs  while  I  speak   with

Shupansea."

Mid-Winter drew closer in a series of dreary days remarkable only for their  raw

unpleasantness. Gyskouras, still chastened by  the death of Aldwist, was  almost

as reserved as his foster-brother, giving Molin the opportunity to realize that,

even without  supernatural meddling,  the weather  of Sanctuary  left much to be

desired. Not even a  blizzard along Wizardwall was  as bone-numbing cold as  the

harbor mists, and no amount of perfume could disguise the fact that the city was

filling its braziers with offal and dung.

There were still too many residents in the Palace, Beysib and otherwise, despite

reclamation of  a dozen  or more  estates beyond  the city  walls. Molin, having

refused any reconciliation with  his wife, lived in  a barren room not  far from

the dungeon cells it resembled. He'd delegated all responsibility for the Rankan

state cults to Rashan  who, it seemed, was  eager to insinuate himself  in Lowan

Vigeles's  good  graces.  The  Eye  of  Savankala  promptly  moved  his   entire

disaffected coterie out to his estate at Land's End in hopes that not only could

the Rankan upper class maintain itself there, untainted by the Beysib  presence,

but that they  could somehow promulgate  the ultimate miracle  and propel Prince

Kadakithis successfully back to the Imperial Throne.

Molin, in  turn, spent  all his  time studying  the reports  his underlings  and

informants brought him,  searching for the  clues that would  tell him which  of

Sanctuary's numerous factions was most  powerful or most volatile. He  ceased to

care about  anything Rankan  and thought  only of  the fate  of Sanctuary  as it

revealed itself  through his  informants. He  left his  room only  to visit  the

children and practice with Walegrin each morning before dawn.

"Supper, My Lord Torchholder?" Hoxa inquired.

"Later, Hoxa."

"It is later. Lord Torchholder. Only you and the torturers are still awake. Your

old quarters are empty now. I've taken the liberty of scrounging a new mattress.

Lord Torchholder, whatever you're  looking for, you won't  find it if you  don't

get some sleep."

He felt  his tiredness;  the cramps  in his  legs and  shoulders from too little

movement and too much dampness; and remembered, with a nicker of shame, that  he

hadn't bathed in days and stank like a common workman. Limping, he followed  his

scrivener up  to the  sanctum where  Hoxa had  laid out  fresh linen, a basin of

faintly warm water and the somewhat soggy remnants of dinner. His glass windows,

he noted, had been replaced with  dirty parchment; his gilt goblets with  wooden

mugs and his Mygdonian carpet was gone. But  she hadn't dared to touch his  work

table.

"Drink wine with  me, Hoxa, and  tell me how  it feels to  work with a disgraced

priest."

Hoxa  was  a  Sanctuary  merchant's son,  without  pedigree  or  pretensions. He

accepted the beaker, sniffing it cautiously.  "The ladies and the other  priests

they were the ones to leave the Palace.  It seems to me that you're not the  one

in disgrace-"

He would have said more, but there was a screeching outside the window. His  mug

bounced across the floor as the  black bird sliced through the parchment  with a

beak and steel-shod talons that were  more than equal to the task.  "It's back,"

the young man gasped.

The raven-Molin felt it had begun its life as a raven, at least-carried messages

between the Palace and a ramshackle dwelling by the White Foal. It had made  its

first journey  long before  the Beysib  fleet set  sail, offering  the priest  a

precious artifact: the  Necklace of Harmony  hot off the  god Ils's neck.  Since

then  he  had  trained other  ravens,  but  none was  like  this  bird with  its

malevolent eyes and a glowing band around  one leg to make it proof against  all

kinds of meddling and magic.

"Get the wine," Molin told Hoxa. "It has a message it would just as soon be  rid

of."

The scrivener retrieved his mug and refilled it for the bird, but he would go no

closer to it than the far side  of the work-table and shrank back to  the corner

while Molin lured the beast onto his arm. Unlike his other winged messengers who

carried tiny caskets, this one spoke  its message in a language only  the proper

receiver could understand: another property of the spelled ring. Molin whispered

a reply and let it take flight again.

"The Lady of the White Foal wishes to see me, Hoxa."

"The Nisi witch?"

"No-the Other One."

"Will you go?"

"Yes. Find me the best cloak she left behind."

"Now? I'll send for Walegrin-"

"No, Hoxa. The invitation  was clearly for one.  I hadn't expected this-but  I'm

not surprised, all the same. If anything happens, you can tell Walegrin when  he

comes looking for me in the morning. Not before."

He shook out the cloak Hoxa  offered him. It was black, lined  with crimson-dyed

fur, and appropriate for visiting Ischade.

Winter's night  in Sanctuary  belonged to  the warring  partisans, the forces of

magic and, especially, the dead- none  of which challenged Molin as he  rode by.

He felt eerie sensations as he neared  her home: the eyes of her minions,  their

silent movements around  him, her dark-woven  wards lifting when  he touched the

flimsy iron gate.

"Leave the horse here. They don't like it closer."

Molin looked down  into the ruined  face of a  man he had  once known-a man long

dead and yet very much alert and waiting. He hid his revulsion behind a  benign,

priestly demeanor, dismounted and let what remained of Stilcho lead the  gelding

away. When he looked back to the house the door was open.

"I have often wished to meet you," he greeted her, lifting her tiny hand to  his

lips after the custom of Rankan gentlemen.

"That is a lie."

"I have wished for many things I never truly wanted to have. My Lady."

She laughed, a rich sound that surrounded and enlarged her, and led him into her

home.

Molin had prepared himself for many  things since clasping the cloak around  his

shoulders. He had met Stilcho's one eye without flinching, but he swallowed when

he entered her seraglio. In candlelight  the cacophony of color and texture  was

shocking. Sunlight, if it ever reached this forsaken chamber, would have blinded

a fish-eyed Beysib. Ischade  shoved aside a ransom's  worth of velvet, silk  and

embroidery to reveal an unremarkable chair.

"You had something to tell me, in person?" Molin began, sitting uneasily.

"Perhaps I wished to  meet you, as well?"  she teased. Then, seeing  that he did

not share her  light-heartedness, spoke more  seriously: "You have  been seeking

the Stepson Mage, Randal."

"He vanished more than a month ago. Stolen out of the Mageguild-as I suspect you

know."

"Roxane holds him in thrall until he  delivers her lover to her. He will  die at

Mid-Winter if he fails."

"What else-if he fails? One mage, or lover, more or less, could hardly matter to

you."

"Let us  say that  regardless of  who might  fail-it is  not to my interest that

Roxane succeed. Let us say that it  is not to my interest that you  should fail,

and fail you would if Roxane has her way."

"And it is certainly not to your interest that you, yourself, fail. So you think

that we should, together, protect the mage, the lover and our own interests from

the Nisibisi witch?" Molin said, striving to match her tone.

Ischade spun down to sit among her  pillows. The hood of her cloak fell  back to

reveal a face that was beautiful, and human, in the candlelight. "Not  together,

no. In our separate ways-so none of us fail and Roxane does not succeed. You can

understand  the  dangers of  the  preternatural around  us,  the danger  to  the

children you shelter? The ways of magicians do not mix well with the ways of the

god-choosers. Sanctuary grows bloated with power."

"And the powerful? If  I am to protect  those children, I'd be  best without any

magicians. You, Randal, or Roxane."

She laughed  again. Molin  saw that  it was  her eyes  that laughed  with  death

madness. "It  is not  my power  that we're  talking about.  My power  is born in

Sanctuary itself-in life and death."

"Especially death."

"Priests! God-chooser, you think  that because you have  a ready buyer for  your

soul you are somehow better than those who must sell theirs piecemeal."

She was angry and her inky eyes threatened to engulf him. Molin rose  unsteadily

from the chair but faced her without blinking.

"Madame, I am not any  persuasion of soul-selling magician: witch,  necromancer,

or whatever. You speak of interests and  failures as if you knew mine. I  served

Vashanka  and  the  Rankan Empire;  now  I  serve His  sons  ..."  He hesitated,

unwilling to speak aloud the concluding phrase that had formed in his head.

Ischade  softened. "And  Sanctuary?" she  concluded. "You  see, we  are not   so

different after all: I did not  choose Sanctuary; my self-interest chose it  for

me. My life  is complicated  by enemies  and allies  alike. Every  step my  self

interest dictates forces me further down a path I would not willingly travel."

"Then you will help me bring order to Sanctuary?"

"Order brings light into all the comers and shadows. No, Torchholder, Bearer  of

Light, I will  not help bring  your order to  Sanctuary. I find  that snakes, be

they Roxane's or Shupansea's, are not to my interests."

"My Lady, we both use black birds. Does  this make you a priest or me a  wizard?

Does it mean we are like Roxane,  who favors a black eagle, or like  the Beysib,

who revere a white bird almost as much as they revere their snakes? Has not  our

shared, unwilling, concern for this cesspool of a town made us allies?"

"We could be more than allies," she smiled, moving closer to him until he  could

smell the sweet musk that surrounded her. Molin's dread mastered him. He  bolted

from the otherworldly house, her laughter and parting words ringing in his ears:

"When you meet Randal, ask him about Shamshi and witch-blood."

Stilcho was gone. The  gelding's eyes were  ringed with white;  flickering witch

fire clung  to its  saddle. Molin  had scarcely  set his  feet into the stirrups

before it bounded away  from the misty clearing.  The gelding wanted the  warmth

and familiarity of its stall within the Palace walls; Molin fought it the length

of  the  Wideway,  past the  curious  fishermen  waiting for  the  tide  and the

enticements of  the few  whores not  yet taken  for the  night. They  approached

Vashanka's abandoned temple, passing behind  the arrays of wood and  stone which

were  now being  appropriated for  the reconstruction  of the  old Ilsig  villas

ringing Sanctuary.

One  stone,  a vast  black  boulder set  deep  into the  soil  and fractured  by

Vashanka's annihilation,  would never  be moved  again. Molin  approached it  on

foot. He could not make himself form the words to the Vashankan invocations he'd

known from  childhood, nor  could he  bring himself  to pray,  like an  ordinary

worshiper, to  another god.  His anxiety,  despair and  helplessness fled  naked

toward whatever power might be disposed to hear them.

"OPEN YOUR EYES, MORTAL. GAZE UPON STORMBRINGER AND BOW DOWN!"

Whatever Ischade believed, priests did not often look upon their gods. Molin had

seen Vashanka only  once: in the  chaotic moments before  the god's destruction.

Vashanka had been swollen with rage and defeat, but his visage had been that  of

a man.  The apparition  which flickered  above the  stone had  erupted from  the

bowels of hell. Molin's quivering knees guided him quickly to the ground.

"Vashanka?"

"DEPARTED. / HAVE HEARD YOUR PRAYERS. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU."

Priests shaped the prayers of the faithful to a form acceptable to the god. Each

priesthood evolved a liturgy to keep god and worshiper at a proper distance, one

from the other. Private prayer was universally discouraged lest it disrupt  that

delicate balance. Molin had been caught in prayer so private that his  conscious

mind did not know what longings had drawn the swirling entity from its  esoteric

plane. Nor did he have any idea  how to dispel or appease it if,  indeed, either

could be accomplished.

"I am troubled, 0 Stormbringer. I  seek guidance to restore Vashanka's power  to

its proper place."

"VASHANKA WAS, IS, AND WILL BE NO  MORE. HE DOES NOT TROUBLE YOU. YOUR  TROUBLES

ARE BOTH GREATER AND LESSER."

"I have but one need, 0 Stormbringer: to serve Vashanka's avatars."

"USE STEALTH, PRIEST, TO SERVE YOUR AVATARS. THAT IS YOUR LESSER TROUBLE. I WILL

NOT  HELP  YOU  WITH  THE  GREATER."  The  seething  cloud  that  called  itself

Stormbringer, the ultimate Storm God,  inhaled itself. "THAT THORN AND  ITS BALM

LIE WITHIN YOUR PAST," it whispered  as it blended into the first  red streamers

of dawn light.

Molin remained on his knees thinking he  was surely doomed. He had not begun  to

recover  from Ischade's  suggestions and  insinuations, and  now the  gods  were

speaking in riddles: Use stealth;  lesser troubles and greater troubles;  thorns

and balms. He was still on his knees when Walegrin clapped him on the  shoulder.

"I had not thought  to find you praying  here." The soldier flinched  when Molin

turned. "Have I changed so much in one night?" the priest asked.

"Have you been here all  night? The sea air is  dangerous for those not born  to

it."

"And lying is dangerous  for those not born  to it." He took  Walegrin's arm and

rose to his feet. "No, I went first to the house of Ischade, by the White  Foal.

She told me that  our wayward mage,  Randal, has been  caught in the  Nisi witch

bitch's web  to serve,  our necromancer  says, as  bait for  Roxane's lover." He

looked at the swords Wale-grin carried. "I think we will only talk this  morning

and walk a little-until I can feel my feet. Hoxa will blame himself if I  return

limping. It was not a good night-"

Walegrin held  up his  hand for  silence. "To  walk away  from her  is cause for

prayer."

Molin shrugged the sympathy  aside. The need to  confess and confide had  become

all-consuming and  Walegrin, however  inappropriate, had  become its  object. "I

came here because I did not know  what to do next and my thoughts,  not prayers,

summoned something-a god called Stormbringer.  I don't know-maybe it was  only a

dream. It said I  must use stealth to  serve Gyskouras and Arton-but  that's the

lesser of my problems, it  says. The greater one is  inside me. God or dream,  I

make no sense from it."

Walegrin stopped as if struck. "Stealth? Randal is bait for Roxane's lover-eh?"

"According to Ischade."

"It fits. It fits, Molin," the blond soldier exalted, using his superior's given

name for the first time in  their acquaintance. "Niko's been seen at  the Mere's

Guild."

"Niko-Nikodemos the Stepson?  I met him  once-with Tempus. Has  Tempus returned,

then?" Molin brightened.

"Not that  anyone's seen.  But Niko-he'd  be the  lover, if  rumor's true.  More

important: He's Stealth."

Torchholder leaned against the  gelding. The habit of  taking war names was  not

limited to the Stepsons.  He'd become Torchholder one  night on the ramparts  at

Val-tostin, though unlike most, he'd made his war name a part of his known name.

"Find him. Arrange  a meeting. Offer  him whatever he  wants, if necessary."  He

swung into the saddle, shedding his aches and tiredness.

"Whoa." Walegrin caught the gelding's reins and looked Molin square in the  eye.

"It said that was  your lesser problem. Hoxa  says you don't eat  enough to feed

one of your damn ravens and you  sleep on the dirt under your table.  You're the

only one in the Palace my men respect-the only one / respect-and it's not  right

for you to be off with 'greater problems.'"

Molin sighed and accepted the conspiracy between the officer and his  scrivener.

"My greater  problems, I  was told,  lie within  my past.  You'll have to let me

struggle with them on my own."

They rode  away from  the temple  in silence,  Walegrin keeping  his mare a good

distance behind the gelding.  He bit his lip,  scratched himself and gave  every

indication  of  reaching an  unpleasant  decision before  trotting  the mare  to

Molin's side.

"You should go to Illyra," he stated sullenly. "Heaven's forfend-why?"

"She's good at finding things."

"Even if she were, and I admit she is, I've taken her son from her. She's got no

cause to do me a favor. I'd sooner ask Arton directly," Molin said, thinking  it

might not be a bad idea.

"Illyra'd be better. And she'd do it-because you have Arton."

"That smith-husband of hers  would use me for  kindling. Even if she's  forgiven

me, he hasn't."

"I'll crush a few wheels and send Thrush with a message that he's needed at  the

barracks to mend some iron. You'll have the time."

The priest had no desire to talk to the seeress. He had no desire to go  rooting

around  his own  best-forgotten memories.  Since his  estrangement from  Rosanda

thoughts about  his origins,  never before  a subject  of consideration, haunted

him.  He  hoped they'd  vanish  now that  he  had a  fertile  connection between

Nikodemos,  Randal,  Roxane,  and  the  avatars  to  pursue.  "We'll  see,"   he

temporized, not wanting  to offend his  only efficient lieutenant.  "Maybe after

Mid-Winter. Right now, look for  Niko. And strengthen the barricades  around the

Beysib cantonment. Ischade was honest and  playing games of her own at  the same

time."

Walegrin grunted.

Two days, and the miserable nightmare-filled night between them, were sufficient

to make Molin reconsider a visit to the seeress. He watched Walegrin mangle some

stable implements,  then headed  for the  Bazaar along  a route  which would not

likely bring him into contact with Illyra's husband, Dubro.

He was recognized by the  smith's apprentice and admitted into  Illyra's scrying

room.

"What brings you to my home?"  she asked, shuffling her cards and,  unbeknown to

the priest, loosening the catch on the dagger fastened beneath her table. "Arton

is well, isn't he?"

"Yes, very well-growing fast. Has your husband forgiven you?"

"Yes-he blames it all  on you. You were  wise to see that  he was not here.  You

will be wiser to be gone when he gets back."

"Walegrin said you could help me."

"I should  have guessed  when that  soldier came  to fetch  Dubro. I have had no

visions of  gyskourem since  Arton went  to the  Palace. I  won't look into your

future, Priest."

"There is work for him to do at the Palace and a fair price for his labor.  Your

brother says you can find that which has been lost."

She set the cards aside and brought the candlestick to the center of the  table.

"If you can describe what it was that you lost. Sit down."

"It's not a  'something,'" Molin explained  as he sat  on a stool  opposite her.

"I've had ...  visions ... myself:  warnings that there  is something within  my

past  which is-or  could cause-great  trouble. Illyra,  you said  once that  the

S'danzo saw the past as  well as the future. Can  you find my-" He hesitated  at

the ridiculousness of the request. "Can you show me my mother?"

"She is dead, then?"

"In my birth."

"Children bring about such longings," she said sympathetically, then stared into

the void, waiting for inspiration. "Give me your hand."

Illyra sprinkled powders and oils of various colors on his palm, tracing  simple

symbols  through each  layer. His  palms began  to sweat;  she had  to hold  his

fingers tightly to stop him from pulling his hand back in embarrassment.

"This will not hurt," she assured him as, with a movement so unexpected he could

not resist it, she twisted his wrist and held his palm in the candle flame.

It  didn't. The  powders released  a narcotic  incense that  not only  prevented

injury but banished all worry from the priest's mind. When she released his hand

and extinguished the candle, most of the morning had passed. Illyra's expression

was unreadable.

"Did you see anything?"

"I do not understand what I saw. What we do not understand we do not reveal, but

I  have  revealed so  many  things to  you.  Still, I  do  not think  I  want to

understand this, so I will answer no other questions about it.

"Your mother was a slave of your temple. I did not 'see' her before she had been

enslaved. I could see her only because she was kept drugged and they had cut out

her tongue; your hierarchy feared her. She was raped by your father and did  not

bear you with joy. She willed her own death."

Torchholder ran his fingers through his beard. The S'danzo was disturbed by what

she had  seen: slavery,  mutilation, rape  and birth-death.  He was concerned by

what it had to mean.

"Did you see her? See her as mortal eyes would have seen her?" he asked, holding

his breath.

Illyra let hers out  slowly. "She was not  like other women, Lord  Hierarch. She

had no  hair-but a  crown of  black feathers  covering her  head and  arms, like

wings, instead."

The vision came clear to him: a Nisi witch. His elders had dared much more  than

he had  imagined possible;  Stormbringer's warning  and Ischade's  whispers made

chilling sense to him now. Vashanka's priests had dared to bring witch-blood  to

the god. His mouth hung open.

"I will hear no other questions, priest," Illyra warned.

He fished out a fresh-minted gold coin from his purse and laid it on her  table.

"I  do not  want any  more answers,  My Lady,"  he told  her as  he entered  the

sunlight again.

The difference between priests and practitioners of all other forms of magecraft

was more than philosophical. Yet both  sides agreed the mortal shell of  mankind

could not safely contain an aptitude for communicative-that is,  priestly-power,

along  with  an  aptitude  for  more  traditional,  manipulative  magic.  If the

combination did not, of itself,  destroy the unfortunate's soul, then  mage-kind

and priest-kind would unite until that destruction was accomplished.

Yet Molin knew that Illyra had seen the truth. Pieces of memory fell into place:

childhood-times when he  had been subtly  set apart from  his peers; youth-times

when he had relied on his own instincts and not Vashanka's guidance to  complete

his audacious strategies; adult-times when  his superiors had conspired to  send

him to this truly godforsaken place; and now-times when he consorted with  mages

and gods and felt the fate of Sanctuary on his shoulders.

No amount  of retrospective  relief, however,  could compensate  for the anxiety

Illyra had planted within him. He had relied on his intuition, had come to trust

it completely,  but what  he called  his intuition  was his mother's witch-blood

legacy.  He  did  not  merely  sense  the  distinctions  between  probable   and

improbable-he shaped them. Worse, now that he was conscious of his heritage,  it

could erupt, destroying him and everything that depended on him, at any moment.

He  walked through  the cold  sunlight looking  for salvation-knowing  that  his

impulsive searches were an exercise of the power he feared. Still, his mind  did

not  betray  him; his  priest-self  could accept  the  path intuition  revealed:

Randal, the  Hazard-mage become  Stepson. The  magician's freedom  would be  the

byproduct  of Molin's  other strategies,  and for  that freedom  a priest  might

reasonably expect the instructions a disowned mage could provide.

It took  Walegrin less  than three  days to  corner Niko-demos.  Regular sources

denied the Stepson was  in town. An alert  ear in the proper  taverns and alleys

always heard rumors: Niko had exchanged  his soul for Randal's-the mage did  not

reappear; he had joined Ischade's decaying household-but Strat denied this  with

a vigor that had the ring of honesty; he was drinking himself to oblivion at the

Alekeep-and this proved true.

"He's shaking drunk. He looks like  a man who's dealing with witches,"  Walegrin

informed Molin when they met to plot their strategies.

The priest wondered what he, himself, must  look like; the knowledge that  witch

blood dwelt in his heart had done nothing for his peace of mind. "Perhaps we can

offer him service for service. When can you bring him to me?"

"Niko's strange-even for a Whoreson. I  don't think he'd agree to a  meeting and

he's Bandaran-trained. Dead  drunk he could  lay a hand  on you and  you'd be in

your grave two nights later."

"Then we'll have to surprise him.  I'll prepare a carriage with the  children in

it. We'll bring it outside the Alekeep. I trust Stormbringer. Once Stealth  sees

those children he'll solve that problem for us."

Walegrin  shook his  head. "You  and the  children, perhaps.  Bribes aside,  the

Alekeep is not a place for my regulars. You'd best go with your priests."

"My priests?"  Molin erupted  into laughter.  "My priests,  Walegrin? I have the

service of a handful of acolytes and ancients-the only ones who didn't go out to

Land's End with Rashan. I have greater standing with the Beysib Empire than with

my own."

"Then take  Beysib soldiers-it's  time they  started earning  their keep in this

town. We sweat bricks to protect them."

"I'll arrange something. You let me know when he's there."

So  Molin moved  among the  men of  Clan Burek,  selecting six  whose taste  for

adventure was,  perhaps, greater  than their  sense. He  was still outlining his

plans when Hoxa announced that the borrowed carriage was ready. They roused both

children, and the dancer, Seylalha, from  their beds. The Beysib bravos had  not

exchanged their gaudy silks for  the austere robes of Vashanka's  priests before

it was time to leave the Palace.

As predicted,  Niko was  drunk. Too  drunk, Molin  feared, to  be of  any use to

anyone, much less Gyskouras  and Arton. The priest  tested him with the  sort of

pious cant  guaranteed to  get a  rise out  of any  conscious Stepson.  Wine had

thickened Niko's tongue; he babbled about magic and death in a language far less

intelligible  than Arton's.  There were  rumors that  Roxane had  stolen  Niko's

manhood and  bound the  Stepson to  her with  webs of  morbid sensuality. Molin,

watching and listening, knew the Nisi witch had stolen something far more vital:

maturity. With a nod of his head the Beysibs dragged the unprotesting  Nikodemos

to the carriage.

He left them alone, trusting Stormbringer's riddles and turning his attention to

the frightened little man the Beysibs  were interrogating with a shade too  much

vigor.

"What has he done?" the priest interceded.

"He's painted a picture."

"It's not a crime, Jennek, even  if it doesn't reach your aesthetic  standards."

He  took  a  step  closer  and  recognized  the  painter  who  had  unmasked  an

assassination conspiracy a few years back. "You're Lalo, aren't you?"

"It's not  a crime-like  you said,  My Lord  Hierarch-it's not  a crime.  I'm an

artist, a painter of portraits. I paint the faces of the people I see to keep in

practice-like a soldier in the arena."

Yet the Ilsigi painter was plainly afraid that he had committed a crime.

"Let me see your picture," Molin ordered.

Lalo broke free of the Beysibs, but not quickly enough. Molin's fingers  latched

onto the painter's neck. The three  of them: Molin, Lalo and the  portrait moved

back into the carriage lantern-light just as a shaken, sober Niko emerged.

"Nikodemos," Molin said as he studied the unfinished, frayed canvas tacked  onto

a battered plank, "look at this."

The limner had  painted Niko, but  not as a  drunken mercenary in  a whitewashed

tavern. No, the central  figure of the painting  wore an archaic style  of armor

and looked out with  more life and will  than Niko, himself, possessed.  And yet

that was not the strangest aspect of the painting.

Lalo  had included  two other  figures, neither  of which  had set  foot in  the

Alekeep. The first, staring  down over Niko's shoulder,  was a man with  glowing

blue eyes  and dark-gold  hair: a  figure Molin  remembered as  Vashanka moments

before the god vanished into the void between the planes. The second was a woman

whose half-drawn presence, emerging from the dark background, overshadowed  both

man and god.  Lalo had been  interrupted but Molin  recognized a Nisibisi  witch

like his mother had been, or as Roxane still was.

He was still staring when Niko dismissed the Ilsigi limner. The Stepson began to

speak  of Arton  and Gysk-ouras  as if  he alone  understood their  nature.  The

children, Niko announced, needed to  be educated in Bandara-an island  a month's

sailing from Sanctuary. When Molin inquired how, exactly, they were supposed  to

transport two Storm Children, whose moods were already moving stones, across  an

expanse of changeable ocean, the Stepson became irrational.

"All right, they're not  going any further  unless and until  my partner  Randal

who's being held by  Roxane, I hear tell-is  returned to me unharmed.  Then I'll

ride up and ask Tempus what he  wants to do-if anything-about the matter of  the

godchild you so cavalierly visited upon a town that had enough troubles  without

one. But one way or the other, the resolution isn't going to help you one  whit.

Get my meaning?"

Molin did. He also felt a tingling at the base of his spine. Witch-blood  rushed

to his eyes and  fingertips. He saw Nikodemos  as Roxane saw him:  his maat, his

strength and his  emotions displayed like  the Emperor's banquet  table- and the

priest knew witch-kind's hunger.

Niko, oblivious  to Molin's  turmoil, continued  with his  demands. He  expected

Molin to get Askelon's  armor out of the  Mageguild and to storm  Roxane's abode

with a company of warrior-priests.

"Are you sure  that will be  enough?" Molin inquired,  his voice turned  sweetly

sarcastic by the witch-blood appetites.

"No. I  will free  Randal, but  your priests  will free  me. I  will be Roxane's

champion-facing your priests-one man against  many. You will arrange to  capture

me unharmed, but you'll make it look good. She must never suspect my allegiance.

She must think it's all your doing: priest-power against witchery."

"We are ever eager to serve," the priest agreed.

"And the  timing. It  must be  Mid-Winter's Eve  at midnight-exactly.  Timing is

everything, Hierarch.  You know  that. When  you're dealing  with Death's Queen,

timing is everything."

Molin nodded, his face a rigid mask of obedience lest his laughter emerge.

"And I'll need a  place to stay afterwards.  Wherever you've been keeping  those

children and  their mother  will do.  It's time  they had  the proper influences

around them."

It was all Molin could do to keep silent. Whatever maat gave a man, it wasn't  a

sense of irony. Stormbringer and the rest of his Storm-kind were leaning hard on

this  drunk mercenary.  His picayune  demands became  prophecy the  moment  they

slurred out of his  mouth. His babble trapped  Stormbringer in Sanctuary like  a

fly in a  spider's web. Already  Molin could feel  the necessary strategies  and

tactics  crowding  into  his   thoughts.  Success  was  inevitable   -with  one,

unfortunate, shortcoming: Molin would  become Roxane's personal enemy,  and what

she would do when she found out who had been his mother was beyond even a  Storm

God's guess.

Niko was still drunk. He bumped into  the carriage as he headed back inside  the

Alekeep, still muttering orders. The Beysibs moved to haul him back.

"No, Jennek, let him go. He'll be ready when we need him again; his kind  always

is."

"But, Torchholder," Jennek  objected. "He asks  for the sun,  the moon, and  the

stars and offers  you nothing in  return. That's not  the bargain you  described

back at the Palace."

"And it's not the bargain he thinks it is, either."

The witch-hungers vanished as quickly as the Stepson. Molin grabbed the carriage

door  to keep  himself from  collapsing. The  door swung  open, Jennek   lurched

forward and Molin barely had the presence of mind to haul himself onto the bench

opposite the children.

"To the Palace," he commanded.

Molin closed his eyes as the carriage rattled forward along the uneven  streets.

He was weak-kneed and exhilarated enough that he held his breath to stifle a fit

of hysterical laughter. He had felt the naked power of his witch-blood  heritage

and, much as it had horrified him,  he had mastered it. He was revelling  in the

wonder  and simplicity  of the  strategies unfolding  in his  mind when   Lalo's

picture shifted under his arm. With  a shiver, the priest reopened his  eyes and

pulled it  away from  Gys-kouras's candy-coated  grasp. The  child's eyes glowed

more brightly than the lanterns.

"Want it."

"No," Molin said faintly, realizing that not even Storm-bringer could anticipate

the influence and desires of a Storm Child.

"/ want it."

Seylalha, Gyskouras's mother, tried to distract him, but he pushed her back into

the comer with a  man's strength. Her eyes  were as fearful as  the child's were

angry. Torchholder  heard the  rumble of  thunder and  did not  think it was his

imagination.

" 'Kouras-no," Arton interceded, taking his brother's hand. The children  stared

at each other and the light ebbed gradually from Gyskouras's eyes. Molin  sighed

and relaxed until he realized that the light had moved to Arton's eyes  instead.

"He is  ours already,  Stepfather. We  do not  need to  take him," the dark-eyed

child said in a tone that was both consoling and threatening.

They made the rest  of the journey in  silence: Seylalha huddled in  the corner;

the children sharing their thoughts and Molin staring at the triple portrait.

There were two hectic days until Mid-Winter's Eve. Molin had the satisfaction of

knowing his plans could not be thwarted and the irritation of knowing the events

already in motion were of such magnitude  that he had no more power than  anyone

else to alter them.

By the  time the  sun set,  Torchholder had  become hardened  to the  cascade of

coincidence surrounding  his every  move. He  went out  of his  way to  stop the

Mageguild from donating Askelon's, and Randal's, enchanted armor to Shupansea in

gratitude for her permission to meddle  with the weather at their Fete.  He even

considered refusing it when she suddenly turned around and offered it to him "as

we have no Storm Gods nor warrior-priests  worthy to wear it." But, in the  end,

he accepted all her gifts gratefully-including the authority to name Jennek  and

his rowdy friends as his personal honor guard.

He retired to his sanctum to await the unfolding of fate alone-except for Lalo's

portrait. There would be  no surprises until Randal  walked through the door  at

midnight-then  there  would  be surprises  enough  for  gods, priests,  witches,

soldiers and mages alike.

KEEPING PROMISES

Robin W. Bailey

A  horse careered  insanely along  the Governor's  Walk, heedless  of the  cold,

drizzling mist that treacherously slicked the paving stones. Its breath came  in

great steaming clouds. It made the corner onto the Avenue of Temples at a  speed

that threatened to unseat the two cloaked riders on its back.

From the shadowed steps of the Temple  of Ils a small, lithe figure leaped  into

the road. There was the glint of  metal in its clenched fist. With a  wild shout

the figure flung out its arms. The horse whinnied in terror, reared, and crashed

to a stop.

The rider in the saddle answered with a curse, swung downward with a sword,  and

made a swift end of the attacker on the ground.

"More behind and coming fast!" the second rider warned, wrapping arms even  more

tightly about the first rider. "Go, damn it!"

Again, the horse raced onward, past the park called the Promise of Heaven  where

half-starved women sold  their bodies for  the price of  a lean meal.  The beast

wheeled to the right and down a street between two dark and immense edifices.  A

set of massive iron gates loomed.

The first rider jerked sharply on the reins, threw a leg over the mount's  head,

and jumped to the ground. The second rider slid backward over the damp, lathered

rump, stumbled, then sagged to the pavement.

A hood was flung back; a pommel smashed against the unyielding barriers. A voice

called out full  of desperation  and anger.  "Father! Let  us in!  Dayrne-anyone

awake!"

"Chenaya!" The  second rider  rose to  a timid  crouch and  drew a small dagger.

"They're coming!"

Four men ran down  the street, weapons drawn.  Even as they came  on, three more

emerged from the shadows  to join them. Chenaya  whirled to face them,  cursing.

Gods knew  what the  hell they  wanted! This  was too  much trouble for a common

robbery. Perhaps it  was vengeance for  the two she'd  already slain that  drove

them.

"Get behind me," she ordered, dragging her companion by the arm. Then she put  a

pair of fingers to her lips, gave a sharp whistle, and called, "Reyk!"

The lead runner  gave a choked  scream, then a  long gurgling cry  of frightened

pain. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, beat at his face. But he was much

too slow. The falcon, Reyk, climbed back into the sky, leaving the man's eyes in

bloody ruin. He winged a tight  circle, then settled on his mistress's  arm. She

sent him aloft once  more. "Can't carry you  and fight," she whispered  tersely.

Without turning away she banged her pommel on the gate again. "Father!"

One runner stopped to help his fallen comrade. The rest rushed on. She  couldn't

make  out their  features or  identify their  dress, but  she could  feel  their

hatred.

Her companion beat on the gates with a dagger. "Open! For pity's sake, let  your

daughter in!"

Chenaya ripped off her  cloak and drew a  second sword. With the  two blades she

stepped forward to  meet her attackers.  "All right, you  miserable dung-balls!"

She twirled the weapons  in dazzling double arcs.  "I don't know what  you want,

but I'll play your game. Try to entertain me, you sons of whores!"

Before the  first blow  could be  struck the  gates swung  wide. Six  giants, in

various stages of arming themselves, spilled into the street, steel gleaming  in

their fists.  Che-naya's pursuers  caught themselves  up short,  then ran in the

other direction,  dragging their  blinded friend  with them.  They were  quickly

swallowed by the damp gloom.

Chenaya spun to face the tallest of the giants. "Dayme, what the hell's going on

around here? We've barely arrived  in Sanctuary, but we've been  attacked twice.

Some group hit  us in Caravan  Square at the  end of General's  Road. Then these

attacked as we came along Governor's Walk. Nobody's on the streets but madmen!"

Dayrne's gaze lingered on her face a  bit longer than was proper, and he  gave a

distinct sigh of relief even as  he chewed his lip. "Politics later.  Mistress,"

he said finally as he ushered Chenaya and her hooded companion inside the estate

grounds. He paused to  make sure the gates  were sealed then continued.  "Things

have gone to hell  in the city since  you've been gone. We  can talk more of  it

later, but first  you must see  your father. Lowan  Vigeles has been  nearly ill

worrying about you."  His brows knit  in consternation. "You  promised to return

before the onset of winter."

"Something important came up," she answered defensively, avoiding his eyes.  She

extended her  arm again.  In the  light of  the few  torches that  illumined the

interior courtyard the metal rings of her manica glimmered. Again, she whistled.

It was impossible to see  the bird in the dark,  but she heard the soft  beat of

its pinions, felt the rush  of air by her cheek  as he took a familiar  place on

her wrist. Chenaya slipped a jess from  her belt and fitted it over Reyk's  leg.

From another small pocket she extracted a hood to cover his eyes. Only then  did

she  pass  him  into Dayrne's  care.  "Have  one of  the  men  clean his  talons

immediately." She stroked her pet. "He  scored one of them. Don't let  the blood

crust. And have someone take care of that poor horse. He's carried the two of us

a long way."

Chenaya took her traveling  companion by the elbow  then and led her  across the

court. Dayrne gave quick orders to the  other men and fell into step behind.  As

they crossed the grounds  she noted how well  the restoration of the  old estate

was progressing. Land's End, the locals called the place, though she was  damned

if she knew why.

Light streamed through an open doorway. She stepped inside a grand entrance hall

and gazed up the wide staircase  that curved along the east wall.  Lowan Vigeles

stood at  the top.  His face  was full  of relief  at the  sight of  her, but he

couldn't hide his anger.

Two  of  her gladiators,  the  former thieves  Dismas  and Gestus,  flanked  him

according to standing instructions. Lowan was not to be left unguarded during  a

disturbance. But there was  someone else at the  top of the stair  who she could

barely see. The woman seemed to hang back.

Lowan  descended the  stairs and  stopped halfway  down. "You've  been gone  far

longer than your three  months, Daughter." There was  a hard edge to  his voice,

but it couldn't  mask the deeper  joy he felt.  "You broke your  promise. You're

long overdue." Then he relented and extended his arms. "Welcome home."

Chenaya unfastened her weapon belt and dropped it at the foot of the stair.  She

ran up to her father, threw her arms about him, and pressed her head against his

shoulder. Lowan Vigeles was a tall man, but the past months had made him  appear

haggard. He had lost weight and there was little color left in his cheeks.  "You

worried too much!" she admonished with a whisper only he could hear.

"How much is  too much?" he  said, letting a  hint of his  anger show once more.

"Things are changing, Chenaya. Law has broken down all over the city. Hell,  all

over the Empire. You could have been dead and rotting for all I knew."

"I'm sorry, Father,"  she said honestly.  "It couldn't be  helped. You know  I'd

have come home if  I could've." And that  was enough of that,  her tone conveyed

without her needing to say more.  She regretted having caused him pain,  and she

knew he had  worried, but she  wasn't a child.  She wouldn't be  treated as one,

even by her  father. She started  to remind him  of that, then  caught a clearer

look at the woman above.

It took her by complete surprise.  Then, abruptly, a broad grin spread  over her

face. Chenaya had become immune to shock long ago. Still, she found considerable

amusement in the idea that her father might cuckold his own brother.

"Good evening. Lady Rosanda," she said grandly. "How's Uncle Molin these days?"

Rosanda's shy, delicate smile turned to a look of infinite perplexity. Then  the

older woman blushed hotly and fled from Chenaya's view.

Daughter winked at father.  "A chunky little tidbit  to ease your worried  mind,

eh?"

Lowan rapped  her lightly  on the  brow with  his fingers.  "Don't be  impudent,

child. She and Molin have separated, and your aunt is quite upset. She's staying

here a   | few days until she gets herself together."

"By the Bright  Light!" Chenaya exclaimed,  clapping a hand  melodramatically to

her heart. "She must be giving Dayrne fits about the housekeeping."

"Not at all. Mistress," Dayrne said from the foot of the stair.

"She's actually been quite helpful," Lowan Vigeles insisted. "She's taken a firm

hand  in  the restorations."  He  laid a  hand  on his  daughter's  shoulder and

compelled her to meet his gaze. "And you must be kind to her. Whatever you think

of Molin, Rosanda is a  lady and a guest in  our house. Her head may  be full of

sky, but her heart is full of love." He smiled suddenly and ran a hand over  her

blonde curls. "And she's  inordinately fond of you.  She thinks you're the  only

true Rankan woman left  in the city ...  beside herself, of course."  He reached

for her  hand. "Now,  come sit  by the  hearth in  my room  and tell  me of your

journey."                                         •

Chenaya hesitated. "I'm afraid we're  going to have more company  than Rosanda."

She indicated her companion who had remained patiently near the entrance.  "I've

brought someone home, too."

Still clutching the unsheathed dagger, her companion pushed back the  concealing

hood and glared sullenly  up at her hosts.  A spray of wild,  black hair tumbled

forward, partially obscuring classic features turned hard and thin.

Lowan Vigeles turned  pale. Then he  bowed his head  respectfully to the  small,

silent woman. "Please, come  up!" he urged, holding  out his hand. "Come  up and

get warm."                                              |

But Chenaya intervened. "Not now. Father.  She's tired and needs a bath.  Dayrne

will prepare the room next to mine for her." She glanced down at her  companion,

and an unspoken message  passed between them. "Then,  tomorrow she starts a  new

life."

Dayme  touched the  woman's elbow  to guide  her up  the staircase  and to   her

quarters. Adder-quick, she  slapped his hand  away, spun, and  spat at him.  The

dagger flashed.

"Daphne!" Chenaya's harsh shout was enough. The tiny weapon froze in mid-plunge.

Chenaya and Dayme exchanged hasty glances. Of course, he'd never been in danger.

The giant was one of the best gladiators Ranke had ever produced, more than able

to defend himself from such a feeble attack. But it wouldn't do to have Daphne's

little wrist broken, either.

"He doesn't touch me!" Daphne screamed. "No man touches me again." Then she drew

herself proudly erect. A malicious smirk  creased her mouth. "Unless I want  him

to."  She drew  the dagger's  edge meaningfully  along her  thumb, then  without

another look  at Dayrne,  she marched  up the  stair, around  Lowan Vigeles, and

disappeared the way Rosanda had gone. Dayrne followed at a safe distance.

"She's half-mad," Chenaya said softly with a shake of her head.

Lowan Vigeles raised an eyebrow. "Which half?"

An hour later Lowan greeted his daughter again with another hug and a goblet  of

hearth-warmed wine. She accepted both gratefully, sipped the drink, and took one

of the two massive  wooden chairs before the  fireplace. She had hastily  bathed

and changed into a gown of soft blue linen. The traveling leathers she had lived

in for months were even now being buried by one of her men.

"I really tried to keep my promise.  Father." She set her wine on the  chair arm

and stretched wearily. "I tried to get back." She gazed into the fire, finding a

measure of tranquility in  the dancing flames, and  she took another drink.  The

liquor warmed her thoroughly.

"It's all right, child,"  Lowan soothed. "So long  as you're safe. I  just worry

too much." He sipped his own wine and regarded her. "Where did you find  Daphne?

Did you leam of anyone else?"

Chenaya  shook  her head  slowly.  Memories of  her  journey flooded  her  head,

overpowering her emotions. "No one else," she said at last. "Either the rest  of

the Royal Family is  dead, or they're hidden  too damn well in  fear of Theron."

She looked up at  him. "In fact, I  was on my way  home when I happened  through

Azehur. That's just the other side of the Gray Wastes."

She told him of the tavern she had stopped at. There had been a high-stakes game

of dice. She  wasn't playing for  once, just watching  with interest, especially

when one of the players pulled a ring from a pouch on his belt.

"It was a Royal Sigil," she said, holding up one hand to show the ring she wore,

"just like you and I and Molin  and Kadakithis and all the Royal Family  own. It

wasn't a fake. It was real."

She had waited until the player lost  even that, then she had followed him  from

the tavern. There was no need to bore her father with the details of how she had

lured the man into an alley or how she had convinced him to talk. Lowan wouldn't

have approved.

Chenaya tossed back the last  of her wine and held  out the cup for more.  Lowan

rose, fetched the  bottle from the  mantel above the  fire, and poured  for her.

"The son  of a  bitch was  a part-time  sell-sword. Nearly  a year  before, he'd

helped attack and destroy  a caravan leaving Sanctuary  for Ranke as it  crossed

the Wastes."

"Daphne and  the Prince's  concubines," Lowan  interrupted as  he filled his own

vessel, "fleeing the Beysib invasion."

Chenaya nodded.  "They were  supposed to  kill the  women. Instead,  they saw  a

chance to make a little more profit and sold them outside the Empire."

Lowan turned sharply, splashing his sleeve with the red liquor. "Sold ... ?"

She fully approved  of the anger  she read in  his expression. She  shared it in

fullest measure.  Daphne had  always been  a whiner  and a  constant complainer.

Chenaya hadn't liked her  much. Still, she hadn't  deserved such a fate.  "Those

men were hired," Chenaya continued, "by someone right here in Sanctuary."

Lowan leaned on the mantel and chewed his lip. He turned the goblet absently  in

his hands. "Did your man tell you who?"

"I don't think he knew," she answered with a frown. "Or if he did, he  preferred

to expire with his secret." She drank again and licked the corners of her mouth.

"But he did  tell me where  the women were  sold. That's why  I was late  coming

home, Father. I made a side-trip to Scavengers' Island."

Lowan squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a quick oath.

"I can  take care  of myself!"  she snapped  before he  could say  anything. She

didn't need his lecture  on what a hell-hole  Scavengers' Island was reputed  to

be. She'd seen for herself, had  walked among the scum of humanity  that dwelled

there. "I  hired a  boat to  take Reyk  and me  across. For  anyone who  asked I

claimed to be a fugitive from one of Theron's purges. That wasn't hard. After  a

couple of fights most  of the rowdies left  us alone." She winked.  You know how

mean that falcon looks.

"It took days to find her," she continued after another swallow. "Turned out she

was a special attraction at a particularly nasty brothel that catered to,  shall

we  say, deviated  tastes." She  paused and  smiled a  malicious little   smile,

remembering. "Tempus Thales would've loved it."  She shook her head and let  the

smile fade, wondering vaguely what had  happened to that butcher. She looked  up

at her father and handed him her  empty cup to set on the mantel.  "You've known

men, I'm sure, who could only get excited by violent rape. Well, the  proprietor

sent  those to  Daphne." Chenaya  wrapped her  arms about  herself. Despite  the

fire's warmth,  lingering memories  of Scavengers'  Island sent  a chill through

her. "They kept  her locked in  a room. Father,  she was a  mass of bruises  and

scratches. She still is.  Every time she fought  tooth and nail. All  it got her

was a reputation  on the island  and a lot  more customers with  ideas of taming

her." She shuddered.

Lowan Vigeles refilled her  vessel a third time  and urged it upon  her. Then he

asked quite calmly, "Did you kill the proprietor?"

"I didn't get the chance." She took one more drink, then set the wine aside. She

hadn't come here to get drunk with her father, and there were things she had  to

do come daylight.  She didn't  need a  fuzzy head.  "There was  plenty of  blood

letting, though, when I broke her out.  Some customers tried to get in the  way.

But as soon as Daphne spied her keeper she grabbed one of my daggers and  leaped

at him with a screech  that, I swear, made my  flesh crawl! The man didn't  even

get a chance to fling up his arms. I tell you, she carved him like a mince  pie.

I had to drag her off and hustle her down to the quays before the entire  island

came after us. Good thing I had a boat waiting."

"Where is she right now?" Lowan asked softly.

"Rosanda volunteered to bathe her. It's probably the first bath she's had  since

her capture. Speaking of Aunt Rosanda, can you keep her busy out here for a  few

days? Very busy? I don't want her spreading word of Daphne's return. I want that

pleasure for myself, and I want it to be very special."

Lowan frowned.  "Now I  see. Daphne's  just a  tool for  you, isn't she? Another

thorn to stick in Shupansea's side?"

Sometimes, Lowan Vigeles could be irritating, particularly in the accuracy  with

which he saw her motives. Chenaya had to admit she intended to relish the moment

when Shupansea learned about  Daphne, but her own  father shouldn't be so  snide

about it.

"You're partly right," she admitted  sheepishly. "That Beysib bitch is  going to

squirm like a hooked  fish." Chenaya hooked her  little finger in the  corner of

her lip and stretched it upward to  illustrate her words. "But my motives run  a

little deeper than that, as you'll leam in time." She changed her mind and  took

one more sip of  wine. "I'm glad I  rescued Daphne. No woman  should suffer what

she did.  I've promised  to find  out who  in Sanctuary  was responsible for the

caravan attack."

Lowan sat back down in his chair and  met her gaze over the rim of his  winecup.

The firelight glimmered  on the burnished  metal and reflected  strangely in his

eyes. "Promised who?" he said cautiously.

"Daphne," she answered evenly, "and myself."

He closed his eyes. After a while  she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then  she

saw him move to speak. "How will you even begin? It's been a year."

There had been weeks on the road to ponder that. It would do no good to ask  the

Hell-Hounds to investigate. Even before  she left those bumblers seemed  to have

locked themselves in the garrison and hidden there. Nor could she rule out  that

one of their rank might be the  guilty one. Certainly, they would have known  of

the caravan's  departure. For  that matter,  it could  have been  anyone in  the

palace. Or, she had to  admit, anyone who just kept  a watchful eye on the  city

gates. That meant anybody in Sanctuary. No, she needed help to find her answers,

and she had someone special in mind for

that.

Of course, Lowan  Vigeles wouldn't have  approved, so all  she told him  was, "I

have a plan, Father."

*  *  *

She awoke at sunrise after only a couple hours' sleep. She could have used more,

but there was a lot to do. She had promised Daphne a new life. It began today.

But before she could  stretch and climb out  of bed Rosanda knocked  quietly and

entered with a breakfast tray.  Chenaya pushed herself up against  the headboard

and gawked in utter  surprise as the noblewoman  spread a soft white  cloth over

her lap  and set  the tray  upon it.  It contained  several slices of cold roast

meat, fresh bread,  and a rare  Enlibar orange. There  was a vessel  of water to

wash it down.

"Aunt Rosanda," Chenaya protested, "this wasn't necessary. The men take care  of

everything, or we see to our own needs."

Rosanda shushed  her. "I  don't mind,  really. It's  been far  too long  since I

lifted my hand in a kitchen. I  baked the bread myself early this morning."  She

blushed and looked away. "I thought I'd forgotten how. It used to be the duty of

every Rankan woman to bake bread, you know, but we've all become so spoiled.  No

wonder there are stories that the Empire is crumbling."

Rosanda turned to  leave, but Chenaya  caught her hand.  "Rosanda," she said  in

confidential tones, "what happened between you and Uncle Molin?"

Sadness was reflected in the older  woman's features, but then she drew  herself

erect. "Chenaya, no matter how long I live in this city of thieves and  vipers,"

her eyes narrowed to angry slits, "I am still a Rankan. I can't turn my back  on

my heritage." Rosanda began  to rub at some  invisible spot on her  palm. "Molin

has forsaken  it all.  Ranke means  nothing to  him. He  schemes with the Beysib

fish-folk. He turns away from our gods and our customs." She threw up her  hands

suddenly in frustration, and there was a moistness in her eye. "I just  couldn't

stay with him anymore. I  still retain my lands and  my titles. But I needed  to

get away from the Palace and all its intrigues for awhile. You and Lowan Vigeles

are the only relatives I have in this city, so I came here." She leaned down and

placed a gentle hand  on Chenaya's hair, smoothing  it on the pillows.  "You and

your father are the best of Rankan society, of all that we hold ideal. I  needed

a little of what you have to remind me who I am."

It was Chenaya's turn to flush. Perhaps  she should have taken time long ago  to

get to  know her  aunt. The  old woman  might seem  air-headed, but  there was a

kindness in  her that  was endearing.  "Thank you.  Lady," Chenaya  said simply.

Then, she decided to trust Ro-sanda. "I  asked Father to find a way to  keep you

here a while ..."

Rosanda put on a faint, patient smile. "So I wouldn't talk about Daphne?"

That startled Chenaya. Her aunt was perceptive, too. More and more about Rosanda

surprised her.

"You needn't worry  about that," her  aunt promised. "But  the palace walls  are

going to shake when word gets out. Are you planning to take her to the  Festival

of the Winter Bey?"

Chenaya picked up the orange, peeled it, and took a juicy bite. "Festival?"  she

said with barely contained interest. An amusing idea began to form in her  head.

She  hadn't  yet  decided  how  or when  to  reveal  Daphne  to  an unsuspecting

Sanctuary.

"The Beysa is hosting a lavish celebration to honor the seasonal aspect of their

fish-goddess." Rosanda smiled again and winked. "They tie Mid-Winter to the moon

rather than the sun.  Our festivals will be  long done with. Literally  everyone

who's anyone will be there."

Chenaya hid a grin behind her water goblet as she sipped. "Thank you again, Aunt

Rosanda. I'm in your debt."

Rosanda nodded with mock sobriety, but she struggled to repress a giggle. As her

aunt left, Chenaya noticed there was decidedly more bounce in her old step. When

the door closed and Chenaya was finally alone, she sprang out of bed. She  loved

parties, and this festival  came at just the  perfect time. Gods, how  she would

enjoy it! She went to the window, drew a deep breath of fresh air, and gazed  up

at  the  sun that  rose  in the  east.  Thank you.  Bright  Father, she  prayed,

Savankala, thank you!

She  dressed  hurriedly in  a  short red  fighting  kilt. Around  her  waist she

fastened  a broad,  gold-studded leather  belt. She  added a  white tunic,  then

sandals, and  tied back  her long  hair. Lastly,  she set  on her  brow a golden

circlet inset with the sunburst symbol of her god.

On the grounds of the estate, midway  between the house and the Red Foal  River,

Chenaya and  her gladiators  had constructed  a workout  arena. It  was crude by

capital standards. There was no seating for spectators, but there was a complete

series of training machines, iron  weights for strength development, wooden  and

metal weapons  of all  types, and  even a  huge sandpit  for wrestling  or small

matches. Of all the household, only  Lowan Vigeles was exempt from the  vigorous

daily training sessions.

Her eight warriors and Daphne were already hard at work. On the sand, Gestas and

Dismas slashed at each other with real weapons, testing each other, each  secure

in the other's skill  and control. To the  inexperienced eye it looked  like the

final climax of a long and bitter blood-feud. She nodded approvingly.

These eight were the best the  Rankan arenas had produced. There were  no longer

crowds to fight for, no games, no  purses, but she was damned if she'd  let that

fine training fade.

Daphne stood attentively beside Dayme before a rack of weights. She was  dressed

much like Chenaya, but without the leather belt. That honor was reserved for one

who'd triumphed in an arena death match. Daphne had never fought. But looking at

the  scratches  and bruises  on  the young  woman's  legs, recalling  how  she'd

disposed of  the brothel  keeper, Chenaya  wondered just  how long  it would  be

before she too wore the band of an accomplished warrior. Daphne hung on Dayrne's

instruction as  he explained  a particular  curling movement,  and she  took the

heavy  weight without  complaint when  he told  her to.  Her face  twisted in  a

grimace as she strained, but she executed the motion perfectly.

"Are you sure this is  what you want?" Chenaya said  as she joined them. "Up  at

dawn every day, working until your body aches all over, bleeding or bruising  in

places you never knew you had? It's no life for a Rankan lady."

Daphne performed one more perfect exercise,  then she set the weight aside.  She

met Chenaya's gaze unflinchingly. The sun shone brilliantly in those dark  eyes,

shimmered in the thick, black luster of her hair. She pointed to the mottling on

her legs. "There's no place I  haven't bruised or bled already." She  crossed to

another rack, took down an old sword. The hilt was too big for her grip and  the

blade too long, but that didn't matter to Daphne. "And you're a lady,  Chenaya."

She said the words  as if they were  an accusation. "Yet you  slaughtered half a

dozen men to break me out of that hell on Scavengers' Island and another six  at

the quay before we  got away. On top  of that you saved  us from those men  last

night. You ask if I want this?"  She raised the sword between them and  shook it

so the sunlight rippled on the keen edge. "Cousin, this is freedom I hold in  my

hand! With this, you go anywhere, do  anything you wish. No man dares touch  you

unless you want him to. No one  orders you. Nothing frightens you. Well, I  want

that same freedom, Chenaya. I want it, and I'll have it!"

Chenaya regarded Daphne  for a long,  cool moment, wondering  what door she  was

about to open for the younger woman. Daphne was but a few years her junior,  but

an age of experience  separated them. Still, there  was a fire in  Daphne's eyes

that had never been there before.  She glanced once more at those  scratches and

bruises, then made up her mind.

"Then I'll train you as I'd train any slave or thief sent to the arena. When you

stand on this field in those garments  you're no more than the least of  my men.

You'll do exactly what I or Dayrne or any of them tell you. If you don't  you'll

be beaten until you do. It will  break your spirit, or it will make  you tougher

than ever before. I pray for the  latter. If you agree, then you'll learn  every

trick  and  skill  a  gladiator  could want,  and  you'll  learn  from  the best

teachers." Chenaya  walked a  tight circle  around her  new pupil. "Whether that

will make you free or not ..."  She faced Daphne again and shrugged. There  were

many kinds of  freedom and many  kinds of fear.  But Daphne would  have to learn

that for  herself. "Now,  say that  you agree  to my  terms. Swear it before the

Bright Father, Savankala, himself."

Daphne hugged  the sword  to her  breast. The  sunlight that  reflected from the

blade made an amber blaze across her features as she swore. "By Savankala,"  she

answered fervently.  "But you  won't beat  me, Chenaya.  No one  will. I'll work

twice as hard as your best man."

Chenaya hid a knowing grin.  It was easy to say  such a thing now. But  when her

muscles began to crack,  when the training machines  knocked her to the  ground,

after the first broken bone or the first slice of steel through skin- would  she

still prove so eager?

"Then pay attention to Dayrne. He'll  be responsible for your daily regimen.  Of

all the men I  ever fought in the  games only he gave  me a dangerous cut."  She

showed the pale scar that ran the length of her left forearm. "Couldn't bend  or

use  it for  nearly a  month. Some  physicians even  thought I  would lose   it.

Fortunately, the gods favored me."

Daphne put on a smirk. "But I've heard rumors that you never lose."

Chenaya frowned. She had fostered the rumors herself to frighten opponents.  Nor

were the rumors untrue, though only  she and Molin Torchholder knew the  details

of her relationship with Savankala the Thunderer. In truth, she couldn't lose at

anything.

But here was a chance to teach Daphne an important first lesson. "It may be true

that I cannot lose, Daphne," she said  sternly, "but not losing is not the  same

as always winning.  And remember, even  winning can cost  a very dear  price. Be

sure you're willing to pay it."

She turned  away, but  Daphne stopped  her. "I've  taken your  vow, and  on this

ground as I train I'll call you Mistress as the others do." Something flared  in

the young woman's  eyes, and her  hand closed around  Chenaya's wrist. "But  you

swear now, too, to remember your promise to me."

Calmly,  but  quite firmly,  Chenaya  freed herself  from  Daphne's grip.  "I've

already given you my promise. This afternoon I'll begin to search."

"I want a name, Mistress," Daphne hissed, giving special emphasis to the  title,

"and I want a throat between my hands. Soon."

Chenaya reached out casually, seized  Daphne's tunic, easily lifted the  smaller

woman up onto the tips of her  toes. She pulled Daphne's face very close  to her

own. She could smell Daphne's breath. "Don't dictate to me; don't threaten, even

with subtlety," Chenaya  warned. "And don't  ever play games  with me." She  set

Daphne back on  her feet and  motioned for Dayrne  to resume the  training. "Now

work hard. And make up your mind to let Dayrne touch you. Each day he'll massage

the soreness from your  muscles." Then she winked.  "And in four days  you and I

are going to a party."

"Where?" Daphne asked suspiciously.

"The Governor's Palace,"  she answered lightly.  "Where else in  this city?" She

left Daphne then, chose a manica, a buckler, and a sword from the weapon  stores

and went to engage both Gestas and Dismas at once.

She had changed  to leathers again  to move through  the afternoon streets.  One

sword hung from her weapon belt,  and two daggers were thrust through  straps on

her thighs. She wore a heavy, hooded  cloak to conceal her face and to  keep out

the chilly cold that seemed to bite right through to her bones.

In daylight, more people braved the streets. Apparently, the different  factions

that tried to carve up the  city restricted their activities to nighttime.  That

suited her. She had plenty to attend  to without the minor distractions of  wild

eyed fanatics.

The doors to the  Temple of the Rankan  Gods stood open. She  mounted the marble

steps one at a time and went inside. At the entrance she paused, pushed back her

hood, gazed around. The structure was magnificent, yet it had an odd, unfinished

feel to it. The interior was lit by hundreds of lamps and braziers and by a huge

skylight that illumined  the prime altar  with Savankala's own  glory. Above the

altar  an  immense sunburst  of  polished gold  burned  and shimmered  and  cast

reflections around the huge chamber.

On  either  side  of  Savankala's altar  were  smaller  altars  to Sabellia  and

Vashanka. They were of equal  beauty and craftsmanship, but they  were illumined

only by the fires of men. Marvelously carved figures of the goddess and her  son

rose behind their  altars. Such a  representation of Savankala  was not allowed,

however.  A  man could  look  upon the  moon  and stars;  a  man could  see  the

lightning. But who could see the Thunder  or bear to look upon the blazing  face

of the Bright Father Himself?

As she approached  the sunlit altar  a young, white-robed  novice came forth  to

greet her. Chenaya made the proper obeisance to her god and ignited the stick of

incense the young priest offered. She spoke a soft prayer and watched the  smoke

waft toward the open skylight.

When the incense  was consumed she  spoke to the  novice. "Will you  tell Rashan

that I am here?"

He bowed gracefully.  "He has been  expecting you, Lady  Chenaya." He left  her,

disappearing into the maze of corridors that honeycombed the temple.

Rashan, called the Eye of Savankala,  appeared moments later. He was a  grizzled

old man. There was a toughness to his features that suggested he had not  always

been a priest. Or  perhaps it was that  difficult, she thought, to  rise through

the priestly  hierarchy. It  had taken  him years  to achieve  his position  and

title. Indeed, before the coming of Molin Torchholder, Rashan had been the  High

Priest of the Rankan faith in this part of the Empire.

He smoothed  his gray  beard, and  his eyes  showed a  rare sparkle  as he  came

forward. "Lady," he said,  taking her hand. He  dropped to one knee  and lightly

kissed her fingertips. "I was told to expect you."

She pulled him to his feet. "Oh, and who told you?"

He raised a finger  toward the skylight. "He  sends the signs and  the portents.

You make no move He does not know about."

She laughed. "Rashan, you are too devout. The Bright Father has more to do  than

watch constantly over me."

But Rashan shook his head. "You must accept his plan for you, child," he  urged.

"You are  the Daughter  of the  Sun, the  salvation and  guardian of  the Rankan

faith."

She laughed again.  "Are you still  insisting on that?  Look at me,  Priest. I'm

flesh and blood. I'm no priestess, and certainly no goddess. No matter how  many

dreams come to  you, that will  not change. I'm  the daughter of  Lowan Vigeles,

nothing more."

Rashan bowed politely.  "In time you  will learn otherwise.  It isn't for  me to

argue with Savankala's daughter. You will  accept your heritage or reject it  as

fate decrees." He went to stand before the altar of Vashanka, and his  shoulders

slumped. "But there is  a void in the  pantheon. Vashanka has fallen  silent and

will not answer  prayer." He turned  and leveled a  finger at her.  "I tell you,

Chenaya, if something has happened to  the Son of Savankala, then the  time will

come for the Daughter to accept Her responsibilities."

"No more  of this  talk!" Chenaya  snapped. "I  tell you,  Rashan, it borders on

blasphemy. No more, I say!" She paused to collect herself. The first time Rashan

had suggested such a thing it  had frightened her beyond words. She  herself had

received dreams  from the  Bright Father,  and she  knew their  power. In such a

dream  Savankala  had granted  her  beauty, promised  she  would never  lose  at

anything, and revealed the ultimate manner of her death. All in a single  dream.

Now it was Rashan who dreamed! And if  his dream was not false-if it was a  true

sending from the Bright Father.... She shut her eyes and refused to think  about

it further. Of course, the dream was false. No more than the wishful fantasy  of

an old priest who saw his empire fading.

"Have you thought more about what I asked when last we met?" she said,  changing

the subject. "It is  more important now when  the streets are so  dangerous. You

know I've come before only to find these doors closed."

Rashan held up a hand. "I'll build your small temple," he told her. "You can ask

nothing that Rashan will not grant."

"What about Uncle Molin?" she said in a conspiratorial tone.

Rashan looked as if he would spit, then remembered where he was and hastily made

the sign of his gods. "Molin Torchholder has no power in this House any  longer.

Your uncle has turned his back on the Rankan gods. He reeks of dark  allegiances

with alien deities. The other priests and I have agreed to this silent  mutiny."

He  spoke  with  impressive anger,  as  if  he were  pronouncing  sentence  on a

criminal. "I will build your temple, and I will consecrate it. Molin won't  even

be consulted."

It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old priest. It

thrilled her to see  others defy her uncle.  For too long his  schemes and plots

had gone unopposed. Now, perhaps there was divine justice after all.

"Build it  on the  shore of  the Red  Foal at  the very  edge of  our land," she

instructed. "Keep it small, just a private family altar."

Rashan nodded again. "But you must design it."

"What?" She gave a startled look. "I'm no architect!"

"I'll handle the mechanics and the geometries," he assured her. "But you are the

Daughter of the Sun. The core design must spring from your own heart and soul."

She sighed, then remembered her other errand. It was getting late, and the  gods

knew  she  didn't  want to  worry  her  father. She  clasped  the  priest's hand

gratefully. "I will design it," she said, relishing the idea of a new challenge.

"We'll begin  immediately. The  cold mustn't  stop us.  My thanks,  Rashan." She

pulled up the hood to conceal her face and started to leave. But at the door she

stopped and called back, "And no more dreams!"

Outside again, her  breath made little  clouds in the  air. She hadn't  meant to

spend so long with Rashan. The daylight was weakening; a gray shroud had  closed

over the city. She hurried down the Avenue of Temples and turned onto Governor's

Walk, passing  with a  wary eye  the same  corner where  she and Daphne had been

attacked the night before. It was  quiet now; the shadows and crannies  appeared

empty of threat. She turned down Weaver's Way and crossed the Path of Money.  At

last, she reached Prytanis Street and her destination.

The air seemed suddenly colder, unnaturally cold as she pushed back an  unlocked

gate and approached  a massive set  of wooden doors.  She knocked. There  was no

answer, nor any sound from within. She gazed around at the strange stone statues

that loomed on either side of the door. There was a curious atmosphere of menace

about them. They cast huge shadows  over the place where she waited,  completely

blocking the sun. But she wasn't frightened. She embraced Savankala in her heart

and felt safe.

The second time she knocked the door eased open.

There was no one to greet her,  so she stepped inside. Eerily, the door  closed,

leaving her in  a foyer lit  by soft lamps.  "Enas Yorl?" she  called. The words

echoed hollowly  before fading.  Chewing her  lip, she  wandered deeper into the

house. Everything looked so old,  covered with the dust of  centuries. Brilliant

pieces of art and sculpture were half-hidden by cobwebs. The air smelled of must

and mold. She wrinkled her nose and went through an interior door.

Halfway across that chamber she stopped. A shiver crept up her spine. It was the

same room she had just left behind.

"Enas Yorl!" she  shouted angrily. "Don't  play your wizard's  games with me.  I

want to talk." She hesitated, waited for some kind of answer. "I thought you had

a servant," she  continued impatiently. "Send  him to guide  me to you,  or come

yourself. I'll wait here." She crossed her arms stubbornly, but on the far  side

of the room  another door opened.  She thought about  it, then sighed.  "Oh, all

right. Whatever amuses you."

Once again she passed through the door, and once again found herself in the same

room. "I've heard a lot about you,  Enas Yori," she muttered, "but not that  you

were boring."

Again the far door opened. To her  relief it was a different room. The  smell of

mold was  gone, replaced  by a  heady incense.  Instead of  soft lamps, braziers

glowed  redly, providing  the light.  This new  room was  much larger,  full  of

shelves with  books and  old furniture.  Thick carpets  covered the  floor. In a

corner an odoriferous vapor steamed from a large samovar.

At  the opposite  end of  the room  was a  huge chair  on a  low dais.  Someone,

completely obscured by a voluminous cloak, sprawled upon it.

"Pardon me if I'm mistaken," the figure addressed her, "but most people  tremble

in my presence. You're not trembling."

She batted her eyes innocently. "Sorry to disappoint you."

He held up a hand  to silence her, and he  pulled himself more erect. "You  have

the mark of a god upon you." Two red eyes gleamed at her from beneath a hood  as

spacious as her own. "You are Chenaya, called by some the Daughter of the Sun."

She was beginning to hate that title. "I came to bargain with you, Wizard.  I've

heard of your power. If there's anything to know in this hell-hole, you know it.

It's information I want."

His laughter fairly shook the walls.  "Have I changed so drastically? Do  I look

like Hakiem the  Storyteller, or Blind  Jakob? Seek those  for your information,

woman. I'm no peddler of gossip. More important things occupy my time."

"Indeed?  Well,  occupy yourself  with  these!" She  flung  back her  cloak  and

brazenly cupped her breasts. "Nearly a  year ago a caravan bearing the  Prince's

wife and concubines was attacked in the Gray Wastes. The conspirators  organized

the attack from right here in Sanctuary. You have power, Enas Yorl, and you  can

find things out.  You give me  their names, and  I'll give you  the time of your

life!"

The red eyes shone like twin coals. The wizard leaned forward to regard her with

interest. "Why on earth, woman, would you offer such a bargain? Do you not  know

what I am, what my body is? Yes, I can give you what you seek, but do you  truly

know the price?"

Chenaya barked a  short laugh. "You've  seen my god's  mark upon me,  but do you

know what it means? It means I can't lose-at anything. And that would get boring

if I didn't find new and exciting  ways to amuse myself." She unlaced her  cloak

and let it slide to the floor. "You're the most feared wizard in the Empire, and

I decided when I first came to this city that it might be fun to crawl around in

your bed. But the price of my flesh is the information I seek."

"But my body, Rankan," the wizard interrupted. "Do you know how it changes?"

"Of course," she answered with another laugh. "And I'll be very disappointed  if

you don't undergo some transformation  while we're making love." She  winked. "I

told you, I'm always after a new thrill."

His voice took  on a deeper,  more lusty quality  as he rose  from his chair. "I

have no control over the changes. I can't promise such a thing."

But he changed, even as he whispered in her ear.

Chenaya  frowned  in  irritation  as she  hugged  the  cloak  tighter about  her

shoulders and crept from shadow to  shadow. It wasn't her normal way  of travel.

She preferred to stride the center of the streets and damn anyone stupid  enough

to block her path. But tonight was different. She had business, and there was no

time  for pointless  altercations with  any of  the factions  that governed  the

night.

The animal pens of  Corlas, the camel merchant,  were on the shore  of the White

Foal River just outside the Bazaar. According to rumor, it was one of the places

to avoid these days.  The war between the  two witches, Ischade and  Roxane, had

made an unpredictable hell  of the area, and  half the residents had  apparently

chosen sides.

Games, games, she sighed. Everybody plays. And who could tell-if things got dull

maybe she'd take  a closer interest  in the players.  On the other  hand, things

were looking anything but  dull. Enas Yorl had  surprised her in more  ways than

one.

Unexpectedly, she heard  voices behind her.  She ducked into  the nearest cranny

and crouched behind a barrel. Slops, to judge by the odor. She held her nose and

waited. A ragtag squad of men passed without noticing her. Most appeared to wear

swords, though  a few  carried only  clubs. There  was nothing disciplined about

them. They  talked too  loudly and  swaggered as  if they  owned the  night. She

suspected they'd all been drinking.

When they were past  she resumed her journey.  Quickly, she reached the  bank of

the White  Foal. The  swiftly flowing  surface caught  her attention.  Starlight

sparkled on the waves. The gentle  lapping had an almost mesmerizing quality.  A

strange emotion  stole upon  her, a  mixture of  fear and  fascination, the same

sensation that had overcome her when she set foot upon her first boat and sailed

to Scavengers'  Island. Again,  she remembered  the voice  of Savankala  and the

promise that sealed her fate. Not by sword or by any hand of man, the  Thunderer

told her those many years ago. By water....

She shivered and forced herself  to move on. So it  had been when she sailed  to

the island. On the way  back there had been too  much to do, plans to  make. And

there was much to  do now. She felt  the water calling, calling.  But she denied

it.

A new odor permeated  the air, almost as  bad as the barrel's  contents. She had

spent enough time with  Rankan bestiarii to know  a camel when she  smelled one.

The odor was quite distinct. She moved  silently and came, at last, to the  pens

themselves.

Daxus-that was the first  name Enas Yorl had  whispered in her ear.  For several

years the man  had made his  living standing night  watch over Corlas's  beasts.

According to  the wizard,  however, he  also made  a little  selling information

about  caravan cargoes  to various  raider groups  such as  the  desert-dwelling

Raggah. It was he,  Enas Yorl claimed, who  had arranged the attack  on Daphne's

caravan.

Chenaya fingered a folded  length of gold chain  that hung on her  belt, and she

licked her lips. Now Daxus would pay as she had promised Daphne.

The pens were built of wooden posts  set close together and planted deep in  the

earth.  The outer  wall was  a small  fortification designed  to foil   would-be

thieves. It would require a grapple to climb it. There was only one gate, and it

would be barred from the inside.  Because of the street disturbances, Daxus  had

taken to sealing himself inside with the camels.

Noiselessly, she crept around the walls, peeking through the frequent tiny gaps.

The interior was sectioned into smaller pens. She listened for sounds. Even  the

camels seemed at rest. But ... was that the glow of a small fire?

She stole up  to the gate  and laid a  hand against the  rough wood. Only  guile

would open it without attracting half the rowdies in the city. And guile  wasn't

one of her more reliable talents. Daxus was a man, though, and if she'd  learned

nothing else, she knew she could count on his basest instincts.

She removed her cloak, then shed her  tunic, careful not to mislay a thin  metal

probe secreted  up her  right sleeve.  She hugged  herself, wondering  about her

trousers and boots. Damn, it was cold! Already, she was covered with gooseflesh.

Still, if Daxus was  suspicious he might want  a better look. Cursing  silently,

she gazed  up and  down the  street and  slipped off  the rest  of her garments.

Lastly, she propped her sword against the wall close at hand.

Then she pounded frantically on the gate. "Help!" she cried in a tight  whisper.

"Please let me in! My  husband will kill me! Help!"  She beat the wood with  the

flat of her hand, shooting glances around, hoping no one else would hear.

A  narrow portal  slid open  a bare  fraction. No  face appeared,  but a   voice

whispered back. "Who's that? I don't want no trouble. Go away."

The  portal  started to  slide  shut, but  Chenaya  shoved her  finger  into the

aperture. "Wait!" she begged. "You're  Daxus. I've seen you before.  Please, let

me in before  my husband finds  me. He beats  me, but this  time I ran  away. He

chased me across Caravan Square, but I lost him. He'll catch up, though. Please,

it's so cold!" That much was certainly true. "Hide me, I beg you!"

The  portal opened  wider; one  eye peered  through. "Is  this a  trick?"  Daxus

grumbled. "Stand back so I can get a look at you. Say, you haven't got a  stitch

on!"

She thanked the gods for her foresight. But it was freezing! It might be a  good

touch, she decided, if she sank to her knees, so she did. "I had a dress, but he

ripped it off.  Tried to rape  me, the drunken  oaf!" She hoped  she was whining

convincingly. Was Daphne really worth this kind of humiliation?

The portal slid all the way open,  and the watchman poked his face out,  glanced

from side to side as far as  the opening allowed, and licked his lips.  Decision

gleamed in his eyes as  he grinned at her. "Well,  I've got a fire that'll  warm

you, sweet. Warm you through and through."

The portal scraped shut. Chenaya heard the  heavy bar lift on the inside of  the

gate. It started to swing back.

She rose swiftly and grabbed her sword. She remembered that lustful look on  his

face and how it repulsed her; she loathed the role she had assumed to trick him;

on top of that she was chilled to the bone. For those reasons, she hit him a lot

harder than was needed.  Fortunately for Daxus she  only used the pommel  of her

weapon.

Moving quickly, she  dragged him back  inside, then retrieved  her garments. She

pushed the gate closed, took a  moment to throw the cloak around  her shoulders,

then bent over his unmoving form. The  length of chain came free from her  belt,

and she fumbled for the wire-thin probe in her tunic sleeve.

She worked by the light  of his fire. At one  end of the chain two  small, blunt

prongs were clasped together with a piece of wrapped string as long as the chain

itself. This she inserted  in the watchman's right  nostril. With the probe  she

guided the chain up his nose and  into the nasal passage that led deep  into his

throat. Chenaya knew when the  prongs were positioned. Carefully, she  separated

the lengths of chain and string and began slowly to pull. The probe insured that

the chain remained in place, but it twisted as she tugged on the string. Moments

later, the wrapping came free, and the prongs snapped open. She gave a light tug

on the chain. It was firmly anchored.

It was the  method used to  handle recalcitrant slaves  and criminals in  Ranke.

Awake, the process was quite painful. Daxus was lucky she'd hit him so hard.  He

wasn't, however, going to like it at all.

She didn't like the smell  of the camels. It was  time to go. All she  had to do

was sneak him back to Land's End.  She wrapped the free end of the  chain around

her hand and started to heave him over her shoulder.

The gate pushed open. It was Day me.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered angrily, heart pounding. With her hands

full of Daxus she hadn't been able to reach her sword.

"Watching your back,"  he answered calmly.  "Pull on the  rest of your  clothes.

I'll carry him."

She blushed hotly. No doubt he'd seen  a lot more than her back. And  she'd been

in such a rush to get away with  Daxus she'd forgotten to pull on more than  the

cloak. She released the chain and  hurriedly dressed. But it irritated her  that

she hadn't noticed Dayrne, and she mentioned it.

"Mistress," he grinned, "I was sneaking through streets and back alleys when you

were still playing with dolls."

"But you got caught," she reminded haughtily.

He nodded. "Everyone gets caught sometime."

She stamped into her  boots and pointed to  Daxus who showed signs  of stirring.

"Well, let's not get caught tonight. This package is for Daphne."

Dayrne's fist sent the watchman back to sleep.

"Lady  Chenaya,  daughter  of  Lowan  Vigeles,  cousin  to  His  Highness Prince

Kadakithis."

Lu-Broca, the Palace's major-domo, smiled graciously as he announced her arrival

to  the festival  guests. He  made a  curt bow  of personal  greeting which  she

acknowledged with a nod.

Five steps descended from the entrance to the floor of the Grand Hall. She  took

them slowly,  noting the  tables piled  with food  and drink,  the musicians and

dancers, the faces that turned in her direction.

It was a good mix of the city's upper class; Rankan rubbed shoulders with  Ilsig

and Beysib in stark contrast to the intense street rivalries. On the far side of

the hall Hakiem the storyteller-turned-Beysib-advisor stood in conversation with

several guests. Nearby, listening discreetly, was the man called Lastel; Chenaya

knew little of him  save that he was  apparently quite rich. There  were others:

Gonfred the Goldsmith, Dr. Nadeesha, Master Melilot the Scribe. There were  also

lots of Beysibs she didn't recognize; they all looked alike to her.

Then she  spied Kadakithis.  Shupansea, the  Beysib ruler,  hung on  his arm. It

amused her to note that even  the Beysa had adopted local fashion,  covering her

breasts instead of brazenly painting them. Of course, Molin Torchholder was with

them.

The Prince  hurried forward,  all smiles  and warmth,  glad to  see her. Neither

Shupansea nor Molin appeared to share his enthusiasm.

"Cousin!" the  Prince exclaimed  over the  noise of  the celebration. "I'd heard

you'd returned to us. Why didn't you come visit?" He wrapped his arms around her

and gave his favorite relative a gentle hug.

"Business, my Little Prince," she answered,  rumpling his hair in a manner  that

made Shupansea frown. "There were things 1  had to do." She glanced back at  the

entrance, then hugged her cousin again.  "Can we speak alone?" she whispered  in

his ear.

Even as  children they  had shared  confidences. The  Prince didn't hesitate. He

turned to  Shupansea. "Excuse  me a  moment, my  love, while  I lead  Chenaya to

refreshment. I'm sure Molin will see  to your entertainment." He gave the  Beysa

no chance to voice disapproval, but caught his cousin's arm and steered her into

the crowd.

"Now, what's so important that it makes you wrinkle your face that way?" he said

when they were safely on the far side of the hall.

Chenaya swallowed. Until  last night she  hadn't thought about  her cousin, only

about scoring another  point on Shupansea-an  important point. "You  know I love

you, Kadakithis," she started,  searching for the right  words. "But you know  I

love Ranke more." It didn't sound right; she was stalling and he could tell.

Lu-Broca's voice boomed from the entrance. She caught her breath.

"Lowan Vigeles and  the Lady Rosanda,"  the major-domo announced  to her relief.

There was still time before all hell broke loose.

She squeezed her cousin's arm fiercely, not wanting to hurt him, knowing it  was

too late  to avoid  it. "Cousin,  do you  have it  in mind  to marry that Beysib

bitch?"

Kadakithis pulled away in irritation. "Chenaya," he said, "I regret that the two

of you have taken such a dislike to each other-"

She cut him off. "No  games, Cousin. I've seen how  you two look at each  other,

and I know how she feels. But I can't-"

It was his turn  to interrupt. "Are you  disappointed because I haven't  amassed

some kind of army and ridden north  to reclaim the throne from Theron?" She  had

never heard him sneer  before, and it startled  her. "Do you think  I'm a coward

because I've sequestered myself here in Sanctuary-"

She put a hand over his mouth to stop the ugly accusations. "Of course not!" she

snapped. "I know better than you the extent of Theron's power and the length  of

his reach. You'd be raw  meat for Theron; he'd chew  you up if you rode  against

him." She swallowed hard and cast another glance at the entrance. "But no matter

who sits on the throne, Ranke must still be preserved. And Sanctuary is part  of

Ranke,  no matter  how many  Beysib ships   sit in  the harbor  or how  many  of

Shupansea's fish-eyed relatives move into the Palace."

She pressed his face  between her hands, hoping  in her heart of  hearts that he

would someday forgive her. "But you can't marry her, Kadakithis. I can't let you

marry her. Shupansea must never gain any legitimate claim to this city. A  guest

she may be, but never your wife, never a princess of Ranke."

Kadakithis bristled. "And how would you  stop it, Cousin. // we had  even talked

marriage, how would you stop it?"

Anger made him a stranger to her.  He pushed her hands away, and that  hurt more

than she could say.  They had been playmates  and friends, confidantes. Now  she

had driven in a wedge that might never be removed.

Still, it was for Ranke. Shupansea was  an invader as evil as any of  the forces

seeking to fragment the Empire.  The fish-faced temptress was more  subtle, more

patient, but  it was  still Rankan  land she  desired, even  if it  was only the

slimepit called Sanctuary.

Chenaya drew a deep breath and ignored the stinging in her eyes. "I have stopped

it, my Little Prince. I have stopped it."

Kadakithis backed a step.  His gaze bored into  her with a menace  she had never

seen in him. As if on cue, Lu-Broca's voice filled the Grand Hall announcing the

newest arrivals.  Chenaya spun  around. The  major-domo was  pale, a  frightened

expression on  his face.  She located  Shupansea and  Molin Torchholder. She had

wanted to be close, wanted to see their faces. Now it didn't seem so important.

"Her Royal Highness,  Daphne, Princess of  Ranke, wife to  Kadakithis." Lu-Broca

swallowed. "And escort."

All color fled from Kadakithis's face  as he pushed through the suddenly  silent

throng. Chenaya followed him to the foot of the stair. The Beysa and Molin  were

quickly with them. The Beysib met her with a look of purest hatred. Chenaya  had

thought  about how  she would  respond: smile,  stick out  her tongue,  bat  her

eyelashes innocently, anything to mock the woman, to drive home another victory.

She found instead that she could do nothing but look away.

Daphne  glided  down  the  steps  with  supreme  grace.  Her  right  hand rested

imperiously on Dayrne's massive bare arm. Her left hand held the end of  Daxus's

chain, and she led him like an exotic pet.

Rosanda had  done a  wonderful job  preparing the  princess. Daphne was radiant.

Clouds of sky-blue silk swathed her form, hiding the bruises and scratches.  Her

hair was bound  in curls about  her head. Her  eyes were lightly  kohled and her

cheeks  rouged to  perfection. Chenaya  could smell  the gentle  perfumes.  Most

pleasing of  all was  the sun-burst  circlet, one  of her  own, that  gleamed on

Daphne's brow.

"I promise you'll pay for this insult," Shupansea whispered tightly.

"Pay attention, fish-face," Chenaya suggested evenly. "You don't yet  appreciate

the full extent of my insult." She looked down on the shorter woman and forced a

smile. "I do want you to appreciate it."

Daphne reached the  bottom step. She  and Kadakithis regarded  each other for  a

long moment. The Prince reached out  to take her hand. Daphne clung  to Dayrne's

arm instead, "Hello, my husband." She spoke gently, yet loudly enough for all to

hear. "Are you surprised?"

"Yes, yes!" Kadakithis stumbled on his words. "Very!"

"You should be." She didn't snap, but formed her remarks politely, coolly.  "Did

you even bother  to conduct a  search? Did you  look for me  or wonder about  my

fate?"

Chenaya, too, had been puzzled about her cousin's lack of concern for his wife's

disappearance. How, she wondered, could Shupansea have so bewitched him?  Still,

she ached for her Little Prince when he hung his head in shame.

Daphne released Dayrne's  arm, dismissed him  with a nod.  He moved a  few steps

back to stand beside Daxus. Daphne floated past her prince-husband. She  stopped

directly before Shupansea.

"You do look like a carp, as  I've been told," Daphne said with some  amusement.

Shupansea shot another hateful glance at Chenaya. "Perhaps you're descended from

fishes." Daphne paused to  survey the faces of  those around her. Nobody  made a

sound, but  all pressed  closer to  hear the  exchange. She  turned back  to the

Beysa. "But whatever you  are," she continued, "I'll  tell you what you  are not

and never  will be.  You are  not Kadakithis's  wife. That  title will  never be

yours. Divorce is forbidden among the noble families of Ranke."

Shupansea regarded the younger woman coldly, un-moving, unspeaking.

Daphne went on  mercilessly. "Oh, I  don't plan to  stay here, so  I won't be in

your way.  I've made  quarters at  Land's End  with Lowan  Vigeles and  the Lady

Chenaya whom the gods allowed to find  and rescue me." She put on a  false smile

and looked  on Shupansea  as she  might have  looked on  a worm.  "You can  have

Kadakithis if you want him. But you'll never be more than his concubine.  Number

eight if I recall, though the others are dead or wish they were." Daphne's smile

vanished. "If you love him, though, the role of whore may be enough."

Kadakithis made  a foolish  attempt to  change the  subject. "Who  is this  poor

fellow?" he said, indicating Daxus.

"Perhaps Uncle Molin knows him?" Chenaya interjected.

The priest glared at her from the corner  of his eye and shook his head. He  was

uncharacteristically silent, watching, and, Chenaya knew, scheming how he  might

turn the situation to his advantage.

"My pretty-boy?" Daphne jiggled the chain, causing Daxus to wrinkle his face  in

pain. He couldn't catch the chain, for his hands were bound securely behind  his

back. When he tried to protest all  that came out was a harsh, raspy  sound that

set him  to gagging.  Maliciously, Daphne  shook the  chain harder. Tears sprang

from her prisoner's eyes, and he sank to his knees. So it had been for Daxus the

past three days.

Daphne reeled in the length of chain, making Daxus crawl to her. "Haven't I done

him up nicely?" She fingered the fine silk tunic she had put on him and ran  her

hand over his head. "Fine garments for  a piece of dung. He arranged the  attack

on my caravan and hired the men that sold me into a year of hell. He's only  the

first to be discovered.  I assure you, there  will be others." She  ran her gaze

meaningfully around the hall. "I promise." She jerked on the chain again, and  a

trickle of blood oozed from Daxus's nose. "And they'll all end up like this!"

With a flick of her wrist she looped the chain around Daxus's throat. Her  hands

clenched around the  chain and she  strained, forearms bulging.  Her face turned

into an insane mask of  fury; her lips curled back  in a snarl. Daxus emitted  a

scraping howl as  the links bit  sharply into his  flesh. His cheeks  purpled; a

vein throbbed in his temple, and his eyes snapped wide with death-fear.

It was over with startling swiftness.  Daxus slumped forward, his head making  a

loud crack  as it  hit the  floor. "So  they will  all end," she promised again,

recovering her composure, patting a loose curl back into place. She stepped away

from the body. "But for the moment this business is done." She took Kadakithis's

arm in a firm grip. "Many of you were my friends before I left, and I'm eager to

speak and laugh  with all of  you. This is  a celebration, so  let's celebrate!"

Without giving Shupansea another look. Daphne led her husband into the thick  of

the crowd.

Chenaya motioned to Dayrne that he  should take Daxus away. She didn't  miss the

shocked expression  he wore.  Neither of  them had  considered that Daphne would

kill Daxus there. She had taken too much pleasure in tormenting her plaything.

Lowan Vigeles appeared at her elbow. His features were stony. "This was not well

done. Daughter," was all he said before he left her to rejoin Rosanda.

Shupansea whirled on her. For an  instant Chenaya thought the Beysa would  spit.

The woman seemed barely  in control of herself,  unable to find words.  Instead,

she mounted the stairs and stormed from the hall.

Molin was  next in  line. "You  foolish child!"  he started.  "You've made her a

whore in the eyes of the entire city. Do you know what you've done?"

Chenaya glared at him, recalling with disgust how once she had trusted this man.

He alone knew of  the gifts Savankala had  granted her. With that  knowledge, of

course, he had made a small fortune by betting on her battles in the arena.  She

peered at her uncle and felt nothing but anger.

"If you want to  talk, Old Weasel," she  said low-voiced, "we'd better  do it on

the terrace away from other ears."

Molin looked as if he'd swallowed bitter wine, then he turned and shoved a  path

through the guests to the terrace. Chenaya leaned far over the balcony, tempting

him to push her. On the docks in the distance she could see the glimmering fires

of the poorer Beysib sailors. They, too, celebrated the Winter Bey in their  own

less lavish way.

"... Stupid, thoughtless action!" Molin Torchholder raged, shaking his fist. "If

Shupansea is angry enough  to take action where  will we be? She  has a thousand

warriors!"

Chenaya's waist was encircled by numerous chains. She unfastened one of them and

draped it around Molin's neck. One end was pronged.

"You ordered the attack  on Daphne's caravan. Uncle  Molin." She held up  a hand

before he could  protest. "Don't deny  it. I know.  I saw everything,  including

your face, in a scrying crystal."

Molin didn't bother to  hide his laughter. "You  accuse me because of  something

you saw in a fortune-teller's ball? You're as insane as Daphne!"

"No, Uncle," she answered. "What I saw was real. It was no mere  fortune-teller.

I promised Daphne the names of her tormentors, and I did what I had to do to get

those names. Gods know every one of them deserves to die. Scavengers' Island  is

filthier and more vile even than Sanctuary." She clasped both ends of the  chain

around his neck, slid  her hands toward his  throat. "But when I  left here over

three months  ago it  was to  find and  save any  remaining members of the Royal

Family. And for better or worse, you're Family. I won't turn you over to Daphne.

If we ever do get the chance  to strike back against Theron we may  need someone

with  your ability  to scheme  and plot."  She released  the chain,  smoothed  a

wrinkle from his  tunic. "And if  we never get  the chance," she  smiled darkly,

"then, in time, I'll take care of you myself."

Molin drew himself proudly erect. "Don't threaten me, Niece. The gods have  made

you powerful,  but you  forget I  know your  secrets. I  know how  you can die!"

Chenaya grabbed Molin by the front of  his robe, ripped the hem of her  own gown

as she lifted and  bent him backward over  the balcony, twisted him  so he could

see the ground far below.

"You know how," she growled, "but not when. Would you drown me. Uncle, throw  me

in the river? You foolish old man!  After I discovered what a snake you  are the

first thing I  learned to do  was swim. You  have my secrets,  but see what good

they do you." She set  him back on his feet,  pleased by the fine, sudden  sweat

sheen on his brow.

Molin rubbed his back where the stone  had bitten into it. "Damn you! Don't  you

ever get tired of games? Don't you weary of always winning?"

Amazed, she threw back her head and laughed. "Uncle, you're such a delight!  The

joy isn't in the winning, but in seeing the effect of winning on the loser."

She left him, then. Inside the hall, the noise of conversation had reached a new

height. Shupansea had not returned, nor was Kadakithis anywhere in sight. Daphne

moved through the crowd, smiling and  tinkling with laughter with Dayrne as  her

escort. Lowan and Rosanda stood alone in a corner in private dialogue.

"Is it true you were undefeated in the Rankan Games?"

Chenaya looked disdainfully at the little man who had dared to brush her  elbow.

He offered her a goblet of wine which she refused, and he repeated his question.

"Your name is Terryle, isn't it?" she asked innocently. "The tax collector?"

His face lit up, and he made a slight bow. "My fame precedes me!"

Chenaya wrinkled her  nose and imitated  his tone. "Is  it true you're  the most

detested man in Sanctuary?" His brows  shot up. She walked away before  any more

could come of the conversation. She saw the man Lastel coming her way.

Strange, she thought. None of this is  as I thought it would be. She'd  won, but

there was  a bitter  taste in  her mouth.  She recalled  something she'd said to

Daphne: Even winning can cost a dear price.

Without a word to anyone she mounted the steps, nodded goodnight to Lu-Broca and

left  the  Palace. A  few  guests mingled  in  Vashanka's Square  on  the Palace

grounds, but she avoided  them. Just outside the  Processional Gate four of  her

gladiators waited with her palanquin. Too  late, she realized she'd left a  fine

cloak inside. No matter, she would  send for it tomorrow. Right now,  she wanted

to get home, change into leathers and take a walk with Reyk. The falcon was  the

only company she wanted.

The palanquin  began to  move. Chenaya  sighed, pulled  the curtains  closed and

hugged herself against the cold.

ARMIES OF THE NIGHT

C. J. Cherryh

I

It was an uncommon meeting of  Stepsons, recent and previous. It took  place one

night at winter's edge, outside the weed-grown garden of a smallish house on the

riverside, a house in which the outer dimensions and the inner ones did not well

agree. Ischade was its  owner. And this meeting  was on a midnight  when She was

occupied with another visitor in  the inside of this outwardly-small  house    .

and a bay horse waited sleepily at the front.

"Stilcho,"  the  Stepson-ghost whispered;  and  Stilcho, fugitive  from  his bed

within the house (rejected lately, solitary within the witch's abode) stirred in

his dejected posture and  lifted his head from  his cloaked arms and  opened his

eyes, only one of which existed.

Janni hovered by  the back step,  in one of  his less palatable  manifestations,

adrip  with gore,  rib-bone showing  through shreds  of skin.  Stilcho  gathered

himself to  his feet,  wrapped his  cloak about  him and  put a  little distance

between them-he was no ghost, himself, but he was dead: so he understood  ghosts

all too well and knew an agitated one when he saw it, both in this world and the

next.

"I want to talk with you," Janni said. "I've got to talk."

"Go away." Stilcho  was acutely conscious  of the living  presence in the  small

house, of wards  and watches that  existed all about  the yard. He  spoke in his

mind, because Janni was in his head  as much as he was standing on  the walk-and

just as definitely as Janni was there in his mind, he was standing on that walk.

Stilcho knew. He had raised  this ghost. Revenge, Stilcho had  whispered simply,

and this ghost, wandering aimless on the far shores of nowhere among other  lost

souls, had turned and lifted its bloody face and licked its bloody lips. Revenge

and Roxane. That had been enough to bring Janni back to the living.

But  there  were  penalties  for  revenants  such  as  Janni.  Memory  was  one.

Attachments were  another sort.  Hell was  not the  other side  alone. Such dead

brought  it  with  them and  made  it  where they  walked,  even  with the  best

intentions. And this one had been  too long out of hell, ignoring  orders, going

where it pleased in the town.

The aspect grew  worse. Blood dropped  onto the steps.  There was a  reek in the

air. It would not be denied, would not go away; and Stilcho walked away down the

tangled path  to the  iron gate,  where the  brush and  the trees  and the earth

itself gave way to dark air, to the black river that gnawed and muttered at  the

shore on which the house sat. He looked back, never having hoped the ghost would

retreat. "For godssakes, man-"

"He's in trouble," Janni said. "My partner's in trouble, dammit-"

'Not your partner. No  longer your partner. You're  dead, have you got  it yet?"

Stilcho blinked and ran a hand through his hair, grimaced as the ghost  achieved

his worst aspect. Stilcho had a real body, however scarred and maimed; and Janni

had none; or  had whatever his  mood of the  moment gave him,  which was the way

with ghosts of Janni's sort. "If She finds you off patrol again-"

"She'll do what? Kill me? Look, friend-"

'Not your friend. There're new ghosts in hell. You know them. You know who  made

them-"

"It was overdue." Janni's face acquired eyes, glaring through a red film in  the

moonlight. "Long  overdue,  that housecleaning.  What  were they  to  you?  Half

Rankene, nothings-They had their chance."

Stilcho turned  and glared,  his back  to the  river. "My dead-you sanctimonious

prig. My dead-"  Stepsons murdered by  Stepsons, his barracksmates  slaughtered,

and  several-score bewildered,  betrayed ghosts  were clamoring  tonight at  the

gates of Hell. It was Ischade's doing, and Straton's; but Stilcho did not  carry

that complaint  where it  was due.  "No wonder  you don't  want to  go back down

there-Is  that it,  Janni-butcher? Partner  to butchers?  Hell got  too large  a

welcoming-committee waiting for you?" Janni reached for him in anger and Stilcho

retreated against the low gate. It gave backward unexpectedly, above the  abyss,

and Stilcho's heart jumped.  He feared wards broken.  He feared the steep  slope

that the  path took  along the  riverside, and  remembered that  he could die of

other things than Ischade's  inattention. He stood in  the gateway and held  his

ground with bluff. "Don't you  lay a hand on me.  Or I'll take you back  where I

got  you. Now.  And you'll  find the  witch-bitch Roxane  was pleasant  company.

What's in hell is forever, Janni-ghost. And they'll love to have you with  them,

damned, like them. They'll wait at the  gates for you. Real patient. Or shall  I

call  their  names? I  know  their names,  Janni-prig.  I don't  think  you ever

bothered to learn them."

Janni stopped  at  least. Stood  there  on the  path,  silent, solid-  and  live

looking, give or take the blood that smeared his face. Janni wanted badly to  be

back among the living, for reasons not  all of which were savory. Love was  one.

And it was never a savory kind of  love, the dead for the living. Janni had  not

learned that.

Stilcho had. In that  improbably small house he  knew himself supplanted by  the

living-perhaps fatally.

"You're Rankene," Janni said. "You somehow forget that, boy?"

"I don't forget a  thing. Look at me  and tell me what  I can forget. Look  what

happened to  us for  your sake,  while you  were off  a-heroing and left us this

sinkhole.  And  you  come  home  with  thanks,  do  you?  Straton  slaughters my

barracksmates for failing  your precious purity  and your Niko,  that paragon of

virtue, falls straight into bed with the Nisi witch-"

"Lie."

"The witch who killed you, man. Where's his virtue? Sent to hell with the  likes

of me and you? I don't bloody care!"

Ischade half-heard the whisperings of her ghosts outside the house, the true and

the half-dead; and ignored  them for the living  inside-for the warm and  living

and far more attractive person of the third Stepson, whose name was Straton.  He

gazed  at her,  his head  on her  silken pillow,  in her  silk-strewn  bed-chief

interrogator, chief torturer, when the Stepsons had to apply that art-soldier by

preference. He was a big man, a moodish man of wry humors and the most  delicate

skills with a body (one could  guess where acquired), and he would  survive this

night too-she was  determined he should,  and she gazed  back at him  in the dim

light of golden  candles, in the  eclectic clutter of  her private alcove-strewn

spiderlike with bright silks, with the spoils of other men, other victims of her

peculiar curse.

"Why," he asked (Straton was always  full of questions), "why can't you  get rid

of this-curse of yours?"

"Because-" She laid a  cautioning finger on his  chin, and planted a  kiss after

it, "because. If I told you that you'd  not rest; you'd be a great fool all  for

my sake. And that would be the end of you."

"Ranke's ending. What have I got? Maybe I'd rather be a fool. Maybe I can't help

but be one." A tiny frown-line knit his brow. He stared into her eyes. "How many

men are this lucky this long?"

"None," she whispered,  low as  the rustle  of wind  in the  brush, as the ghost

voices outside. "None for long. So far. Hush. Would you love me if there were no

danger? If I were safe you'd leave me. The same way you left Ranke. The same way

you've stayed in Sanctuary. The same way you ride the streets on that great  bay

horse of yours that too many know-it's death you court, Strat. Indeed it is. I'm

only a symptom."

"You mean to add me to your collection, dammit; like Stilcho, like Janni-"

"I mean to keep you alive, dammit, for my reasons." The dammit was mockery.  Her

curses were real, and  deadly. She touched his  temple, where a small  scar was,

where the  hair was  growing thin.  "You're no  boy, no  fool, I  won't have you

become one at this stage of your life. Listen to me and I'll tell you things-"

Stilcho shivered there in  the dark against the  gate, his back to  the river-he

still could shiver,  though his flesh  was less warm  than formerly. And  having

been rash with Janni  he passed further bounds  of good sense. He  stared at the

ghost and saw  that Janni was  not his usual  furious self. There  was something

diminished about the ghost. And desperate. As if his arguments had told. "So you

want my help," he said  to Janni, "to get Niko  back. You and he can  go to hell

together for what I care. Ask Her, why don't you?"

"I'm asking you." The  ghost wavered and resumed  solid shape. "You were  one of

the best  of the  ones we  recruited. You  were one-who'd  have been  one of us,

after. After the war. Where were those precious lads when you wanted help out on

that bridge, in that  sty Downwind while the  Ilsigi took you apart?  Who helped

you? The Ilsigi-loving dogs Strat cleaned out? You're Rankan."

"Half. Half, you bloody prig, and not good enough for you till you were short of

help. No, there's a damn lot I don't forget. You left us as bloody meat-Ran  out

on us, left us to  hold this hell-hole, dammit, you  knew the Nisi would hit  at

your underbelly, come in here where Ranke's hold's weakest. Not with swords, no;

with witchery and  money, the sort  of thing the  Nisibisi are long  on and this

gods-forsaken pit of a town is apt for-"

"And corruption inside, inside the corps. Dammit, how quick did you forget?  You

love the Wrigglie bastards that did that to you? You defend your Wrigglie-loving

barracksmates? Stilcho," Janni's face wavered in  and out of solidity.  "Stilcho

your barracksmates damn well left you on that bridge. They left you to die slow.

/ know about dying slow, Stilcho; believe me that I know. And you're right about

the Nisibisi outflanking us-everlasting right.  But what else could we  do? Lose

it up north?  The Band  did what  they could.  Men coming  back from  that-maybe

maybe they had to save what of their honor they could here in Sanctuary. And you

know what your barracks-mates were into, you know what the Band found when  they

walked in-It was only the dregs  survived. Some on the take from  the Wrigglies;

some, dammit, from the Nisibisi themselves; the rest who dodged every duty  they

could-you know 'em,  doing their  patrols in  the wineshops  and the whorehouses

while you stood out on that bridge while the damn rabble cut you to-"

"Let  it  go,"  Stilcho  hissed;   and  in  the  little  house   beyond  Janni's

insubstantial  body-gods,  the  lights   dimmed,  Stilcho  imagined  the   harsh

breathing,  bodies  twined,  knew  another   of  them  was  in  the   toils  and

irretrievable; and was in a hell of jealousy. "We left all of that. You've  left

it further than I have. You ought to learn that-"

"-it's in my interest," Ischade whispered against Straton's ear. "Whatever  else

you trust in this world, believe in self-interest; and my self-interest is  this

city; and against  my self-interest is  Roxane of Nisibis.  Hostilities were her

choice-far from mine. I never like noise. I never like attention-"

"Don't you."

She laughed without mirth, ignored his moving hands, took his face between  hers

and stared until his eyes grew quiet and deep and hazy. "Listen to me, Strat."

"Spells, you damned witch."

"Not while you can still curse me. I'm telling you a truth."

"Half  our  nights are  dreams."  He blinked,  shook  his head,  blinked  again.

"Dammit-"

"There's no  street in  Sanctuary I  don't walk,  there's no  door and no gate I

can't pass, no secret I can't hear. I gather things. I bundle them together  and

put them in  your hands. I  have no luck  of my own.  I give it  away. I've left

nobleborn dead in  the gutter-oh, yes,  and gathered up  a slave and  made him a

lord-" She bent  and kissed, lightly,  gently, teased the  thinning hair at  his

temple. "You feel a rumbling of change  in the world and you rush to  court your

death. But change  isn't death. Change  is chance. In  chance a man  can rise as

well as fall. Name  me your enemies. Name  me your dreams, Straton-Stepson,  and

I'll show you the way to them."

He said nothing, but stared at her in that dim lost way.

"No ambition?"  Ischade asked.  "I think  you have-  more ambition  than I.  You

belong in the sun; and I can't  bear that kind of light-Oh, not factually-"  She

laid a finger on his lips. He was always quick with his questions on that score,

always  mistook  her. "It's  questions  I can't  bear.  It's notice.  I  find my

associates in the dark places: the unmissable; the directly violent. I scour the

streets. But you belong in the  sunlight. You were made for leading  men. Listen

to me and think of this-are you a greater fool than Kadakithis?"

"Not fool enough to be Kadakithis."

"A man  could take  this town  and make  it the  wall behind  which Ranke  could

survive. Kadakithis will lose you your  Empire and you could save it.  Don't you

understand  this? Ranke  is in  retreat already.  Forces are  gathering here  in

Sanctuary, in  the last  stronghold Ranke  has. And  this wispy-minded prince of

yours will lie abed with his snake-queen till the venom corrodes the rest of his

wits: Do you not see this? Do you see only chance in this Beysib invasion?"

He blinked again, blinked twice. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you believe all the Beysib have told about their coming here? What monstrous

coincidence-their arrival here among us just as Nisibis exerts pressure from the

north and Ranke begins to totter. I don't believe in coincidence. I don't  trust

coincidence  where wizards  are concerned.  Kadakithis in  his folly  has let  a

foreign fleet  in among  us at  our south  door ...  while Roxane from the north

pours foreign gold into the hands of Ilsigi death squads and promises the  fools

self-rule. Self-rule! Listen to me. I can take care of Roxane. But I can't  come

into the daylight. You can. You're a man who understands hard choices. A  better

man than any in Sanctuary right now, a far better man than Kadakithis-"

"I have my duty-"

"To what? To the Stepsons? Lead them."

"We have a leader. I have a partner-"

"Critias. He follows  Tempus. And Tempus-Do  you understand him,  half? He could

take  a world.  One of  his men  could take  a city,  shore up  an empire.  You,

Straton. And hand it  to him. Tempus has  a chance here-but you're  the one that

can take it for him; you're the only one who's in position. Ranke has a  chance.

Behind Sanctuary's walls. What if Tempus  is coming? He might well be  too late.

What good anything if they come too late? Listen to me. Listen to what I have to

tell you and test whether my advice is good."

"You," Janni said, and Stilcho, his back to the black air and the river, felt  a

tenuous grip on both his arms, gazed into a face all but solid, and Janni's best

aspect-Janni as he had been-before. Before Roxane. "You're the only one I can go

to. The only one I can reach.  I've been through the town-" Gods knew  what that

compassed, the nightbound wandering  down the winds: Stilcho  guessed. "Stilcho,

before the  gods, we've  got precious  little left.  The dead  of this  pesthole

patrol her streets; they watch her  bridges. Half of them are Roxane's.  Some of

them-some of them aren't anyone's. Man, you are still a man, they left you  that

much-are you that afraid of Ischade? Is it that? You slip her cord and she-takes

away whatever she  gave you? Is  that what you  march to now,  man? You took  an

oath. You meant it once.  You kept it and those  dogs fouled it; and I'm  asking

now, I'm asking you  get my partner out  of this. He's necessary,  don't you see

that? He's-what he is. And they'll use him. Roxane's wrung the sense out of  him

and the priests will get the rest-"

"You're the worst kind  of ghost, Janni. The  worst kind. The walking  kind. You

won't go back. Will you? Not till someone settles you."

"No," Janni said, and the tendrils of something very cold wove their way  around

Stilcho, between him and his body. Stilcho  opened his mouth to cry out; but  he

had made the  mistake, he had  let Janni into  his mind. And  the spot that  was

Janni got wider. His dead-alive heart lurched against his ribs as the river-wind

skirled up at him.  "No," Janni said. "You  want to know the  difference in what

you are and what I was? / was  better than you. I was stronger. I still  am. You

want me to show you, Stilcho?"

Stilcho's legs trembled. His left foot scraped backward, against Stilcho's every

effort to stand firm on the brink.

"A step-a small  step, Stilcho," Janni  said. "I'll only  grow stronger. If  the

witch does send  me back I'll  be in hell  every time she  sends you down  after

souls-and some night you won't come  out of hell, Stilcho-lad. And not  all your

dead dog-lovers will save you. Or you listen to me now, you get him out-"

"Bluff."

The foot dragged backward, knees shook beneath him. "Try me. How much have I got

to lose?"

"Stop-stop it."

The foot stayed. A feeling of  oily cold settled into Stilcho's gut.  "There are

advantages to being wholly dead. But few." Janni's voice faded. "I see the  dead

walking patrol in hell and  in the streets. No way  out. I see the past  and the

future and I can't sort them out-I see Niko-I see two ways from here-and I can't

sort them out. Two ways for  Ranke-for the corps-for him-Niko's got to  be free,

no priest's pawn-free-Has to be-the god-the god-"

"Shut up!"

The feeling went,  just-went. Stilcho stood  shivering and leaned  on the fence,

staring out over the gulf. He had  no illusions that the ghost was gone.  It was

revenge-bound and bound to the living and bound to hang about.

In truth he had nothing left of loyalty himself-not to comrades, not to anything

so much as the thin thread that each time hauled him up out of hell when Ischade

sent him down.

That thin thread grew  strongest when he looked  closest into her eyes,  when he

shared her  bed and  each morning  died for  it and  came back  from hell again,

because the thread was always there. It  was all he had of pleasure. It  was all

he had of life. He knew what hell was, being too frequently a visitor; and  when

he went down again the  souls of his dead would  cling to him and clamor  at him

and beg him for rescue-and he would  strike at them and leave them in  the dark,

clawing his own way to  the light like a drowning  man, back to the next  breath

that he could win in the world and back to the bed of the woman who killed them.

So  much  for  loyalties. This  constant  passage  back and  forth  left  him no

illusions  such as  Janni had-of  ties to  anything. There  was only  fear.  And

sometime pleasure. But more of fear.

Ischade-had a new amusement. Ischade had  herself a man she had not  yet killed;

one useful to  her in this  world, and Stilcho  was starkly terrified  that when

Strat died-she might find Strat still  useful, in place of a scarred  and maimed

husk that had never been the man Straton had been.

Stilcho was, at the depth of his attentuated life- terrified; and Janni had  put

the name to it.

Brush moved, ever so quietly. It might  have been the wind. But a touch  brushed

his arm, a touch where no sound  had been; and Stilcho gasped and spun,  and all

but took that fatal fall-except for the hand that closed on his arm and kept him

from headlong flight.

"Does the river draw you?" Haught asked. "The place ef one's death-has a hold on

a soul. I'd avoid the water, Stilcho."

Straton's  eyes  glazed, the  pupils  slid aside  in  slitted lids,  as  he lost

awareness for  the dreams  he dreamed,  that were  a drug  more potent  than any

apothecary's.

And  Ischade  shivered,  letting  the spell  wind  and  build  till the  candles

fluttered-she was lost a moment, self-indulgence. But only a moment.

She bent and whispered more things in Strat's ear and he stirred and gazed up at

her with pupils wide and black and drinking down all she might give him.

"There are  actions you  have to  take," she  whispered, "for  Ranke's sake, for

Crit's-for Tempus. I'll tell  them to you, to  save this city, save  the Empire,

save what you've always fought for. You  stand in the light, Strat, Ace, in  the

clean sunlight-and  never look  into the  dark; never  try to  see the  shadows.

They're far too dark for you-"

"Who was here just now?" Haught  asked; and Stilcho twisted away, wishing  to go

back from the river-edge. But  the ex-slave, Ischade's Nisi apprentice-had  more

strength in his fine hands than seemed likely.

"Janni," Stilcho said. "It was Janni."

"That wants fixing," Haught said.

Time was that Stilcho would have spat  on the man; when he was alive  and Haught

was no more than a slave. But Haught served Her now. And Haught had talent  that

Her talent fed; and the stripping of a soul from a body was likely a  negligible

thing for  Haught these  days. Stilcho  felt the  chill that  came when Haught's

substance passed between him and Ischade.  "Don't-I tried to reason with him.  I

tried to tell him he's dead. He's not listening. His partner's in trouble."

"I know," Haught said. His hand was viselike on Stilcho's cloaked arm,  numbing.

"And you very much don't want to go after him, do you. Stepson?"

"He's-crazy."

Haught's eyes met his,  deceptively gentle, woman-gentle. The  fingers loosened.

"Difficult times, Stepson. She has company and you wander the dark." The fingers

wandered gently  down his  arm and  took his  bare hand.  "You have  such simple

loyalties now. Like life. Like those who can hold you to it. Ask me-how you  can

help me?"

"How can I help you?" The words poured out without a thought of resistance.  The

same way they did for Ischade. It was only afterward that the shame got to  him.

After-ward when he  had time to  think; but that  was not now,  with Haught this

close, death gaping and lapping below the drop from the garden fence.

"You can go to hell," Haught said.

It was not a curse. It was  an order. "For her-" Stilcho said, lips  stammering.

"I go for her, that's all."

"Oh, it's in her service. Believe me."

2

Strat blinked  in the  sunlight and  rode past  the Blue  line checkpoint in the

morning-the bay's shod hooves ringing  hollow on the cobbles beside  the bridge.

The misnamed White Foal flowed murkily by, with its scarce traffic on dark-brown

water; a skiff or two; a scruffy little barge.

The scarred end-posts stood innocent in the sun. The reeking, rotten streets  of

Downwind on the other  side lost their mystery  by daylight and became  the ugly

thing  they were.  The poor  shuffled about  their eternal  business of  staying

alive, whatever the business  of the night. It  was a peaceful day  in Sanctuary

and the other-side. The invisible lines still existed; but they weakened by day,

descending to amiable  formality, expecting no  assault. The iron  discipline of

the gangs and the death squads gave way to pragmatic spot-searches, Ilsigi  poor

taking their  little chances  with the  lines they  could cross, beggars begging

their usual  territories. Death  squads operated  nightly; bodies  turned up  by

daylight to impress the populace.

But  a Stepson  still rode  through, down  the invisible  no-man's line  of  the

riverside. Strat saw the  blue graffiti on one  wall; saw red on  another, where

rival gangs blazoned their claims at riverside.

He knew hate surrounded him. He felt it in the city, felt it when he rode up the

daylit streets in Jubal's territory-toward  the Black line where members  of the

Band and the 3rd Commando held their own, keeping the bridge and one long street

open from the Stepson Yellow line in the west, through Red through Blue and into

the  Black  of  the Mageguild's  territory,  commerce  maintained against  every

attempt  of the  individual militias  and factions  to shut  it down.  It was  a

demonstration Ranke was not yet done; and some wanted to demonstrate otherwise.

His eyes scanned the way that he rode, his skin absorbed the temperature of  the

glances that fell on him.

The  mongrel crowds  of Sanctuary  were out  by daylight.  The workmen  and  the

merchants-the  few  shops,  graffiti scarred,  marked  with  the Permissions  of

Jubal's gangs that ruled the  sector-spread few goods. Merchants had  few goods.

Took  few chances.  Many doors  stayed shut;  shop-shutters were  boarded  over.

Uptown did not see this danger-signal; there the shops hired more guards;  there

the rich doubled the  locks on their doors.  Walegrin of the Garrison  knew: the

meres the prince hired  knew, and both prepared  as best they could-to  hold the

other long street open, hill to harbor.

Straton lifted his eyes, blinking in the day. He let the horse carry him in that

lassitude his mornings-after had; let his mind carry him in crazed thoughts that

darted this way  and that, through  the streets, to  the detail of  a graffiti'd

wall that informed him of some death squad active in the night-to the beggar  on

the curb that withdrew  from his horse's skittish  hooves. A cart of  empty jars

passed him. A handbarrow  groaned past under  a load of  rags and junk.  A sewer

opening afflicted his nostrils with its sweet-ugly stench. And a blue sky  shone

down on Ranke's slow death.

He  blinked  again,  looked  uptown  through  the  haze  of  morning-smokes from

Sanctuary's thousand fires, up the winding of one of the long streets.

And it seemed there was  a line drawn in the  world, with fools on one  side and

the other of it, and himself one of the few who could see himself as a fool. The

high shining  fine houses  where Ranke  frittered away  its last hours barriered

themselves in  vain against  the tide  that was  about to  come uptown. Walegrin

could not hold forever. Neither could they, below.

Sanctuary, with its backside to the sea.

With its mongrel gods and its mongrel merchants and the last lost rim of  secure

land in the Empire.  Nisibis would sweep down  to the shores; and  the Beysib up

from the south like a rolling wave; and for an intelligent man who had soldiered

all his life away for  the fools who wore the  gold and the purple-there was  in

the end, riot and murder and death by stoning in city streets.

Fool, he thought,  hating Kadakithis for  what he was  not. And had  a vision of

dark eyes and felt the feathery touch of soft lips and the dizzying descent into

dark.

He took up on the reins. Looked uphill with thoughts moiling in him: And snapped

the  reins and  sent the  bay clattering  along the  Maze, through  increasingly

tangled  streets.  Red  PFLS  graffiti  sprawled  across  a  wall,  once, twice,

obscuring the  usual obscenity,  Jubal's blue  hawk splashed  over that. The bay

spumed broken pottery, sent  a girl shrieking for  the curb. A rock  pelted back

and rebounded off the cobbles. The young were always the rebels.

The uptown house echoed  to soft steps and  the closing of doors  and Moria came

downstairs, wrapped in her robe. She cursed the servants, let out a gutter oath,

and stopped  dead on  the steps,  staring wide-eyed  at what  had gotten in. She

clutched the robe about her, wiped at a frowsy tangle of hair and blinked in the

dim light.  Ex-thief, ex-hawkmask,  she knew  the elegant  shape standing in the

polished foyer by the Caronnese vase: the elegant, cloaked man who looked up  at

her and smiled.

Her heart thudded. "Haught." She came pelting down off the steps and  remembered

all at the same time that she was no longer the street-wiry sylph, no longer the

tough woman who knew the ways  Haught did not; he was  all elegance and she  was

she was still Moria of the streets, gone a little fat and altogether terrified.

"Moria." Haught's voice  was cool, but  a sexual roughness  ran through it,  and

shivered  on her  nerves. She  stopped in  her dismay  and he  took her  by  the

shoulders, in this fine house that was Ischade's, as they all were Ischade's. No

one had let him in. He passed whatever doors he liked.

"My brother's missing," she said. "He's-gone."

"No," Haught said.  "She knows where  he is. Vis  and I found  him. He's doing a

little job. Now you have to."

Her mouth began  to tremble. First  it was outright  terror for Mor-am,  for her

brother, who was half-crazy and bound to  Ischade as she was; and second it  was

for herself, because she knew that she was  in a trap and there was no way  out.

Ischade gave them this fine house and came and collected little pieces of  their

souls whenever she wanted favors done.

"What?" she  asked; and  Haught put  his hands  up to  her face  and brushed the

tangled hair back, gently, like a lover. "What?" Her lips trembled.

He bent and kissed them, softly, and the touch was both gentle and chilling.  He

gazed closely into her eyes.

Was it possible-Moria  stood quite transfixed-possible  that Haught still  loved

her? It was a fool's thought. She only had to remember what she was and look  at

what he  had become  and know  the answer  to that.  She recovered  her wits and

stepped back  with a  small push  of her  hands. The  robe gaped  and she  cared

nothing for that, small and dumpy  and wine-sotted woman who had given  away all

advantage.

"Where is he? Where's my brother?"

"Oh, about the streets. Going those places he can go." He reached into his shirt

and drew out a thing that never could have come from the lower town. "Here." The

red rose showed a little rumpling. It glistened and glowed then, dewed with  the

illusion of freshness. "I gathered it for you."

"From Her garden?"

"The bushes can bloom-even  in winter. With a  little urging. She doesn't  care.

She cares for very  little. You might bloom  too, Moria. You only  want a little

tending."

"Gods-" Her teeth chattered. She shook sense back into her head and looked up at

him. At the man she  had once known and no  longer did, with his fine  (foreign)

speech. She held the rose in her hand and a thorn brought blood. "Get me out  of

here. Haught, get me out."

"No. That's  not the  game, Moria."  His hands  held her  face, straightened her

hair, smoothed her cheeks. "There, now,  you can be beautiful." And there  was a

softer feel to her face and to his hands, cool, like the winter rose. "You  can.

You can be anything you  want to be. Your brother  has his uses. But he's  weak.

You never were. He's a fool. You were never that either."

"If I'm so smart why am I here? Why am I locked in this place with gold I  can't

even steal? Why do I take orders from a-"

His finger touched her  lips but the silence  was hers, sudden and  prudent. She

caught the shadow  in his eyes,  that perpetually evaded,  darted, shifted in  a

slave's nowhere privacy-he had turned that apparent shyness to furtive  purpose.

Or had always had it.

"She's calling in the debt," she said, "isn't She?"

"Trust me,"  Haught said.  His finger  wandered down  her cheek  to her  throat.

"There are few women who attract me. Certainly I don't share her bed. Calling in

the debt, yes. And when the world changes, you'll wear satins and eat on gold-"

"Gods, Shalpa and Ils de-"

Her voice changed in her  throat, lost its harshness and  became Rankene-smooth,

betraying  her. She  stopped and  spat. "My  gods!" (But  it came  out pure  and

clear.)

"My rose has hurt your hand." Haught gathered her fingers to his lips and kissed

the thorn-sting, and Moria, who had faced street gangs dagger in hand and sliced

respect into more than one Downwind bully, stood and trembled at that touch.

Trembled more when  he turned her  toward the mirror  and she saw  the touseled,

dark-haired woman who blinked back at her in shock. Rage flooded through her. He

made her this. Witchery like the rose. She turned on him with fury in her  eyes.

"I'm not your toy, dam-

mit!"

(But the voice would not roughen and the accent was not Ilsigi.)

"You're the way I always saw you."

"Damn you!"

"And the way She wants you. Leave Mor-am to the streets. He has his uses.  Yours

are uptown. Haven't you understood what you're for?"

"I'm not your damn whore!"

He flinched. "Have I ever asked that? No. I'll tell you what you're to do. But I

wouldn't use that word. I truly wouldn't, Moria, in Her hearing."

More messengers sped  during the day.  One great one  lifted on black  wings and

scattered a flock  of lesser on  his way from  the river-house roof.  The little

ones went a dozen ways.

And Ischade (she did sleep, now  and again, but rarely of late)  wrapped herself

in a dusky blue cloak unlike  her nighttime black and gathered up  certain other

things she wanted.

"Stilcho," she said; and  having no answer, thrust  aside the curtains that  hid

the Stepson's small room.

There was no one there. "Stilcho!" She sent her mind out in a light scouring  of

the immediate vicinity; and raised a thin, wan response.

She opened the door and took a  look out back: and found him there,  a shivering

knot of cloak by the rose-bush.

"Stilcho!"

There was refuge of a  sort in the house, one  of half a dozen hidey-holes  they

maintained within the black  zone for operations this  far from base. And  Strat

paid listless attention to the bay and saw it strawed and fed and watered in the

shanty-stable; and climbed the dirty stairs of the deserted place and pulled the

vent-chain that let a little light through the shutters.

There was a little food here. A little wine. A waterpot and a few other odds and

ends. He  stumped about  in the  dusty silence  and knew  that he  was safe from

hearing: below was only the stable,  and to either side were warehouses  and the

owners of them well-heeled and Rankene, uptown.

He had his breakfast. He washed. He  found himself trapped in one of those  days

that  had gotten  common enough  lately, with  horror on  either end  and  sheer

boredom in the middle. Nowhere presently to go. Nothing presently to do, because

it  was all  waiting, waiting,  waiting. Something  would break  and the   Srd's

scattered vigilance would turn up something, but in the meanwhile commerce  went

on and down by the harbor hammering went on, sound echoing off distant walls.

Building going on while the world ended.

He sat there and chewed a tasteless bit of yesterday's bread and drank a cup  of

wine and most of what  his mind wanted to go  to was Her, and the  river and the

dark. Maybe he could have found something to do with himself, found some use for

himself or some  plan to pursue-but  he had a  deep and abiding  conviction that

there was  nothing, presently,  worth the  doing. And  that soon  all hell would

break.

He grew prophetic  since he had  shared the witch's  bed. Niko had  gone down in

such  a trap  and even  that failed   to alarm  him, because  he knew  why,  and

accepted. He sat  listlessly and heard  his heart beat,  thump, thump, like  the

hammer-blows and the thud  of cartwheels on cobbles  and the whole pulse  of the

city.

My city.  Walls behind  which the  Empire could  last if  there were adjustments

here.

More than one emperor of Ranke had risen (aye, and come to grief) at the will of

the soldiery.

He could snatch  up the sword  Kadakithis left untouched.  Be ready when  Tempus

returned.

Shock Crit to hell, he would. Hello, Crit. Meet the new emperor. Me.

He shivered. It was crazy. He tried to  think back to the night and it was  full

of  dark gaps.  Memory of  things he  had done  with Ischade  that had  all  the

improbability of efreets and krrf-dreams.

They came and went. Her face did. Her mouth hovered close and spoke words and he

could read lips, but he  could not read that, as  if she spoke some language  he

knew and did not know when he was awake, or his brain would not let him put  the

sounds together.

And no man had nights like that, no one could, and have another and another  and

pay no penalties.

There were sore places; there were marks-(witch-marks?) bites and scratches that

confirmed part of what he remembered;  could a man's soul leak out  through such

little wounds?

A spider had spun an elaborate web over by the light-vent, across the slats.  He

found it uncomfortably ominous. He went and flung it down and crushed the spider

under his heel; and  felt a chill greater  than the killing in  the barracks had

given him.

"Stilcho." It took an expenditure of  energy to bring him back. Ischade  put her

hands on the Stepson and searched deep  down the long threads that led where  he

had gone; and pulled,  and rewove, and brought  him up again, there  on the cold

ground beneath the scraggly roses and the brush. "Stilcho. Fool. Come up and let

go."

He wept-tears from one eye and a  thin, reddish fluid from the missing one.  And

he did come back-came rushing back all at once and into the world with a  scream

that  would  have  drawn  attention  in  any  town  but  Sanctuary  and  in  any

neighborhood but this one.

"Well," she said, sitting there with  her arms about her  | knees  and regarding

this least willing of her servants,  i "And where were you?"

He knew  her then  and scrambled  back till  he hit  the rosebushes  and impaled

himself on the thorns.  He began to shiver;  and she caught a  little remnant of

magics about the place.

"That very fool!" she said, knowing of a sudden that signature and that  willful

pride. At times Haught  amused her with  his hunger for  knowledge and his  self

convinced keenness to serve. This was not one of those times. "Where did you  go

last night?"

"H-h-here."

"Vanity. Vanity. What prodigy did you perform? What did he ask?"

"I-I-" Stilcho's teeth chattered. "Ask-a-ask me-go down-find-f-find-a-answer-"

She drew in a deep breath and slitted her eyes. Stilcho gazed into her face  and

pressed  himself as  far in  retreat as  he could,  heedless of  the thorns.  He

flinched when she reached and caught him by the arm. "Stepson. No, I shan't hurt

you. I'll not hurt you. What did Haught want to know?"

"N-n-nik-o." Stilcho went  into a  new paroxysm  of shivering.  "T-temple-. Said

said tell-you-Janni- Janni is out hunting Niko."

She was very still for a moment. A thread of blood ran down Stilcho's cheek from

the thorns. "What side is he playing, Stilcho?"

"Says-says-you spend-"  Stilcho trembled  and a  second runnel  joined the first

down his cheek. "Too much time on Straton. Says think of Janni. Think-"

It all died away very quickly, very quietly. She stared at him a moment, and  he

stayed still as a bird in front of a snake. And then she smiled, which made  him

flinch the  more. She  reached out  and straightened  a lock  of hair  above his

ruined face.  "You have  a good  heart, Stilcho.  A loyal  heart. An honest one.

Proof against corruption. Of all sorts. Even though you hate what I did.  Haught

is Nisi. Does that suggest caution to you?"

"He-hates the Nisi witch."

"Oh, yes. Nisi enemies  sold him into slavery.  But Stepsons bought him.  I tell

you, Stilcho, I will not have  quarrels in my house. There, you're  bleeding. Go

in and wash. And wait-" She bent  and pressed a kiss against his scarred  mouth,

another against his wounded cheek. He took in his breath at the second,  because

she had sent a  little prickling spell lancing  into his soul. "If  Haught tries

you again I'll know. Get inside."

He scrambled out of his predicament  with the rosebush, gathered himself to  his

feet and went up the steps into the  house. In haste. With what of grace a  dead

man could manage taking his leave of  a sovereign lady who crouched thus in  the

dust and meditated a few tattered, fresh leaves onto the rosebush.

The door slammed. The rosebush struggled into one further untimely surge, thrust

out a wan limegreen shoot and  budded. She stood and it unfurled,  blood-red and

perfect.

She plucked  it and  sucked her  finger, sent  out a  silent summons and a dozen

birds napped  aloft above  where they  had clung  like ill-omened  leaves to the

skeletal winter trees.

She tucked the rose into the dooriatch. So much for Haught, who thought that his

mistress had  grown soft-witted.  Who thought  that she  needed counsel; and who

took first a bit of latitude with his orders and then a bit more.

This rose likewise had thorns.

It was noon, and Straton headed to the streets again- quietly, or at least  with

enough attempt at disguise that those who recognized him would know better  than

to hail him. He left the bay stabled and went afoot; and wore ordinary  clothes.

First he paid a visit to the backside of a tavern where messages tended to  turn

up, if there was a chalkmark on a certain wall there. There was nothing. So  one

informant failed, which meant two others had, down the line from that one.

But Sanctuary stayed uncommonly quiet-considering the carnage that had  happened

over by the barracks Downwind-side. Or because of it.

He  fretted, and  bought a  hot drink  at a  counter, and  stood there  watching

Sanctuary urchins batting something objectionable  about the gutter. And took  a

further walk up the street, past  an easy checkpoint into Blue, dodging  round a

fuller-wagon immediately after. A  donkey had died in  the street. That was  the

morning's excitement. The tanners from the Shambles were loading it into a  cart

with more help from local brats than they wanted. A sly wag spooked the tanner's

horse  and it  shied off  and dumped  the corpse  flat, to  howls from  watchers

curbside.

Strat  evaded the  entire process,  felt a  jostle and  spun, reaching  after  a

retreating arm-his  heart lurched;  his legs  hurled him  into action  before he

thought, but that was temper,  and he gave up the  chase two steps into it.  The

thief had failed, his purse was intact, and the only thought left to him was how

easily it could have been a knife. The Rankan hitting the pavements right  along

with  the donkey  and the  Ilsigi rabble  howling with  laughter. Or   absenting

themselves in prudent speed. He felt cold of a sudden, standing there, his thief

in rout, the  passers-by giving him  curious stares as  they jostled about  him,

perhaps seeing a stranger a little tall and a little fair to be standing on this

particular streetcorn-er, this  low in the  town. A battlefield  had its terror:

noise and dust and craziness; but  this day by day walking through  streets full

of knives, full of sly stares and  calculations where he stood out like a  whore

at an uptown party-

-he was in  the minority down  here, that was  what. He was  thunderously alone.

Uptown was where a Rankan belonged.

-in the sunlight-

-at the head of armies-

"Hsst."

He turned with  a start, caught  the sudden dart  of an eye  from a curly-headed

brat, the inviting jerk of head toward alley, down beyond the donkey-crowd. Come

along, the gesture insisted.

He froze, there on the  street. It was not one  of the regular contacts. It  was

someone who knew him. Or who knew him only as Rankan and a target and any target

would do to  raise the prestige  of some damned  death squad crazy  who wanted a

little claim to glory-

Any Rankan would do, any Beysib, any uptowner.

He walked on down the street, slipping his shoulders through the crowd, ignoring

the invitation. It  was not a  situation he liked-crowds,  bodies pressing close

against him, pushing and shoving; but there was one way away from that alley.

Another tug at his belt; he reached and turned and lost momentum in the crowd as

his hand protected his purse. Another hand was there, on his wrist.

He looked up and  it was a dark  face, a couple of  days unshaven, haggard-eyed,

under a dark fringe of hair and a cap that had seen better years.

Vis.

Mradhon Vis pulled at him, edged  sideways through the crowd and alleyward,  and

Straton followed, cursing himself for a twice-over fool. This was a Nisi  agent.

A hawkmask; and a man with more than one grudge against him. And also a man more

than once in his pay.

Vis wanted him in the alley. And of  a sudden there was a second man who  seemed

less interested in the dead donkey than in him.

Fool, Straton thought again, but there  were two choices now-the alley with  Vis

or taking out running, in full flight, and attracting the mob.

3

Moria waited in the antechamber in an agony of uncertainty-cloak close about her

and enough muscle  waiting out in  the street to  guarantee her passage  through

Downwind with jewels on. This foyer of one of uptown's most elegant mansions was

no less  perilous territory,  for other  reasons. It  was the  lady Nuphtantei's

mansion, where Ischade had sent her:  Haught said so. Haught gave her  an escort

of some of Downwind's best, bathed and dressed up like a proper set of servants;

Haught gave her a paper to hand the servants, a tiny object^ and a set of  words

to say, and Moria, born to Downwind's gutters, stood in this place which was one

of  the  oldest of  all  Sanctuary mansions  (but  not the  oldest  of Sanctuary

occupants) and knotted  her hands and  professionally estimated the  wealth that

she saw about her, in gold and silver.

A  movement  caught her  eye.  She looked  down,  gulped and  skipped  four feet

backward from the gliding course of a viper.

So she  looked up  again, still  in retreat,  an object  lost from  her hand and

rolling somewhere across the  carpet, as a set  of skirts swayed into  her view,

covering the  serpent: skirts  and small  bare feet  and (Moria's shocked vision

traveled up to  wasp waist and  bare breasts) a  plethora of jewelry  and blonde

curls and a face painted to a fare-thee-well: (Migods, it's a doll!)

The doll acquired  a more stately  companion, taller, with  straight blonde hair

and a shawl of flounces; blonde hair,  unblinking eyes and a very sober face  of

some few more years.

The doll chittered  and chattered in  the Beysib tongue.  "Oh," lisped the  tall

one. "A messenger? From whom?"

Never you mind, bitch. That was what Moria meant to say; but it came out: "Of no

moment to you or me." Pure and Rankene. Her voice rushed, breathless. "Your gold

has  bought you  trouble, your  friends have  bought you  enemies, your  enemies

multiply daily. I have connections. I came to offer them."

"Connections?" The tall Beysib stared with her strange eyes and fingered a small

knife at the edge of her shawl of flounces. One of her necklaces moved, a  thing

that had seemed cloisonne, and was not. "Connections? To whom?"

"Say that this someone can save you when the walls fall."

"What walls?"

"Say that you serve the Beysa. Say that I serve someone else. And tell the Beysa

that the wind is changing. Gold will not buy walls."

"Who are you?"

"Tell the Beysa. Tell  the Beysa mine is  the house with the  red door, downhill

from here. My name is Moria. Say  to the Beysa that there are ways  to safeguard

her people. And ways to pass any door." It came out in a rush and was done.  She

did not know what she had said, except that the two Beysib stared at her and the

tall woman's necklace had risen up to stare too, quite unpleasantly.

The doll spoke, rapidly. Started forward and looked mad enough to spit, but  the

other restrained her. There were men about now, elegant, quiet men, half a dozen

of them.

"I'm done," Moria said, and waved a hand toward the door. Backed a step, thought

of snakes and decided  to turn and look.  It was not a  comfortable retreat. She

turned her face to the Beysib again. "I'd say," she said, and her voice was more

her own,  "that you  better lock  your doors  and stay  behind them. You've been

fools to walk about so rich. There's a lot fewer of you than there were. Bread's

dearer, gold's cheaper,  and two blocks  downhill from my  house even the  Guard

won't walk. Think about that."

"Come here," the Beysib said.

"Not with those snakes," Moria declared, and snatched the door open and  slammed

it after.

Her guard was not precisely apparent outside; it materialized when she came down

off the steps, a man slouching  along here, another joining them from  an alley.

Only one walked with  her openly, one of  her own servants, a  nine-fingered man

very quick with a knife. He wore brocade and a gold chain and had a sword at his

hip which he had not the least idea how to use, but she knew that of brigands on

the street she was walking with the very worst, and they took her orders.

She was scared beyond clear thought.  She scanned the street and walked  down it

with the flounced swish that had (since the Beysib) become fashionable; and  all

the while knew that she had  just delivered something deadly to that  house. She

had let fall a small silver ball, and it had rolled away from her feet and  lost

itself.  Perhaps a  Beysib snake  would investigate  it. It  was too  small  for

anything else to notice.

It did  not at  all shake  her confidence  that even  Ischade's sorceries needed

physical  objects to  anchor them.  It shook  her more  to know  how tiny  those

objects could be,  hardly more than  a bead, a  droplet of silver,  undetectable

without magic to use in turn-and perhaps  not then. If that was not a  witch who

had met her, then she was no judge.

A lifelong resident of Sanctuary learned to judge such things.

Strat balked at the alley-mouth: he had half-thought of a fast move and a  quick

break; but  so, obviously,  had Vis.  Vis was  not alone.  Three men were in the

alley; waiting. One more behind. So it was either revenge or a serious talk; and

it was easy to get bad hurt trying to get out of this now.

He went on in and stopped as close  to the street as he could; or tried  to. One

caught his arm and dragged and he found  the sharp point of a knife in his  back

from Vis's side.

He stopped struggling then. Kidney-hit was a bad way to go, not that there  were

good ones. He was a professional himself,  and this was not one of the  times to

turn hero. He let  them push and haul  him along to a  bending of the alley  and

push him up  against a wall-the  push was their  idea, the wall  was his, to get

something besides the knife at his  vulnerable back; but they followed up  close

and personal and  Vis and the  knife followed up  against his gut,  where it was

utterly disconcerting.

"This is a talk," Vis said.

"Fine," Straton said, back to the bricks. "Talk."

"No, this is you to us."

"Uhhn. Who's us?"

Strat had his  stomach tight. He  waited for the  blow to the  gut; it failed to

come. That puzzled him;  and unnerved him more  than violence. They wanted  more

than he had thought.

"Us is the same source you're used to," Vis said. "Us is a man you know. This is

all business. Word is something's on the move."

"You and I've talked," Strat said. "You  want to get me a little breathing  room

and  we  can  trade-"  He  stopped. The  knife  indicated  stop.  He  was in  no

disposition to argue. He was careful about breathing for a moment. The dark look

of the men about him might  have been Ilsigi. It wasn't-quite. He  suddenly knew

what he had fallen in among. Nisi death squad. In Jubal's pay-maybe.

"You and I have talked," Vis said. "Now I want you to tell me a few things. Like

who's giving you your orders. I hear you're in her bed. True?"

He sucked in his  breath; mistake: the knife  gave him no room  to take another.

"Soght-ohon," he said, Nisi obscenity. And waited for the knife. Vis grinned. It

was  a  wolf-grin.  Mountain-lunatic  grin.  Men  smiled  like  that  who hurled

themselves off walls, disdaining surrender.

"She's got you," Vis said. "You're sweating, man. You know that?"

He said nothing. Stood still and breathed in what little space he had,  starting

to add where he could move and how  fast before he might die. Or whether it  was

time to try it.

-The sun  and the  armor and  the walls  of Ranke,  Sanctuary become true to its

name, the wall behind which-

"She's got something moving," Vis said, and hooked a finger under Straton's jaw,

compelling attention. "Word's flying. That mess over Downwind-the  barracks-that

wasn't any of our doing."

No answers. No  answer was the  wisest answer and  hope to the  gods Vis was  in

control of the other four.  Vis had a brain and  a grudge the limit of  which he

knew. The others  might be plain  crazy. "Let's," Strat  said thoughtfully, "not

complicate this. Vis. I'm not on your payroll. You're on mine. And let's keep it

that way.  It's been  the same  side so  far. If  something's coming down I'm as

interested as you are and I haven't heard- Uhhh."

"You think you still run things, do you?"

"You can kill me. There's those will pay it."

He had meant the Band. Crit. He  saw a flicker of something else in  Vis's face;

and remembered who else  would pay it, and  whom Vis feared more  than he feared

Ranke-considerab ly.

"You got your own hell," Vis said. "I  want a straight answer. Is it her? Is  it

her pulling the cords right now? Where's the rest of your lot?"

Quick mental addition.  The slaughter at  the barracks: dead  giveaway of a  new

wave of Rankan activity among those in  a position to know they hadn't done  it.

And Vis was at least marginally on  Rankan funds, not Nisibisi. Vis and his  lot

hated Roxane and her lot. That they  had in common. "A few of the  Band's here,"

Straton said. "Say that-we've funded this and that in the streets. Same as  you.

And we want that street to stay  open. You want any more funds. Vis,  you better

think again. I don't know what She's up to; and I sure as hell won't hand it out

if I find out. But my lads have steered yours clean so far and none of mine have

cut your throats. This Jubal's doing? That who's behind this? Is he running your

lot? Or is it Walegrin?"

"Oh, we're still bought," Vis said, and  the knife eased off. "On all the  usual

sides. If I was  a fool I'd pay  you a personal debt  right now; but you  aren't

marked and I'm not a fool." Another of Vis's wolf-grins. "You don't promise  and

you  don't make  threats. You  just want  out of  here with  as little  said  as

possible. On my side I've been helpful. In spite of some things. I'm telling you

now- won't charge you a thing. Something's coming. Debts are being called in. In

the Downwind. Moruth's lot. You understand me."

Moruth. Beggar-king. The hawkmasks' old  nemesis. Straton looked at Vis  and his

pseudo-Ilsigi  company and  added it  up again-Vis  willing to  risk his  Rankan

income and Vis running information against  Moruth and his beggars. It added  up

to Jubal. For certain it did. Straton  let go a slow breath. "Tell Jubal  I'm on

it. I'll find out. But I don't run his errands."

"You're too smart, Whoreson."

"You're too rash, bastard. So's Jubal if he thinks he's bought out you and these

dogs of yours. How many others in the town? Coming in with the trade, are you?"

"Like you. Here.  There. A lot  of us. But  we don't die  like the Whoresons  in

barracks. You're dealing with something else now."

"There's Nisi want your guts for ribbons. My spies tell me that." Strat  grinned

deliberately into  Vis's dark  face. "Us  is a  damn small  number. Ils  doesn't

include most of the  mountaineer-Nisi. I know what  they want you for,  Vis. But

don't let's discuss that.  You may find Jubal  can't hide you singlehanded.  You

may find Ilsigi money runs thin. Say you and your fine friends just back off now

and thank your peculiar gods you and I've kept our tempers. And we won't  remind

each other of old times."

"So it's not Ranke on the move."

"No, it's  not Ranke.  It's not  us. It's  not you.  Whatever's moving, it's not

either one of us. Or Jubal."

"Ilsigi," Vis said.

"Ilsigi." Freed, Straton spat in sheer amazement. "Wrigglies." He stared at  the

Nisi outlaw, recalling the peculiar silence of the streets.

"It's Ilsigi,"  Vis said.  "What's either  of our  lives worth  when that breaks

loose, huh? That's a lot of knives."

More messengers flew. Most  were black, and feathered.  One landed in the  Maze,

bearing  a  certain amulet.  One  landed on  the  wall of  the  palace and  with

characteristic perverseness,  ran its  designated recipient  to panting hysteria

trying to overtake  it and retrieve  the small cylinder  affixed to its  leg. It

took off, landed,  took off again,  and finally, coyly  surrendered and bit  the

hand of the priest who retrieved it.

One landed on a small bush and hopped onto a sill in the Street of Red Lanterns.

And Haught, returning home after  delivering one message in person-discovered  a

rose thrust through the doorhandle, and blanched.

He gathered it up; and thrust it into his bosom as unwillingly as if it had been

a snake.

"I do  trust," Ischade  said when  he had  come inside,  "you'll be more kind in

future. Stilcho's not yours."

"Yes," Haught said fervently.

"You think I'm indolent."

"No, Mistress."

"How Nisi, to  be in a  hurry. How Nisi  to be so  punctiliously, superciliously

careful of my affairs. Sometimes I'd forgotten that. But you do justly chide  me

for my nature."

"I only tried to care for things-"

"Haught, Haught,  Haught. Spare  me. You  think you've  become indispensable. Or

rather-you hope to become so." Ischade  kicked aside a cloak of fine  rose silk.

"Few things are."

"Mistress-"

"You fear I  don't care for  details. Well, you  may be right,  Haught. I accept

your judgment. And your warning. And I want you to take care of a matter for me.

Yourself. Since you've become so skilled."

"What-matter?"

She smiled and came and touched the rose he wore. "Take care of Roxane. Keep her

out of my way."

Haught's eyes went white, all round.

"Oh, you'll have  Stilcho's help," Ischade  said. "And Roxane's  hardly what she

was. Niko's seen to that. She might well make a try for him, but then, you  have

Janni. And Stilcho. Don't you? I'm sure I can trust you with it."

Another bird fluttered into the open window, and took its perch on a chair back.

This one came  from uptown. It  had a spelled  ring about its  inky leg, and  it

whetted a chisel-keen  beak against steelshod  claws. Regarded them  both with a

mad gold eye.

"Oh, indeed," she said. And to Haught: "Be useful. Feed it. Mind your fingers."

"That's the  high priest,"  Haught said,  meaning where  it had  come from.  Its

message, shrilled in a high thin voice, was not within his understanding.

Query, query, query.  "Molin wants answers,"  Ischade said, and  smiled, because

those answers were forthcoming, but not in the way the high priest wanted. "Tell

Janni he's welcome to take Niko if he can. When you see him."

"Where have you  been?" Black Lysias  of the 3rd  Commando asked questions  when

Strat  came  up  into the  stables,  back  inside the  Black  line.  "We've been

scouring-"

"Say I had an  urgent meeting." Strat caught  the man by the  sleeve. Fastidious

Lysias looked  like a  ratsnest; smelled  like fish.  That was  the way  the 3rd

traveled these days. Strat propelled him through into the slant-walled tackroom,

where  a little  daylight got  through the  cracks of  the leaky  roof. The  bay

snorted and stamped and  kicked a board nearby,  having had enough of  this den.

Second kick, like half the building was falling. "Damn. Cut it, horse."

Sulky silence then. A snort and switch of tail.

"We've got something moving," Straton said. "You hear it?" And in the absence of

confirmations: "What have you heard?"

"We got a line on Niko. Got rumors where he is. Uptown. Priests. We got areas we

can't  get into.  Randal sent-says  Roxane's stirring  about last  night;  she's

looking too. Fast. We  still haven't got where.  Kama's got her piff  connection

sniffing round; haven't found her  yet. Melant's down harborside; Kali's  trying

that Setmur contact; we've got-"

A shiver  went up  his back.  He gripped  Lysias's shoulder,  hard. "Listen. I'm

going out again. Get the word out, get the Third to positions, full alert."

"You going-"

"Get out of here. Get it moving."

"Right," Lysias said, and dived round the comer: no further questions.

But Strat lingered there in the  dim light, with the sinking feeling  that panic

had impelled that. He wanted the daylight; wanted-

-easy answers.

Kadakithis will lose the Empire-

Niko  in trouble.  Plots went  through Sanctuary  like worms  through old  meat.

Tempus delaying and Randal discomfited. Straton considered himself no fool,  not

ordinarily; upstairs in that nasty little room, men and women had tried to  make

him one and  he had unerringly  stripped souls down  to little secrets,  most of

which he was not interested in, a few of which he was, and they spilled them all

before they  went their  way either  loose (for  effect) or  into the  Foal (for

neatness). He was not particularly proud of this skill, only of a keen wit  that

did  not  take  lies  for  an answer.  That  was  what  made  him the  Stepsons'

interrogator; a certain dogged patience  and a sure instinct for  unraveling the

mazy works of human minds.

That skill turned inward, explored blanks, explored tracks he had no wish for it

to follow.

She, she, she, it kept saying, and when it did it traveled round the edges of  a

darkness more than dark to  the eyes; womb-dark, unknowable-dark, warm  dark and

comfortable and full of too many gaps. Far too many gaps. He had found a certain

peace. Courted it. Congratulated himself that he escaped. That perpetual  escape

had become meat and drink to him; the stuff of his self-esteem.

Think, Stepson. Why can't you think about it?

-Horse  wandering in  the morning,  pilfering apples,  rider infant-helpless  by

dawn- (He winced at the image. Is this a sane man?)

-Kadakithis dying, conveniently dead on the marble floor, the tread of  military

boots brisk in the halls of the palace-

Good, Tempus would say, finding one of  his men had anticipated him; the  shadow

play came into  sunlight, himself a  hero, not the  creature of the  little room

upstairs, but a man who did the wide thing, the right thing, took the chance-

He shivered, there in the  dark. There was the taste  of blood in his mouth.  He

leaned there against the  wall, jolted as the  bay took another kick  to let him

know its opinion of this dark stable.

He suspected. He suspected himself-is this a sane man?

He had to go-there. To the river. To find out. Not by dark, not during her  hour

but by his; by the daylight, when he might have his wits about him.

The river house huddled small and  unlikely-looking in the tangle of brush  that

ran the White Foal's edge on town-side.  If you asked a dozen people were  there

trees in Sanctuary's lower end they would say no, forgetting these. If you asked

were there houses hereabouts, they would say no, forgetting such small places as

this  one with  its iron  fence and  its obscuring  hedge. This  one was,  well,

abandoned. There  were  often  lights.  Once  or  twice  there  had  been   fire

conspicuous disturbance. But the prudent did not notice such things. The prudent

kept  to  their  own  districts,  and  Strat,  having  ridden  past  the several

checkpoints  down mostly  deserted streets,  rode not  oblivious to  signs  now;

thinking, and taking mental notes as he  tethered the bay horse out in front  of

this house that few saw.

He shoved the rusty gate aside and  walked up the overgrown flags to the  little

porch. The door opened  before he knocked (and  before anyone on the  other side

could have reached it), which failed to surprise him. Musky perfume wafted  out.

He walked in, in the dim light that shone through a milky window-Ischade was not

tidy except in her person.

"Ischade?" he called out.

That she would not be at home-that had occurred to him; but he had, in his haste

and his urgency, shoved that possibility  aside. There was not that much  of day

left. The sun was headed down over  the White Foal, over the sprawl of  Downwind

buildings.

"Ischade?"

There were unpleasant things to meet hereabouts. She had enemies. She had allies

who were not his friends.

A curtain whispered. He blinked at  the black-clad figure who walked forward  to

meet him. She was always so much smaller than he remembered. She towered in  his

memory. But the eyes, always the eyes-

He evaded them, walked  deliberately aside and poured  him and her a  drink from

the pitcher that sat on the low table. Candles brightened. He was accustomed  to

this. Accustomed too, to the light  step that stole up behind him-no  one walked

up behind him; it was a tic he had.  But Ischade did it and he let her; and  she

knew. Knew that no one touched him from behind, that it was one of their  little

games, that he let her do that.  It made a little frisson of horror.  Like other

games they played. Soft hands came up his back, rested on his shoulders.

He turned round  with both  wine cups  and she  took hers  and a kiss, lingering

slow.

They did not always go  straight to bed. Tonight he  took the chair in front  of

the fire;  she settled  half beside  him and  half into  his lap,  a comfortable

armful, all whisper of cloth and yielding curves and smell of rich musk and good

wine. She sipped her  wine and set it  down on the sidetable.  Sometimes at such

moments she smiled. This time she gazed  at him in a way he knew  was dangerous.

He had not come tonight to look into those dark eyes and forget his own name. He

felt a cold the wine could not reach,  and felt for the first time that life  or

death might be equally balanced in her desires.

Ischade treading the aisles of the barracks, surveying murder-satisfied.  Sated.

It was not death that appealed to her. It was these deaths.

"You all right?" he asked of the woman staring so close into his eyes. "Ischade,

are you all right tonight?"

Blink. He heard his pulse. Hers. The world hung suspended and day or night  made

no difference. He cleared his throat or tried to.

"You think I better get out of here?"

She shifted her position and rested her arms on his shoulders, joined her  hands

behind his head. Still silent.

"I want to ask  you," he said, trying,  in the near gaze  of her eyes, the  soft

weight of  her against  his side.  "-want to  ask you-"  That wasn't working. He

blinked, breaking the spell, and took his life in his hands, grinned in the face

of her  darkness and  sobered up  and kissed  her. His  best style. He could get

things  out  of  a  body  one  way;  he  had,  now  and  again,  used pleasanter

persuasions. He was not particularly proud of it, no more than the other. It was

all part of his skill-knowing a lie from a scrap of truth, and following a lead.

He had one. Truth was in her silence tonight.

"You want something," he said, "you've always wanted something-"

She laughed, and he caught her hands down. Hard.

"What can I  do," he asked,  "what is it  you want me  to do?" No  one held onto

Ischade. He sensed that in the darkening  of her eyes, in the sudden dimming  of

the room. He  let go. "Ischade.  Ischade." Trying to  keep his focus.  And hers.

Right now he ought to get  up and head for the door  and he knew it; but it  was

infinitely easier to  sit where he  was; and very  hard to think  of what he had

been trying  to think  of, like  the memory  gaps, like  the things  they did/he

thought they  did in  that bed  sprawled with  silks. "You've  got Stilcho,  got

Janni, got me-is it coincidence, Ischade? Maybe  I could help you more if I  was

awake when you talked to me-" Or  is it information you go for? "Maybe-our  aims

and yours aren't that far apart.  Self-interest. Weren't you talking about  self

interest? What's yours, really? And I'll tell you mine."

Arms tightened behind his head. She shifted forward and now there was nothing in

all the room but her eyes, nothing in all the world but the pulse in his  veins.

"You think  hard," she  said. "You  go on  thinking, thinking's  a counterspell,

you've come here all armed with thinking, and yet it's such a heavy  load-aren't

you tired, Strat, don't you get  tired, bearing all the weight for  fools, being

always in the shadow, isn't it worth it,  once, to be what you are? Let's go  to

bed."

"What's going on in town?" He got the question out. It wandered out, slurred and

half-crazed and half-independent of his wits. "What have you got your hand into,

Ischade? What game are you using us for-"

"Bed," she whispered. "You  afraid, Strat? You never  run from what scares  you.

You don't know how."

4

"I don't  know," Stilcho  said, limping  along through  the streets  in Haught's

company. Haught took long strides and the dead Stepson made what speed he could,

panting. A waterskin  sloshed in time  to his steps.  "I don't know  how to make

contact with him-he's here, that's all-"

"If he's dead," Haught  said, "I'd think you  had an edge. I  don't think you're

trying."

"I can't," Stilcho gasped.  Twilight showed Haught's elegance,  his supercilious

gaze, and Stilcho, about to clutch at him, held back his hand. "I-"

"She  says that  you will.  She says  that you'll  be quite  adequate. I  really

wouldn't want to prove less than that, would you?"

The thought ran through Stilcho like  icewater. They were near the bridge,  near

the running-water barrier, and while it did not stop him (he was truly alive  in

some senses) it  made him weak  in the knees.  There was a  checkpoint the other

side of the bridgehead, that was a  line of no color; and few meddled  with that

one, which  had some  living warders,  but not  all that  patrolled the  streets

beyond were alive, and the Shambles suffered horrors and the malicious whimsy of

Roxane's creatures. "Listen," Stilcho said, "listen, you don't understand.  He's

not like the dead when he's like this. Dead are everywhere. Janni's tied to  one

thing, he's got an attachment, and he's like the living in that regard. No  good

news for what he's attached to-But you can't find him like the rest of the dead.

He's got place, where applies to him same as you and me-"

"Don't lump me in your category." Haught brushed imaginary dust from his  cloak.

"I've no intention of joining you. And whatever you told the mistress about that

business with the rosebush-"

"Nothing, I told her nothing."

"Liar. You'd tell  anything you were  asked, you'd hand  her your mother  if she

asked-"

"Leave my mother out of this."

"She down in hell?" Haught wondered,  with a sudden wolfish sharpness that  sent

another icy chill through Stilcho's gut. "Maybe she could help."

Stilcho said nothing. The hate Haught  had toward Stepsons was palpable, a  joke

most of the  time, but not  when they were  alone. Not when  there was something

Haught could hold over  him. But Stilcho glared  back. He had been  a marsh-brat

and a Sanctuary  drayman before the  Stepsons recruited him,  neither occupation

lending itself to  bright, sharp acts  of courage. He  was slow to  anger as his

lumbering team had been. But there was a point past which not, the same as there

had been with his  plodding horses. The beggar-king  who tortured him had  found

it; Haught had just located it. And Haught perhaps sensed it. There was a sudden

quiet in the  Nisibisi wizardling. No  further jibes. Not  a further word  for a

moment.

"Let's just get  it done," Stilcho  said, anxious less  for Haught than  for Her

orders. And he gathered his black cloak about him and walked on past the bridge.

A bird swooped overhead-a touch of familiarity, perhaps, avian  inquisitiveness.

But it was not the sort to be interested in riverside unless there was a bit  of

carrion left. It  napped away to  the Downwind side  of the bridge,  heedless of

barriers and checkpoints, as other birds winged their way here and there.

That one was bound for the barracks, Stilcho reckoned. Across the bridge he saw,

with his half-sight-(the missing eye was efficacious too, and had vision in  the

shadow-world,  whether or  not it  was patched:  it was,  lately, since  he  had

recovered a little bit  of his vanity, under  the sting of Haught's  taunts.) He

saw the PFLS bridgewarder, but he saw several Dead gathered there too, about the

post where they had died; and Haught  was with him, but not exactly in  the lead

as they walked down the street and cut off toward the Shambles.

"Gone back to the witch, that's where." Zip dropped down on the wooden stairs of

a building in the  Maze, there on the  street, and the beggar-looking  woman who

slouched in her rags nearby was listening, although she did not look at him. Zip

was panting. He pulled out one of  his knives and attacked the wood of  the step

between his legs. "He's one damn fool, you know that."

"Mind your mouth," Kama said.  It was a slim woman  and a lot of weaponry  under

all that  cloak and  cloth, and  her face  was smeared  with dirt enough and her

mouth crusted with her last meal, part of the disguise. She would even fool  the

nose. "You want to make yourself useful, get the hell to the Unicorn and pick up

Windy. Tell him move and leave the rest to him."

"I'm not your damn errand-boy."

"Get!"

He got. Kama got up and waddled down the darkening street in her best  old-woman

way, toward another contact.

Moruth heard the dull flap of wings  before the bird alit in the window  of Mama

Becho's. The beggar-king clenched his hands and listened, and when it  appeared,

a dark flutter  outside the shutters,  he resisted going  to that window  at the

tavern's backside.  But a  hard, chisel  beak tapped  and scrabbled insistently.

Wanting in.

He went and shoved the window open. The bird took off and lit again, glaring  at

him with shadowy eyes in the almost-night.  It lifted then with a clap of  wings

and flapped away, mission accomplished.

Moruth had not  the least desire  in the world  to go out  tonight; he lived  in

constant terror, since the massacre over  by Jubal's old estate, in the  Stepson

barracks. There were a lot of  souls out on patrol in Sanctuary,  round Shambles

Cross. Old blind Mebbat said so; and  Moruth, who had carried on warfare in  the

streets  with Stepsons  and hawkmasks,  had no  particular desire  to meet  what

walked about on such nights.

But he went to the door and sent a messenger who sent others, and one ran up  to

a rooftop and waved a torch.

"Snakes," Ischade whispered, in  bed with her lover.  She kissed him gently  and

disengaged his fingers  from her hair.  "You ever put  it together, Strat,  that

both Nisibis and the Beysib are fond of snakes?"

He recalled a serpentine body rolling under his heel, a frantic moment the other

side of Roxane's window.

"Coincidences," Ischade said. "That's possible of course. True coincidences  are

a rare thing, though. You know that.  You don't believe in them any more  than I

do, being no fool at all."

Stilcho stopped, moving  carefully now. Haught's  hand sought his  arm. "They're

here," Haught said.

"They've been here for some time," Stilcho said of the shadows that shifted  and

twisted, blacker than other shadows. "We've crossed the line. You want to do the

talking?"

"Don't try me. Don't try me, Stilcho."

"You think you're powerful enough to walk through the Shambles now and deal with

all the ghosts at once. Do it, why don't you? Or why'd you bring me?"

Haught's fingers bit painfully into his arm. "You talk to them, I say."

No  more remarks  about his  mother. Stilcho  turned his  head with   deliberate

slowness and looked at the gathering menace. No one alive was on the street  but

Haught. And himself. And  many of these were  Roxane's. Many were not-just  lost

souls left  unattended and  lately, in  the lamentable  condition of  Sanctuary,

without compulsion to go back to rest.

"I'm Stilcho," he said  to them. And he  took what he carried,  a waterskin, and

poured some of the contents  on the road. But it  was not water that pooled  and

glistened  there. He  stepped back.  There was  a dry  rustling, a  pushing  and

shoving, and something very like a  living black blanket of many pieces  settled

above the glistening  puddle on the  cobbles. He backed  away and spilled  more.

"There'll be more," he said. "All you have to do is follow."

Some ghosts turned away in horror.  Most followed, a slow drifting. He  dribbled

more of the blood. He had not asked  where it came from. These days it was  easy

come by.

For Ischade-more than most.

Strat struggled to open his eyes, and when he did there was a whisper in the air

like  bees in  summer, there  was a  darkness above  him like  uncreation.  "You

suspect me," a voice said, like the bees, like the wind out of the dark, "of all

manner of things.  I told you:  self-interest. Mine is  this town. This  town is

where I hunt.  This wicked, tangled  town, this sink  into which all  wickedness

pours-suits me as it is. I lend my strength to this side and to that. Right  now

I lend it to the Ilsigis. But you'll forget that by morning. You'll forget  that

and remember other things."

He got his eyes open again. It took all the strength he had. He saw her face  in

a way he had  never seen it, looked  her in the eyes  and looked into hell,  and

wanted now to shut them, but he had lost that volition.

"I've told you  what to do,"  she said. "Go.  Leave, while you  can. Get out  of

here!"

High on the hill  a horn blew, brazen  and pealing alarm. The  alarm outside the

Unicorn was more mundane  and less elegant: a  series of old pots  battered with

all the  strength in  a watcher's  arm. Help,  ha! Invasion,  incursion, mayhem!

There was  fire in  Downwind. And  uptown. In  a dozen  intersections barricades

started going up,  torches flared, horses'  hooves clattered wildly  through the

night.

"Get 'em," Lysias the Black instructed his small band, and arrows rained down on

one of Jubal's bands that planned to barricade the Blue line. "Rouse our  wizard

help up here, move it! That road stays open!"

From his vantage on a rooftop, bright fire sprang up on the hill.

More horns and clatterings and brayings of alarms in the night. Militias hit the

streets.

And a rider on a bay horse pelted down the riverside with reckless abandon right

through the Blue, headed for Black lines and comrades.

All hell was loose in the streets. Shutters broke (thieves in Sanctuary were  no

laggards, and had had their eyes set  on this and that target from long  before:

when the riot broke,  they smashed and grabbed  and ran like all  the devils and

the Rankan pantheon was at their heels.)

Uptown, one  of the  horns braying  and one  of the  alarms ringing was the mere

barracks and  the Guard;  but Wale-grin,  who had  not been  slow to pick up the

rumors, already had his  snipers posted, and the  first surge of looters  uptown

met a flight of arrows and a series of professionally organized barricades. This

was standard operation. It deterred the more dilatory of invaders.

It did not deter all of them.

Down on riverside, Ischade  sat wrapped only in  her black robe, in  the tumbled

fiery silks of her bed, and grinned while her eyes rolled back in her head.

Shadows poured down the riverside, shadows marched from the ravaged barracks  in

Downwind, and  ignored the  barriers the  Beggar-king and  his kind had erected.

Ignored the PFLS  and its flung  stones and its  naphtha-bottles and the  fires:

that demi-legion had  seen the fires  of hell and  were not impressed.  They had

already passed  the Yellow  line, and  they swaggered  along Red  territory, the

winding streets of  Downwind, with a  swiftness no ordinary  band could achieve,

faster and faster.

"They're coming," Stilcho said  to Haught, and the  Nisi magus hardly liked  the

satisfaction in Stilcho's face. Haught snatched the skin of blood and shook  out

a few more drops to keep the Shambles-ghosts on the track- glanced a second time

at Stilcho, thinking uncomfortably of treachery.

"Janni. Where's Janni? Have you located him?"

"Oh, I can guess where he'll go," Stilcho said.

"Roxane."

Stilcho laughed and grinned. He had a  patched eye and was missing one tooth  on

the  side, but  in the  dark when   the scars  showed less  there was  a  ruined

handsomeness about him. An elegance. He snatched the skin from Haught and hurled

it, spattering the cobbles. "Run!" he yelled at Haught, and laughed aloud.

"Stilcho, damn you!"

"Try!" Stilcho  yelled. Ghosts  streamed and  gibbered about  them, swirled  and

whirled like bats, and Haught assessed the situation in an eyeblink and  whipped

his cloak about his arm and ran as if the fiends of hell were on his track.

Stilcho howled. Slapped his knees. "Run, you friggin' bastard! Run, Nisi, run!"

He would pay for  it in the morning.  Haught would see to  that. But he had  Her

orders, direct.

He jogged off in the direction of the bridge, where a shadowy troop needed  help

passing running water. His old partner was in the lead and the company  insignia

was intact.

Behind him the ghosts did what  everyone else in Sanctuary was busy  doing: They

chose sides and took cover and had at one another.

Stilcho turned  his own  troop up  the riverside  and through the streets-slower

now, because they had a half-living man for a guide. But he would take them only

so far.  They would  have no  trouble with  Walegrin's uptown  barricades or the

Stepsons'  eastward; and  they were  not in  a negotiating  mood, having   their

murders recently  in mind.  Teach the  uptowners their  vulnerability -show  the

bastards who gave  the orders that  there were those  who remembered their  last

orders and their last official mistakes-

He jogged along, panting, limping-Ischade's repair work was thorough, but a long

run still sent pain jolting through him.

Ghosts passed  them, headed  where they  wished to  be. They  were polyglot  and

headed  for  old  haunts,  former  domiciles,  old  feuds.  Sanctuary  might get

pragmatic about  its haunts,  but the  ghosts grew  bolder and  nervier in these

declining days of the Empire; and  these were not the reasoning kind.  These had

been walking patrol in Ischade's service,  or Roxane's; and a few luckless  ones

tried to go complain to Roxane about the matter.

Roxane cursed a  blue streak (literally)  and in a  paroxysm of rage  conjured a

dozen snakes and a demon,  an orange-haired, grayskinned being named  Snapper Jo

which ran rampaging up the riverside till it forgot quite what it was about  and

got to rampaging through a warehouse full  of beer. It was not, all in  all, one

of Roxane's  better nights:  the attack  was desultory,  Ischade was  definitely

aiming at something else, and Roxane was willing to use the diversion while  she

took wing crosstown-

"Damn!" Haught yelled. His sight picked  that up, a pale blue arc  headed across

Sanctuary with only one target in mind. He was earthbound. He ran for the  river

and Ischade with all his might, and came pelting past the wards to find  Ischade

sitting on the bed wrapped in orange silk and the skirts of her black cloak  and

laughing like a lunatic.

Uptown  the  Lady  Nuphtantei's  door  went  wide  open  and  the  elegant  Lady

Nuphtantei, Harka Bey  and not easily  affrighted, went pelting  down the street

naked as she was born, for the drunken demon that had materialized in her  house

breaking porcelains and crunching silver underfoot was not a thing the  servants

or her daughter had stayed to deal with, not for a moment.

She ran straight into a company of Walegrin's guard and kept going, so fast  the

guard hardly had time to turn and stare.

Then what was behind her showed up, and the troops scattered.

Arrows flew. A  barricade was afire  over by the  Maze edge where  Jubal's gangs

tried to hold against rooftop  archers, mage-illusions, and a handful  of paired

riders who had the style and manner of the old Stepsons. And the fire spread  to

buildings, which doubled the chaos. Men threw water and ducked arrows. A frantic

family scurried out with possessions and arrows pelted indiscriminate.

The physician Harran wrung his hands (one was a woman's) and paced his  upstairs

room and took another  look out the window,  in the little garrett  where he had

hidden  his  affliction-fortuitously  hidden,  considering  what  had   befallen

everyone  else  in  the barracks.  But  he  had no  practice  now,  no home,  no

direction. Mriga gone.  There was the  little dog, which  paced about after  him

panting and whuffing in mimic concern.

He was (whatever his affliction) still a doctor. The pain he spied on worried at

him and gnawed his  gut. "Oh, damn," he  muttered to himself, when  a boy darted

from cover, limned red in the firelight,  and flung a torch. Tried to fling  it.

An arrow took him. The boy fell, writhing, skewered through the leg, right  near

the great artery. "Damn."

Herran slammed the shutter, shut his  eyes and suddenly turned and ran  down the

stairs, thundering down the hollow boards, into the smell of smoke and the glare

outside. He heard shouting,  wiped his eyes. Heard  the boy screaming above  the

roar  of  the burning  barricade,  above the  shouts  of men  in  combat. Horses

screamed. He heard the thunder of hooves and dashed out to reach the boy as  the

riders streaked past. "Lie still," he yelled at the screaming, thrashing  youth.

"Shut up!" He grabbed him about the arm and hauled it over his shoulders,  heard

a  frantic barking  and another  great shout  as he  stumbled to  his feet,  the

oncoming thunder of riders on the return, a solid wall of horsemen.

"Goddess-"

Strat met the shockwave of his own  forces that had kept the way open:  a moment

of  confusion while  they swept  about and  followed him  in a  clatter on   the

pavings. The burning barricade was ahead,  a sleet of stones. An uneven  pair of

figures blocked his path, dark against the light-

Strat swept his sword in an arc that ended in the skull of the taller and took a

good part  of it  away: he  rode through.  The rider  behind him faltered as his

horse hit the bodies and recovered; then  the rest of the troop went over  them,

crushing bone under steel-shod hooves, and swords swung as they met Jubal's  men

at the barricade, on their way back through.

There was a decided interest on the childrens' part. One boy kept climbing up to

the window and gazing  out, less talkative than  his wont. The other  never left

it, and stared when Niko came and took both in his arms.

He saw the circling of something sorcerous that could not get in. Saw  something

dark stream up to fight it off, and that something was torn ragged and  streamed

on the winds.  But what it  had turned was  dimmer fire now.  He heard a forlorn

cry, like a great hunting bird. Like a damned soul. A lost lover.

The wards about the place glowed blinding bright. And held.

Sanctuary was beset  with fires, barricades,  looting. The armed  priests of the

Storm God were no inconsiderable barrier themselves.

But they were ineffectual finally against a torn, bloody thing that haunted  the

halls and that tried  the partnership that had  been between them. He  knew what

had come streaking in  to find him; he  knew what faithful, vengeful  wraith had

held the line again. It pleaded with  him in his dreams, forgetting that it  was

dead. He wept at such times, because he  could not explain to it and it was  not

interested in listening.

"Get me out of here," he yelled down the hall, startling the children. A  priest

showed up in the hallway, spear in hand, eyes wide. "Dammit, get me out of  this

city!"

The priest kept  staring. Niko kicked  the door shut  and sank down  against it,

child in either arm.

They crawled into his lap, hugged him round the neck. One wiped his face, and he

stared past, longing for the dawn and the boat they promised would come.

A  barge  went  down the  White  Foal,  an uncommonly  sturdy  one  by Sanctuary

standards. Ischade watched it, arms about her, the hood of her black cloak back.

Her faithful were there: chastened Haught, smug Stilcho. The usual birds sat  in

the tree. Breath frosted on the wind-a cold morning, but that hardly stopped the

looting and the sniping. There was a smoky taint to the air.

"They want war," Ischade said, "let them have war. Let them have it till they're

full of it. Till this town's so confounded no force can hold it. Have you  heard

the fable of Shipri's ring? The goddess  was set on by three demons who  plainly

had rape in mind; she had a golden  armlet, and she flung it to the first  if he

would fight off the other two and let her go. But the second snatched at it  and

so did the third; the goddess walked  away and there they stand to this  day. No

one devil can get it; and the other  two won't let go till the world ends."  She

turned a dazzling smile on them both, in a merry humor quite unlike herself.

The barge  passed beneath  the White  Foal bridge.  A black  bird flew after it,

sending forlorn cries down the wind.

The bay horse was dead. Strat  limped when he walked, and persisted  in walking,

pacing the floor in the temporary  headquarters the Band had set up  deep within

the mage quarter.  A clutter  of maps  lay on  the table.  Plans that  the  ever

changing character of the streets changed  hourly. He wanted sleep. He wanted  a

bath. He reeked of smoke and sweat and blood, and he gave orders and drew  lines

and listened to the reports that began to come in.

He had  not wanted  this. He  had no  wish to  be in  command. He  was, somehow.

Somehow it had fallen on him. The Band fought phantoms, confounded them with the

living and  mage-illusions. Sync  was missing.  Lyncaeos was  dead. Kama had not

been heard from. The bay horse had damn near broken his leg when an arrow  found

it.  He  had  had  to  kill it.  Stepsons  and  commandos  killed  with terrible

efficiency and the Ilsigi guerrillas who  thought they knew what side they  were

on  and  thought they  knew  all about  war  might see  things  differently this

morning. And change  alliances again. In  a situation like  this alliances might

change twice in a morning.

And Kadakithis  sat in  his palace  and the  Guard and  the mercs held it. Strat

limped  to  the window  and  entertained treasonous  thoughts,  hating thoughts,

staring up toward the palace through the pall of smoke.

DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE

Diane Duane

... But who could ever tell of all the daring

in the stubborn hearts of women, the hard will,

how the female force crams its resisted way

through night, through death, taking no "no" for answer?

Yet still Right's anvil stands staunch on the ground,

and there smith Destiny hammers out the sword.

Should that force, that fierce gift, be used for ill,

delayed in glory, pensive through the murk,

Vengeance comes home. Yet odd the way of life,

for if the power's used for good, then still

She comes; though in far other form, and strange ...

In Sanctuary  that day  the smoke  rose up  to heaven,  a sooty sideways-blowing

banner against the blue of early winter. Some of that smoke rose up from  altars

to  attract  the attention  of  one god  or  another, and  failed.  Most of  the

immortals were too busy looking on in horror or delight or divine remoteness  as

their votaries went to war against one another, tearing the town into pieces and

setting the pieces afire. A god or  two even left town. Many non-gods tried  to:

some few succeeded. Of those who remained, many non-immortals died,  slaughtered

in the riots  or burned in  the firestorms that  swept through the  city. No one

tried or bothered to count them all, not even the gods.

One  died in  Sanctuary that  day who  was not  mortal (quite),  and not  a  god

(quite). His death was  unusual in that it  was noticed-not just once  but three

times.

He noticed it himself, of course. Harran  had worked close to death much of  his

life, both as apprentice healer-priest of Siveni Gray-Eyes and as the barber and

leech to  the ersatz  Stepsons. He  knew the  inevitable results  of the kind of

swordcut that the great dark shape a-horseback swung at him. No hope, he thought

clinically, while he ducked staggering away  with a boy's weight slung over  his

shoulder. That's an expert handling that sword, that is. Past that mere thought,

and a flash of pained concern for  the arrow-shot boy he'd been trying to  save,

there was no time for anything but confusion.

The confusion had  been a fixture  in his mind  lately. For one  thing, the real

Stepsons had come back, and Harran was not finding their return as funny as he'd

once  thought  he would.  He  hadn't reckoned  on  being counted  a  traitor for

supporting the  false Stepsons  in the  true ones'  absence. But  he also hadn't

reckoned on having so much trouble with his lost goddess Siveni when he summoned

her up.  Her manifestation,  and her  attempt to  level Sanctuary-foiled  by the

clubfooted beggar-girl he'd  been using as  idiot labor and  "mattress"-had left

him confused to a standstill. Now Mriga the idiot was Mriga the goddess, made so

by the same spell  that had brought Siveni  into the streets of  Sanctuary. And,

involved in the spell himself, Harran had briefly become a god too.

But his short bout  of divinity had made  the world no plainer  to him. Suddenly

bereft of Mriga, who had taken Siveni and gone wherever gods go-stricken by  the

loss of  a hand  during the  spell, and  by its  abrupt replacement (with one of

Mriga's)-Harran had retreated  to the fake  Stepsons' barracks. He  had taken to

wearing gloves and drinking a great deal while he tried to think out what to  do

next with his life. Somehow he never seemed to get much thinking done.

And  then  the  real  Stepsons  stormed  their  old  barracks,  slaughtering  in

Vashanka's  name the  "traitors" who  had impersonated  them with  such  partial

success. They were evidently particularly  enraged about dogs being kept  in the

barracks. Harran didn't  understand it. What  was Vashanka's problem  with dogs?

Had one bit  Him once? In  any case, when  Harran fled to  a Maze-side garret to

escape the sack of the barracks, he made sure to take little brown Tyr with him.

She was yipping and howling unseen behind him now, as that sword descended,  and

there was nothing  he could do.  It hit him  hard in the  temple, and there  was

surprisingly little pain. He was faintly  horrified to feel the top of  his head

crumple and slide sideways; and  out of the corner of  his left eye he saw  half

his skull  and its  contents come  away clean  on the  edge of the sword. Harran

fell-he knew  he fell,  from feeling  his face  and chest  smash into the bloody

dirt-but his vision,  until it darkened,  was frozen on  that sidewise look.  He

became bemused; brains were usually  darker. Evidently the typical color  of the

other ones he had examined was due to clotting of blood in the tissues. His  had

not yet had time, that was all. The next time he ... the next time ... but  this

was wrong. Where was Siveni? Where was Mriga? They always said that when ... you

died, your god or goddess ... met you....

... and night descended upon Harran, and his spirit fled far away.

Tyr didn't know she was  a dog. She didn't know  anything in the way people  do.

Her  consciousness   was  all   adjectives,  hardly   any  nouns-affect  without

association. Things happened, but she didn't think of them that way; she  hardly

thought at all. She just was.

There was also something else.  Not a person-Tyr had  no idea what persons  were

but a presence, with which the world was as it should be, and without which  her

surroundings ceased to be a world. A human looking through Tyr's mind would have

perceived  such  a place  as  hell-all certainties  gone,  all loves  abolished,

nothing left but an emotional void through which one fell sickeningly,  forever.

It had  been that  way long  ago. In  Tyr's vague  way she  dreaded that  hell's

return.  But  since  the  Presence  came  into  the  world,  knitting everything

together, hell had stayed far away.

There were also familiar shapes that moved  about in her life. One was thin  and

gangly with a  lot of curly  straggly fur on  top, and shared  one or another of

Tyr's sleeping spots with  her. The other was  a tall, blond-bearded shape  that

had been with her longer and had acquired more importance. Tyr dimly  understood

that the presence of this second  shape had something to do with  her well-being

or lack of  it, but she  wasn't capable of  working out just  what, or of caring

that she  couldn't. When  the tall  shape held  her, when  in its  presence food

manifested itself, or  sticks flew and  she ran and  brought them back,  Tyr was

ecstatically  happy.  Even when  the  skinny shape  subtracted  itself from  her

universe, she  wasn't upset  for long.  Both the  Presence and  the tall  shape,

though surprised, seemed  to approve; so  it must have  been all right.  And the

shape that counted hadn't gone away. It was when that shape was missing, or  she

smelled trouble about it, that Tyr's world went to pieces.

It was in pieces now. It had been since the time she had been cheerfully rooting

in the barracks' kitchen-midden, and suddenly a lot of horses came, and some  of

the buildings around got very bright. Tyr didn't identify as fire the light that

sprang up among them, since fire as she understood it was something that  stayed

in a little stone place in the center of the world, and didn't bother you unless

you got too close. So, unconcerned, she had gone on rooting in the midden  until

the tall thing came  rushing to her and  snatched her up. This  annoyed Tyr; and

she became more annoyed yet  when her nose told her  that there had begun to  be

meat lying all over.  Tyr never got enough  meat. But the tall  one wouldn't let

her at it. He took her to some  dark place that wasn't the center of the  world,

and once there he wouldn't be still, and wouldn't hold her, and wouldn't let her

out. This went  on for some  time. Tyr became  distressed. The world  was coming

undone.

Then the tall one began to smell of fear-more so than usual. He ran out and left

her,  and the  fraying of  the world  completed itself.  Tyr cried  out  without

knowing  that she  did, and  danced and  scrabbled at  the hard  thing that  was

sometimes a hole in the wall. But no matter what she did, it wouldn't be a hole.

Then it occurred to her that there  was another hole, up high. The tall  one had

been by it, and with some frantic thought of getting close to him by being where

he had been, Tyr jumped  up on things she did  not know were tables and  chairs,

clambered her way  onto the windowsill  to perch there  wobbling, and nosed  the

shutter aside.

She saw the tall shape lurching across the street, with something slung over its

shoulder. Tyr's nose was full of the smell of burning and blood from below  her.

She added everything swiftly together-the  tallness and the scorch and  the meat

down  there-and realized  that he  was bringing  her dinner  after all.   Wildly

excited,  she began  to yip-Then  horses came  running at  the tall  one.  Tyr's

feelings about this were  mixed. Horses kicked. But  once one horse had  stopped

kicking, and the tall one  had given her some, and  it had been very good.  More

food? Tyr thought, as much as  she ever thought anything. But the  horses didn't

stop when they got to the tall one  and the meat. For a moment she couldn't  see

where the tall one was. Then the horses separated, and Tyr whimpered and sniffed

the air.  She caught  the tall  one's scent.  But to  her horror,  the scent did

something  she  had never  smelled  it do  before:  it cooled.  It  thinned, and

vanished, and  turned to  meat. And  the Presence,  the something  that made the

world alive, the Presence went away....

When the universe is destroyed before one's eyes, one may well mourn. Tyr had no

idea of what  mourning was, but  she did it.  Standing and shaking  there on the

window-sill, anguished, she howled and howled. And when the horses got too close

and the tall things on them pointed at her, she panicked altogether and fell out

of the window,  rolled bumping down  the roof-gable and  off it. The  pain meant

nothing to her: at  the end of the  world, who counts bruises?  Tyr scrambled to

her feet, in a pile of trash, limping, not noticing the limp. She fled down  the

dirty street, shied past the flaming  barricade, ran past even the crushed  meat

that had been the tall thing. She  ran, howling her terror and loss, for  a long

time. Eventually she found at  least one familiar smell-a midden.  Desperate for

the familiar,  she half  buried herself  in the  garbage, but  it was no relief.

Footsore, too miserable even to nose  through the promising bones and rinds  she

lay  in,  Tyr cowered  and  whimpered in  restless  anguish for  hours.  Finally

weariness forced her, still crying, into  a wretched sleep. Soon enough the  sun

would be up. But it would rise black, as far as Tyr was concerned. Joy was  over

forever. The tall thing was meat, and the Presence was gone.

As  sleep took  her, Tyr  came her  closest ever  to having  a genuine  thought.

Moaning, she wished she were meat too.

Sanctuary's gods, like most others, resided by choice in the timelessness  which

both contains all mortal time and space, and lies within them. That timelessness

is impossible  to understand-even  the patron  gods of  the sciences shake their

heads at  its physics-and  difficult to  describe, especially  to mortals, whose

descriptions necessarily involve time, in the telling if nowhere else.

Light, overwhelming, is what most mortals remember who pass through those realms

in dream or vision. The fortunate dead who come there, having given up time, see

things differently.  So do  the gods.  In that  place where  the absence of time

makes space infinitely malleable, they rear their bright dwellings and  demesnes

with no tool but thought, and alter them at whim-changing, too, their own  forms

as  mortals change  clothes, for  similar reasons:  hygiene, courtesy,  boredom,

special occasions. Like  mortals, too, they  have their pet  issues and favorite

causes.  There  are  collaborations  and feuds,  amours  with  mortals  or other

divinities, arguments between  pantheons or within  them. Some of  the gods find

this likeness to mortal behavior distressing. Most profess not to care, just  as

most profess to ignore the deeper light that often broods beyond and within  the

Bright Dwellings, watching what gods and mortals do.

Recently the neighborhood had seen the advent of one Dwelling that wasn't always

bright. It tended to be either a high, chaste, white-columned temple of the kind

aesthetically promising mortals built, or a low thatched hut of stone  crouching

defiantly in  a rammed  dirt yard.  But either  way, it  always had a positively

mortal look about it that passing deities variously found tasteless, deliciously

primitive, or avant-garde. The dwelling's changes sometimes came several to  the

minute, then several to the second; and after such spasms lightningbolts  tended

to spray out the windows or doors,  and thumps and shouting could be heard  from

inside. The neighbors  soon discovered that  the division of  this house against

itself was symptomatic.  The goddess(es) living  there were in  the middle of  a

personality crisis.

"Do you ever think about anything but clothes?!"

"At least I do think about them now and then. You're a goddess, you can't go out

in those-those rags!"

"I beg your pardon! This shift is just well broken in. It's comfortable. And  it

covers me ... instead of leaving half of me hanging out, like that old tunic  of

Ils's that you never take off. Or that raggy goatskin cape with the ugly face on

it."

"I'll have you know  that when my Father  shakes 'that raggy goatskin'  over the

armies of men, they scatter in terror-"

"The way it smells, no wonder. And that's our Father. Oh, do put the vase  down,

Siveni! I'll just make another. Besides, when has Ils scattered an army  lately?

Better give him that thing back: He could probably use it just now."

"Why, you-"

Lightnings whipped the temple's marble, scarring it black. Screeching, a  silver

raven napped out from between a  pair of columns and perched complaining  in the

topmost branches  of a  golden-appled tree  a safe  distance away. The lightning

made a lot of noise  as it lashed about, but  even a casual observer would  have

noticed that it  did little harm.  Shortly it sizzled  away to nothing,  and the

stagy thunder that had  accompanied it faded to  echoes and whispers, and  died.

The  temple  convulsed,  squatted down,  and  got  brown and  gray,  a  beast of

fieldstone and thatch. Then it went away altogether.

Two  women  were  left  standing  there  on  the  plain,  which  still  nickered

uncertainly  between radiance  and dirt.  One of  them stood  divinely tall   in

shimmering  robes,  crested  and  helmed,  holding  a  spear  around  which  the

restrained lightnings sulkily strained and hissed-a form coolly fair and bright,

all godhead and maidenhead, seemingly  unassailable. Just out of arms'  reach of

her stood someone not so tall, hardly  so fair, dressed in grime and worn  plain

cloth with  patches, crowned  with nothing  but much  dark curly  hair, somewhat

snarled, and armed only  with a kitchen knife.  They stared at each  other for a

moment, Siveni and Mriga,  warrior-queen of wisdom and  idiot wench. It was  the

idiot who had the  thoughtful, regretful look, and  the Lady of Battles  who had

the black eye.

"It's got  to stop,"  Mriga said,  dropping the  knife in  the shining  dust and

turning away from her otherself. "We tear each other up for nothing. Our town is

going to pieces, and our priest is all  alone in the middle of it, and we  don't

dare try to help him until our own business is handled ..."

"You don't dare," Siveni said scornfully. But she didn't move.

Mriga sighed. While she  had been insane just  before she became a  goddess, her

madness  had  not  involved multiple  personalities-so  that  when she  suddenly

discovered that she was one with Siveni Gray-Eyes, there was trouble. Siveni was

Ils's daughter, mistress of both war and the arts and sciences, the Ilsig  gods'

two-edged blade Herself: both Queen of cool wisdom, and hellion God-daughter who

could take any god  in the Ilsig pantheon,  save her father, for  best two falls

out of three. Siveni had not taken kindly to losing parts of herself into  time,

or to  seeing the  Rankan pantheon  raised to  preeminence in  Sanctuary, or  to

coming off a poor second in a street  brawl with a mortal. But all of those  had

happened; and the first, though now mending in timelessness, irked her most.

When gods become snared in time and  its usages-as had many of Sanctuary's  gods

their  attributes  tend  to  leach across  the  barrier,  into  time, and  embed

themselves in the most compatible mortal personality. In Siveni's case, that had

been Mriga.  Even as  a starving  idiot-beggar she  had loved  the edge  on good

steel. Sharpening swords and spears was the work to which Harran had most  often

put her, after he found her in the Bazaar, dully whetting a broken bit of  metal

on a rock. Clubfooted and feeble-willed as she was, she had somehow "managed" to

be found by the last of Siveni's priests in Sanctuary, "managed" to be taken  in

by him as  the poor and  mad had always  been taken into  her temple before. And

when Harran went out one night to  work the spell that would set Siveni  free of

time and bring her back  into the world, to the  ruin of the Rankan gods,  Mriga

was drawn after him like steel to the magnet.

The spell he  had used would  infallibly bring back  the lost. It  did, not only

bringing back Siveni to her  temple, but also retrieving Harran's  lost divinity

and Mriga's lost wits. Harran, blindly in love with his goddess in her whole and

balanced form, had been  shocked to find himself  dealing not with the  gracious

maiden mistress of the  arts of peace, but  with a cold fierce  power made testy

and irrational by the loss of vital attributes. Siveni had been quite willing to

pull all Sanctuary down around all the gods' ears if the deities of Ranke  would

not meet her right in battle. Harran  tried to stop her-for vile sink though  it

was, Sanctuary was his home-and Siveni nearly killed him out of pique.

Mriga, though, had  stopped her. She  had recovered the  conscious godhead every

mortal temporarily surrenders at birth, and was therefore in full control of the

attributes of wise compassion and cool judgment that Siveni had lost into  time.

She and her otherself  fought, and after Mriga  won the fight, both  saw swiftly

that  they  were  one,  though crippled  and  divided.  They  needed union,  and

timeless-ness in  which to  achieve it.  Neither was  available in  the world of

mortals. With that knowledge they had turned, as one, to Harran. They took their

leave of him,  healing the hand  maiming that Siveni  had inflicted on  him, and

then departed for those  fields mortals do not  know. Of course they  planned to

come back to him-or for him-as soon as they were consolidated.

But even  in timelessness,  union was  taking longer  than either  had expected.

Siveni was arrogant  in her recovered  wisdom, angry about  having lost it,  and

bitter that it had found nowhere better to lodge than an ignorant cinder-sitting

house-slut. Mriga  was annoyed  at Siveni's  snobbery, bored  with her  constant

anecdotes about her  divine lineage-she told  the same ones  again and again-and

most of all tired of fighting. Unfortunately she too was Siveni: when challenged

she had to fight. And being  mortal and formerly mad, she knew  something Siveni

had never learned: how  to fight dirty. Mriga  always won, and that  made things

worse.

"If you just wouldn't-"

"Oh stop," Mriga said, waving her hand and sitting down on the crude bench  that

appeared behind her.  In front of  her appeared a  rough table loaded  down with

meat and bread and watered wine of the kind Harran used to smuggle for them from

the Stepsons' store. Now that she was  a goddess, and not mad, Mriga could  have

had better; but old habits were hard to break, and the sour wine reminded her of

home. "Want some?"

"Goddesses," Siveni said, looking askance at the table, "don't eat mortal  food.

They eat only-"

"'-the gods' food and  drink only foaming nectar.'  Yes, that's what I  hear. So

then how am I sitting here eating butcher's beef and drinking wine? Who could be

here but us goddesses? Have some of this nice chine."

"No."

Mriga poured out  a libation to  Father Ils, then  applied herself to  a rack of

back ribs. "The world  of mortal men," she  said presently, while wiping  grease

off one cheek, "mirrors  ours, have you noticed?  Or maybe ours mirrors  theirs.

Either way, have you noticed how preoccupied both of them are just now with  cat

fighting? The Beysa. Kama. Roxane. Ischade. If all that stopped-would ours  stop

too? Or if we stopped-"

"As if anything mortals do could matter to the gods," Siveni said, annoyed.  She

thumped the  ground with  her spear  and an  elegant marble  bench appeared. She

seated herself on it; a moment later a small altar appeared, on which the  thigh

bones of fat steers, wrapped attractively in fat and with wine poured over, were

being burned in a brazier. She  inhaled the savor and pointedly touched  none of

the meat.

"What a waste," Mriga said. "... That's just what Harran said, though. The  gods

became convinced that time could bind them-and so it did. They became  convinced

that other gods could  drive them out-and so  it happened. If we  could convince

men that the pantheons were willing to get along together, and that they  should

stop killing each other in gods' names ... then maybe the fighting would stop up

here. Mirrors...."

Mriga was becoming  better at omniscience-another  attribute Siveni had  lost to

her-and so heard Siveni  thinking that idiocy was  one of those conditions  that

transcended even immortality.  Mriga sighed. It  was harder than  she'd thought,

this becoming one.  Siveni didn't really  want to share  her attributes ...  and

Mriga didn't really want to give  them up. Hopeless.... Then she caught  herself

staring at  the rib  bone in  her hand,  and by  way of  it became  aware of  an

emptiness in the universe. "I miss my dog," Mriga said.

Siveni shrugged coolly. Most of her affections and alliances lay with the winged

tribes, birds of prey or oracular ravens. But as the silence stretched out,  she

looked over at Mriga, and her face softened a bit.

"Goddess!-"

Mriga looked up at Siveni in surprise. The voice caught at both their hearts  as

if hooks had set  deep there. Startled, the  two of them looked  around them and

saw no one; then looked out of timelessness into time....

... and saw Harran go down under  the hooves of Stepsons' horses, with half  his

head missing.

"My master," Mriga said, stricken. "My priest, my love-"

"Our priest," Siveni said, and sounded as if she could have said something else,

but would not. She got up so quickly that the marble bench fell one way and  the

elegant brazier the other. Her spear leapt into her hand, sizzling. "I'll-"

"We'll," Mriga said,  on her feet  now. It was  odd how eyes  so icy with  anger

could still manage tears that flowed. "Come on."

Thunder  cracked about  them like  sky ripping  open. The  neighbors all  around

turned in  their direction  and stared.  Uncaring, two  goddesses, or  one, shot

earthward from the bright floor  of heaven, which, behind them,  hesitated, then

furtively turned to dirt.

The fire by  the Maze-side street  barricade had died  down, and the  street was

empty except for the slain and the scavengers. Now and then someone passed  by-a

Stepson on one  of their fierce  horses, or a  random member of  some Nisi death

squad, or one of Jubal's people just slipped out of the blue on business. No one

noticed the  grimy street  idiot, sitting  blank-eyed beside  a trampled corpse;

much less the sooty raven perched on a charred wagon and eyeing the same corpse,

and the younger, arrow-shot one it lay on, with a cold and interested eye. Black

birds were no unusual sight in Sanctuary these days.

"His soul's gone," Mriga whispered to the bird. "Long gone, and the poor  body's

cold. How? We came straight away-"

"Time here and there  run differently," said the  raven, voice hoarse and  soft.

"We might  have done  something while  the tie  between soul  and body was still

stretching thin. But it's too late now-"

"No," Mriga said.

"I should have  leveled this place  the last time  I was here.  This would never

have happened!"

"Siveni, be still."  Mriga sat by  Harran's crushed remains,  one hand stretched

out to the awful  ruin of his head;  a purposeful gesture, for  without actually

touching the cold  stiff flesh, she  found herself unable  to believe in  death.

That was one  of the problems  with being a  god. Immortal, they  often found it

hard to take death seriously. But Mriga was taking it very seriously indeed.

She strained for omniscience; it obliged her a little. "We could get him  back,"

she said. "There are ways...."

"And put him where? Back in this?" In her raven form, Siveni flapped down to the

cold stiff mess of  shattered bones and pulped  muscle, and poked it  scornfully

with her beak. It didn't even bleed. "And if not here, where?"

"Another body? ..."

"Whose?"

Mriga's omniscience declined an answer.  This didn't matter: she was  getting an

idea of her own ... one that scared her, but might work. "Let's not worry  about

it right now," she said. "We'll think of something."

"And even if we do  ... who's to say his  soul's survived what happened to  him?

Mortal souls  are fragile.  Sometimes death  shatters them  completely. Or for a

long time ... long enough that by the time they've put themselves back together,

it's no good putting them in a body; they've forgotten how to stay in one."

"He was a god for a little while," Mriga said. "That should count for something.

And I don't think Harran was that fragile. Come on, Siveni, we have to try!"

"I'd sooner just burn  the city down," the  raven said, hopping and  flapping up

onto Mriga's shoulder as she stood up.

"A  bit late  for that,  I fear."  Mriga looked  around her  at the   smoldering

barricade, the scorched and  soot-blackened faces of the  surrounding buildings.

"The cats  have been  busy setting  one another's  tails on  fire, and  not much

caring what else catches and goes up as they run around screeching."

"Cats ..." Siveni said, sounding thoughtful.

"Yes: my thought exactly. We'll deal with one or two of them before we're  done.

But first things first. Where's my puppy?"

Tyr woke up with the upset feeling  that usually meant she'd had a dream  of the

bad old days before the Presence came. But by the time she was fully awake,  she

had already  realized that  this time  the feeling  had nothing  to do  with any

dream. For a few minutes that part of Sanctuary slammed its windows shut against

the  bitter  howling that  emanated  from the  garbage  heap behind  the  Vulgar

Unicorn. Tyr's throat was sore, though,  with smoke and her long crying  the day

before, so that she coughed and retched and had to stop.

She lay there panting,  deep in griefs apathy,  not knowing it, not  caring. The

garbage all around her smelled wonderful, and she had no appetite for it. Inside

the Unicorn there was the sound of people moving around, and from upstairs a cat

wailed an enraged challenge, and Tyr  couldn't even summon up the energy  to get

up and  run away.  She made  a sound  half whimper,  half moan,  and behind it a

feeling that a human looking through her mind would instantly have recognized as

a hopeless prayer. Oh, whatever there  is that listens, please, please, make  it

didn't happen!....

... and suddenly there was someone  there beside her, and old reflex  took over.

Tyr struggled to her  feet, ready to run.  But her nose countermanded  her legs,

and Tyr froze-then  leaped up, whining  madly, bouncing in  a frenzy of  relief,

licking at the skinny figure that was crouched down next to her. The skinny  one

tasted better than usual. There was something else with her-a black bird of  the

kind Tyr  usually liked  to chase-but  somehow the  bird also  smelled like  the

skinny  one,  so she  let  it be.  She  crowded into  the  skinny shape's  arms,

whimpering incredulous welcome, terror, reawakened hunger, sorrow and loss,  the

news of the world turned upside down ...

"I know, I know," Mriga said, and though the words meant nothing to Tyr, the dog

was  comforted.  Mriga knew  exactly  how she  felt,  without omniscience  being

involved. Her own retarded mind, before the onslaught of divinity, had been  the

same nounless void, full of  inexplicable presences and influences. Now  the dog

nosed at her, both vastly relieved  and freshly wounded by the reminder  of what

was wrong with the world. She whimpered, and her stomach growled.

"Oh, poor child," Mriga said, and reached sideways into timelessness for the rib

bones she'd been working on. Tyr  leaped at the half-rack of ribs  almost before

they were entirely into time, and fell to gnawing on them.

"She thinks she's in hell," Mriga said to Siveni.

The  raven  laughed,  one harsh  bitter  caw.  "Would that  she  were,  for he's

certainly there. She could lead us to him...."

Mriga looked at the raven in  swift admiration. "That lost wisdom's coming  back

to you, sister. So she might. Of course, we would have to find a way to get into

hell ourselves."

"Then think of one," Siveni said, sounding both pleased and annoyed.

Mriga thought. Her  omniscience stirred, though  not precisely in  the direction

required. "I don't know how just yet," she said. "But there are experts in  this

town ... people who  know the way. They've  sent so many others  down that road.

And they bring them back again."

Tyr looked  up and  yipped. She  had been  bolting the  meat and  already looked

somewhat better-not just from having eaten after a long fast. The food and drink

of the  gods work  strangely in  mortals. Tyr's  eyes were  already brighter and

deeper than Mriga  ever remembered having  seen them; and  the dog had  abruptly

stopped smelling like a garbage-heap.

"Yes," Mriga said. "It might just  work. Finish that, little one. Then  we'll go

down by the White Foal ... and go to hell."

Tyr yipped again and went at  the ribs with dispatch. The raven  looked sidewise

at Mriga. "What if she won't help us?" she said.

Omniscience spoke  up again,  and Mriga  frowned, for  it was  no comfort.  "She

will," she said. "Always assuming that between here and there, we can figure out

the right things to say...."

Even necromants need to sleep occasionally, and in the last few days Ischade had

gotten less sleep than usual. Now, in this bright chill winter afternoon she had

evidently counted Sanctuary deep enough in shock at its troubles that she  might

rest a  little while.  The shutters  of the  house by  the White  Foal were  all

closed.  What  black birds  sat  in the  trees  did so  with  heads under  wing,

mirroring their  mistress. There  was no  sound there  but the  rattling of  dry

leaves and withered rose-hips in the thorny hedge.

"This place smells like  death," said the raven  perched on the shoulder  of the

skinny, ragged girl who stood by the little wicket gate.

"It should," said  Mriga, and reached  out sorrowfully to  something that wasn't

wholly there. At least her mortal senses refused to acknowledge it. Her godsight

clearly showed  her a  big bay  steed, still  saddled, its  reins hanging loose,

standing forlornly by the gate and gazing at the rundown house. As Mriga reached

out to  it the  bay rolled  eye-whites at  her and  put its  ears back,  but the

gesture was  half-hearted. After  a second  it relented,  whuffling, and put its

nose in her hand, then swung its  great head around to breathe of her  breath by

way of greeting.

"Poor, poor ..." Mriga said, stroking  the shivering place just under the  bay's

jaw. Tyr looked on suspiciously, eyeing the horse's hooves. Siveni in her  raven

shape cocked  a bright  black eye.  She was  fond of  horses: she  had after all

invented them, thereby winning a contest.

"One more ghost," she said. "And recent. The woman breeds them."

"Recently, yes."  And the  door at  the top  of the  steps opened, and there was

another ghost,  more or  less. At  least the  man was  dead. Outwardly he merely

looked scarred. One eye was covered with a patch and his face was a wealed  ruin

in which an old handsomeness lurked as sad and near-unseen as the ghost-bay. His

carriage had ruin about  it too. Mriga saw  the ghost of it,  straight and tall,

under the  present reality-a  hunched posture,  the stance  of someone  cowering

under the lash of a fear that never went away.

The man stared at them, more with the patched eye than with the whole one, Mriga

thought. "Stilcho," she said, "where's your mistress? Bring us to her."

He stared harder, then laughed. "Who  shall I say is calling? Some  guttersnipe,

and her mangy cur,  and ..." He noticed  the black bird and  grew more reserved.

"Look ... get out of here," he said. "Who are you? Some Nisi witchling, one  she

missed last night? Get out. You're crazy to come here. You're just a kid, you're

no match for her, whoever you think you are!"

"Not Nisi, at least," Mriga said, mildly nettled.

Siveni looked up  at Stilcho from  Mriga's shoulder and  said, "Man, we  are the

goddess Siveni. And if you don't  bring us to your mistress, and  that speedily,

you'll be spoiled meat  in a minute. Now  get out of our  way, or show us  in to

her." The scorn was very audible.

Tyr growled.

"Stilcho you fool, shut that, the  wind's like knives," said another voice  from

beyond  the  door. And  there  came a  smaller,  slimmer man,  who  wore a  cold

composure exactly the opposite of  Stilcho's desolation; but under it,  ghost to

its solidity, dwelt the same impression of unrelenting fear. The man looked  out

and  down  at them,  and  his face  went  from surprise  to  amused contempt  to

uncertainty to shocked realization in the time it took him to take a breath  and

let it out in cloud.

"You at least have some idea what you're looking at, Haught," Mriga said, waving

the wicket gate out of existence  and walking through where it had  been. Haught

stared,  as well  he might  have, for  the deadly  wards laid  inside that  gate

unravelled themselves and died without so much as a whimper. "If I were you, I'd

announce us."

With  some difficulty  Haught reassumed  his look  of threat  and contempt.  "My

mistress is unavailable," he said.

Mriga looked at the raven. "Slugging abed again."

The raven snapped its beak in  annoyance and napped away from Mriga's  shoulder.

Abruptly a  helmeted woman  in an  oversized tunic  stood there,  a spear in her

hand, and rapped with its butt on the ground. With a roar, the dry hedge and the

barren trees all  burst forth in  foliage of green  fire. Screeching, the  black

birds went whirling up out of the tree like scorched papers on the wind, leaving

little trails of smoke and a smell of burnt feathers behind them.

"She's up now," said Siveni.

One last man came hurriedly to the door,  swearing, a tall, fair, and broad  man

and Tyr launched herself at  him, stiff-legged, snarling. "No, Tyr!"  Mriga said

hurriedly, and grabbed at the dog, just  catching her by the scruff of the  neck

... a good thing, for a knife had appeared as if by magic in the man's hand, and

was a fraction of a second from  being first airborne and then in Tyr's  throat.

Tyr stood on her hind legs and  growled and fought to get loose, but  Mriga held

on to  her tight.  "This is  no time  to indulge  in personalities," she hissed.

"We've got  business." The  dog quieted:  Mriga let  her stand,  but watched her

carefully. "Straton, is the lady decent?"

He stared at them,  as dumbfounded by the  outrageous question as by  the simple

sight of them-the  armed and radiant  woman, fierce-eyed and  divinely tall: the

ragged skinny beggar girl who somehow shone through her grime: and the delicate,

deer-slim, bitter-eyed brown dog wearing a look such as he had seen on  Stepsons

about to avenge a lost partner. "Haught," he said, "go inquire."

"No need," said  a fourth voice  behind him in  the doorway's darkness:  a voice

soft and sleepy and dangerous. "Haught, Stilcho, where are your manners? Let the

ladies in. Then be off for  a while. Straton, perhaps you'll excuse  us. They're

only goddesses, I can handle them."

The men cleared out of  the doorway one by one  as the three climbed the  stair.

First came the dog  with her lip  curled, showing a  fang or two;  then the gray

eyed spear-bearer, looking around her with the cool unnoticing scorn of a  great

lady preparing to do  some weighty business in  a sty. Last came  the beggar, at

whom Straton  looked with  relaxed contempt.  "Curb that,"  he said, glancing at

Tyr, then back at Mriga, in calmest threat.

Mriga eyed him. "The  bay misses you," she  said, low-voiced, and went  on past,

into the dark.

She ignored the  hating look he  threw into her  back like a  knife as he turned

away.  If  her  plan worked,  vengeance  would  not be  necessary.  And  she was

generally not going to be a  vengeful goddess. But in Straton's case,  just this

once, she would make an exception.

Ischade's  downstairs living  room was  much bigger  than it  should have  been,

considering the outside dimensions of the house. It was a mad scattering of rich

stuffs in  a hundred  colors, silks  and furs  thrown carelessly over furniture,

piled  in corners.  Here were  man's clothes,  a worn  campaigning cloak,  muddy

boots, sitting on ivory silk to keep them off the hardwood floor; over there was

a sumptuous cloak of night-red velvet scorching gently where it lay half in  the

hearth, half out of it, wholly unnoticed by the hostess.

Ischade was courteous. She  poured wine for her  guests, and set down  a bowl of

water and another of  neatly chopped meat for  Tyr. Once they were  settled, she

looked at them  out of those  dark eyes of  hers and waited.  To mortal eyes she

would  have  seemed  deadly  enough,  even  without  the  flush  of  interrupted

lovemaking in her face. But Mriga looked  at her and simply said, "We need  your

help."

"Destroying my property, and my wards, and upsetting my servants," said Ischade,

"strikes me as a poor way to go about getting it."

Siveni laid her spear aside. "Your wards and your gate are back," she said, "and

as for your servants ...  they're a bit slow. One  would think that a person  of

your ... talents ... might be better served."

Ischade smiled, that look that Mriga  knew was dreaded upwind and down,  in high

houses and  alleys and  gutters. "Flattery?"  she said.  "Do goddesses  stoop to

such? Then you  need me indeed.  Well enough." She  sipped from her  own goblet,

regarding them over the edge; a long look of dark eyes with a glint of firelight

in them, and a glint  of something else: mockery, interest,  calculation. Siveni

scowled and began to reach for her spear again. Mriga stopped her with a glance.

"Now is it goddesses, truly?" Ischade  said, lowering the cup. "Or 'goddess'  in

the singular? Gray-Eyes, if I remember rightly, was never a twofold deity."

"Until now," Mriga said. "Madam, you had some small part in what happened. May I

remind you?  A night  not too  long ago,  about midnight,  you came across a man

digging mandrake-"

"Harran the barber. Indeed."

"I got caught in the spelling. It bound all three of us together in divinity for

a while. But one of the three is missing. Harran is dead."

Those dark eyes looked over the edge of the cup again. "I had thought he escaped

the ... unpleasantness ...  at the barracks. At  least there was no  sign of him

among the slain."

"Last night," Siveni said, and the  look she turned on Ischade was  cruel. "Your

lover did it."

Tyr growled.

"My apologies," said  Ischade. "But how  cross fate is  ... that your  business,

whatever it  is, brings  you to  deal with  me ...  and precludes your vengeance

against anyone under my roof." She sipped her wine for a moment. "Frustration is

such a mortal sort of problem, though. I must say you're handling it well."

Mriga frowned. The woman  was unbearable ... but  had to be borne,  and knew it.

There  was no  way to  force her  to help  them. "I  have some  experience  with

mortality," Mriga said. "Let's  to business, madam. I  want to see what  kind of

payment you would require for a certain service."

One of those dark brows lifted  in gentle scorn. "The highest possible,  always.

But the service has to be one I wish to render ... and the coin of payment  must

be such as will please  me. I have my own  priorities, you see. But you  haven't

told me clearly what the service is."

"We want to go to hell," Siveni said.

Ischade smiled, tastefully restraining herself from the several obvious replies.

"It's easily enough done," she said.  "Those gates stand open night and  day, to

one who knows their secrets. But  retracing your steps, finding your way  to the

light again ... there's work, there's a job indeed. And more of a job than usual

for you two." She looked over at  Siveni. "You've never been mortal at all;  you

can't die.  And though  you've had  experience at  being mortal,  you apparently

haven't died yet. And only the dead walk in hell."

Mriga's omniscience spoke in her mind's ear. "Gods have gone there before,"  she

said. "It's not as if it's never been done."

"Some gods," Siveni said, "have gone and not come back." She looked at Mriga  in

warning,  silently  reminding  her  of the  daughter  of  Dene  Blackrobe, merry

Sostreia: once  maiden goddess  of the  spring, and  now the  queen and bride of

hell, awful and nameless.

"Yes," Ischade said, "there is always some uncertainty about the travels of gods

in those regions." Yet her eyes  were inward-turned, musing; and a tick  of time

later, when they focused on Mriga again, the goddess knew she had won. There was

interest there, and the hope that something would happen to relieve the terrible

tedium that assails the powerful. The interest hid behind Ischade's languid pose

the way Stilcho's old handsomeness haunted his scars.

"A pretty problem," she said, musing out loud now. "Mortal souls I could  simply

send there-a knife would be sorcery enough for that-and then recall. Though  the

bodies would still be  dead. But that won't  work for you two;  your structure's

the problem. Gods' souls enclose and include the body, instead of the other  way

around. Killing the bodies won't work. Killing a soul ... is a contradiction  in

terms: impossible." She sighed a little. "A pity, sometimes; this place has been

getting crowded of late."

Then firelight  stirred and  glittered in  Ischade's eyes  as for  a moment they

became wider. "Yet I might reduce that crowding, at least temporarily ..."

Siveni's eyes glittered too. "You're going to use the ghosts," she said. "You're

going to borrow their mortality."

"Why, you're a quick pupil indeed," Ischade said, all velvet mockery. "Not their

mortality exactly. But their fatality ... their deadness. One need not die to go

to hell. One need only have died. I  can think of ways to borrow that. And  then

hell will have two more inmates for the night."

"Three," said Mriga.

"Four," said Siveni.

They looked at each other, then at Ischade.

Ischade raised her eyebrows. "What, the dog too?"

Tyr yipped.

"And who else, then?"

"Madam," Siveni said, "the best way to be sure we come back from this venture is

to have with us the  guide who opens the way.  Especially if the way back  is as

difficult as you claim."

Ischade held quite still for a moment, then began to laugh, and laughed long and

loud. A terrible sound it was. "These are hard times," she said, "when even gods

are so suspicious."

"Treachery is  everywhere," said  Mriga, wondering  swiftly how  the thought had

escaped her before.

"Oh indeed," Ischade said, and laughed again, softly, until she lost her breath.

"Very well. But what coin do you plan to use to pay the ones below? Even I  only

borrow souls, then send them back; and believe me, there's a price. To get  your

barber back in the flesh and living, the payment to those below will have to  be

considerable. And there's the problem of where you'll put him-"

"That will be handled," Mriga said,  "by the time the deed's done.  Meanwhile we

shouldn't waste time, madam.  Even in hell time  flows, and souls forget  how to

stay in bodies."

Ischade looked lazily  at Mriga, and  once again there  was interest behind  the

look, and calculation. "You haven't yet told me what you'll do with your  barber

once you've got him," she said. "Besides the predictable divine swiving."

"You haven't yet told us what payment you'll require," said Mriga. "But I'll say

this. Last time  you met my  lord, you told  him that if  he brought Siveni back

among the living, you'd find the proceedings merry to watch. And did you not?"

Ischade smiled, small  and secret. "I  watched them take  away the temple  doors

that she smashed down into the street," she said softly, "and I saw the look  on

Molin Torchholder's face while they carted  them off. He was most distressed  at

the sudden activity of Ilsig gods. So he began to pull what strings he could  to

deal with  that problem  ... and  one of  the strings  he pulled was attached to

Tempus and his Stepsons, and the Third Commando."

"And  to you,"  Mriga said.  "So that  the barracks  burned, and  then the  city

burned, and Harran and a thousand others died. All so that the town will keep on

being too divided against itself to  care that you go about in  it, manipulating

the living and doing your pleasure on the dead ... to alleviate your boredom."

"The gods are wise," Ischade said, quietly.

"Sometimes not very. But I don't care. My business is to see what I love brought

somewhere safe. After that- this town needs its own gods. Not Rankan, or Beysib,

or even Ilsigi. I'm one of the new ones. There are others, as you know. Once the

'divine  swiving' is  out of  the way.  I intend  to see  those new  young  gods

settled, for  this place's  good, and  its people's  good. That  may take mortal

years, but while it's going  on, there'll be 'merry  times' enough for even  you

without you  having to  engineer them.  There'll be  war in  heaven ... which is

always mirrored on earth."

"Or the other way around," Ischade said.

"Either way, you'll find  it very interesting. Which  is what you desire.  Isn't

it?"

Ischade  looked  at  Mriga.  "Very  well.  This  business  is  apparently  in my

interests. We'll discuss  payment after-ward; it  will be high.  And I shall  go

with you ... to  watch the 'merry times'  begin." She smiled. Mriga  smiled too.

Ischade's velvet, matter-of-fact  malice was wide  awake, hoping disaster  would

strike and make things even more 'interesting,' perhaps even considering how  to

help it strike. The woman  was shameless, insufferable-and so much  herself that

Mriga suddenly found herself liking Ischade intensely.

"Excellent," Mriga said. "What needs to be done?"

"If you haven't buried  him already," Ischade said,  "do so. Otherwise we  would

find him on  the wrong side  of the frontier  ... and matters  would become even

more complicated than they are at the moment."

"Very well. When will we be leaving?"

"Midnight, of course: from a place where three roads meet. Ideally, there should

be dogs howling-"

Tyr gave Ischade an ironic  look, tilted up her head  and let out a single  long

note, wavering down through halftones into silence.

"So that's  handled," Siveni  said, reaching  for her  spear. "And  as for three

roads meeting, what about the north side of that park by the Governor's Walk and

the Avenue of Temples? The 'Promise of Heaven,' I think it's called."

Ischade chuckled,  and they  all rose.  "How apt.  Till midnight,  then. I  will

provide the equipment."

"That's gracious of you, madam. Till midnight, or a touch before."

"That will do very well. Mind the second step. And the hedge: it has thorns."

Mriga walked through the open gate with satisfaction, patted the bay's neck, and

stepped sidewise toward  midnight. Siveni came  after her, her  spear shouldered

and sizzling  merrily, and  went the  same way.  Only Tyr  delayed for a moment,

staring at the  bay-then nipped it  neatly in the  left rear fetlock,  scrambled

sideways to avoid the kick, and dove past Mriga into night.

Ischade  also looked  at the  bay; then,  more wryly,  at her  yard's trees  and

bushes, still full of green fire that burned but did not consume. She waved  the

godfire out of existence and shut the door, thinking of old stories about hell.

"Haught," she called toward one of the back rooms. "Stilcho."

They were there in a hurry: It never did to keep Ischade waiting. "Jobs for  you

both," she  said, shutting  the door.  "Stilcho, I  need a  message taken to the

uptown house. And on your way back, pick me up a corpse."

Dead as he was,  Stilcho blanched. Haught watched  him out of the  corner of his

eye, looking slightly amused.

"And for  you," she  said to  Haught, watching  amused in  turn as  he stiffened

slightly, "something to exercise those talents you've been so busy improving  to

please me.  Fetch me  a spare  ghost. A  soldier, I  think, and  one without any

alliances. Be off, now."

She watched them go, both  of them hurrying, both of  them trying to look as  if

they weren't. Ischade smiled and went off to look for Straton.

All  it took  was the  sight of  a slender  woman-shape, cloaked  in black   and

strolling sedately down the Avenue of Temples, to clear the midnight street to a

windscoured pavement desert. Behind her followed a bizarre little parade.  First

came a dead man, hauling a bleating black ram and black ewe along behind him  on

ropes: then a live man, small and scared-looking, leading a cowed donkey with  a

long awkward  bundle strapped  across its  back. He  stank of  wine, Mor-am did:

anyone but the donkey would have been revolted. Behind him and the beast came  a

slight-built man whose Nisi heritage showed  in his face, a man bearing  a small

narrow silk-wrapped package and another bulkier one, and looking as if he  would

rather have been elsewhere. Last of all, more or less transparent from moment to

moment, came a  ghost dressed in  Hell-Hounds' harness. It  was Razkuli, dead  a

long time, stealing wistful glances at the old, living Hell-Hound haunts.

The Promise of Heaven  was even falser to  its name than usual  tonight. Word of

the procession had run up the street half an hour before, and the panic-stricken

ladies of the  night had abandoned  their usual territory  in favor of  one more

deserving of the title. Ischade strolled  in past the stone pillar-gates of  the

park, looking with cool amusement at the convenient bowers and bushes  scattered

about for  those who  wished to  begin their  huggermuggering as  soon as  their

agreements with the park  ladies were struck. The  cover, copses of cypress  and

downhanging willow, suited Ischade well. So  did the little empty altar to  Eshi

in the  middle of  the park.  Once there  had been  a statue  of her  there, but

naturally the  statue and  its pediment  had been  stolen, leaving  only a  long

boxlike slab of marble much carved  with PFLS graffiti and inscriptions such  as

Petronius Loves Sulla.

She paused  by the  stone and  ran gentle  fingers along  it. A  dog's howl went

wavering up into the cloudy night. Ischade looked up and smiled.

"You're prompt," she said. "It's well. Haught, bring me what you carry. Stilcho,

fasten them here."

Standing by the altar, Mriga and Siveni looked around them-Mriga with  interest,

Siveni with wry distaste,  for she was after  all a maiden goddess.  Ischade put

her hood back and gazed at the goddesses with her beautiful oblique eyes full of

silent laughter as the frightened Stilcho tethered the ram and ewe by the altar.

Haught held out one of his  silken bundles. Ischade put the wrappings  aside and

drew forth a long  curved knife of bronze,  half sword and half  sickle, with an

edge that  even in  the little,  dim light  from the  torches of  the Governor's

Palace still glittered wickedly keen. The flat of the blade was stained dark.

"Blood sacrifice, then," Siveni said.

"There's always sacrifice where the  ones below are concerned." Ischade  reached

absently down to  caress the  ram's head.  It held  still in  terror. "But first

other business. Stilcho, I will need your service tonight, and Razku-li's. I  go

on a journey."

"Mistress-"

"To hell. You are going to lend me your death, and Razkuli will lend his to this

warrior-lady, and  this poor  creature-" she  reached out  to touch  the wrapped

bundle on the shying donkey "-as soon as I fetch him back, will lend his to  the

lady who limps. But  you understand that while  we're using those parts  of your

life-or death, rather-you will have to be elsewhere."

Mriga bit  her lip  and turned  away from  the sight  of a  dead man going pale.

"Souls need containers ... so I'll  provide some till dawn; we'll be  back then,

and you'll find yourselves  back to normal. Haught  and Mor-am will stand  guard

till then." She stepped  away from the altar,  gliding past Haught and  throwing

him a cool look.

"Mistress-"

"Guard them well, Haught," Ischade said, not looking back at him. "I will take a

dim  view of  any 'accidents.'  I'm not  done with  them yet."  She paced  away,

turning after a few seconds and beginning to walk a circle, setting wards. There

was no outward sign, no fire, no  sound. But Mriga felt the air grow  tight, and

when Ischade came about at last  and gestured the circle closed, the  mortals in

it looked at each other in still terror, like beasts in a new-snapped trap.

"No god or man will cross that line," she said. "Goddesses, your last word. Will

you do this?"

"Get on with it," Siveni said. Her spear sizzled.

Mriga nodded and looked down at Tyr.  The dog put her head up and  howled again,

softly, an eager sound.

"Very well," Ischade said, and paused by the altar, and looked over her shoulder

at the donkey. There was a wheeze,  the terrible sound a corpse makes when  it's

rolled over and the last breath  leaves its lungs-only this breath went  in. The

tethered donkey plunged  and screamed as  its burden abruptly  began to move,  a

slow  underwater  struggling. Ischade  reached  out leisurely  and  stripped the

covering from around the body. It crumpled toward the ground, collapsing to  its

knees, then slowly, slowly stood. It  was a young woman, terribly wounded  about

the breast and neck; her tunic and flounced skirts were blood-blackened and  her

head had a tendency  to slew to  one side, trying  to come undone  from the half

severed neck.

"Well,  well,"  Ischade  said,  calm-voiced, "not  'he,'  but  'she.'  Some poor

nightwalker caught  in the  Stepsons' barracks,  where she  shouldn't have been.

Pity. Haught, uncover the lantern."

The Nisi lifted up a lantern from the ground and unshuttered it. There seemed no

light in it at all; yet when Mriga looked from it to Ischade and the corpse, and

the altar, they all were throwing shadows that showed impossibly blacker against

the ground than the midnight they  all stood in. "This won't hurt,  child," said

Ischade. She lifted up the sickle, and swung it at the ground. A scream followed

that Mriga thought  would have frozen  any mortal's brain.  She was irrationally

satisfied to glance sideways and see  Siveni's knuckles going white on the  haft

of her spear as the corpse fell down again.

"Well, maybe it will hurt,"  Ischade said, not sounding particularly  moved. She

straightened, holding in her free hand what looked like a wavering, silken scrap

of night. It was  the shadow she had  cut loose. Delicately, with  one hand, she

crumpled it till nothing  of it showed but  a fistful of darkness.  Ischade held

out her hand to Mriga. "Take it," she said. Mriga did. "When I tell you, swallow

it. Now, then ..."

She moved to Razkuli, who stood leaning on the ghost of a sword, and watched her

without eyes, and without a face, looking taut and afraid. "That one is  nothing

to me," said Ischade.  "Her soul can go  where it pleases. But  yours might have

some use. So ... something alive ..." She looked around her. "That tree will  do

nicely. Hold still, Razkuli."

The second scream was harder,  not easier, to bear. Ischade  straightened, shook

the severed shadow out,  eyed it clinically, and  sliced it neatly about  midway

down its writhing length. One of the halves she stuffed into the rotting bole of

a nearby willow, and  even as she turned  away toward Siveni, the  willow's long

bare branches  put out  numberless leaves  of thin,  trembling darkness. "Here,"

Ischade said. Siveni put  out her hand and  took the crumpled half-shadow  as if

she were being handed a scorpion.

"Stilcho," Ischade said.

Stilcho backed  away a  pace. Behind  him, with  a small,  terrible smile on his

face, Haught held up the lantern. The third scream was the worst of all.

"Maybe you have  been suffering too  much in my  service," Ischade said,  as she

sliced his soul-shadow too  and draped half of  it over the branches  of a shrub

hard by the altar. "Maybe I should let you go back to being quite dead ..."  The

shrub came out in leaves and little round berries of blackness, trembling.

"We'll talk about it  when I come back,"  said Ischade. She tucked  the crumpled

shadow into  her dark  robes. "Mor-am,  Haught, guard  this spot  until an  hour

before dawn. We won't be coming back this way. Look for us at the house, by  the

back gate.  And don't  forget Stilcho's  body." She  glided over  to the  altar,

lifting the dark-stained sickle again. "Be ready, goddesses."

"What about Tyr?" said Siveni.

"She'll ride this  soul," said Ischade.  Her hand had  fallen on the  ram's head

again. It looked up  at her, and up,  and helplessly, up; and  Ischade swung the

sickle. In the unlight of the dark lantern, the ram's eyes blazed horribly, then

emptied, and the black blood gushed out on the altar's white stone. "Now,"  said

Ischade, a slow warm smile in her voice, and reached out to the ewe.

Mriga swallowed the little struggling darkness,  in horror, and felt it go  down

fighting like something itself horrified and helpless. Its darkness rose  behind

her eyes for a moment and roared in her ears. The ewe cried out and bubbled into

silence. When her vision cleared, she found herself looking at an Ischade  truly

dressed in shadows and grinning like one of the terrible gods who avenge for the

joy of it, and at a Siveni robed and helmed in dark, only the spearhead  bright.

Even Tyr had  gone black-furred, but  her eyes burned  as a beast's  will when a

sudden light in darkness finds them. Tyr threw back her head and howled in  good

earnest. The earth beneath their feet buckled and heaved like a disturbed thing,

as if in answer, and then shrugged away its paving and split.

"Call up your courage," said Ischade  softly, "for now you'll need it."  And she

walked down into the great crack in the earth, into the fuming,  sulfur-smelling

dark.

Tyr dashed  after her,  barking; other  howls echoed  hers, above  the earth and

below it. Mriga and Siveni looked at each other and followed.

Groaning, the earth closed behind them.

Mor-am and Haught looked at each other and swallowed.

They did this again later, when  the donkey, frightened and hungry past  caring,

stretched to the end of its tether and started browsing on the nearest shrub. It

had shied away when the shrub screamed, and its broken branches began to bleed.

The donkey stood  there for a  while shaking, then  looked hungrily over  at the

next nearest food, a downhanging willow with oddly dark leaves.

The willow began to weep....

The road down was  a steep one. That  alone would make return  difficult, if the

slope on  hell's far  side were  the same.  But Mriga  knew there would be other

problems, judging  by the  sounds floating  up through  the murky  darkness. Dim

distant screams, and howls of things that were not only dogs, and terrible thick

coughing grunts like those of hunting  beasts all mingled in the fumy  air until

the ears ached, and the  eyes stung not just from  smoke but from trying to  see

the sounds' sources. For once Mriga was glad of the sharp ozone smell that  came

of the lightnings crackling about Siveni's spearhead; it was something  familiar

in the terror. And  even if the lightnings  were burning blue, they  were better

than no light at all. Ischade seemed to need no light: she went ahead sure as  a

cat, always with a slight smile on her face.

The way wasn't  always broad, or  easy, no matter  what the poets  said. After a

long, long walk down, the sound  of their footsteps began echoing back  more and

more quickly, until Mriga could put out her hands and touch both walls. "Here is

the strait part of the course," said Ischade. One after another they had to  get

down  on their  knees and  crawl-even Siveni,  who grumbled  and hissed  at  the

indignity. Mriga was used to dirt  and had less trouble; though the  dank smell,

and the way the cold, sour clods  of earth seemed to press in against  her, made

her shudder. Right before her, Tyr's untroubled breathing and little whimpers of

excitement were a comfort.  At least they were  until Tyr began to  growl as she

crawled.

The  tunnel grew  smaller and  smaller until  Mriga had  to haul  herself  along

completely flat, and swore she couldn't bear another second of it. The fifth  or

sixth time she swore that, the echoes suddenly widened out again. Tyr leaped out

into the space; Siveni almost speared her from behind in her haste to follow.

Tyr  was  still growling.  Ischade  stood in  the  dimness, still  wearing  that

wickedly interested smile. Mriga looked  around, dusting herself off, and  could

see little until Siveni came out and held the spear aloft-

A growl like  an earthquake answered  Tyr's. Mriga looked  up. Hoary, huge,  and

bloodstained, filling almost the whole stone-columned cavern where they stood, a

Hound crouched, slavering at the sight of  them. It was the same Hound that  the

Ilsigs said ate the moon every month, and sometimes the sun when it could  catch

it; though usually Ils  or Siveni would drive  it away. Here, though,  the Hound

was on its own ground, and Mriga's omniscience informed her that Siveni would be

badly outmatched if she tried conclusions with it.

"Aren't you  supposed to  give it  something?" Siveni  said from behind Ischade,

sounding quite casual, and fooling no one. "A cake, or some such-?"

"Do I own the moon?" Ischade said. "It wouldn't be interested in anything  less,

I fear." And she stood there in  calm interest, as if waiting to see  what would

happen.

Siveni stared at the Hound. It looked at her out of hungry eyes, growled  again,

and licked its chops. Where its saliva dripped, the stone underfoot bubbled  and

smoked.

The answering growl startled Mriga as Tyr  shouldered past her and Siveni.  "Tyr

!" she said, but Tyr, bristling, walked straight up to the Hound and snarled  in

its face.

The Hound reared up, its jaws wide....

"Tyr, no!" Siveni cried, and slipped  forward, raising her spear. Too late:  Tyr

had already leapt.  But the growling  and snarling and  roaring that began,  the

rolling around and  scrabbling and biting,  didn't have quite  the sound any  of

them expected.  And it  all stopped  quite suddenly  to reveal  the Hound on its

back,  its belly  showing, its  tail between  its legs,  and Tyr,  flaming-eyed,

holding it by  the throat. It  was as if  a rabbit held  a lion pinned,  but the

rabbit  seemed unconcerned  with such  details. Tyr  snarled again  and  somehow

seized that throat, as wide and heavy  as a treetrunk, in her teeth; lifted  the

Hound and shook  it, snarling, as  she would have  shaken a rat;  then flung the

whole huge monster away. "Yi, yi, yi, yi, yi!" shrieked the chief of the  Hounds

of Hell, the  Eater of the  Sun, as it  scrambled desperately to  its feet, away

from the little dark-furred dog, and ran for the walls. It went right into  one,

and through it, and was gone.

Tyr panted for a moment, then shook herself all over, sat down, and scratched.

Mriga and Siveni stared at each other, then at Ischade. "I don't understand it,"

Mriga said to her. "Perhaps you do."

Ischade smiled and held her peace. "Well," Siveni said, "she is a bitch ..."

Tyr swung her head  around-she was washing, with  one leg up-and favored  Siveni

with a reproachful look.

"An extraordinary one," Ischade  said, "but still a  bitch; and as such  no male

dog, even a supernatural  one, would fight with  her under any circumstances.  I

suppose that even here, dogs will be  dogs ... Canny of you to bring  her. Shall

we go on?" And she swept on into the darkness that the Hound had blocked.  Mriga

followed, thoughtful.

On down they went, the light  of Siveni's spear burning bluer and  brighter. The

sound of moaning and screaming grew  less distant. Goddess or not, Mriga  shook.

The  voices  were  lifted less  in  rage  or anguish  than  in  a horrible  dull

desperation. They sounded like beasts in a trap, destined to the knife, but  not

for ages yet-and knowing it. A horrible place to spend eternity, Mriga  thought.

For a  moment she  was filled  with longing  for her  comfortable, dirty  hut in

heaven, or even for the  real thing of which it  was the image-the rough hut  in

the Stepsons' barracks,  and her own  old hearth, and  Harran busy on  the other

side of it. At least one of us will get out of here, Mriga thought. The sunlight

for him, if for no one else....    ,

Siveni glanced over at Mriga with a  curious look and opened her mouth, just  as

Ischade glanced lazily over  her shoulder at them.  "We're close to the  ferry,"

she said. "I trust you brought the fare?"

Mriga shook her head,  shocked. Her omniscience hadn't  warned her of this.  But

Siveni's mouth quirked.  She went rummaging  about in her  great oversized tunic

and came out with a handful of money: not modern coin, but the old Ilsigi golden

quarter-talent pieces. One she handed to Ischade with exaggerated courtesy,  and

one to Tyr,  who took it  carefully in her  teeth; another went  to Mriga. Mriga

turned the quarter over, looked at it,  and shot her sister an amused look.  The

coin had Siveni's head on it.

Ischade  took the  coin with  a courteous  nod, drew  her cloak  about her,  and

continued down  the path.  "They will  be thick  about here,"  she said  as they

descended, and the darkness opened out around them. "The unburied may not  cross

over."

"Neither would  we, if  we'd left  all the  preparations to  you," Siveni  said.

"Trying to make things more 'interesting,' madam?"

"Mind the slope," Ischade said,  stepping downward into the shadows  and putting

her hood up.

The ground was  ditch-steep for a  few steps, and  they came down  among shadows

that moved,  like the  struggling scraps  of darkness  they had swallowed. These

shadows, though, strode and slunk and walked aimlessly about, cursing,  whining,

weeping. Their voices  were thin and  faint, their gestures  feeble, their faces

all lost in the great darkness. Only here and there the blue-burning  lightnings

of Siveni's spear struck sparks from some hidden eye; and every eye turned away,

as if ashamed of light, or ashamed to beg for it.

They made  their way  through the  crowd, having  to push  sometimes. Tyr ranged

ahead, her  gold piece  still in  her mouth,  snuffing the  ground every now and

then, peering into this face or  that one. Following her, Mriga shuddered  often

at the dry-leaf brush of naked,  unbodied souls against her immortal's skin.  No

wonder the gods hate  thinking about death, she  thought, as the ground  leveled

out. It's an  ... undressing ...  that somehow shouldn't  happen. It embarrasses

them. Embarrasses us....

"Careful," Ischade said. Mriga glanced down and saw that just a few steps  would

take her into black  water. Where they stood,  and other souls milled,  the sour

cold earth slanted down  into a sort of  muddy strand, good for  a boat-landing.

The water lapping it smoked with cold, where it hadn't rimed the bank with dirty

ice. Tyr loped down along the riverbank, pursuing some interesting scent.  Mriga

looked out across the black river, and, through the curls of mist, saw the  boat

coming.

It was  in sorry  shape. It  rode low,  as if  it were  shipping a great deal of

water-believable, since many of the clinker-boards along its sides were  sprung.

Steering it along with the oar that is also a blade, was the ferryman of whom so

many songs circumspectly sing. He  was old and gray and  ragged, fierce-looking:

too huge to be entirely human, and fanged as humans rarely are. He was  managing

the blade-oar one-handed. The other held a skeleton cuddled close, its  dangling

bones barely held together  by old, dried strings  of sinew and rags  of ancient

flesh. The ferryman sculled his craft to shore and ran it savagely aground.  Ice

cracked and clinker-rivets popped, and Mriga and Siveni and Ischade were  pushed

and crushed together  by the press  of souls that  strained, crying out  weakly,

toward the boat.

"Get back,  get back,"  the boatman  said. He  lisped and  spat when  he talked:

understandable, considering  the shape  his teeth  were in.  "I've seen  you lot

before, and you none  of you have the  fare. And what's this?  Na, na, mistress,

get back with your pretty eyes. You're alive yet. You're not my type."

Ischade smiled, a look of acid-sweet  irony that ran icewater in Mriga's  bones.

"It's mutual, I'm sure. But I have the  fare." Ischade held up the gold  quarter

talent.

The ferryman took it and bit it. Mriga noticed with amusement that afterward, as

he held it up to stare at it,  the coin had been bit right through. "All  right,

in you get," he growled, and tossed  the coin over his shoulder into the  water.

Where it fell ripples spread for a second, then were wiped out by a wild boiling

and bubbling of the water. "Always hungry, those things," grumbled the ferryman,

as Ischade brushed past him, holding her dark silks fastidiously high. "Get  in,

then. Mortals, why  are they always  in such a  hurry? Coming in  here, weighing

down the boat,  has enough problems  just carrying ghosts.  Nah, then! No  gods!

Orders from her. You all come shining in here, hurt everyone's eyes, tear up the

place, go  marching out  again dragging  dead people  after you,  no respect for

authority, ghosts and dead bodies  walking around all over the  earth, shameful!

Someone ought to do something ..."

Mriga and Siveni looked  at each other. Siveni  glanced longingly at her  spear,

then sighed. Standing in the bows of the boat, Ischade watched them, silent, her

eyes glittering with merriment or malice.

"... Never used to be that way in the old days. Live people stayed live and dead

people stayed  dead. You  look at  my wife  now!-" and  the ferryman bounced the

skeleton against him. It rattled like an armful of castanets. "Wha'd'ye think of

her?"

Siveni opened her mouth, and closed it. Mriga opened her mouth, and  considered,

and said, "I've never met anyone like her."

The ferryman's face  softened a little,  fangs and all.  "There, then, you're  a

right-spoken young lady, even though you do be a goddess. Some people, they come

up here and try to get in this boat, and they say the most frightful rude things

about my wife."

"The nerve," Siveni said.

"True for you,  young goddess," said  the ferryman, "and  that's it for  them as

says such things, for they're always hungry, as I say." He glanced at the water.

"Never you mind, then, you just put your pretty selves in the boat, you and your

friend, and  give me  your hard  money. She  don't really  care what goes on out

here, just so you be  nice and don't tear things  up, you hear? Speak her  fair,

that's the way. They  do say she's a  soft heart for a  pretty face, remembering

how she came to be down here; though  we don't talk about that in front of  her,

if you take my meaning. In you get. Is that all of you?"

"One moment," Mriga said, and whistled for Tyr; then, when there was no  answer,

again. Tyr appeared after a moment, her gold piece still held in her teeth,  and

trotted to the boat, whining at it  softly as it bobbed in the water.  "Come on,

Tyr," she said. "We have to go across. He's on the other side."

Tyr whined again, looking distrustfully at the boat, and finally jumped in.

"The little dog too?" said the ferryman. "Dogs go for half fare."

Tyr stood on her hind legs to give  the ferryman the coin, then sat down on  the

boat's middle seat, grinning, and barked, thumping her tail on the gunwale.

"Why, thank you, missy,  that's a kindness and  so I shall," said  the ferryman,

hastily pocketing the  second half of  Tyr's coin, which  he had bitten  in two.

"They don't overpay  us down here,  and times are  hard all over,  eh? It's much

appreciated. Don't put your hands in  the water, ladies. Anyone else? No?  Cheap

lot they must be up there these days. Off we go, then."

And off they went, leaving behind the sad, pushing crowd on the bank. Mriga  sat

by the gunwale with one arm around Tyr, who slurped her once, absently, and  sat

staring back the way they'd come, or looking suspiciously at the water. The  air

grew colder. Shuddering, Mriga glanced  first at Siveni, who sat  looking across

the  wide river  at the  far bank;  then at  Ischade. The  necromant was  gazing

thoughtfully into the water. Mriga looked  over the side, and saw no  reflection

... at first.  After a little  while she averted  her eyes. But  Ischade did not

raise her head until  the boat grounded again;  and when she looked  up, some of

that eternal assurance was missing from her eyes.

"There are the gates," the ferryman said. "I'll be leaving you here. Watch  your

step,  the  ground's much  broken.  And a  word,  ladies, by  your  leave: watch

yourselves in there. So many go in and don't come out again."

Looking at the dark town crouching behind brazen gates, Mriga could believe  it.

Hell looked a great deal like Sanctuary.

One by one they got  out of the boat and  started up the slope. Siveni  was last

out, and so busy looking up at  the rocky ground that she missed what  was right

under her feet.  She lost her  footing and almost  fell, just managing  to catch

herself  with  her  spear. "Hell,"  she  said,  a bitter  joke:  The  spear spat

lightnings.

The ferryman, watching her, frowned slightly.  "We don't call it that here,"  he

said. "Do we now, love?"

The bones rattled slightly. "Ah well. Off we go then...." And they were alone on

the far shore.

The  gates  were  exactly like  those  of  the Triumph  Gate  not  far from  the

Governor's Palace, but where those were iron, these were brazen, and locked  and

mightily barred. The  four stood together,  hearing more strongly  than they had

yet  the sounds  of lamentation  from inside.  It was  beginning to  sound  less

threatening,  the way  a horrible  smell becomes  less horrible  with  exposure.

"Well," Siveni said, "what now? Is there some spell we need?"

Ischade shook  her head,  looking mildly  surprised. "I  don't normally use this

route," she said. "And the few times I've bothered, hell's gates have been open.

Very odd indeed. Someone has been making changes ..."

"Someone who's expecting us, I'll wager," Siveni said. "Allow me." She lifted up

the spear,  leaned back  with it  like a  javelin-thrower, and  threw it  at the

gates. For that moment, lightning  turned everything livid and froze  everything

still. Thunder  drowned out  the cries  of the  damned inside.  Then came  a few

seconds of violet afterimages and ears  ringing; then the darkness, in which  by

the tamer light of  Siveni's spearhead they could  see hell gates lying  twisted

and shattered on the paving. Siveni picked up her spear, then swept through  the

opening and past the wreckage, looking most satisfied.

"She does  that rather  well," Ischade  said as  she and  Mriga and Tyr followed

after.

"Yes, she always  has been good  at tearing things  up," Mriga said.  She looked

over her  shoulder at  the gates  and willed  them back  in place, as she'd done

earlier with Ischade's wards. To her great distress, they didn't reappear.

"We're on other  gods' ground now,"  Ischade said as  they turned away  from the

gates, moving past the shadows of empty  animal pens and around the spur of  the

great wall  that sheltered  the Bazaar.  "Nearly all  powers but  theirs will be

muted here, I fear. If your  otherself tries that stunt again inside,  I suspect

she'll be in  for a surprise,  for she was  still outside hell  while she did it

this time."

Mriga nodded as they made their way through the streets that led to the  Bazaar.

Almost everything was as it should  be-the trash, the stink, the garbage  in the

gutters, the crowds. But the dark shapes  moving there had a look about them  of

not caring where they  were-an upsetting contrast to  those stranded on the  far

side of the river,  who seemed to know  quite well. Looking across  the city for

evidence of hellfire, Mriga found nothing but the same scattered plumes of smoke

and the smouldering reek  that prevailed in the  Sanctuary of the daylit  world.

Yet the overhanging clouds were underlit as if with many fires.

As they walked further,  Mriga got a chance  to see why, and  came to understand

that there was a  difference here between the  dead and the damned.  Many of the

dark  people   going  by   carried  their   own  hellfires   with  them-  bright

conflagrations of rage, coal-red frustrations, banked and bitter, the hot  light

sucking darknesses that  were envy and  greed, the blinding  fire-shot smokes of

lust and hunger for power that fed and fed and were never consumed. Some few  of

the passersby bore evidence of old  burning, now long gone. They were  burnt-out

cinders, merely existing, neither living nor dead. But worst of all, to  Mriga's

thought, were those many,  many dead who had  never even lived enough  to burn a

little, who had given up both sin and passion as useless. They walked dully past

the flaming damned, and past goddesses, and neither hellfire nor the cold  clean

light of Siveni's spear found anything in their eyes at all.

She soon enough found worse. There  were places that seemed damned as  surely as

people; spots where murders  or betrayals had taken  place, and where they  took

place again and again, endlessly, the original participants dragging the passing

dead in to re-enact  the old horrors. Some  shapes walking there were  less dark

than others,  but wore  their torments  differently-serpents growing  from their

flesh and gnawing at it; animal heads on human bodies, or vice versa; limbs that

went gangrenous, rotted, fell off, regrew, while their owners walked about  with

placid looks that said nothing was wrong, nothing at all-

Harran is down here  now, Mriga thought. How  will we find him?  Roasting in his

desire for Siveni, eaten away by his guilt over the way he used me once? Or were

those passions so recent that they never quite took root in his soul-so that  we

might find him like one of the dull ones who don't care about anything?  Suppose

he... doesn't want to come back....

The four of them passed through the Bazaar. They went hurriedly, for they  found

it peopled with beasts that milled about with seeming purpose, crying out to one

another in animals' voices,  neighs and roars and  screams. But the wares  being

hawked there were human beings, chained, dumb, with terrible pleading eyes.  The

four  went quickly  out into  the south  road that  followed the  walls of   the

Governor's  Palace. "Since  all this  is mirroring  Sanctuary somewhat,"  Siveni

said, peering around  her by the  light of her  spear, and looking  harrowed, "I

would suppose that the one we're looking for is in the Palace."

"So would I," Ischade said, quite calm. "The south gate is closed."

Mriga noticed that  on Ischade's far  side Tyr had  dropped back to  pace beside

her, gazing up at her with a peculiar expression.

"What exactly is your arrangement with her?" Mriga said, as softly as she  could

and still be heard above the constant low rumor of pain that filled the streets.

"You must have one."

Ischade was  silent. "Please  pardon me,"  Mriga said.  "I shouldn't have asked.

Power is a private thing."

"You need not come with us," Siveni said, without turning around, from ahead  of

them. "You've already fulfilled your part of the bargain. Though we haven't paid

you yet-"

Ischade didn't stop walking, but there was a second's hard look in her eyes that

was more than  just the reflection  of Siveni's lightnings.  "Don't project your

fears on me,  young goddesses," she  said, the voice  silken, the eyes  dark and

amused. "I have no reason not to see her."

Mriga and Siveni both most carefully held their peace. Tyr, though, whined  once

and wagged  her tail,  and for  the rest  of the  walk never once left Ischade's

side. Ischade appeared not to notice.

"See," she said. "The gate."

The south gate looked much as it  did in Sanctuary, and made it plain  that some

passions had not entirely died out  here; the posts were splashed with  PFLS and

gang graffiti. But  there were no  guards, no Stepsons,  nothing but iron  gates

that stood  open. The  great courtyard  inside was  drowned in  shadow, and  the

wailings of hell seemed subdued here. On the far side of the courtyard lay  what

had looked  like the  Palace from  a distance,  but here  proved itself to be an

edifice not even Ranke in its  flower could have built: all ebony  porticoes and

onyx  colonnades, smoke-black  pillars and  porches, massive  domes and  shadowy

towers, halls piled on  mighty halls, rearing up  in terrible somber grace  till

all was lost in the lowering  overcast. Ischade never paused, but went  right in

toward the  great pile-a  graceful, dark-robed  figure, small  against the great

expanse of dark, dusty paving: and trotting beside her went the little dog.

There on the threshold  Siveni glanced at Mriga.  "Mriga, quick," she said,  "do

all of us a favor. Let me do the talking in there."

Mriga stared. "Sister, what're you thinking of?"

"Prices," Siveni said. "Just  as you are. Look.  You've enough power to  pay her

off afterward-"

"And where are you planning to be?"

"Don't start," Siveni said, "we're losing her." And she went after Ischade.

Mriga went  after Siveni,  her heart  growing cold.  "Anyway, this  is my priest

we're talking about," Siveni was saying.

"'Your'-T. Siveni, don't you dare-"

The great steps up to the Palace loomed,  and Ischade was a third of the way  up

them by the time the goddesses caught up with her and Tyr. Silently they went up

the rest of the stairs together, and  Mriga was aware of her heart beating  hard

and fast, not from the climb. They passed over a wide porch, floored in jet, and

a doorway loomed  up before them,  containing great depths  of still, blackness,

silent, cold. Against  that dark Siveni's  spearhead sizzled faint  and pitiful,

the smoking wick of a lamp of lightnings, drowning in the immensity of night.

They slipped in.

Far, far down the long hall  they had entered-miles and years down  it-some pale

light seethed, a sad ash-gray. It came from three sources, but details took much

longer to see. The four of them had walked and walked through that silence  that

swallowed every sound  and almost every  thought before Mriga  realized that the

ashen light  came from  braziers. It  was a  long time  more before the two onyx

thrones set between two broad  tripod-dishes became apparent. A few  steps later

Mriga's mouth turned dry, and she stopped, her courage failing her ... for there

was a shape seated in the right-hand throne.

It was not  as if Mriga  was unprepared for  the one she  knew would be  sitting

there-the sweet young mistress of spring, who fell in love with the lord of  the

dead, and died of her love, the only  way to escape heaven and rule hell by  his

side. But all  Mriga's preparation now  proved useless. Of  all things in  hell,

only she  wore white:  a maiden's  robe, radiant  even in  the sad  light of the

braziers. Beneath the  maiden veil her  beauty was searing,  a fire of  youth, a

thing to break the heart, as Siveni's was-but there was no healing in it for the

broken one afterward. Hell's Queen  sat proud in the throne,  cool, passionless,

and terrible. She held a  sword across her lap, but  it was black of blade  from

much  use; and  the scales  lay beside  the throne,  thick with  dust. Hell  had

apparently made  its Queen  over in  its own  image, depriving  her even  of the

passion that was the reason she had come ... and, like those she ruled, she  was

resigned to  it. Mriga  suddenly understood  that the  frightful resignation  on

ghost-Razkuli's face was a family resemblance.

Mriga looked over at Ischade. The necromant stood quite composed with Tyr beside

her, and gracefully, slowly bowed to the still woman on the throne. The  gesture

was  respectful enough,  but the  air of  composure still  smelled of  Ischade's

eternal cool  arrogance. Even  here there's  no dominating  her, Mriga  thought,

annoyed, and admiring Ischade all over again.

"Madam Ischade," said hell's Queen. Her  voice was soft and somber, a  low voice

and a rich one. There was no believing  it had ever laughed. "A long time it  is

since you last came visiting. And you never before brought friends."

"They are on  business, madam," Ischade  said, her bearing  toward the Queen  as

frank and straightforward as to anyone else she perceived as peer. "Siveni  Gray

Eyes, whom  you may  remember. And  Mriga, a  new goddess-  perhaps the  same as

Siveni: They're working it out." A secret smile here. "And Tyr."

Tyr sat down, her tail thumping, and looked with interest at the Queen of hell.

She did not say "Welcome."  She said, "I know why  you've come. I tried to  stop

you, several times, through one or  another of my servants. Whatever happens  to

you now is on your own heads."

She looked at them, and waited.

Mriga swallowed. Beside  her Siveni said,  "Madam, what price  will you ask  for

Harran's soul?"

The Queen gazed gravely down at her. "The usual. The one my husband demanded  of

the gods for my  return, and the gods  refused to pay. The  soul of the one  who

asks to buy."

Mriga and Siveni looked at each other.

"The law is the law," she said. "A  soul for a soul, always. No god would  trade

his life for my freedom. And it's as well, for I did not want to leave."

Ischade's mouth curved ever so slightly.

"Why would I,  after I went  to such trouble  to come here?"  said the Queen. "I

gave up  being spring's  goddess in  favor of  something more worthwhile. Shipri

handles spring now." She was still  a moment. "Besides, even Death needs  love,"

said the Queen at last.

Mriga could think of nothing to say.

"So." She looked down at them, grave, patient. "Choose. Will you pay the  price?

And which of you?"

"I will," said Siveni and Mriga simultaneously. Then they stared at each other.

"Best two falls out of three," Mriga said.

"No! You cheat!"

"You mean, I fight all-out!"

Siveni swung  angrily on  the Queen  of hell.  But anger  could not survive that

gaze. After a second of it, Siveni turned and said to Ischade, "This is all your

fault!"

Ischade said nothing.

A hand shot from behind Siveni and  snatched her spear out of her grasp.  Siveni

whirled, but not before  Mriga had executed  a neat reverse-twirl  of the  spea.

^haft and was holding the sizzling head of it leveled at her heart. "Don't be an

idiot," she  said. "Harran  needs you.  And this  town is  going to need all the

aggressive gods it  can field on  its own behalf  in the next  year or so,  with

Ranke dying on the vine and the Beysib and Nisibis pushing in from two different

directions. I'm mortal enough to die successfully. And with me gone, you'll  get

all your attributes back. Siveni, let go-!"

"Harran's right, you are still crazy!  Suppose when you die, the attributes  are

lost forever-confined  down here!  Then what  happens to  Sanctuary? Haven't you

noticed that I've got the fighting attributes, but you've got the winning  ones?

"

There were two sets of hands  on the spear-haft now, wrestling for  control; and

no matter what Siveni  said, they were very  evenly matched. Back and  forth the

two of them swayed. But, "Peace," said  the Queen's low voice, and both of  them

were struck still.  Only their eyes  moved and glittered  as they looked  at her

sidewise.

"I would see this paragon over whom goddesses contend," she said. "Skotadi."

Between Mriga and Siveni and the throne, darkness folded itself together into  a

shadow-shape like that  Ischade had cut  loose from the  girl-corpse and Razkuli

and Stilcho. It seemed a maiden's  shadow, vague around the edges, wavering  but

lingering in the dark air like a compact smoke. "Fetch me the shade of a man who

was called Harran," said the Queen. "He will be within the walls; he was  buried

today."

Skotadi swayed like blown smoke, bowing, and attenuated into the paler dark. The

hold on Siveni  and Mriga loosened,  so they could  stand up. But  the spear was

missing. The Queen was  leaning it against one  arm of her throne,  and its head

was dead metal, smoking  gently in the braziers'  gray light. "Since you  cannot

decide," the Queen said, "he shall."

As  she  spoke,  Skotadi came  into  being  again and  bowed  before  the Queen.

"Majesty," she said, "there is no such man within the gates."

Even Ischade looked  surprised at that.  "Impossible!" Siveni cried.  "We buried

him!"

The Queen turned dark eyes  on her. "If my handmaid  says he is not here,  he is

not."

Mriga was out of her reckoning. "If he's not here, where else could he be?"

"Heaven?" Siveni said, plainly thinking of all the way they'd come, possibly for

nothing.

Ischade looked wry. "Someone from Sanctuary'!" she said.

"Everyone who dies comes  here," said the Queen.  "How long they stay,  and what

they make of this place while they're here, is their business. But very few  are

the mortals who don't have something to expiate before they move on. Still  ..."

She pondered for a moment, looking  interested. Mriga thought back to that  look

of weary interest on  Ischade's face, and hope  woke in her. "There  is only one

other possibility."

Tyr leaped up, barking  excitedly, and ran a  little way toward the  great door:

then turned and barked again, louder, dancing from foot to foot where she stood.

"Burial enables one to pass the  frontier," said the Queen. "It does  not compel

one to pass ..."

Tyr ran for the door, yipping. Mriga looked in shock at Siveni, remembering  how

Tyr hadn't wanted to get into the boat ...

The Queen rose  from her throne.  "Skotadi! My Lord's  chariot." Siveni abruptly

found herself holding her spear: It was working again, but seemed much  subdued.

"Madam, goddesses," said the Queen, "let us see where the little one leads us."

Somehow or other the door was only a few steps away this time. Outside it  stood

a great iron chariot with four coalblack chargers already harnessed, and Skotadi

stood on  the driver's  side, holding  the reins.  They climbed  in and  Skotadi

whipped up the horses.

The chariot rolled  through the courtyard  and out the  gates in utter  silence.

Outside in the streets, the cries and lamentation became muted too, and  finally

ceased in astonishment and dread-for  not in many a decade,  Mriga's omniscience

told her, had the underworld's Queen come out of her dark halls. The only  sound

was Tyr's merry barking ahead of them as she led the way.

Mriga  found  it  difficult  to  look at  Siveni  as  they  drove  westward down

Governor's  Walk,  and  Siveni would  not  look  at her  at  all.  It needed  no

omniscience to hear the anger  rumbling like suppressed thunder in  her. "Look,"

she whispered to Siveni, "you know I'm right."

"No, I don't." Siveni  paused a moment, watching  the dark, familiar streets  go

by, and then said, "You  wrecked it, you know that?  You and he would have  been

out of  here by  now. And  I would  have managed:  I always  manage." She paused

again. "Dammit, Mriga, I'm a maiden goddess!  He's in love with me, and I  can't

give him what he wants of me! But you  can. And if I stay down here, you get  my

attributes-all but that one. My priest gets what he wants-me. And you get him-"

Mriga looked  long at  Siveni, who  would not  look back,  and began to love her

crazily, in  somewhat the  same manner  as she  had crazily  admired Ischade. "I

thought you were the one claiming that the attributes would stay down here-"

Siveni ignored  this. "I  wasn't entirely  myself when  he called  me back," she

said. "I made him lose a hand for my sake. The least I could do is make sure  he

lives long enough to get some use out of his new one."

The chariot turned south, past  the tanners' quarter. "You're a  full immortal,"

said Mriga. "You can't die."

"If I really want to  ... yes, I can," Siveni  said, very quietly. "She did  it,

didn't she?"

There was no arguing with that, whatever Ischade's opinions on the subject might

be. Mriga let out a pained breath.

Ahead of  them Tyr  was running  excitedly past  the town  animal pens, toward a

bridge. It looked exactly like the bridge over the White Foal, where corpses had

so often  been nailed  and gangs  had scuffled  over their  boundaries. Past the

bridge crouched  the Downwind's  ramshackle houses,  Ischade's neighborhood. But

the river running under  the old bridge was  that cold, black river  that smoked

its mists into the thunder-gray day. The ferryman was nowhere to be seen. On the

far shore, in  the streets among  the shanties and  rotting houses, milled  dark

crowds of the dead, but none of them used the bridge.

Tyr galloped up the curved upstroke of the bridge and skidded and galumphed  and

almost fell down the down-stroke  of it, yapping crazily. The  chariot followed.

Hooves that should have boomed on the  planks did not. Tyr was already down  off

the bridge, arrowing through the crowds  like a hound on a line,  giving tongue.

Confused, the  dead parted  before and  behind her,  leaving a  road the chariot

could follow. And then Tyr went no  further, but they saw her jump almost  up to

head level once or twice, licking in overjoyed frenzy at the face of a dark form

burdened with some long awkward object over his shoulders ...

"Harran!"

Mriga was out of the chariot and running without knowing quite how she'd managed

it. Beside her Siveni was keeping pace, tucking her tunic up out of the way, the

spear bobbing on  one shoulder and  spitting lightning like  fireworks. The dead

got hurriedly out of  their way. Mriga shot  Siveni a second glance:  that tunic

was more gray than  black, suddenly. But Siveni  didn't seem to notice  or care.

And  there, there,  confused-looking, grimy,  shadowed, but  tall and  fair  and

bearded, dear and  familiar, him ...  They managed to  slow down just  enough to

avoid knocking him over, but as soon as his eyes cleared he knew them, and their

embrace was violent and prolonged.

"What-why-how are you-"

"Are you all right? Did it hurt much?"

"No, but- What's she doing here?"

"She showed us the way. No, Tyr, he means Ischade, don't look so hurt-"

"We buried you, why didn't you-"

"I couldn't leave him. He's hurt. Look, there's an arrow through his-"

"You ass, you're deadf"

"... Leg-yes, I know! But he's-"

Stillness fell  all around  them. The  black chariot  stood hard  by, and as the

white-robed figure  stepped down  from it,  Harran looked  up. Most carefully he

sank to one knee in the dirty street, laid down the limp, bloodied young man  he

was carrying, and kneeling, bowed himself slowly double. He was a priest, and  a

healer, and had worked in Death's shadow before: he knew her when he saw her.

Siveni looked at him, and at Mriga, and tossed her spear away. It lay  scorching

the dirt,  afire as  if it  lay yet  in the  furnace where the thunderbolts were

forged. Her robes shimmered gray, and the Queen's blinding white, in its  light.

Quickly, and none too gracefully-for she had had little practice at this sort of

thing-she went down on her  knees in front of the  Queen of hell, and bowed  her

bright head right down to the dirt. Her helmet slipped off and rolled aside; she

ignored it. "Madam, please,"  she said, in a  muffled voice, "take me.  Let them

go."

"What?" Harran said, looking up from Tyr, who was washing his face again.

"Your goddesses have come to beg your life of me," said the Queen. "But you know

the ancient price for letting a soul go back up that road once it's come down."

"No!" Harran said, shocked. And then, remembering to whom he spoke, "Please, no!

I'm dead-but my town's not. It needs her. Mriga, talk her out of this!"

Mriga could only  look at him,  and not steadily:  Her eyes were  blurring. "She

also has offered to pay the price,"  said the Queen. "They almost came to  blows

over it. They cannot choose. I offer you the choice."

Harran's jaw moved as his teeth ground.  "No," he said at last. "I won't  go-not

at that price. Send them home. But-"

"We're not leaving without him," Mriga said.

Siveni looked up from the dirt, her eyes flashing "Certainly not."

The  place was  becoming brighter.  Was it  Siveni's spear,  Mriga wondered,  or

something else? The  buildings seemed almost  as bright as  if Sanctuary's usual

greasy sunlight shone on them. All  around, the dead were blinking and  staring.

"Let him at least go," Mriga said. "We'll both stay."

"Yes," Siveni said.

Death's Queen looked somberly from one of them to the other.

Tyr slipped away from Harran's side and up next to Siveni-then jumped up and put

her delicate, dusty forefeet right on  the white robes of the Queen.  She looked

up into her face with big brown eyes.

"I'll stay too," Tyr said.

Mriga and Siveni and Harran all started violently. Only Ischade looked away  and

hid a smile.

The Queen looked down at the  dog with astonishment, and finally reached  out to

scratch her behind  one ear.  She looked  over at  Ischade. "This  orgy of  self

sacrifice," she  said, with  the slightest,  driest smile,  "comes on  behalf of

Sanctuary?"

"More or less, madam," said Ischade, matching the smile. "I question whether  it

deserves it."

"It does not. But how rarely any of us get what we deserve. Which may be for the

best." The Queen looked at her supplicants-one mortal and one goddess  kneeling,

one goddess standing, and (apparently)  one more leaning against her  and having

the good place behind  her ears scratched. "No  wonder you two have  been having

such trouble achieving union.  It's a trinity you're  part of, and without  your

third there's never agreement on anything. But with him-"

"Them," Tyr said.

The Queen looked wry. "A four-person trinity?- Assuredly, I must get rid of  all

of you somehow," she said.  "There would be no peace  for any of us with  all of

you walking around here shining and tearing up the place. And arguing." In  this

warming, melting light, she seemed much less grave and awful than she had. Mriga

even thought that her eyes crinkled  in amusement; but in the growing  radiance,

and the way it reflected dazzling from  her veil, it was becoming hard to  tell.

"But the law is still the law. The price must be paid-"

There was a long pause.

"We could split it four ways," Harran said.

Siveni looked at him in shock, then smiled. "Why, you're my priest indeed.  Each

of us could spend a quarter of our time here," she said to the Queen. "We  could

take it in turns-"

The Queen was silent a while. "I  believe I could defend that arrangement to  my

husband," she said at last. "But your priest is dead, goddesses. He has no  body

to go back to, any more than that poor child-"

"He's not a child really," Harran said, "he's about seventeen, and I keep trying

to tell you all, he's not dead."

"Why ..." The Queen looked closely  at the young man's soul-body in  the growing

light. "Indeed he's not," she said. "This soul is shattered."

Mriga stood  there in  shock, thinking  of the  young body  underneath Harran's,

stiff and still-but, she now remembered with amazement, not cold. "He was struck

down in the attack that killed you, Harran," Ischade said, "but though his  body

survived the blow,  apparently his mind  didn't. It happens  sometimes-a soul is

too fragile to withstand the idea  of its own demise and disintegrates.  Leaving

the body still breathing, but empty-"

"The arrow missed the main artery,"  Harran said. "The wound'll hurt, but  it'll

heal-"

"Go then,"  said the  Queen, fondling  Tyr's ears  and smiling  slightly at her.

"Enough has happened for one day. Go, before my husband comes back and finds you

here  and starts  an argument."  There were  nervous looks  all around  at  this

prospect. "But perhaps one of you would stay for now?" And the Queen looked down

at Tyr.

Tyr slipped down, ran to Harran, collected a  hug from him and slurped his  face

then bounced over to the iron  chariot, jumped into it, and sat  there grinning,

with her tongue hanging out, waiting to be taken for a ride.

"I can manage the actual transfer to the new body easily enough," Ischade  said,

leading Mriga, Siveni, and the  still slightly bewildered Harran away.  "But you

will all of you owe me large favors...."

"Well  repay them  twice over,''  Siveni said,  sounding somewhat  grim. It  was

apparent she didn't like the idea of owing anybody anything.

Harran was looking from one of them to the other. "You came to hell after me?"

Mriga looked with quiet joy  at her lord and love  as Ischade led them all  back

toward  the upper  world. "They  don't call  it that  here," she  said. She  was

beginning to understand why.

Behind  them, Tyr  had her  ride-the first  of many-and  was off  about her  own

business when Death came home from work. The Queen of hell rose up to greet  him

as always, went stately  to the great doors,  cool and grave and  shining. There

her husband dropped the bare bones that  were his old joke with her, leaned  the

blade  that is  also an  oar up  against the  dark doorsill,  and went  to  her,

laughing and shedding this one of his many forms. There was none to see the dark

glory that hell's Queen took in her arms, or the way her gravity dropped away in

the presence  of that  shadowy beauty  which men  dare not  imagine; the way her

light kindled at his touch, like day in night's embrace. They laughed  together,

madly delighted as first-time  lovers, as they always  had been; as they  always

would be.

"Dear heart," said the Queen of hell, "a dog followed me home. Can I keep it?"

"This isn't quite how I pictured hell," Harran was saying dubiously.

"Nor I," said Ischade, sounding almost  cheerful as she led them on  through the

under-Downwind. Indeed the place looked very little like hell just now. Downwind

or not, this place was looking  remarkably good: the buildings less rotten,  the

shanties sounder, the people all around them shadowy still, but strong and  fair

and looking surprised at that. The  sky had begun to blaze silver,  and Siveni's

robes and Mriga's own were back to  normal. Mriga looked at Siveni and saw  that

even  her 'smelly  goatskin' looked  fearsome and  deadly-beautiful rather  than

ragged. Ischade's  dark beauty  burned more  perilously than  ever. And were her

robes not quite as dark as they had been? And Harran ...

But no. Harran looked  as marvelous as he  always had when Mriga  was crazy. She

smiled at  him. The  prospect of  life with  him, some  kind of  life-though the

details were vague yet-shone on everything, and from everything, in a patina  of

anticipation and joy. The world was beginning all over again.

"There's no  garbage in  the gutters,"  Harran said,  astonished, as Ischade led

them along a little Downwind street toward the river.

"No," Mriga said. Every  minute the old decrepit  houses were looking more  like

palaces, and every curbside weed had its flower. "It's as she said. One makes of

this place what one chooses. Hell-or something else. And the upper world is  the

same ... just a little less amenable to the change. More of a challenge."

They walked down a slope, along  the riverbank, being careful of their  footing.

The  river had  brightened from  black to  pewter-gray, though  still it  smoked

silver in the predawn chill. Across  it Sanctuary rose, a Sanctuary none  of its

habitues would  have recognized-a  Maze full  of palaces,  a Serpentine all snug

townhouses and taverns, everywhere light, contentment, splendor: a promise,  and

a joke.

"It could be like  this, the real world,"  Mriga said as Ischade  led them along

the riverside. "It will be, some day ... though maybe not until time stops.  But

it will, won't it?" She turned to Ischade, her eyes shining in the growing day.

"Not being a goddess," said Ischade, "I  wouldn't like to say." She paused by  a

little gate, swung  it open. "Here  is the barrier,  all. What is-will  reassert

itself. Beware the contrast."

"But this is what is," Mriga said, as first Siveni, then Harran, passed  through

the gate, and the  silver day flowed past  them into Ischade's weedy  back yard.

Every tree burst into white blossom; the dank riverside air grew warm and  sweet

as if spring and summer had rooted  in that garden together. The black birds  in

the  trees looked  down, and  one opened   its beak  and, in  a voice  deep  and

bittersweet as night and love, began  to sing. The barren rosebush shook  itself

and came out in leaves,  then in a splendor  of roses of every  color imaginable

burning white, red like evening love, and the incomparable blue; silver and pink

and green and violet and even black.

"This is,"  Mriga said,  insisting, as  Ischade paused  by the  gate and  looked

through it in cool astonishment. "The waking world doesn't need to be the way it

is ... not for always. Neither do you. You could be more. You could be what  you

are now, and more yet...."

Ischade  looked  down  silently  at what  the  light,  the  silver morning,  the

irresistible joy beating in the air, had made of her. Long she looked down,  and

lifting her hands, gazed into them as if into a mirror. Finally she lowered them

and said, calm as ever, "I prefer my way."

Mriga looked a long moment at her. "Yes. Anyway, thank you," she said.

"Believe me, you'll pay well enough for what I've done for Harran."

Mriga shook her head. "Down there-you knew everything that was going to  happen,

didn't  you?  But you  were  trying to  spare  us a  disaster,  trying to  spare

Sanctuary  one.  Without  looking  like   it,  of  course,  and  spoiling   your

reputation."

"I should  have hated  to lose  a goddess  who will  be creating  such wonderful

disturbances hereabouts in  the near future,"  Ischade said, her  voice soft and

dangerous.

Mriga smiled at her. "You're not quite as you paint yourself, Lady Ischade.  But

your reputation is safe with me."

The necromant  looked at  her and  smiled a  slow, scornful  smile. "The  day it

matters to me what anyone thinks of  me, or doesn't think ... even the  gods ...

!" she said.

"Yes," said Mriga. "And whoever raises the dead but gods? Let's go in."

Ischade nodded,  holding the  gate. Mriga  went in,  and with  true sunrise, the

influences  of the  underworld died  away and  let day  reassert itself:  grimy,

pallid dawn over  Sanctuary, reeking  with smoke  and the  faint taint  of blood

ghost-haunted, dismal, and bitter cold as  befitted the first day of winter.  At

Ischade's back, the White Foal flowed and stank, filmed here and there with ice.

But the joy hanging in the air  still refused to go entirely away. She  shut the

gate behind her and  looked up at the  stairs to the house.  Haught stood there,

and Stilcho, swords  drawn in their  hands. Ischade waved  them inside, assuming

their obedience, and turned to regard the rosebush.

Stilcho went inside, unnerved. Haught  lingered just past the doorsill.  Ischade

paid him no mind,  if she knew he  was there. Eventually she  moved, and reached

out to the hedge. And if Haught saw Ischade cast a long, thoughtful gaze at  the

whitest  of the  roses before  reaching out  to pluck  the black  one, he  never

mentioned it to her, then or ever.

WHEN THE SPIRIT MOVES YOU

Robert Lynn Asprin

"Is he asleep?"

"Asleep! Hah! He's passed out again."

Zalbar heard the whores' voices as if  from a distance and wanted very badly  to

take exception  to what  they were  saying. He  wasn't asleep  or passed out. He

could understand  every word  that was  being said.  His eyes  were just closed,

that's all ... and damned hard to open too. Hardly worth the effort.

"I don't know why  the Madame puts up  with him. He's not  that good-looking, or

rich."

"Maybe she has a weak spot for lost puppies and losers."

"If she does, it's the first sign of it she's shown since I've been here."

A loser? Him? How could they say  that? Wasn't he a Hell-Hound? One of  the most

feared swordsmen in Sanctuary?

Struggling to  focus his  mind, Zalbar  became aware  that he  was sitting  in a

chair. Well, sitting  slumped over, the  side of his  head resting on  something

hard ... presumably  a table. There  was a puddle  of something cold  and sticky

under his ear. He fervently hoped it was spilled wine and not vomit.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to carry him up to his room again. Come on.  Give

me a hand."

This would never  do. A Hell-Hound?  Being carried through  a whorehouse like  a

common drunk?

Zalbar gathered himself to surge to his feet and voice his protests ...

He sat up in  bed with a start,  experiencing that crystal clarity  of awareness

and thought that sometimes occurs when  one wakes between a heavy drunk  and the

inevitable hangover.

Sleeping! He had been asleep! After three days of forcing himself to stay  awake

he had been stupid enough to start drinking!

Every muscle  tense, he  hurriedly scanned  the room,  dreading what  he knew he

would find.

Nothing. He was alone in the room ...  his room ... what had become his room  at

the Aphrodisia House through Myrtis's tolerance and generosity. It wasn't here!

Forcing himself to relax, he let memories wash over him like a polluted wave.

He hadn't just been drinking. He was  drunk! Not for the first time, either,  he

realized as  his mind  brought up  numerous repetitions  of this  scene for  his

review. The countless excuses he had hidden behind in the past were swept  aside

by the merciless hand of self-contempt. This was becoming a habit ... much  more

the reality of his existence than the golden self-image he tried to cling to.

Hugging himself in  his misery, Zalbar  tried to use  this temporary clarity  of

thought to examine his position.

What had he become?

When  he  first  arrived  in  Sanctuary  as  one  of  Prince  Kadakithis's elite

bodyguard, he  and his  comrades had  been assigned  by that  royal personage to

clean up the crime  and corruption that abounded  in the town. It  had been hard

work and dangerous, but  it was honest work  a soldier could take  pride in. The

townspeople  had taken  to calling  them Hell-Hounds,  a title  they had  smugly

accepted and redoubled their efforts in an attempt to live up to.

Then the Stepsons had come, an arrogant mercenary company which one of the  Hell

Hounds, Tempus  Thales, had  abandoned his  mess-mates to  lead. That had really

been the start of the Hell-Hounds' downfall. Their duties were reduced to  those

of token  bodyguards, while  the actual  job of  policing the  town fell  to the

Stepsons. Then  the Beysib  had arrived  from a  distant land,  and the Prince's

infatuation with their Empress led him to replace his Hell-Hounds with fish-eyed

foreign guards of the Beysa's choosing.

Denied even the simplest of  palace duties, the Hell-Hounds had  been reassigned

under loose orders to "keep an eye  on the brothels and casinos north of  town."

Any effort on their part to intercede or affect the chaos in the town proper was

met with reprimands, fines, and accusations of "meddling in things outside their

authority or jurisdiction."

At first, the Hell-Hounds had  hung together, practicing with their  weapons and

hatching dark plots  over wine as  to what they  would do when  the Stepsons and

Beysib guards fell from favor and  they were recalled to active duty.  Exclusion

from the war at  Wizardwall, and finally the  assassination of the Emperor,  had

been  the  final  straws  to' break  the  Hell-Hounds'  spirit.  The chance  for

reassignment was now gone. The power structure in the capital was in a  turmoil,

and  the very  existence of  a few  veterans posted  to duty  in Sanctuary   was

doubtlessly forgotten. They were stranded  under the command of the  Prince, who

had no use for them at all.

Both practices and  meetings had become  more and more  infrequent as individual

Hell-Hounds found themselves drawn into the ready maw of Sanctuary's  flesh-dens

and gaming bars. There were always  free drinks and women to  be had for a  Hell

Hound, even when it  became apparent to everyone  in the town that  they were no

longer a force to  be reckoned with. Just  having one of the  Hell-Hounds on the

premises was a deterrent  to cheats and petty  criminals, so the bartenders  and

madames bore the expense of their indulgences willingly.

The downhill slide had  been slow but certain.  The whores' conversation he  had

overheard served to  confirm what he  had suspected for  some time ...  that the

Hell-Hounds had not only fallen from favor, they were actually held in  contempt

by the same low-life townspeople  they had once sneered at.  Once-proud soldiers

were now a pack of pitiful barflies ... and this town had done it to them.

Zalbar shook his head.

No. That wasn't right. His own personal downfall had been started by a  specific

action. It had started when he agreed to team up with Jubal in an effort to deal

with Tempus. It had started with the death of ...

"Help me, Zalbar."

For once, Zalbar's nerves were under control. He didn't even look around.

"You're late," he said in a flat voice.

"Please! Help me!"

At this, Zalbar turned slowly to face his tormenter.

It was Razkuli.  He was his  best friend in  the Hell-Hounds, or  had been until

Tempus  killed him  in revenge  for Zalbar's  part in  the Jubal-Kurd  nonsense.

Actually, what  confronted him  was an  apparition, a  ghost if  you will. After

numerous encounters,  Zalbar knew  without looking  that the  figure before  him

didn't quite touch the floor as it walked or stood.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" he demanded. "I thought you were my friend!"

"You are my friend," the form replied in a distant voice. "I have no one else to

turn to. That's why you must help me!"

"Now look. We've been  over this a hundred  times," Zalbar said, trying  to hold

his temper. "I need  my sleep. I can't  have you popping up  with your groanings

every  time  I  close my  eyes.  It  was bad  enough  when  you only  showed  up

occasionally, but you're starting to drop in every night. Now either tell me how

I can help you, something you've so  far kept to yourself, or go away  and leave

me alone."

"It's cold where I am, Zalbar. I don't like it here. You know how I always hated

the cold."

"Well it's no lark here either," Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own  boldness.

"And as for the cold ... it's winter. That means it's cold all over."

"I need your help. I can't cross over to the other side without your help!  Help

me and I'll trouble you no more."

Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend's

ghost had ever given  him in the past  ... or perhaps he  had been too drunk  to

register what was being said.

"Cross over to where? How can I help you?"

"I can't tell you that ..."

"Oh, Vashanka!" Zalbar exclaimed,  throwing up his hands.  "Here we go again.  I

can't help you if you won't tell me what ..."

"Talk to Ischade," the spirit interrupted. "She can tell you what I cannot."

"Who?" Zalbar blinked.  "Ischade? You mean  the weird woman  living in Downwind?

That Ischade?"

"Ischade ..." the ghost repeated, fading from sight.

"But ... Oh, Vashanka! Wouldn't you know it. The one time I want to talk to  him

and now he's gone."

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Zalbar sank back onto the pillows and closed his

eyes.  Maybe sleeping  again would  bring the  irritating apparition  back  long

enough for a few clarifying questions.

As might be expected, he slept the rest of the night undisturbed.

Zalbar awoke  near midday  with a  fresh sense  of resolve.  Razkuli's ghost had

finally given him some information he could act on, and he was determined to rid

himself of his otherworldly nag before he slept again.

The beginning  of his  quest, however,  was delayed  until nearly nightfall. The

hangover he had eluded for  his late-night conference with the  spirit descended

on him with  a vengeance now  that its ally,  the sun, was  shining bright. As a

result, he  spent most  of the  day abed,  weak-limbed and fuzzy-headed, waiting

until  the traditional  penance for  overindulgence had  passed before  sallying

forth. He  might have  convinced himself  to wait  until the  next day,  but all

through his recovery he had clung to one thought like a buoy on a stormy sea.

It's almost over. Talk to Ischade. Talk to Ischade and I can sleep again.

Thus it was that  a wobbly Zalbar donned  his uniform and ventured  out into the

last  rays  of the  setting  sun, determined  to  rid himself  of  his nighttime

tormenter or die in  the attempt ... which,  at the moment, seemed  a reasonably

attractive option.

It was his intention to follow  the North Road, which skirted the  city's walls,

to the bridge  over the White  Foal River, thereby  avoiding the streets  of the

city proper.  It was  well known  that, following  the Hell-Hounds' removal, the

chaos in town had evolved  into vicious street fighting between  rival factions,

and he had no desire to be delayed by a brawl. Once he had walked unafraid  even

in the Maze, the heart of Sanctuary's underground. Now, that was someone  else's

concern and there was no need to take unnecessary risks.

The further he went, the more he realized that he had underestimated the  extent

of the urban warfare. Even here, outside the city, his trained eye could  detect

signs of  preparations for  violence. There  were boxes  and barrels  stacked in

formations clearly designed for cover  and defense rather than for  storage, and

there were any number of armed men lounging in corners with no apparent  purpose

other than  to serve  as lookouts.  Despite his  weakened condition, Zalbar grew

more tense  as he  walked, feeling  scores of  concealed eyes  watching him  ...

appraising his strength. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route, skirting

the town to  the east, then  passing south along  the wharfs where  violence was

least likely. Too late to turn back now. He'd just have to brazen it through and

hope  enough respect  lingered for  the Hell-Hounds'  uniform to  give him  safe

passage.

Dropping a hand to his sword  hilt, he slipped into the jaunty,  swaggering gait

of  old, all  the while  trying desperately  to remember  the latest  whorehouse

rumors of which factions  controlled which portions of  the town. His walk  went

unchallenged, and he was just beginning to congratulate himself on the endurance

of the Hell-Hound reputation he had fought so hard to build when a stray gust of

wind carried the sound of derisive laughter to him from one of the  watch-posts.

With that,  an alternate  explanation for  his uncontested  progress came to him

with a rush  that made  his cheeks  burn in  spite of  the cold.  Maybe the Hell

Hounds' reputation had  simply fallen so  low that they  were considered beneath

notice ... not a sufficient threat to bother springing a trap on.

It was a humbled and subdued Zalbar that finally arrived at Ischade's residence.

He paused  on her  doorstep, momentarily  lost in  thought. Soldiers  were never

popular, and he had suffered his share of abuse for wearing a uniform. This  was

the  first time,  though, that  he had  been a  subject of  other  arms-bearers'

ridicule. Sometime, after he had rehoned his sword and his skills, he would have

to see what could be done about reestablishing the respect a Hell-Hound  uniform

was due. Maybe he could interest Armen and Quag as well. It was about time  they

all started giving a bit of thought to their collective future.

First, however, there was the business at hand to see to ... and in his  current

state his mind could handle only one plan at a time. Raising a fist, he  knocked

on Ischade's door, wondering at the strange foliage in her garden.

The silence  surrounding the  house was  unsettling, and  he was  about to knock

again  if just  for the  noise when  the door  opened a  crack and  a man's  eye

regarded him with a glare.

"Who is it and what do you want so early in the morning?"

"I am Zalbar of the Prince Kadakithis's personal bodyguard," he barked,  falling

into old  habits, "and  I have  come ..."  Zalbar stopped  suddenly and  stole a

glance at the now dark sky. "Early in the morning? Excuse me, but it's just past

sundown."

"We're sleeping late in this house. It's been very busy lately," was the growled

response. "What is it you want?"

"I wish to speak with the person known as Ischade."

"Is this official business, or a personal matter?"

Zalbar considered  trying to  bluff, but  could think  of no  way to  phrase his

inquiries to make them sound official.

"Personal," he admitted finally.

"Then come back at a decent hour. She's got better things to do than ..."

"Oh let him in,  Haught," came a commanding  female voice from somewhere  out of

sight. "I'm awake now anyway."

The guardian of the door favored  Zalbar with one last dark glare,  then stepped

back to allow him entrance.

The Hell-Hound's first impression of Ischade's sitting room was that he had seen

neater battlefields. Then  his eye registered  the strewn items,  and he revised

his opinion. Once he  had led an assault  against a band of  mountaineers busily

looting a  rich caravan.  The aftermath  had been  very similar  to what  he was

seeing here: expensive goods  tossed randomly with no  regard to their value.  A

prince's ransom had been ruined with careless handling ...

He decided  that he  wouldn't like  Ischade. His  time in  palaces and  brothels

taught him to appreciate objects that  he could never afford and to  be offended

at their neglect. At least  royalty knew how to take  care of their toys ...  or

had servants who did.

"What can I do for you, Officer?"

He turned to find a raven-haired  woman entering the room, belting a  black robe

about herself as she walked.

"Ischade?"

"Yes?"

Now that she was in front of him, Zalbar was suddenly unsure of what to say.

"I was told to talk to you ... by a ghost."

The man by  the door groaned  noisily. Ischade shot  him a look  that could have

been used in the army.

"Sit down, Officer. I think you'd better tell me your story from the beginning."

Zalbar took the offered seat absently, trying to organize his thoughts.

"I had a friend ... he was killed several years ago. He's haunting me. The first

time was a long time back and he didn't reappear, so I thought it was just a bad

dream. Lately, he's been coming to me more often ... every time I try to  sleep,

as a  matter of  fact. He  says he  needs my  help to  cross over, whatever that

means. He told me to  talk to you ... that  you could tell me what  he couldn't.

That's why I'm here."

Ischade listened to all this with pursed lips and a faraway stare.

"Your friend. Tell me about him."

"He was a Hell-Hound, like me. His name was Razkuli ..."

Zalbar would  have continued,  but Ischade  had suddenly  raised a  hand to  her

forehe ad, massaging it as she grimaced.

"Razkuli. That's where I've  seen that uniform before.  But he isn't one  of the

ones that I keep."

"I don't understand," the Hell-Hound frowned. "Are you saying you know him?"

"He has ...  assisted me from  time to time,"  Ischade said, shrugging  lightly.

"Now, what can I do to help you?"

Zalbar tried to digest what Ischade was saying, but his mind simply wasn't up to

the implications. Finally, he abandoned his efforts and returned to his original

line of questioning.

"Could you tell me what's going on?  What did Razkuli mean when he said  that he

couldn't 'cross over'?"

"For some reason his spirit is trapped  between the realm of the living and  the

realm of the dead. Something is keeping  him from a peaceful rest, and he  wants

you to help him on the physical plane."

"Help him how? What is it I'm supposed to do?"

"I don't know for sure. It could be any one of a number of things. I suppose the

only way to find out is to ask him."

Zalbar straightened  in his  chair and  glanced nervously  around the room. "You

mean you're going to summon the spirit? Here? Now?"

Ischade shook her head in an abrupt negative. "First of all, that's not the  way

it works. I don't summon spirits ... I send an agent or occasionally fetch  them

personally. In  this case,  however, I  think we'll  leave the  spirit alone and

pursue  alternate methods  for obtaining  the necessary  information. As  you've

probably noticed, spirits aren't particularly eloquent or informative.  Besides,

I just got back from  a quest like that, and  I'll be damned if I'll  go to hell

again for a while."

"How's that again?" the Hell-Hound frowned.

"Nothing. Just a  little joke. What  I mean is,  I think we'll  have better luck

simply animating his corpse and asking what the problem is."

"His corpse," Zalbar echoed hollowly.

"... Of course, someone will have to fetch it. Do you know where he's buried?"

"In the garrison graveyard north of town ... the grave's clearly marked."

"Good. Then you'll have no trouble finding it. As soon as you bring it here,  we

can ..."

"ME?" Zalbar exclaimed. "Surely you can't expect me to dig up a grave."

"Certainly. Why not?"

The thought of digging up a well-aged  corpse ... any corpse, much less that  of

his friend,  horrified Zalbar.  Still, he  found himself  strangely reluctant to

express his revulsion to  this woman who spoke  so lightly of animating  corpses

and trips to hell.

"Um ... I'm Hell-Hound,  part of a royal  retinue," he said instead.  "If I were

caught, a charge of grave-robbing would be scandalous."

In his corner, Haught snorted. "Open fighting in the streets and the authorities

are  worried  about  grave-robbing?  I  doubt  there  would  be  any  danger  of

discovery."

"Then  you fetch  it if  you're so  sure there's  no danger  of arrest,"  Zalbar

snapped back.

"Yes, that's a good idea." Ischade nodded. "Run along, Haught, and bring us  the

contents of Razkuli's grave. With luck we can see this business done by sun-up."

"ME?" Haught scowled. "But ..."

"You," Ischade ordered firmly. "Now."

Haught  started to  reply angrily,  then apparently  thought better  of it   and

slammed out the door into the night without another word.

"Now then. Officer," Ischade purred,  focusing hooded eyes on Zalbar.  "While we

wait, perhaps you can tell me what you think of the Beysib-Nisibisi Alliance."

In the next hour, while anxiously awaiting Haught's return, Zalbar became firmly

convinced that Ischade was insane. The silly woman seemed to have some idea that

the arrival of the Beysib in Sanctuary was somehow part of a Nisi plot ...  this

opinion apparently based on the observation that both cultures were snake-cults.

Zalbar's efforts to point out that the Beysib used small vipers, while  military

reports indicated that  the Nisibisi were  into man-sized constrictors,  fell on

deaf ears. If anything, his  arguments seemed to reinforce Ischade's  conviction

that she  was the  only one  who could  see the  true ramifications  of what was

happening in Sanctuary.

He assumed her  mental imbalance was  the result of  her profession. If  she was

indeed a necromancer, constant involvement  with death and corpses was  bound to

be unsettling to the mind. After all,  look at the effect that dealing with  one

dead person was having on him!

As much as he dreaded  viewing his friend's remains, Zalbar's  conversation with

Ischade was so unsettling that he was actually relieved when a footstep  sounded

outside and Haught appeared once more in the doorway.

"I had to  steal a wheelbarrow,"  the necromancer's assistant  said in a  manner

that was almost an accusation. "There were two corpses in the grave."

"Two?" Zalbar scowled, but he was talking to thin air.

Haught reappeared in a moment carrying the first moldering body, which he dumped

unceremoniously on the floor, and turned to fetch the second one.

Ischade bent over their prize, beckoning Zalbar to move closer.

"Is this your friend?"

Zalbar was still shaking his head. "I don't understand it," he said. "How  could

there be two bodies in the same grave?"

"It's not uncommon," Ischade shrugged. "Gravedig-gers get paid by the body,  and

if you don't  watch them, they'll  dump two or  more bodies into  the same grave

rather than going through the trouble of digging several ... especially if there

are two  graveyards involved  and they  don't want  to have  to drag  the second

corpse across town. Your friend was  probably buried with someone else who  died

about the same time. The question is, was this him?"

The corpse was almost beyond recognition. What skin and flesh was left was dried

and  mummified; bone  showed in  many places.  There was  a gaping  hole in  the

abdomen, and the internal organs were not in evidence.

"N ...  No," Zalbar  said carefully.  "I'm sure  this is  someone else ... maybe

Kurd."

"Who?"

"Kurd. He  was a  butcher ...  a medical  researcher he  called himself,  but he

performed his experiments on the bodies  of living slaves. He died the  same day

as Razkuli, disemboweled by ... a  dissatisfied customer. I saw his body  at the

charnel house when I  went there to identify  my friend. They were  the only two

there at the  time, so if  you're right about  the gravediggers' negligence,  it

stands to reason that his would be the second body."

He was babbling now, trying to avoid examining the corpse more closely.

"Interesting," Ischade murmured.  "I could use  a repairman. But  you're sure it

isn't your friend?"

"Positive. For one thing, Razkuli was ..."

"Here's the other," Haught announced from the doorway. "Now if you don't mind, I

think I'll retire for the night. A little of this type of assisting goes a  long

way."

"That's him!" Zalbar said pointing at the new corpse.

"I think I see the problem," Ischade sighed. "You could have saved us all a  lot

of trouble if  you had been  more specific. Why  didn't you tell  me he had been

beheaded?"

Sure enough,  the corpse  which Haught  had propped  against the wall noticeably

lacked its hatrack.

"I didn't think it was important. Is it?"

"Certainly. One thing that will always hold a spirit in limbo is if its physical

body has been dismembered ... particularly if an important piece, like its head,

has been denied a burial."

"What? You mean his head hasn't been buried?"

"Apparently not.  As I  said earlier,  gravediggers are  notoriously lazy,  so I

doubt they would  dig a separate  hole just for  the head. No,  my guess is that

that portion  of your  friend's body  has somehow  gone astray.  The reason  the

spirit hasn't been able to instruct you in more detail is because it can't  tell

which part is missing, much less where it is."

She turned to Zalbar with a smile.  "This will be simpler than I thought.  Bring

me the head of Razkuli,  and I can put his  spirit to rest for you.  Do you have

any idea where it might be after all this time?"

"No," the Hell-Hound said  grimly, "but I know  someone who might. Don't  bother

going back to sleep. If I'm right, this won't take long at all,"

Innos, one of several grooms who watched over the military barracks and stables,

awoke from a sound sleep to find lights ablaze and a swordpoint at his throat.

"Think back, Innos!"

It was Zalbar. Innos had watched his degeneration into a brothel barfly with  no

interest other than that  there would be one  less bunk for him  to police. Now,

however, the Hell-Hound's eyes  were blazing with a  savagery that spoke of  old

times. Innos looked into those eyes and decided that he would not lie,  whatever

question was asked ...  just as the street  watcher had decided not  to laugh at

the Hell-Hound when he stalked back from Ischade's.

"Bu ... but Zalbar! I have done nothing!"

"Think back!" Zalbar  commanded again. "Think  back several years.  I was coming

out of an audience with the Prince ...  so upset I was nearly out of my  mind. I

handed you something and told you to dispose of it properly. Remember?"

Innos did, and his blood ran icy.

"Y ... Yes. It was the head of your friend Razkuli."

"Where is it?"

"Why, I buried it, of course. Just as you ordered."

The swordpoint pressed forward, and a  small trickle of blood made its  way down

Innos's throat.

"Don't lie to me! I know it hasn't been buried."

"But ... if you knew ..."

"I just found out tonight. Now where is it?"

"Please don't kill me! I've never ..."

"Where!? It's important, man."

"I sold  it ...  to the  House of  Whips and  Chains. They  use skulls  in their

decor."

Innos was  flung back,  and he  closed his  eyes as  Zalbar raised  his sword to

strike.

After a frozen moment,  he risked a peek,  and saw the Hell-Hound  standing with

the sword hanging loose at his side.

"No. I can't  kill you, Innos,"  he said softly.  "I could expect  little better

from anyone else  in this town.  If anything, the  fault is mine.  I should have

seen to the head myself."

He fixed Innos with a stare, and the groom saw that he was smiling.

"Still," he continued in a friendly tone, "I'd suggest you pack your things  and

leave town ... tonight. I may not be so understanding the next time I see you."

Zalbar did not even bother to knock, but simply pushed his way through the  door

of the  House of  Whips and  Chains. It  was his  first visit to this particular

brothel  which catered  to tastes  bizarre even  for Sanctuary,  but his   anger

outweighed his curiosity. When the madame rushed wide-eyed, to confront him,  he

was brief and to the point.

"You have a skull here as part of your decorations. I want it."

"But Officer, we  never sell our  decorations. They're too  difficult to replace

..."

"I didn't say I wanted  to buy it," Zalbar snapped.  "I'm taking it with me  ...

and I'd advise you not to argue."

He swept the  room quickly with  his gaze, ignoring  the girls peering  out from

hiding.

"That brazier ... with the  hot irons in it. It's  a fire hazard. I could  close

this establishment right now, Madame, and  I doubt you could fix the  violations

faster than I could find them if you ever wanted to re-open."

"But ... oh, take the silly thing. Take  all of them or take your pick. I  don't

care."

"All of them?"

Zalbar was suddenly aware that there were no less than a dozen skulls peering at

him from ledges and mantels around the room.

"You're too kind, Madame," he sighed heavily. "Now, if I could trouble you for a

bag?"

The rest  of the  night was  mercifully fuzzy  in Zalbar's  mind, as fatigue and

shock began to numb his senses. Ischade had revived Kurd by the time he  arrived

back  at  her house  ...  which was  fortunate,  for the  vivisectionist  was of

invaluable assistance  as they  faced the  macabre task  of matching the severed

vertebrae to discover which in the bagful of skulls was actually Razkuli's.

He buried his friend's now assembled body himself, not trusting the  necromancer

to do it, digging  the grave far from  the normal graveyards, under  a tree they

both knew. His task finally complete, he staggered back to the Aphro-disia House

and slept uninterrupted for more than a day.

When he  awoke, the  events seemed  so distant  and bizarre  that he  might have

dismissed them as a fever dream, were  it not for two things. First, the  spirit

of Razkuli never again appeared to spoil his slumbers, and second, Myrtis  threw

him out of Aphrodisia House after hearing he had visited the House of Whips  and

Chains. (She soon forgave him, as  she always did, her anger dissipating  almost

magically.)

The only other consequence of the  entire episode was that a week  later, Zalbar

was given an official reprimand. It seemed that while engaging in sword practice

with  his  fellow  Hell-Hounds,  he had  broken  off  drilling  to administer  a

merciless beating to one of the onlookers. Reliable witnesses testified that the

victim's only  offense had  been to  make the  offhand comment: "You Hell-Hounds

will do anything to get ahead!"

THE COLOR OF MAGIC

Diana L. Paxson

The sky was  weeping, as if  some artist had  muddied all the  world's colors to

gray and now was  trying to dissolve them  away. Water dripped from  the brim of

Lalo's floppy hat down his neck and he tried to pull his cloak higher, swearing.

The saying went that there were two seasons in Sanctuary-one of them was hot and

the other was not-and the most miserable  was whichever one you were in. It  was

not a hard rain-more a persistent drizzle that imposed an illusory peace on  the

town by  encouraging the  bravos of  the dozen  or so  warring factions  to stay

inside.

I should have stayed home too,  thought Lalo. But another hour in  rooms crowded

with children and  the lingering odors  of wet clothing  and cooking food  would

have driven  him into  a quarrel  with Gilla,  and he  had sworn  not to do that

again. The Vulgar Unicorn  was closed to him,  but last he had  heard, the Green

Grape was still on the corner where the Governor's Walk joined the Farmer's Run.

He'd have a peaceful drink or two there, and figure out what to do....

Lalo  ducked under  the overhang  where the  weathered sign  with its  bunch  of

peeling fruit knocked forlornly  against the wall. The  only sign of life  about

the place was the scruffy gray dog shivering against the door. Then Lalo  pushed

the  door  open and  the  welcome scent  of  mulling wine  overpowered  the more

familiar odors of mildew and backed-up drains.

Lalo shrugged  out of  his cloak  and shook  it. The  dog's ears flapped and its

collar jingled as it did the same. Then it sneezed and followed him  inside.

Lalo sat down next to the stove  and draped his already steaming cloak across  a

chair. A skinny serving  boy brought him  mulled wine and  he clasped his  paint

stained fingers around the mug to warm them before he let the hot, sweet  liquor

slide down his  throat. He set  the mug down,  glimpsed his own  unprepossessing

reflection in a tarnished mirror on the wall, and looked quickly away.

He had looked into a mirror once and seen a god look back at him. Had that  been

a dream? And he had seen all his  own evil come alive on the wall of  the Vulgar

Unicorn. That had been a nightmare, and too many others had shared it.

The gift of painting the truth of a man had come originally from Enas Yori. Now,

he almost wished  he had accepted  the sorcerer's offer  to take it  back again.

These days,  Enas Yorl  seemed to  be chronically  incapacitated by his periodic

transformations-it  was almost  as if  the sorcerer's  mutations paralleled  the

degenerating situation in Sanctuary.

But with Enas Yorl handicapped and Lythande out of town, who was there to  teach

him how to use his power? The Temples  were useless, and the stench of the  Mage

guild made him feel ill.

Quite close to  him, someone sneezed.  Lalo jumped, set  his mug teetering,  and

grabbed for it.

"Do you mind if I borrow your cloak?"

Lalo blinked, then focused on a thin  young man clad only in a metal  dog collar

who was reaching for the garment Lalo had draped over the other chair.

"It's still wet ..." he said helplessly.

"That's the only trouble with these transformations," the stranger shuddered  as

he  wrapped the  cloak around  him, "especially  in this  kind of  weather.  But

sometimes it's safer to travel in disguise."

Lalo shifted focus and saw the blue  glow of power. The pride in the  stranger's

face was tempered by an almost puppy ish eagerness, and a hint of wistfulness as

well, as if not all his magic could win him what he really desired.

"What do you want with me, Mage?"

"Oh, you can call  me Randal, Master Limner  ..." the mage grinned.  He smoothed

back his damp hair as  if he were trying to  hide his ears. "And what  I want is

you, or rather. Sanctuary does ..."

Lalo tried to cover his confusion with  another sip of wine. He had heard  about

the Hazard-class  sorcerer who  worked with  the Stepsons,  but during the weeks

when Lalo  had been  trying to  learn magic  from the  priests of Savankala, the

Tysian mage had been unaccountably absent. Lalo had never seen him before.

Randal fumbled at his  collar and pulled out  a tight roll of  canvas. With that

confident grin that was already beginning to rasp Lalo's nerves, he flattened it

against the table.

"Do you recognize this drawing?" It  was the picture of that mercenary  Niko, in

whose background two other faces had so unexpectedly appeared.

Lalo grimaced, knowing  it all too  well, and wishing,  not for the  first time,

that he had never let Molin Torchholder take the damned thing. Certainly no  one

had given him any peace  over it since. It was  that, as much as the  conclusion

that the Temple teachers didn't know how to train him, that had driven him  home

again.

"How did you get that?" he asked sourly. "I thought His High and Mightiness kept

it closer than an Imperial pardon."

"I borrowed  it," said  Randal enigmatically.  "Look at  it!" He  brandished the

paper under Lalo's nose. "Do you understand what you have done?"

"That's what Molin kept asking me-you should talk to him!"

"Perhaps I can understand your answers better than he did ..."

"The answers are all no!" Lalo said  harshly. "I don't know what happens if  you

destroy one of my portraits. I've never tried to animate a portrait, and I'm not

about to start experimenting.  Not after the  Black Unicorn.... You're  the mage

you tell me what I can do!"

"Perhaps I will," Randal said winningly, "if you'll help us in return."

"Us? What 'us'?" Lalo eyed him warily. Badly as he needed knowledge, he was even

more desperately afraid of being used.

This time it was Randal who hesitated.  "Everyone who wants to see some kind  of

order restored to Sanctuary," he said finally.

"By kicking out  the Fish-eyes? My  daughter serves one  of their ladies  at the

Palace. They're not all bad-"

Randal shrugged. "Who is?" Then he frowned. "We just don't want them running us,

that's all.  But the  Beysib are  hardly the  worst of  our problems-"  His long

finger stabbed at the woman's face in the picture, that searingly beautiful face

whose eyes were like the eyes of the Black Unicorn.

"She-" hissed the mage. "She's at the  bottom of it. If we can destroy  her-even

contain her-maybe we can set the rest right!"

"You go right ahead,"  snapped Lalo. "Just drawing  her picture was bad  enough.

Fight your own wars-it's nothing to do with me!"

Randal sighed.  "I can't  force you,  but others  may try.  You'll wish  you had

allies then."

Lalo stared sullenly into his wine. "Threats won't move me either, mage!"

There was a short silence. Then Randal fumbled with his collar again.

"I'm not threatening  you," he said  tiredly. "I don't  have to. Take  this ..."

From the apparently limitless compartment in  his dog collar he pulled a  wadded

cloth. It opened out as  it fell and Lalo saw  a garish rainbow of red  and blue

and yellow and black and green. "It'll  get you across town when you decide  you

need help from me. Ask for me at the Palace ..."

He paused, but Lalo would not meet his eyes. Randal got to his feet, and as  his

movement stirred the drawing, shadows lifted  like dark wings in the corners  of

the room. Like the winged shadows in the picture, thought Lalo, shivering.  Very

carefully the  mage rolled  up the  drawing. Lalo  made no  objection. He  never

wanted to see it, or the mage,  again. His vision blurred and images moved  just

beyond the limits of his perception. He shuddered again.

"Thank you for the loan of your cloak ..." The words trailed off oddly.

Lalo looked up  just in time  to see his  outer garment settle  like a deflating

balloon  across the  chair. Something  wriggled beneath  it, sneezed,  and  then

pushed free. He saw  a gaunt, wolfish dog  stand up, shake itself,  and lift one

large ear inquiringly.

Even as a dog his ears are too big for him, thought Lalo. Fascinated in spite of

himself, he watched as the animal sneezed again and trotted across the room. The

tavern door  obligingly opened  itself, then  snicked shut  after him.  And then

there was only  the crackling of  the fire and  the whisper of  rain against the

windows to keep him company.

I dreamed it, thought the limner, but the armband still lay before him,  striped

with all the colors of the lines that sectioned Sanctuary. And what is my color,

the color of magic? Lalo wondered then. But there was no one to answer him.

He dropped a few  coins onto the table  and stuffed the armband  into his pouch.

Then he  jammed his  hat on  over his  thinning hair  and wrapped the damp cloak

around him. Now it smelled of dog as well as of wet wool.

And as that scent clung to the  cloak, the mage's words stuck in Lalo's  memory.

His step quickened as he headed for the door. He had to warn Gilla-he had to get

home.

"You tell me, Wedemir-you see more of  the town than I do. Is your  father right

to be afraid?" Gilla paused in her sweeping and leaned on the broom, staring  at

her oldest  son. Her  two younger  children were  sitting at  the kitchen table,

drawing on their slates  with some of Lalo's  broken chalks. Chalk squeaked  and

Wedemir grimaced.

"Well,  you still  need a  pass to  get around,"  he answered  her, "and   who's

fighting whom  and why  seems to  change from  day to  day. But  having the real

Stepsons back in their barracks seems to have calmed the Beysibs down."

Suddenly Latilla  screeched and  grabbed for  her little  brother's arm.  Alfi's

slate crashed to the floor and he began to cry.

"Mama, he took the chalk right out of my hand!" exclaimed Latilla.

"Red chalk!" said Alfi through his tears, as if that explained it. He glared  at

his sister. "Draw  red dragon to  eat you up!"  He slid down  from his chair  to

retrieve the slate.

Gilla smacked  his bottom  and pulled  him upright.  "You're not  going to  draw

anything until you learn some self-control!" She glanced toward the shut door to

Lalo's studio. He  had said he  was going to  paint, but she  had seen him  fast

asleep on the couch when she looked in a quarter hour before.

"You're going to your room, both of  you!" she told her small son and  daughter.

"Your father needs his rest, so play quietly!"

When they had gone,  she picked up the  fallen slate and fragments  of chalk and

turned back to Wedemir, who had sat through the altercation trying to look as if

he had never seen either his brother or his sister before.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," she said softly. "Lalo is not afraid

of the Beysib. He's afraid of magic."

"Name of Ils, Mother-the Stepsons' pet mage is trying to recruit him." Wedemir's

black brows nearly met as he frowned. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Stay with him! Protect him!" Gilla said fiercely. She began sweeping again with

long, hard strokes, as if she could thrash out all her fears.

"He's not going to like me tagging after him-"

"Neither of  you will  like it  if he  runs into  danger alone...."  There was a

sudden heaviness in the air. Gilla heard  a faint "pop" and turned, the rest  of

her words dying in her throat.

Above  the  kitchen  table  hovered a  sphere  of  darkness,  scintillating with

flickers of cobalt blue.  As she stared, it  quivered and began to  drift, still

expanding, toward the studio. The floor shook as Gilla started toward it.

"Mother, no!" Wedemir's chair crashed behind  him as he tried to get  around the

table, but Gilla was already standing between the Sphere and the studio door.

"Get out of my kitchen, you demon's  fart!" She jabbed at the Darkness with  her

broom and it recoiled.  "Think you'll get my  Lalo, do you? I'll  show you!" The

Sphere stilled as she spoke  Lalo's name, then suddenly enlarged.  Gilla blinked

as colors swirled dizzyingly across its slick surface.

"By Siveni's spear, get you gone!" Gilla recovered herself and struck the Sphere

with her broom. The stiff straw faded as if she had shoved it into a murky pool,

then the shaft started to disappear too. Her screech of outrage was swallowed as

the Darkness engulfed her. She heard the second "pop" of displaced air, and  all

sense of direction and dimension disappeared.

"Papa, are we going to stay  here long?" Latilla looked around the  courtyard of

the Palace, whose usual  splendor was muted by  the rain, and pressed  closer to

Lalo.

"I  hope not,  sweetheart," he  answered, scanning  the arches  of the  cloister

anxiously.

"I don' like it," Alfi  said decidedly. "I want Mama.  I want to go home.  Papa,

will Mama be back soon?"

"I hope so...." whispered Lalo. His  eyes blurred with something more than  rain

as he  knelt to  hug both  children close  against him,  finding some  deceptive

comfort  in the  warmth of  their young  bodies. He  and Gilla  had made   these

children between them. She couldn't be gone!

"Father, Wedemir told me what happened! What are we going to do?"

Vanda was hurrying  toward them with  her older brother  behind her, her  bright

hair coming undone from its Beysib coiffure.

"I'm going to get Gilla back," Lalo said harshly. "But you'll have to take  care

of the little ones."

"Here?" She looked around her dubiously.

Wedemir cleared his throat. "They may not be safe at home."

Vanda frowned. "Well,  we already have  some other children  in quarters in  the

basement-that child of the Temple  they call Gyskouras, and Illyra's  boy-it's a

regular nursery.  Maybe I  can work  something out  ... oh,  of course I'll take

them!" She scooped Alfi  into her arms. "Just  find Mother!" She stared  at Lalo

over Alfi's dark head, her grey eyes so much like Gilla's that something twisted

in Lalo's chest.

"I will ..."he managed, and could say no more.

Vanda nodded,  shifted Alfi  onto her  hip and  reached out  for Latilla's hand.

"Come on, levies, and I'll show you some pretty things."

"Toys?" asked Alfi.

"Toys, and other children, and everything ..." Van-da's voice faded as she  went

under the archway. Then she turned a corner and was gone. --

"At least it  was convenient to  drop them here,"  said Wedemir dryly.  "Exactly

where in the Palace did that mage tell,you to go?"

"I'll have to ask at the wicket. It's like the Maze inside...." Lalo sighed  and

splashed across the courtyard.

Behind the wicket at the Gate was a little room where litigants had waited to be

called to the  Hall of Justice  in the days  when the Prince  still pretended to

govern Sanctuary. Lalo settled onto  one of its inadequately padded  benches and

closed his eyes. Instinctively he reached out for that current of awareness that

linked him  to Gilla,  but there  was nothing  there. He  had never realized how

essential her presence was to him.

Gilla-Gilla! his heart cried,  and he did not  realize that he had  moaned aloud

until he felt Wedemir patting his arm.

"You have decided to come to us after all! What is wrong?"

Lalo's eyes flew  open. Randal the  Mage with his  clothes on was  an altogether

more impressive sight than the man who had borrowed his cloak in the tavern.  In

this setting, even his freckles seemed less visible.

"Something  tried  to get  him  and took  my  mother by  mistake,"  said Wedemir

accusingly. "A black globular sort of thing-it just materialized in the kitchen,

and she was gone!"

"A kind of bubble  shot with flashes of  blue light?" asked Randal,  and Wedemir

nodded. The mage  chewed his lip  for a moment,  then grimaced. "It  sounds like

Roxane. She has  a habit of  kidnaping people, and  right now she's  hellbent on

revenge against anyone connected with Molin Torchholder or Niko...."

Randal's voice had softened  as he spoke the  mercenary's name, and Lalo  sensed

the complex of frustrated love, longing, and loyalty that explained why the mage

had handled  Niko's portrait  so reverently.  But Lalo  could hardly worry about

Randal's feelings now. He had heard too many tales about Roxane....

"But why take my mother if she wanted Lalo?" asked Wedemir.

Randal looked  at the  limner sympathetically.  "The witch  didn't expect you to

give any trouble or she would have  come herself. The Sphere was a Carrier,  set

to react to your identity. And your wife spoke your name-"

"But she must realize her mistake by now. Why hasn't she let Gilla go?"

"Roxane  plays for  points," said  Randal gently.  "As long  as the  woman's  no

trouble, she'll keep her, maybe use her as a hostage to compel you ..."

No one needed to  detail what could happen  if Roxane got tired  of her captive.

Lalo jerked to his feet and Randal pulled him back with surprising strength.

"No, Lalo-Roxane has no honor. You could not be sure of saving your wife even if

you offered yourself in her place.  To strike against the sorceress is  the only

way!"

Lalo sank back onto the bench and covered his eyes.

"Are you with us then. Limner?" asked Randal softly.

"I'm with you," interrupted Wedemir, "if you'll teach me how to fight!"

"That can be arranged," said Randal. He waited for Lalo's answer.

"Help me free  Gilla and show  me how to  protect those who  depend on me,"  the

words were dragged from Lalo's lips, "and yes, I'll do what I can to help you."

Gilla sneezed, heaved  herself upright, and  sneezed again. Something  round and

hard was digging into her side. She  looked down, saw a skull, and jerked  away.

So much for the comfortable conclusion that she had been having a nightmare. She

still gripped her broom, but she was not at home; no one had cleaned this  place

for quite a while.

"Ah-fat lady wake now? Fat lady sleep hard; Snapper Jo was lonely!"

Gilla stared. The voice which had uttered these words of welcome was very  deep,

with a kind of curdled quality that made her think of the bottom of a  vegetable

bin that had been left alone too  long. For a moment her eyes struggled  to sort

through a confusion  of piled boxes  and dusty hangings,  then she focused  on a

shape that was tall,  and gaunt, and gray.  It made a gurgling  sound that could

have meant anything, and lit a lamp.

Gilla blinked. The creature's general grayness was more than compensated for  by

a pair of  purple pantaloons and  a shock of  orange hair. He  treated her to  a

sharp, snaggle-toothed smile.

"Fat lady talk to Snapper Jo now?"

Gilla cleared her throat. "Does this place belong to you?"

"Oh, noooo-" The warts  on his gray skin  seemed to crawl as  Snapper Jo glanced

fearfully  over  his shoulder.  "Great  Mistress rules  here!  Great Lady,  very

beautiful, very strong ..." He ducked his head with a kind of fearful reverence.

Gilla thought he was overdoing it,  but it was obvious that whoever  had brought

her here did have plenty of power. Beneath the dust she caught the  unmistakable

dank  perfume  of the  White  Foal River,  so  she knew  she  must still  be  in

Sanctuary, and there were only two sorceresses here with that kind of power. Her

skin chilled as she thought about it.  It was the kind of riddle children  asked

in play: Would you rather be eaten by a she-panther or a tigress? By Ischade  or

by Roxane?

Suddenly the dust and clutter around her seemed stifling. Gilla got to her  feet

and picked her way, between a dusty  carved table and a tall vase of  dull brass

inlaid with tarnished silver,  toward the door. The  vase toppled as Snapper  Jo

leaped with awkward efficiency to block her.

"Fat lady not to go-"  the gray fiend said reproachfully.  "Orders-Mistress says

to keep you  here." He favored  her with a  walleyed leer. "And  talk to Snapper

Jo!"

Gilla talked to  him. She could  not tell if  it was for  hours, really, or only

seemed that way.  The fiend's conversation  was remarkably repetitive,  and only

long practice in answering the questions of small children while doing something

else  got her  through it  still sane.  But the  light behind  the curtains  was

definitely fading when  something moved in  the doorway and  Snapper Jo's patter

abruptly failed.

The room  seemed to  brighten, or  perhaps it  was only  that this  woman left a

glamor in the air  around her. Local legend  had said that Roxane  was terrible,

but had no  words to say  how beautiful she  was. And surely  it was Roxane, for

everyone  knew that  the witch  Ischade was  pale as  a night-born  flower,  but

Roxane's skin bloomed like a rose.

"So, you  are enjoying  your conversation?"  Roxane's little  cat smile  did not

reach her eyes.

You bitch, how dare you ... thought Gilla. Then she met that gaze, and felt  her

skin grow cold. She bit back the retort that ached in her throat.

"My Carrier was not prepared for such as you." Roxane looked Gilla up and  down.

"Count  yourself fortunate  that your  weight did  not burst  it and  leave  you

floating  mindless  between the  planes!"  The Nisibisi  sorceress  laughed, and

Gilla's chill drove deeper. This woman reeked of evil like some deadly perfume.

Gilla found herself retreating within the  fortress of her flesh; she had  never

understood until now how her bulk  had protected her. Physically her sheer  mass

had made her formidable.  And it had shielded  her psychically from all  but the

most powerful personalities. But Roxane was pure power, and Gilla was afraid.

"Great Lady, I am indeed grateful," she said between set teeth. "But surely  you

have no use for me here-"

"No? We  shall see.  There is  no need  to act  hastily!" Roxane  gave a throaty

laugh, as if she  were savoring some private  amusement. "I will keep  you for a

while as a companion for my servant here. But in that case I suppose you must be

fed," she looked at Gilla with another laugh. "Though surely it would do you  no

harm to starve for a while. Snapper-leave  one of the serpents on guard and  get

food for her."

"And food for Snapper, too, Mistress? Nice food-red, still twitching?" The fiend

clutched at the air and smacked his narrow lips, his eyes glazing.

Gilla watched  him and  shuddered, reminding  herself not  to trust his apparent

affability.

"Snapper, be still!" Roxane flickered her fingers casually and the fiend  froze,

watching her with rolling eyes.

"Great One, please  let me go  home," Gilla whispered,  bowing her head  to keep

Roxane from seeing her eyes.

"Oh, you don't want to go home," Roxane smiled prettily. "Your home is going  to

become very damp and uncomfortable very soon. Believe me, Ilsig sow, you will be

much safer here with me.  Do you hear the rain?"  She paused a moment and  Gilla

heard its soft, steady patter outside.

"You'll hear more rain soon. But don't worry, my wards will keep the water  away

from  here-the rest  of Sanctuary  is not  going to  be so  fortunate. Water  is

coming. A great deal of water is  coming!" Roxane lifted her arms with a  ripple

of silken sleeves.  "Oh, they will  be sorry, when  the flood sweeps  their fine

temples and palaces away! I will bring  the great waters down from the north  in

such a deluge as this place has never seen!"

Gilla grew very still. If there was a flood her children would be in danger. She

had to think of  a way out of  here! But she had  always done her best  thinking

when she was working; her gaze fell on the broom that had come with her  through

the void.

"If I am to stay, Mistress, then let me keep busy working for you." She tried to

simulate humility. It did  not sound convincing to  her, but she suspected  that

the Nisibisi sorceress had spent too much time studying men and other beings  to

know much about how her own sex behaved.

"I'm a very good worker," Gilla went on. "Would you like me to clean?"

Roxane giggled. "Housecleaning? Oh yes-I with my waters and you with your  broom

will clean up Sanctuary!" Still laughing, she nodded to Snapper Jo. "You let her

clean then, do you understand?" Bright skirts swirled as she turned, and she was

gone as swiftly as she had come.

For a long moment Gilla stood utterly still. Then she seized the broom that  was

all she had left of home and began to sweep furiously.

And Roxane, in her  witching room, set her  Nisibisi Globe of Power  spinning in

the air before her so that the  jewels inset into its High Peaks' clay  gathered

up the light from the candles that  circled her and sent it shimmering into  the

bowl of water on the stand below.

Through air and  water she drew  the secret sigils;  inhaled deeply the  incense

that smouldered in the corners of the room and breathed the charged air into the

water until it steamed. Then she began  to whisper in a language that no  one in

Sanctuary except Niko or Randal would have recognized.

The light grew aquaeous and dim; the voice of the sorceress deepened. The  Globe

that spun before  her focused her  awareness, heightened and  transformed it and

channeled it into that plane of the Otherworld where the Water Demons had  their

home. By  their secret  names she  compelled them,  and the  water in her silver

basin misted away.

But over the plains  north of Sanctuary great  cumulus clouds began to  move, at

first reluctantly, and then more swiftly, as if they sensed the waiting sea. And

when they met the warmer air of the seacoast they released their heavy loads  of

rain, and the voice of the White Foal River began to change.

"Look-there are  laws that  govern magic,"  repeated Randal.  "If you understand

them you have control. Visualize! You know how to do that, surely-when you  plan

a picture don't you see it in your  mind before you even take the brush in  your

hand? Use symbols, whatever you need to focus your consciousness on the part  of

the Otherworld you're working with, and then do your magic!"

Lalo  nodded. He  could almost  see the  sense of  it, but  it was  so hard   to

concentrate  when  wind rattled  the  window-frames and  rain  beat against  the

slubbed glass. It had been raining hard since the afternoon before.

"If you visualize a shield around you  that only lets . specific things out,  or

in, then you can control what you paint, right?" the Tysian mage went on. He sat

back and looked at Lalo expectantly.

The limner nodded. "I  think I understand. I  don't know if I  can do it, but  I

appreciate your effort to teach me. Worry  makes me a poor student. When are  we

going against Roxane?"

"We're not ready yet-you're  not ready. Limner, she  would swat you like  a fly!

Even I-" He broke off,  and Lalo was just beginning  to wonder if even the  mage

feared this  sorceress, when  a heavy  tread shook  the tower  stairs. The  door

crashed open and they saw Straton, the Stepsons' commander, standing there.

"Vashanka's rod,  man, here  you are,  Randal! You've  led me  hell's own chase,

that's for sure!"  Somehow he managed  to look even  more formidable than  usual

with his hair plastered to his skull and water from wet steel and soggy  leather

pooling on the floor.

"Trouble?" The mage stood up, freckles suddenly dark against his pallor.

Straton spat.  "Do you  use those  flapping ears  of yours  just for balance, or

what? Can't you hear  the rain? The river's  overflowed into the Swamp  of Night

Secrets, and  the whole  southeastern promontory  will be  flooded soon. There's

reports that the upper ford  is turning into a lake  and Goat Creek is over  its

banks already.

"The Beysa's sticking-hell, her apartments  are on the second floor-but  rest of

the Fish-folk are heading  for their ships in  schools! There's nothing much  we

can do about the barracks or Downwind,  but if we don't act fast we'll  lose the

main town too. I've set all the men I've got to building dykes above the bridge,

but I need more!"

"Can anyone get a message to Zip?" asked Randal swiftly. "Tell him if we channel

the flood maybe it'll sweep the  Fish-eyes out to sea-that should persuade  him!

Use the same argument on Jubal."

Straton's mouth  opened as  if he  were going  to object,  then it slowly closed

again. For a moment he almost smiled.  "It would solve a few problems," he  said

wistfully. Then he shook himself and glared at the mage.

"Fine! I appreciate the advice! But  what I want from you, Witchy-Ears,  is some

wizard's work. You get yourself and your spells out there and do something about

those clouds!"

Randal raised one eyebrow. "I will if  I can. You know I'm not allowed  to alter

the balances if this is a natural storm."

"And if it isn't? Have you considered that possibility?"

The  mage was  still frowning  as Straton  turned and  clattered back  down  the

stairs. He sighed and grasped the knob of the balcony door.

Just a  touch on  the handle  was enough  to release  it. The  door banged  back

against  the wall  and a  gust of  damp wind  swirled papers  around the   room.

Ignoring the upset, Randal stepped outside and Lalo followed him.

The wind was coming  from the northeast. Ranked  banks of cloud rolled  steadily

seaward as if pushed by inexorable hands. Randal closed his eyes and faced  into

the wind, then murmured something and  traced a Sign upon the air.  Lalo shifted

focus as the mage had taught him and glimpsed lines of violet fire that  wavered

a moment and then were torn apart by the wind. Then his vision was sucked upward

into the clouds  themselves, and he  saw as he  had Seen in  the country of  the

gods.

Something moved  there with,  but not  of, the  clouds- shapes  that were subtly

wrong, spirits  that took  a malicious  pleasure in  manipulating the  elements.

Oblivious to  his presence,  they played-it  would have  taken a more compelling

personality than Lalo's to disturb them.  But were they demonic? Lalo had  never

seen storm elementals before. He knew only that he did not like these.

With a wrench,  Lalo pulled back  into his normal  perceptions-Randal's training

had done this much  for him-and looked quickly  at the mage. Randal's  eyes were

still closed, his face set  in a snarl; his hands  moved, but it was clear  that

whatever he was doing  was not enough. After  a few moments he,  also, shuddered

and sagged back.

He opened his  eyes. "Sorcery ..."  he muttered, "black  sorcery, and I  think I

know whose! There's a Nisi stink  about those demons. That bitch is  working her

spells, and she has reset her wards. I doubt even Ischade could get to her now!"

Lalo swallowed.  If Roxane's  house were  impregnable, then  Gilla was lost. His

gaze moved  numbly across  slick rooftops,  alternately revealed  and hidden  by

tattered gray curtains of rain, to  the muddy ribbon of the river.  Mist blurred

his view of the  far bank below the  bridge where Roxane's house  lay, the house

where Gilla was now....

"What will you do?" he asked the mage.

"I have a Power Globe of my  own," Randal said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I can  use

it to counter Roxane's magics. I can try." He looked over at Lalo.

"There's no way I can help you  here." Lalo answered the question in the  mage's

eyes. "But if my hands are no use  for magic, at least they can build a  dyke as

well as another man's. I will be  down there." He gestured toward the river.  If

he could do nothing to save Gilla, at least he could be near her when the  river

swept everything away.

From the floods,  at least, Gilla  was not in  danger. The bubble  of magic with

which Roxane had  surrounded her house  repelled the waters  as it repelled  all

other sorceries.  The personnel  inside the  house were  another matter. So far,

Snapper Jo  had warned  off the  green house  snakes- six  feet long  with blank

ophidian stares more  disturbing than the  beynit's vicious gleam;  undeads with

empty eyes and the rotting stink  of unburied flesh; and assorted thralls  whose

bodies yet breathed but whose souls had fled or, worse yet, were locked in  some

tormented reality from which an occasional gleam of awareness appealed to  Gilla

for a release from pain.

Even keeping a houseful of children indoors through a solid month of  rain-which

had been Gilla's  previous definition of  purgatory-paled by comparison.  And of

course, even when  she had lived  in the depths  of poverty at  the edge of  the

Maze, Gilla had never allowed her house to reach such a state of squalor.

Despite herself, she was doing the sorceress good service. For two days she  had

been cleaning- straightening, scrubbing, sweeping away the thick layer of  dust.

Already several baskets full of offal stood waiting for disposal beside Roxane's

kitchen door.

But that was all  that Gilla had accomplished.  She had thought as  furiously as

she had worked, but still she had  no plan. She stood, leaning on her  broom and

breathing heavily, gazing out through the  dirty window and the oily shimmer  of

the warding shield at the incessant rain.

"Rain  fall  up  and  down  the town  ..."  Snapper  Jo  said  cheerfully. "Wash

everything away-shacks.  Palace, all.  All that  fresh meat  floating by ..." he

added with a sigh.

"Don't you smile  about flooding-my children  are in that  town!" snarled Gilla.

She swallowed her  instinctive appeal to  the fiend's nonexistent  sympathy. His

only response to her pleas to help her escape had been a reiteration of Roxane's

command to guard.

"Fat lady is a Mama? Snapper Jo never had Mama- poor Snapper Jo...." He gazed at

her with  dim calculation  in his  mismatched eyes.  "Fat lady  be Snapper  Jo's

Mama!" he proclaimed triumphantly.

Gilla looked  at that  inane grin  and shuddered.  She thought  of her children.

Wedemir had somehow turned into a  warrior, and Vanda was growing into  a beauty

that  she  herself  had  never  had-those two,  at  least,  could  take  care of

themselves now.  Her next  boy, Ganner,  was still  apprenticed to  Herewick the

Jeweler, and with the streets so  dangerous, she hardly ever saw him.  She could

hope that he was safe, but he, too, was started on his own road now. It was  the

two little ones who  still needed her. How  could Lalo manage them  alone? Gilla

straightened with a motion  as inevitable as a  tidal wave rising to  strike the

shore. She had to get home!

One of the undeads stumped up  the stairs from the basement, wiping  moist earth

on  the  remains  of  its  tunic.  Gilla  wondered  if  Roxane's  wards extended

underground, but even to escape she could not bring herself to go down there.

The thing bumped into Snapper Jo, who snarled and shoved it away.

"Dead thing go back to earth!" The fiend pointed to the stairs.

"It is wet in the earth," the corpse said dully. "Let this one go outside."

"No, not outside-" Snapper  Jo shook his head.  "She says nothing must  pass the

house shield now. Dead thing try, she finds worse place for it than there.!"

The tattered head turned, and Gilla could almost imagine she saw some emotion in

those blank eyes. Then it sagged a little and very slowly thumped back down  the

creaking stairs.

Gilla sighed gustily to clear the stench from her nostrils when it was gone. She

had almost forgotten that this house held worse company than Snapper Jo.

"So you want me to be your Mama?" she asked grimly.

"Mama give boy fresh meat!" The fiend simpered, and Gilla swallowed sickly.  She

had seen Snapper Jo's table habits.  They were not aesthetic. Once blood  flowed

he became a mindless eating machine.

Mindless.... Somewhere in the depths of her own mind Gilla felt something  stir.

She looked at Snapper Jo speculatively, and slowly began to sweep once more.

The White  Foal River  stirred like  an awakening  animal, expanding through the

trees on either side of the  upper ford until its shining tendrils  crept across

the General's Road toward the Street  of Red Lanterns. The alleys Downwind  were

already underwater, and the Swamp of Night Secrets had become a pond.

Water gurgled over the marshy ground above Fisherman's Row and tugged like  some

marine thief at the small boats  tied up on shore. Waterfront merchants  labored

mightily to protect their wares or fought over the carts that could take them to

higher ground.  In Caravan  Square water  stood in  muddy pools.  But the  river

roared its frustration where the high banks narrowed it, and nibbled angrily  at

the supports of the bridge.

Things were not much  better elsewhere in the  town. Water pounded on  tiles and

shingles, and roofs  which had been  at best inadequate  turned into sieves.  It

seeped downward and mud walls began to sag. It pooled in streets and  overflowed

gutters, floating away  the accumulated filth  of years. Block  after block, the

water scoured,  hurrying its  captured debris  toward the  gaping mouths  of the

sewers, whose hollow roar  soon became a constant  undertone to the drumming  of

the rain.

Drowned rats and  bigger things were  swept onward- bodies  thought long buried,

pieces of rotting wood, wagon wheels, cracked dishes, a mercenary's scabbard,  a

beggar's precious heap of  rags, all became part  of the stream. And  presently,

where pallid waterweed had rooted in the underground channels or where bricks of

ancient facings had  fallen in, things  stuck, each piece  catching and trapping

more until even the force of the water could not move it forward and it recoiled

back into Sanctuary.

Rising waters from the sewer that ran beneath the Maze backed up and  overflowed

into one  of the  tunnels leading  from the  Palace grounds.  At the  same time,

rising river  water found  an outlet  in the  escape tunnel  that ended near the

ford. These  waters, meeting,  clashed and  rose. Some  of the overflow splashed

into the catacombs beneath the Street of  Red Lanterns, but not all, and so,  as

the day  wore on,  water began  to trickle  slowly and  inexorably up the tunnel

whose entrance was in the basement of the Palace itself.

Water seeped into  the dungeons unnoticed  except by those  few unfortunates who

were still imprisoned there. But when it  made its way into the portions of  the

lower Palace that had been remodeled into a nursery for the Child of the Temple,

Gyskouras,  and Arton  and their  companions, it  was another  matter. A   storm

impelled by alien magics and a flood in their own chambers was not only a threat

but an insult as well.

Gyskouras  screamed. Arton,  face darkening  as his  own daemon  sprang to  life

within him, screamed louder. The other children who enjoyed the dubious honor of

being  their  companions wept  or  cowered. Alfi  lost  completely the  edge  of

superiority that two  years' seniority should  have given him  and clung like  a

leech to Vanda, while Latilla covered her face with her hands and closed up  her

fingers each time the noise level rose again.

Seylalha  shouted  desperate  orders  as  Vanda  and  the  nursemaids   scuttled

frantically to move children and bedding  up to the playroom by the  roof garden

while above  the Palace  the sky  rumbled echoes  of the  storm-children's rage.

Gyskouras picked up the  vase that had been  the gift of a  royal ambassador and

threw it;  Arton grabbed  a wooden  horse and  flung it  back at him. Lightnings

clashed  outside  and  sizzled  down  the  sides  of  buildings  fortunately too

watersoaked to burn.

Conflicting winds made a chaos of  the orderly banks of cloud, shook  the Beysib

ships at anchor,  plucked off roof  tiles and uprooted  trees, and folk  who had

watched the rise  of the waters  with a nagging  dread now trembled  with active

fear.

And Roxane, sensing the  chaos in the heavens,  laughed, for this was  more than

she had hoped for. She changed her strategy, using her control of the elementals

to hold back the waters, forcing them to spread sideways into the town.

Gilla could feel the force of  the winds even through the witch's  wards. Roxane

was still secluded, but though  her minions knew no particulars,  they reflected

her emotions, and the growing atmosphere of malicious glee terrified Gilla. What

was happening in Sanctuary?

She bent over a crate into which  she had dumped half a dinner service-worth  of

broken crockery which she had found  behind the bags of mouldering roots  in the

pantry and shoved it  across the room. What  this house needed was  not a broom,

but a shovel! Still bent over, she glanced around her.

The two house snakes were curled contentedly in their baskets before the  stove.

Three thralled  souls sat  at the  table, swaying  reflexively. Snapper Jo stood

between her and the kitchen door, sucking meditatively on an old bone.

He caught her glance and grinned. "Nice and clean! Mistress be pleased. Fat lady

make house nice and clean and Mistress wash town!" Overcome with the wit of this

observation, he began to laugh. "Wash all the children away, then Snapper Jo  be

fat lady's boy!"

Gilla clenched her hands in her apron  to keep them from closing on the  fiend's

scrawny throat. At home, she would have thrown something-if she had been at home

she would  have been  throwing things  long ago!  She felt  fury boiling  in her

belly; she was a lidded kettle  ready to explode. Shaking, she hefted  the crate

of shattered crockery and marched toward the door.

"Fat lady not go out-" Snapper Jo began.

"Great  Mistress  said to  clean  her house-I'm  cleaning,  you wart-upholstered

cretin, so get out of my way!" Gilla said between set teeth.

The  gray  fiend  frowned  and  moved  an  indecisive  half-step,  struggling to

reconcile the  contradictory ideas  and unfamiliar  vocabulary. Gilla shouldered

him aside, shifted her weight, and  kicked open the door. Watery light  filtered

through the shimmering underside of the protective bubble with which Roxane  had

warded her domain. Gilla took a deep breath of dank air, tensed, and heaved  the

crate outward with all the strength of her rage.

It arced up and outward, trailing  a comet's tail of broken crockery,  and burst

through.

Gilla was already turning to send another  load after it when she heard a  sound

like a tearing sheet and staggered beneath a gust of wind. Over her shoulder she

glimpsed the last shards of the bubble whirling away on the storm.

The wind swept through the kitchen,  upheaving the table so that Snapper  Jo had

to leap aside. Gilla picked up a trashbasket and flung it at one of the thralls,

upended another over the serpents, saw  the fiend recover and start toward  her,

and snatched  up her  broom. Another  of the  soul-thralls lurched  forward. Her

swing connected with its head and knocked it bleeding into Snapper Jo's arms.

Gilla steadied herself and cocked the  broom for another swing, but the  fiend's

eyes were  fixed on  the trickle  of red  that crossed  the thrall's  skin. Bony

fingers  tightened and  the body  began to  struggle. The  Snapper's thin   lips

writhed back from his razor teeth.

"Fresh meat," he  said thickly, and  then, oblivious to  the tumult around  him,

bent to feed.

Before  anything else  could come  at her,  Gilla kicked  over the  rest of  the

trashbaskets, launched herself through the  door and slammed it behind  her, and

scrambled, panting, across  a soggy wilderness  of weeds. Before  her loomed the

rain-dark walls of the warehouses, and beyond them, the bridge, over the  river,

to home.

Lalo bent,  shivering, grasped  the end  of the  timber, and  nodded to Wedemir.

Together they hefted it, and staggered forward to the edge of the river where  a

Stepson, four burly men  from the 3rd Commando,  and a couple of  scrawny youths

from Zip's collection of toughs were trying to build a bulwark. It was a  motley

construction, cobbled together with wood from the market pens nearby, logs  from

half-drowned woods upriver, and anything else they could carry away.

Already water  was lapping  at the  bank. There  was no  way to  protect the low

ground below  the bridge,  but if  they could  build a  dyke northward  from the

bridge to the end of  the old city wall, they  might be able to save  the middle

part of town.

As others took  the weight of  the timber Lalo  straightened, rubbing his  back.

Even Wedemir was  panting, and he  was young. Lalo  wondered how much  longer he

could keep  this up-it  had been  far too  long since  he had  asked much of his

muscles, and he feared they were betraying him now.

He looked numbly at the muddy  serpent that was the river, heaving  ominously as

it digested what it had swallowed already and considered what next to devour. He

was surprised it  was not flowing  faster, then realized  that a south  wind was

holding  back  the  waters  and  forcing  them  to  spread  rather  than flowing

harmlessly into the sea.

Witch-work, he thought grimly, and wondered how Randal was doing. It would  take

more than  one Tysian  mage to  stop this.  His shoulders  sagged. He would have

welcomed even a Rankan Storm-God's intervention now.

"Father-look at the bridge!"  Wedemir shook his arm,  shouting over the roar  of

the wind.

Lalo turned. He heard the moaning of overstressed timbers and saw the  structure

tremble as it was  struck by an especially  heavy surge. The waters  were almost

over the roadway now. Wedemir tugged at him again.

"There's somebody on it-someone's trying to get across!"

Lalo  squinted into  the rain.  Wedemir must  be mistaken  -any Downwinder   not

already drowned like a  rat in his hole  must have sought higher  ground by now.

But there was certainly something moving there....

Something stirred in him like a flicker of flame. He moved toward the bridgehead

and the  movement warmed  him so  that he  could go  faster. Wedemir  started to

protest, then splashed after him.

"It's a person-a woman-" panted Wedemir.

Lalo nodded and began to run. He  heard the groan of tortured wood clearly  now.

The bridge shuddered and the woman staggered, then plodded forward again,  using

the broom  she carried  as a  staff. Her  soaked gown  clung to  limbs with  the

massive strength of an archaic goddess; one could almost imagine that it was not

the assault of the waters that made the bridge tremble, but her stride.

Outer and inner sight were abruptly the same, and Lalo forgot his exhaustion. He

sped forward, outstripping his son, knowing beyond impossibility who this  woman

had to be.

And then his feet thudded on the wood of the bridge; his hand closed on hers and

new strength flowed through both of them. Sobbing for breath, Gilla stumbled the

last few steps after him  to the shore, and Wedemir  pulled both of them up  the

bank.

And as if  the will that  had held it  steady had been  suddenly distracted, the

wind  disintegrated  into  a  thousand whirling  eddies.  The  river,  no longer

thwarted, raced through its narrow channel bare inches below the roadbed of  the

bridge  and across  Sanctuary's harbor  in a  great surge  that lifted  anchored

vessels to the limits of their moorings and then passed onward out to sea.

As the floodtide passed the bridge  it spread over the lower lands  below. Spray

and fragments of wood were still being tossed up by the billows, but through the

confusion Lalo  thought he  saw something  like an  oily black  bubble lift from

beyond the warehouses and wobble through the air toward the hills.

But that was only a momentary  distraction. It was Gilla he was  grasping, Gilla

whose warmth he felt through her wet garments, as if she were fueled by a  tiny,

unquenchable sun. Through the  mud he felt earth  solid beneath him. She  rooted

him against the buffets of water and wind.

They paid  no attention  to the  babble of  questions around  them as they clung

together, bedraggled and ridiculous, grinning into the wind.

Then Gilla's face changed. She tightened  her grip and shouted into Lalo's  ear.

"Where are the children?"

"At the Palace with Vanda," he shouted back. "They're safe-"

"In this?" Gilla frowned at the sky. "I should be with them. Come on!"

Lalo nodded. He had done  his part here, and he  could see that the fury  of the

river  was  already abating.  But  there was  still  chaos in  the  heavens, and

abruptly he caught Gilla's urgency. With Wedemir close behind them, they  picked

their way  around the  lake that  had been  Caravan Square  and slogged past the

deserted stalls of the Bazaar.

By the time Lalo and Gilla reached the Palace Gate the terrified tantrums of two

two-year-old incipient Storm Gods were bidding to do more damage to the heart of

Sanctuary than all Roxane's water  demons. The flashes of lightning  were almost

constant now, and a  strong scent of ozone  hung in the air.  Puddles dotted the

great courtyard; doors on the ground floor were open as Beysib servants tried to

sweep water outside.

Lalo stopped short, gazing  around in consternation, and  Gilla gave him a  look

that said "I told you so!"

"The nursery was in the basement. I don't know where they've moved the  children

now."

"At least the Palace is still here," said Wedemir.

Gilla snorted, grabbed a fish-eyed female  who was hurrying past with a  mop and

pail and  began to  question her.  Her limited  command of  the language  was no

problem-as soon as Gilla mentioned  children the maid paled and  pointed upward,

then slid from Gilla's grasp.

Upstairs, they found there  was no need to  ask directions. As they  toiled up a

staircase that had  been well-known to  Lalo in the  days when he  used the roof

garden as  a portrait  studio, they  could hear  shrieks, punctuated  by rolling

thunder and the despairing murmur of female voices.

Gilla threw open the door to the sitting room and stood a moment, surveying  the

scene. Then she waded into the room and began smacking bottoms. Lalo stared, but

he supposed that even these children  would hold no terrors for someone  who had

managed to escape from Roxane.

There was a short,  stunned silence. Then Gilla  sat down between the  two storm

children and pulled them  into her capacious lap.  Gyskouras took a deep  breath

and began to  hiccup fiercely, but  Arton was still  crying great, storm-colored

tears. Illyra and  Seylalha started toward  Gilla just as  Alfi detached himself

from his sister.

Gilla motioned to the  two other mothers to  sit close beside her  and carefully

slid the children onto their laps just as her own children reached her. She  was

still  making  soothing  noises,  but  the  heavens  continued  their explosions

outside.

"Quiet-quiet now, my little ones-see, your  mamas are here! We'll keep you  safe

now, you don't need to make all this noise ..."

"Can't stop!" Gyskouras said between hiccups. His fair hair was plastered to his

head and his cheeks were streaked with tears.

"'Fraid ..." echoed the dark child in Illyra's arms.

Both children were still  trembling, as if only  Gilla's steady voice kept  them

from giving way to  their terror once more.  Relative peace had returned  to the

room, making  the noise  outside seem  louder. Lalo  looked around  desperately,

wondering if it would help to distract or amuse them somehow.

Toys were scattered on the floor  and building blocks, art materials, and  games

were stacked on shelves to one side. Lalo's eyes widened. He remembered abruptly

how his colored flies had amused Alfi.

Painfully, for now he  felt all the aches  from his battle with  the storm, Lalo

went to  the shelves  and picked  up a  slate and  a basket  of colored  chalks.

Holding them as  if they might  bite, he came  back to the  little group in  the

center of the room and squatted down.

"Do you like pretty pictures? What do you like- butterflies?" A swift stroke  of

the chalk  laid the  sweep of  a red  wing; another  suggested the long body and

bright eyes.

Lightning flared in the window, blinding him. When Lalo could see again  Arton's

chubby hand was rubbing the picture away.

'Wot flutter' by! Bad bright things  outside-" His dark gaze held the  limner's,

and in his eyes Lalo saw the  angular, aetherial forms of the demons that  lived

on the energy of the storm. "Make them go 'way!"

I won't draw  them, Lalo thought  fearfully, they've too  much life already!  He

took the child's hand gently, remembering how he had comforted his own  children

when they had spilled their milk or broken some favorite toy, not  understanding

their own power.

Now he felt Gyskouras's gaze upon him as well, filling him with knowledge of all

the powers surging in the storm. Other images came to him too-emotions,  desires

as yet formless, characteristics that sought to coalesce into a Personality that

would encompass the potential,  for good or evil,  inherent in the two  children

before him. He recognized the feeling-he  had known it himself at the  beginning

of a project, when colors and shapes and images jostled in his consciousness and

he strove for the  form and balance that  would organize them into  a harmonious

unity.

But the only  loss had been  a ruined canvas  when he failed.  If these children

failed, they could destroy Sanctuary.

Thunder clapped great hands  above the Palace; the  room shuddered and a  window

blew open on a  sudden gust of rain.  Gyskouras whimpered, and Lalo  reached for

his  hand. They  need a  mage to  train them,  just like  me-but there  must  be

something that  we can  do! Lalo  closed his  eyes, driven  not by  fear or  the

pressure of a stronger mind, but by pity, to seek that part of himself that  had

been a god.

When  he  opened them  again  the window  was  still banging  against  the wall.

Outside, clouds pulsed with a hundred  shades of gray-always gray! Gods, he  was

so tired  of this  colorless world!  Lalo looked  down, and  saw that  the chalk

pressed between  his hand  and Gyskouras's  plump fingers  had left  a smear  of

yellow on the slate. For a moment he stared at it, then he reached for an orange

chalk and put it into Arton's slimmer hand.

"Here," he whispered, "draw me a line beside the other-yes, just so...." One  by

one he  gave colors  to the  children and  guided their  awkward hands.  Yellow,

orange, red and  purple, blue and  turquoise and green-the  chalk glowed against

the dark stone.  And when all  the colors had  been used, Lalo  got to his feet,

holding the slate carefully.

"Now, let's make something pretty-I can't  do it alone. You both come  here with

me ..." Lalo held  out his hand and  drew first Arton, then  Gyskouras, from his

mother's arms. "Come to the window, don't be afraid ..."

Lalo was dimly aware that the room  had gone very still behind him, but  all his

attention was on the two children beside him and the storm outside. They reached

the window; Lalo knelt, his greying  ginger head touching the dark child's  head

and the fair.

"Now blow," he said softly. "Blow on the picture and we'll make the nasty clouds

all go away."

He felt the children's milky breath warm  on his fingers. He bowed his head  and

expelled his own pent breath outward, saw chalk dust haze the damp air. His eyes

blurred with the intensity of his staring,  or was the blur in his eyes?  Surely

now there was more color  in the air than they  had ever blown into it,  and the

colors were shimmering. His ears rang with silence.

Lalo sank back on his heels  and drew the two storm-children close  against him,

and together they watched as the rainbow arched over Sanctuary....

AFTERWORD

"Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Which is the skungiest city of them all?"

You know what the mirror replied,

with a sneer at having to state the obvious.

SOME BLATANTLY PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS

Andrew Qffutt

Hanse and I have  been in Sanctuary since  the foundation stones were  set, in a

February 1978 letter from genius-creator Asprin. We earliest settlers (eight  of

us writers  then, I  think) received  maps and  descriptions, Hakiem's  original

background tale,  copies of  each other's  character sketches  and sort-of-maybe

outlines, and letters from HQ: the Asprin mind. Everybody was excited and pretty

chattery. The little description I began  of a fellow to be called  Hanse became

three pages,  physical and  psychological, with  footnotes and  sidebars. By the

time I'd written all that three or  four times, I knew what the first  story was

about and what sort of stories he had to be in, if there were to be more.

As it developed, letter by letter by letter and packet of Xeroxed materials  and

All-Points-Bulletins to and from us  beginners of that project that  seemed such

fun, I addressed an envelope to

"Robert L. Asprin

COLOSSUS: The Thieves' World Project."

Only a few  weeks later, came  the next Asprin  APB for us  first Thieves' World

participants ... and derned if he hadn't made just that his letterhead!

Next, John Brunner, with the character  sketches of his Enas Yorl and  Jarveena,

sent over a treatise on magic. It told us how it had to be in Thieves' World;  a

sort of logical system of rules of magic that has been ignored ever since.  Then

Boss Asprin was looking  for a name for  that first book, and  I suggested Tales

From the Vulgar Unicorn. Thank all gods he decided to call the first one  simply

Thieves' World! My title went on the second volume.

(Send your proposed title for the next one; Bob and Lynn just adore mail and  if

your title is chosen,  you will receive  a genuine certified  Thing. Maybe a  no

prize for you if  you're one of my  fellow comics fans.... If  you're runner-up,

your prize is a date-nocturnal only-with  either Tarkle or Roxane, Zip or  Ouleh

the Man-killer; your choice.

(Send to  me that  detailed list  of all  the characters  in all the books, with

however brief ID  for each-and whether  still alive, KlA-and-dead,  or Undead. I

like to  remember and  include all  those little  people, such  as Thumpfoot and

Mungo and Shive  the Changer and  Frax, former Palace  night-sentinel who's been

out of  work since  the arrival  of the  Beysibs, and  Weasel, and ... you know.

Spear-bearers, many of whom don't even have speaking roles or are only  referred

to. Seems to me I haven't referred  to York or Jubal and various other  big-ikes

for several stories.)

Oh, here's an Inside tip for you, Insider: go and look again at the cover of the

original TW. Asprin long ago came up with a caption for it, and you'll love  it.

It's "You're In The Wrong Place, Sucker."

The Solid Gold 50th Anniversary Volume

It honestly seems over  a decade ago when  we all wrote those  first stories. We

were a team!  We sent them  in with gusto  and love, having  fun-for a nickel  a

word. That was as  advance against royalties if  the book sold enough  copies to

generate any  royalties. Hey,  did it  ever! What  now? Another  S.F. Book  Club

volume, I hear, and is it three  TW games or four? Translations into German  and

French and  British and  Swahili and  Newjersese! Interplanetary  rights up  for

bidding! Other publishers hot for  novels about TW characters! Ace  Books making

plans for the solid  gold 50th anniversary volume!  Asprin and Abbey buying  the

state of Michigan and bidding for the Detroit Tigers!

You and we have made it quite a phenomenon. And I swear: it's still fun! Thanks,

my fellow fan.

Without quite knowing why, I think I'm more comfortable in this town than any of

my cohorts-the rest of the TW family. (Baghdad, that's the way I see it: Baghdad

or the great old caravan city of Palmyra, about a year after someone put in  the

Interstate five or  so miles away.)  To hell with  the invasions by  Rankans and

Stepsons  (their  big  horses making  an  even  worse mess  of  our  streets and

consuming so much of our valuable grain); to hell with the invading Beys and the

Beysa and  the lords  'n' ladies  in their  palatial manses;  with vampires  and

walking dead and walking gods and  Lon Chaney Jr.! Offutt's an Ilsig  who writes

about Sanctuary and  its people. True,  most often my  people are Not  What They

Seem....

Who is, in Sanctuary?

Hanse called Shadowspawn, and Ahdio, and the late, beloved Moonflower and  Jubal

are as real to me as the Maze.  (I know it's real because the moment I  start to

write about it, very late at night usually, with soft pen and cheap lined  paper

and beer, I swear I can see it and hear its sounds. And smell it.)

I abhor any such snotty, uncultured creep as Hanse, as I loved Moonflower,  also

my creation. (As you probably know already, since the rules are that we can  Not

do  in each  other's characters.)  Hanse would  be rotten  company, so  full  of

swagger  and needs.  I know.  I've met  his sort,  time after  time, at  science

fiction/fantasy conventions. Sometimes  even with the  knives! Yet I  can't help

but love my rotten thief, too, poor guy; sort of as an indulgent father. He  was

born of me, after all, although Shalpa takes the credit. Now, like Tempus,  he's

left  town, with  Moonflower's daughter  Mignureal (that's  Min-you-ree-Al,  and

Notable must be with them too, surely.)

As a matter of fact Hanse is up northeast a bit, standing by to star in his  own

novel,  Shadowspawn.  Yes,  I've  already  signed  the  contract  and  this same

publisher may  already have  the manuscript  by the  time you  read this (eleven

months after my writing it, a few days before Thanksgiving '84).

Others love-hate Hanse, as he  and I love-hate Tempus  and the revenant (?)  One

Thumb and even the dread-some Ischade and Roxane. (Lots of great role models  in

Thieves' World!)  Lalo and  Gilla his  wife are  people, lovable  or not. No one

loves Jubal except  his creator-who is  now co-editor, because  we wore him  out

with gripes and late stories and  plot entanglements so that he married  a sweet

innocent woman  and now  forces her  to do  all the  work. No  one can  hate her

character, Illyra, who is as unreconstructably lovable as Lynn.

Except when she imported these  deleted stare-eye Bey-sibs and their  boss stole

away from me a character I'd begun to think of as mine: Prince Kadakithis.  Wait

till Lynn  sees my  plan for  the Final  Solution to  the Beysib Problem: Throde

draws a picture of an M-l tank and Lalo makes it real.

Oh-Kadakithis is played by Roddy McDowall at age 24 and in a blond wig, did  you

know  that?  That's the  way  he sounds  when  I read  my  TW stories  aloud  at

conventions. I keep seeing Lee J. Cobb as Tempus, but I haven't asked Janet  who

she sees. All right, "whom," then.

One big (A: Happy B: Unhappy C: Both of the foregoing D: Neither) Family

It is enormous fun, living here in Thieves' World. We are a family. Bob and Lynn

have to be mommy and daddy, obviously, and I am always Uncle Andy to anyone  who

knows  me;  the  nickname  started  when  I  was  seventeen.  (You  don't expect

uncomplicated relationships in TW, do you?) There are the wayward sons, Joe  and

John (Halde-man and Brunner), who started with us and haven't been back; and the

grievously  wayward prodigal,  Gordy (Dick-son).  There's our  sweet and  gentle

sister Carolyn/C.J.  in Oklahoma  and the  evil and  shadowy sister.  Nightshade

Janet, up in New England. Her I "met" by mail years ago, when I wrote her a  fan

letter about her first published works, the Silistra novels. Cousin Diana, I  am

proud to say, first saw print in  an anthology edited by me. And now  we welcome

Cousin Robin to the strangest familial group since the Addams Family.

Right after reading Wings of Omen (same time you did: last November, just before

I wrote the story in this volume),  I wrote Paxson and Bailey each a  fan letter

of congratulations and thanks. Did you? Why don't you write me, you bum!

Could those be letters to  me that Bob brags about  piling up by the bag  in his

home?

Like your family, we work together and separately. We get along and we argue  or

even fall out. When Janet Morris and I include Hanse and Tempus in each  other's

stories, we exchange manuscripts and say "OK, but (Tempus or Hanse) wouldn't use

this word or phrase,"  or "wouldn't drink this  much," or "he is  not blond." (I

thought Zip was, and Janet fixed that in my story last time. Zip looks like that

swine who tried to murder the Pope  and Hanse resembles Lee Marvin at about  age

23.)

Too, Janet sent me pages and pages of lovingly machine-copied (the Xerox  people

keep reminding us that "xerox" isn't a verb, and is capitalized) research notes,

which I filed with  my own Arms and  Armor; Medieval Warfare; Smaller  Classical

Dictionary; Approved Tactics For Attacking and Trashing Publishing Offices;  and

other valuable research sources.

She and I met once, about five years ago. We must have exchanged at least thirty

words on  two occasions  that day.  She was  on her  way to someplace else, both

times. You don't  have to know  people to be  friends ... said  the man who  has

collaborated on well over a dozen novels with people he still hasn't met!

Secret alliances, shaky relationships, and worse

Janet and I formed a secret alliance in 1980 ("Vash-anka's Minion" and "Shadow's

Pawn," and no I do Not intend to write a nautical story called "Shad's Prawn" as

one darling fan suggested in '81), and sprang it on Bob-I-mean-Dad, thus forcing

him to run  our stories back  to back. He  got even; his  Jubal "sold" Tempus to

that godawful Kurd, slicer  of living humans. Then  he and Janet colluded  (does

that word exist?-it does now; Offutt's the resident grammarian-linguician).  The

book ended with Kurd's  industriously paring and sawing  this and that part  off

immortal Tempus. A few months later, darling Dad-Bob called me. (This is  always

difficult. He speaks a  shade faster than a  Sten gun, and probably  plays whole

games of Risk while listening to my Kentuckianly drawled replies.)

"Andy! ThisisBob!  Janet  - and  -  Ineedyerhelp(beat)Kurd-has-Tempus-andwe-were

wonderingifHanse'dget-himout!"

Beat, beat, beat: "Hi-i (beat) Boob," I said ...

So Hanse starred in "The Vivisectionist"-surely the ugliest word in this or  any

language. Right up there next to "edit"-in which he got the maimed Tempus out of

the dripping hands of  Kurd the Turd. We  all loved each other,  even Tempus and

Hanse. Then H. saw  how T. regenerated those  lost parts, and got  shaky. So did

their relationship. Meanwhile, or  rather about a year  later, Bob and I  had an

egregious falling out  and I Left  Home in worse  than a huff.  Never To Return.

That's why  Volume 5,  The Face  of Chaos,  is Hanseless  and Andyless. Seemed a

dreadfully dull book to me....

(Of course I read it. I had to;  another year later I came home to Sanctuary  to

write a story in  which Hanse split town;  returning was necessary because  fans

told me rumors that Lynn and Bob were discussing Secret Plans with Janet at  the

World Fantasy Con: maybe going to kill Hanse or worse. It was a great homecoming

with the typical Sanctuary feast: Bob served up the fatted mongrel.)

So ... we get along as all families do: usually. But not always.

For instance ... I fully expected UPS to bring me a ticking package from  Morris

after I  killed Tempus's  god and  power-source, Vashanka.  See, science fiction

great Edmond  Hamilton had  a name  for destroying  planets; "World-Wrecker Ed,"

they called  him.... That  wasn't big  enough for  me; /  put the  hit on a god.

(Besides, I'd birthed him. Now he's in another universe, eking out a  precarious

living selling hamsters to researchers.) God-Zapper Andy?

Well, no bomb came. Instead, Janet ignored my wicked ploy. She was busy  writing

her Tempus novel. Beyond Sanctuary. They keep telling me that Vashanka has  been

reborn as an infant.  Hmp. Silly dam' dodge,  that; he isn't even  dead!-just to

keep alive a krrf-head whose  body heals all wounds. (Donation  Alphons Francois

de Sade should have thought of that. Such a person is the Perfect Victim,  while

by the  end of  the Marquis's  Justine, she  must have  been covered all over in

scars!)

Ils Saves!

This was not at all what I intended to write as After-word; it was going to be a

sort of  history, with  snippets from  our back-and-forth  letters. This is what

poured out, though, the same way the Hanse stories have: at the last minute  (or

later, with Lynn  & Bob pulling  out their hair  in great ghastly  gobbets) in a

rushing  beery flow  of hand-scribbled  phrases during  which I  never think  of

style, that thing  "teachers" talk about  because they aren't  writers and can't

think  of much  else except  maybe the  mech-aniwockle dumbness  of 7-2  or  5-3

paragraphs, whatever that are or them is. Somehow the style is always about  the

same, because that's the way the Hanse stories write themselves. I reckon we can

live with this: call it an Afterword, which is "epilogue" or even "epilog" in  a

living language.

Yours relatively truly  takes credit for  all the gods  of TW; for  Kadakithis's

name and his becoming a person or nearly; for the detailed map of the Inner Maze

that you've never seen; for Molin Torchholder and Sly's Place; and of course for

the Great Pyramid, the economic recovery, and safety pins.

"And who," the witch begged of the mirror on the wall, having nervously  noticed

a new line in her face, "is the fairest of them all?"

The mirror sneered again. "Is Sophia still alive, dummy?"

Yeah, you're right: the inspiration for  "The Veiled Lady" is Sophia Loren,  who

is married to a short, homely, balding and dumpy man. Never mind the inspiration

for Jodeera's name. Wonder what's going to inspire me next time?

Name of Father  Ils, how I  wish I'd had  the idea for  Thieves' World to  begin

with! Then I too could be rich and famous with a basement full of mailsacks  and

get to exert the editor's prerogative of writing the Afterword to Thieves' World

# 7.

-Andrew Offutt

KY, USA

20 November 1984

(Note to Bob  and Lynn: Try  to get that  Big Word in  the last sentence spelled

right.)